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Dramatis Personæ.

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TIMON, A noble Athenian.
Lucius,
Lucullus,

two flattering Lords.
Apemantus, a churlish Philosopher.
Sempronius, another flattering Lord.
Alcibiades, an Athenian General.
Flavius, Steward to Timon.
Flaminius,
Lucilius,

Timon's Servants.
Servilius,
Caphis,
Varro,
Philo,

several Servants to Usurers.
Titus,
Lucius,
Hortensius,
Ventidius, one of Timon's false Friends.
Cupid and makers.

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Thieves, Senators, Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Mercer and

Merchant; with divers Servants and Attendants.

SCENE, Athens; and the Woods not far from it.

TIMON

TIMON of ATHENS.

ACT 1. SCEN E I.

A Hall in Timon's House. Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and Mercer,

at several Doors.

PoET. GOOD-day, Sir.

Pain. I am glad y' are well. Poet. I have not seen you long; how goes the

world ?
Pain. It wears, Sir, as it goes.

Poet. Ay, that's well known.
But what particular rarity ? what so strange,
Which manifold Record not matches ? see,
(Magic 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 most fixt.

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

Jew. I have a jewel here.

Mer. O, pray, let's see't: For the lord Timon, Sir?

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

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

Mer.

Mer. 'Tis a good form. (Looking on the jewel.
Jew. And rich; here is a water, look ye.
Pain. You're rapt, Sir, in some work, fome dedi-

dication
To the great lord.

Poet. A thing slipt idly from me. Our Poesy is as a Gum, which issues From whence 'tis nourished. The fire i'th' flint Shews not, 'till it be struck: our gentle flame Provokes itself, and like the current flies Each Bound it chafes. What have you there? Pain. 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. Indiff'rent.

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'll say of it,
It tutors Nature; artificial strife
Lives in those touches, livelier than life.

Enter certain Senators.
Pain. How this lord is followed !
Poet. The Senators of Athens! happy man!
Pain. Look, more!
Poet. You see this confluence, this great flood of

visiters. 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 particular, but moves itself
* In a wide sea of wax ; t no leven'd malice
Infects 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'll unbolt to you. You fee, how all conditions, how all minds, As well of glib and flipp'ry natures, as Of grave and austere quality, tender down Their Service 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; ev'n he drops down The knee before him, and returns in peace Most rich in Timon's nod.

Pain. I saw them speak together.

Poet. I have upon a high and pleasant hill Feign'd Fortune to be thron'd. The Base o'th' mount Is rank'd with all deserts, all kind of natures, That labour on the bosom of this sphere To propagate their states; amongst them all, Whose eyes are on this sov'reign lady fixt, One do 1 personate of Timon's frame, Whom Fortune with her iv'ry hand wafts to her, Whose present grace to present flaves and servants Translates his rivals.

Pain. 'Tis conceiv'd, to scope, This throne, this Fortune, and this Hill, methinks,

* In a wide fea of wax ;] Anciently they wrote upon waxen Tables th an Iron Stile.

Oxford Editor. t- -ro levell’d malice] Why this Epithet to Malice? which beloags to all Adions whatsoever, which have their Aim or Level. Shakespear wrore, -no leven'd malice

Warb.

With one man becken'd from the rest below,
Bowing his head against the steepy mount
To climb his happiness, would be well expreft
In our condition.

Poet. Nay, 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 sacrificial whisp'rings in his ear;
Make sacred even his stirrop; and through him
Drink the free air.

Pain Ay, marry, what of these ?

Puet. When Fortune in h.-r ihift and change of mood Spurns down her late belov'd, all his Dependants (Which labour'd after to the mountains top, Èven on their knees and hands.) let him flip down, Not one accornpanying 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 shew lord Timon, that mean eyes have seen The foot above the head.

SCENE II. Trumpets found. Enter Timon, addressing himself cour

teously to every suitor. Tim. MPRISON’D is he, say you?

[To a Messenger. Mef. Ay, my good lord ; five talents is his debt, His means molt short, his creditors most ftraight : Your honourable letter he desires 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

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