Enter certain Senators. Pain. How this lord is followed! Poet. The Senators of Athens! happy man! (2) Poet. You fee this confluence, this great flood of vifiters. Pain. How fhall I understand you? You fee, how all conditions, how all minds, Pain. I faw them speak together. Poet. I have upon a high and pleafant hill (2) Happy Men!] Thus the printed Copies: but I cannot think the Poet meant, that the Senators were happy in being admitted to Timon; their Quality might command That: but that Timon was happy in being follow'd, and carefs'd, by those of their Rank and Dignity. One One do I perfonate of Timon's frame, Whom Fortune with her iv'ry hand wafts to her, Pain. 'Tis conceiv'd to th' Scope. (3) This throne, this Fortune, and this Hill, methinks, To climb his happinefs, would be well expreft Poet. Nay, but hear me on: All those which were his fellows but of late, Make facred even his ftirrop; and through him Drink the free air. Pain. Ay, marry, what of these? Poet. When Fortune in her fhift and change of mood Spurns down her late belov'd, all his Dependants (Which labour'd after 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 fhew, That shall demonftrate thefe quick blows of fortune (3) 'Tis conceiv'd, to feope This Throne, this Fortune, &c.] Thus all the Editors hitherto have nonfenfically writ, and pointed, this Paffage. But, fure, the Painter would tell the Poet, your Conception, Sir, hits the very Scope you aim at. This the Greeks would have render'd, onorî ruxes, rectà ad Scopum tendis: and Cicero has thus exprefs'd on the like Occafion, Signum oculis deftinatum feris. Trumpets Trumpets found. Enter Timon, addreffing himself courteously to every fuitor. Tim. Imprifon'd is he, fay you? [To a Messenger To thofe have fhut him up, which failing to him Tim. Noble Ventidius! well I am not of that feather to shake off My friend when he most needs me. I do know him Which he shall have, I'll pay the debt, and free him. Tim. Commend me to him, I will fend his ransom; And, being enfranchiz'd, bid him come to me; 'Tis not enough to help the feeble up, Enter an old Athenian. Old Ath. Lord Timon, hear me fpeak. Old Ath. Thou haft a fervant nam'd Lucilius. Tim. I have fo: what of him? [Exit Old Ath. Moft noble Timen, call the man before thee. Tim. Attends he here or no? Lucilius!« Enter Lucilius.. Luc. Here, at your lordship's fervice. Old Ath. This fellow here, lord Timon, this thy creature By night frequents my houfe. I am a man That from my firft have been inclin'd to thrift, And my eftate deferves an heir more rais'd, Than one which holds a trencher. Tim. Well? what further? Old Ath. One only daughter have I, no kin else, And And I have bred her at my dearest coft, Tim. The man is honeft. Old Ath. Therefore he will be, Timon. (4) Tim. Does the love him? Old Ath. She is young, and apt: Tim. Love you the maid? Luc. Ay, my good lord, and fhe accepts of it. Old Ath. If in her marriage my consent be miffing, I call the Gods to witnefs, I will chufe Mine heir from forth the beggars of the world, Tim. How fhall fhe be endowed, If fhe be mated with an equal husband? Old Ath. Three talents on the present, in future all. Tim. This gentleman of mine hath ferv'd me long ; To build his fortune I will train a little, For 'tis a bond in men. Give him thy daughter: Old Ath. Moft noble lord, Pawn me to this your honour, she is his. Tim. My hand to thee, mine honour on my promise. Luc. Humbly I thank your Lordship: never may That ftate, or fortune, fall into my keeping, Which is not ow'd to you! [Exeunt Luc. and old Ath. Poet. Vouchfafe my labour, and long live your lordship! (4) Therefore be will be, Timon.] The Thought is closely exprefs'd, and obfcure: but this feems the Meaning. "If the "Man be honeft, my Lord, for that reafon he will be fo in "this; and not endeavour at the Injustice of gaining my "Daughter without my Confent." Mr. Warburton. Go not away. Tim. I thank you, you shall hear from me anon: What have you there, my friend ? Pain. A piece of Painting, which I do befeech Your lordship to accept. Tim. Painting is welcome. The Painting is almost the natural man : Ev'n fuch as they give out. I like your Work; And you 'Till you hear further from me. Pain. The Gods preserve ye! Tim. Well fare you, gentleman; Give me your hand, We must needs dine together: Sir, your jewel Hath fuffer'd under praise. Jew. What, my lord? difpraife? Tim. A meer fatiety of commendations: Jew. My lord, 'tis rated As thofe, which fell, would give: but you well know, Are by their masters priz'd; Believe't, dear lord, Tim. Well mock'd. Mer. No, my good lord, he speaks the common tongue, Which all men speak with him. Tim. Look, who comes here. Will you be chid ? Enter Apemantus. Jew. We'll bear it with your lordship. Tim. Good morrow to thee, gentle Apemantus! Apem. Are they not Athenians? Apem. |