Puslapio vaizdai


I 1 Μ Ο Ν


O. F

A T H E N S.



SCENE A Hall in T'imon's House. Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and Mer

cer, at several Doors.

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OOD Day, Sir.

Pain. I am glad ye are well.
Poct. I have not seen you long, how goes
the World?
Pain. It wears, Sir, as it grows.

Poet. Ay, that's well krown.
But what particular Rarity? What so strange,
Which manifold record not matches: See
Magick of Bounty, all these Spirits, thy Power
Hath conjur'd to attend.
I know the Merchant.

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Pain. I know them both, th'other's a Jeweller.
Mer. Oh 'tis a worthy Lord.
Jew. Nay, that's most fixt.

Mer. A most incomparable Man, breath'd as it were,
To an untirable and continuate Goodnels:
He passes-

Few. I have a Jewel here.
Mer. O pray let's see't. For the Lord Timon, Sir?

. O
Few. If he will touch the Estimate, but for that

Poet. When we for recompence have prais'd the vild,
It stains the Glory in that happy Verse,
Which aptly fings the good,

Mer. 'Tis a good form.
Jew. And rich; here is Water, look ye.

Pain. You are rapt, Sir, in some Work, some Dedication to the great Lord.

Poet. A thing slipt idly from me.
Our Poesie is as a Gown, which uses
From whence 'tis nourisht: The fire i'th' Flint
Shews not 'till it be struck: Our gentle Flame
Provokes it self, and like the current flies
Each bound it chases. What have you there?

Pair. A Picture, Sir:--When comes your Book forth?

Poet. Upon the Heels of my Presentment, Sir.
Let's see your Piece.

Pain. 'Tis a good Piece.
Poet. So 'tis, this comes off well and excellent.
Pain. Indifferent.

Poet. Admirable! How this Grace
Speaks his own standing; what a mental Power
This Eye shoots forth? How big Imagination
Moves in this Lip; to th'dumbness of the Gesture,
One might interpret.

Pain. It is a pretty mocking of the Life:
Here is a touch-Is't good

Poet. I will say of it,
It tutors Nature, artificial Strife
Lives in these touches livelier than Life.

Enter certain Senators,
Pain. How this Lord is followed!



Poet. The Senators of Athens, happy Men.
Pain. Look, more.

Poet. You see this confluence, this great flood of Visiters,
I have, in this rough Work, shap'd out a 'Man,
Whom this beneath World doth embrace and hug
With amplest Entertainment: My free drift
Halts not particularly, but moves ir felf
In a wide Sea of Wax, no leveli'd Malice
Infeets one Comma in the Course I hold,
But flies an Eagle flight, bold, and forth on,
Leaving no Tract behind.

Pain. How shall I understand you?

Poet. I will uobolt to you.
You see how all Conditions, how all Minds,
As well of glib and slippry Creatures, as

grave and sustere Quality, tender down
Their Services to Lord Timon: His large Fortune,
Upon his good and gracious Nature hanging,
Subdues and properties to his Love and Tendance
All sorts of Hearts; yea, from the glass-fac'd Flatterer
To Apemantus, that few things loves better
Than to abhor himself, even he drops down
The Knee before him, and returns in peace
Most rich in Timon's Nod.

Pain. I saw them speak together.
Poet. Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant Hill

Feign'd Fortune to be thron'd. The base o'ch' Mount
Is rank'd with all Deserts, all kind of Naturcs,
That labour on the boom of this Sphere,

propagate their States; amongst them all,
Whose Eyes are on this Sovereign Lady fixt,
One do I personate of Lord Timon's frame,
Whom Fortune with her Ivory Hand walts to her,
Whose present Grace, to present Slaves and Servants
Translates his Rivals.

Pain. 'Ts conceiv'd, to scope
This Throne, this Fortune, and this Hill, methinks
With one Man beckn'd f om the rest below,
Bowing his Head against the steepy Mount,


To climb his Happiness, would be well expres
In our Condition,

Poer. Nay, Sir, but hear me on:
All those which were his Fellows but of late,
Some better than his Value; on the moment
Follow his strides, his Lobbies fill with tendance,
Rain facrificial Whisperings in his Ear,
Make sacred even his Stirrop, and through him
Drink the free Air,

Pain. Ay marry, what of these?

Poet. When Fortune in her shift and change of Mood
Spurns down her late beloved; all his Dependants,
Which labour'd after him to the Mountain's top,
Even on their Knees and Hands, let him flip down,
Not one accompanying his declining Foot.

Pain, 'Tis common:
A thousand moral Paintings I can shew,
That shall demonstrate these quick blows of Fortune,
More pregnantly than Words.

Yet you do well,
To fhew Lord Timon, that mean Eyes have seen,
The Foot above the Head.

Trumpets found. Enter Lord Timon addrefing himself cour- .

teously to every Suitor. Tim. Imprisoned is he, say you? [Te a Messenger.

Mes. Ay, my good Lord, five Talents is his Debt,
His means most skort, his Creditors most straight:
Your honourable Letter he defires
To those have shut him up, which failing to him,
Periods his Comfort,

Tim. Noble Ventidius! well-
I am not of that Feather, to shake off
My Friend when he most needs me. I do know him
A Gentleman that well deserves a help,
Which he shall have. I'll pay the Debt, and free him.

Mes. Your Lordship ever binds him.

Tim. Commend me to him, I will send his Ransom,
And being Enfranchized, bid him come to me;
Tis not enough to help the feeble up,
But to support him after. Fare you well.
Mes. All Happiness to your Honour.


Enter an Old Athenian,
0. Ath. Lord Timon, hear me speak.
Tim. Freely, good Father.
0. Ath. Thou hast a Servant nam'd Lucilius.
Tim. I have so : What of him?
0. Ath. Most Noble Timon, call the Man before thee.
Tim. Attends he here or no? Lucilius.

Enter Lucilius.
Lucil. Here, at your Lordship’s Service.

0. Ath. This Fellow here, Lord Timon, this thy Creature
By Night frequents my House. I am a Man
That from my first have been inclin'd to Thrift,
And my Estate deserves an Heir more rais'd,
Than one which holds a Trencher.

Timi Well : What further?

0. Ath. One only Daughter have I, no Kin else,
On whom I may confer what I have got:
The Maid is fair, o'th' youngest for a Bride,
And I have bred her at my dearest cost,
In Qualities of the best. This Man of thine
Attempts her Love: I pray thee, Noble Lord,
Join with me to forbid him her Resort ;
My self have spoke in vain,

Tim. The Man is honest.

O. Ath. Therefore he will be, Timon,
His honesty rewards him in it self,
It must not bear my Daughter.

Tim. Does the love him?

0. Atb. She is young, and apt :
Our own precedent Pallions do instruct us,
What levity's in Youth.

Tim. Love you the Maid?
Lucil. Ay, my good Lord, and the accepts of it.

O. Ath. If in her Marriage my consent be missing,
I call the Gods to witness, I will chuse
Mine Heir from forth the Beggars of the World,
And dispofféfs her all,

Tim. How shall she be endowed,
If she be mated with an equal Husband?

O. Ath. Three Talents on the present, in future all.
Tim. This Gentleman of mine bath serv'd me long;


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