TIMON, a noble Athenian.

Lucius, }
Lucullus, two flattering Lords.
Apemantus, a churlish Philofopher.
Sempronius, another flattering Lord.
Alcibiades, an Athenian General.
Flavius, Steward to Timon.

Timon's Servants.

Flaminius,

Lucilius,

Servilius,

Caphis,

Varro,

Philotas,

Titus,

Lucius,

Hortenfius,

Ifidore,

Ventidius, one of Timon's falfe Friends.
Cupid and Maskers.

Miftreffes to Alcibiades.

Phrynia,
Timandra,

feveral Servants to Ufurers.

Thieves, Senators, Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Mercer and Merchant; with divers Servants and Attendants.

SCENE Athens, and the Woods not far from it.

The hint of part of this play taken from Lucian's Dialogue of Timon. POPE.

ΤΙΜΟΝ

TIMON of ATHENS

ACTI.

SCENE I

A Hall in Timon's House.

Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and Mercer, at feveral doors.

G

POET.

OOD day, Sir.

Pain. I am glad ye are well.

Poet. I have not feen you long, how goes the world?

Pain. It wears, Sir, as it grows.

Poet. Ay, that's well known.
But what particular rarity? what fo ftrange,
Which manifold Record not matches? fee,
Magick of bounty! all these spirits thy power
Hath conjur'd to attend. I know the merchant.
Pain. I know them both; th' other's a jeweller.
Mer. O'tis a worthy Lord!

Jew. Nay, that's moft fixt.

Mer. A moft incomparable man, breath'd as it were To an untirable and continuate goodness.

Jew. I have a jewel here.

Mer. O pray let's fee't.

For the Lord Timon, Sir?

Jew. If he will touch the estimate: but for that
A 3

Poet.

Poet. When we for recompence have prais'd the vile,
It ftains the glory in that happy verse
Which aptly fings the good.

Mer. 'Tis a good form.
Jew. And rich; here is a water, look ye.
Pain. You're rapt, Sir, in fome work, fome dedication
To the great Lord.

Poet. A thing flipt idly from me.
Our poefie is as a gum, which iffues
From whence 'tis nourished. The fire i' th' flint
Shews not 'till it be ftruck: our gentle flame
Provokes it felf, and, like the current, flies
Each bound it 'chafes.
Pain. A picture, Sir:
Poet. Upon the heels
Let's fee your piece.

1

Pain. 'Tis a good piece.
Poet. So 'tis,

This comes off well and excellent.
Pain. Indiff'rent.

[Repeating to himself.
[Looking on the jewel

What have you there? [forth? 'and when comes your book of my presentment, Sir.

Poet. Admirable ! how this grace

Speaks his own ftanding! what a mental power
This eye fhoots forth! how big imagination
Moves in this lip! to th' dumbnefs of the gefture
One might interpret.

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

Poet. I'll fay of it,

It tutors nature, artificial ftrife

Lives in thefe touches, livelier than life.

Enter certain Senators.

Pain. How this Lord is followed!

Poet. The fenators of Athens! happy 'man!

Pain. Look, more!

Poet. You fee this confluence, this great flood of vifitors.

I have,

■ chases. ...old edit. Theob. emend, 3 men!... old edit. Theob, emend.

2 when

I have, in this rough work, fhap'd out a man
Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug
With amplest entertainment. My free drift
Halts not particularly, but moves it felf
In a wide fea of waxa; no levell'd malice
Infects one comma in the course I hold;

It` flies an eagle-flight, bold and forth on,
Leaving no track behind.

Pain. How fhall I understand you?
Poet. I'll unbolt to you.

You fee how all conditions, how all minds,
As well of glib and flipp'ry 'natures, as
Of grave and auftere quality, tender down
Their fervice to Lord Timon: his large fortune
Upon his good and gracious nature hanging,
Subdues and properties to his love and tendance
All forts of hearts; yea, from the glafs-fac'd flatterer
To Apemantus, that few things loves better
Than to

make himself abhorr'd; ev'n he drops down
The knee before him, and returns in peace
Moft rich in Timon's nod.

Pain. I faw them fpeak together.

Poet. I have upon a high and pleasant hill
Feign'd Fortune to be thron'd. The bafe o' th' mount
Is rank'd with all deferts, all kind of natures,
That labour on the bofom of this sphere
To propagate their states; amongst them all,
Whofe eyes are on this fov'reign Lady fixt,
One do I perfonate of Timon's frame,
Whom Fortune with her iv'ry hand wafts to her,
Whofe prefent grace to prefent flaves and fervants
Tranflates his rivals.

Pain. 'Tis conceiv'd 7 to th' fcope :

This throne, this fortune, and this hill, methinks,
With one man becken'd from the reft below

A 4

Bowing

(a) Anciently they wrote upon waxen tables with an iron fiyle.
4 But
5 creatures,
6 abhor himfelt;
7 to... old edit. Theob, emend.