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Poet. A thing slipped idly from me. Our poesy is as a gum, which oozes From whence 'tis nourished. The fire i' the flint Shows 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.-And 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 the dumbness of the gesture
One might interpret.

Pain. It is a pretty mocking of the life.

Here is a touch; is't good?

Poet.

It tutors nature; artificial strife

I'll say of it,

Lives in these touches, livelier than life.

Enter certain Senators, and pass over.

Pain. How this lord's followed!

Poet. The senators of Athens; - happy men!

Pain. Look, more!

Poet. You see this confluence, this great flood of visitors.

I have, in this rough work, shaped out a man,

Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug
With amplest entertainment. My free drift
Halts not particularly, but moves itself
In a wide sea of wax. No levelled 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 see how all conditions, how all minds,
(As well of glib and slippery creatures, as
Of grave and austere 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-faced 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,
Feigned Fortune to be throned. The base o' the mount
Is ranked with all deserts, all kind of natures,
That labor on the bosom of this sphere

To propagate their states. Amongst them all,
Whose eyes are on this sovereign lady fixed,
One do I personate of lord Timon's frame,

Whom Fortune with her ivory hand wafts to her;
Whose present grace to present slaves and servants
Translates his rivals.

Pain.

'Tis conceived to scope.
This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks,
With one man beckoned from the rest below,
Bowing his head against the steepy mount
To climb his happiness, would be well expressed
In our condition.

Poet.

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 sacrificial whisperings in his ear,

Make sacred even his stirrup, 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, and all his dependants, Which labored after him to the mountain's top, Even on their knees and hands, let him slip down, Not one accompanying his declining foot. Pain. 'Tis common.

A thousand moral paintings I can show,

That shall demonstrate these quick blows of fortune
More pregnantly than words. Yet you do well,
To show lord Timon, that mean eyes have seen
The foot above the head.

Trumpets sound. Enter TIMON attended; the Servant of
VENTIDIUS talking with him.

Tim.

Imprisoned is he, say you?

Ven. Serv. Ay, my good lord: five talents is his debt; His means most short, his creditors most strait. Your honorable 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 must need me. I do know him
A gentleman that well deserves a help,

Which he shall have. I'll pay the debt, and free him.
Ven. Serv. Your lordship ever binds him.

Tim. Commend me to him; I will send his ransom;

And, being enfranchised, bid him come to me:-
'Tis not enough to help the feeble up;

But to support him after.- Fare you well.
Ven. Serv. All happiness to your honor!

Enter an old Athenian.

[Exit.

Freely, good father.

Old Ath. Lord Timon, hear me speak.

Tim.

Old Ath. Thou hast a servant named Lucilius.

Tim. I have so. What of him?

Old Ath. Most noble Timon, call the man before thee. Tim. Attends he here, or no? - Lucilius!

Enter LUCILIUS.

Luc. Here, at your lordship's service.

Old Ath. This fellow here, lord Timon, this thy creature, By night frequents my house. I am a man

That from my first have been inclined to thrift;

And my estate deserves an heir more raised,
Than one which holds a trencher.

Tim.

Well; what further?

Old Ath. One only daughter have I, no kin else,
On whom I may confer what I have got:
The maid is fair, o' the 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 pr'ythee, noble lord,
Join with me to forbid him her resort;
Myself have spoke in vain.

The man is honest.

Tim.
Old Ath. Therefore he will be, Timon.

His honesty rewards him in itself,

It must not bear my daughter.

Tim.

Does she love him?

Old Ath. She is young, and apt:
Our own precédent passions do instruct us
What levity's in youth.

Tim. [To LUCILIUS.] Love you the maid?

Luc. Ay, my good lord, and she accepts of it.
Old Ath. If in her marriage my consent be missing,
I call the gods to witness, I will choose

Mine heir from forth the beggars of the world,
And dispossess her all.

Tim.

How shall she be endowed, If she be mated with an equal husband?

Old Ath. Three talents, on the present; in future, all. Tim. This gentleman of mine hath served me long: To build his fortune, I will strain a little,

For 'tis a bond in men. Give him thy daughter;
What you bestow, in him I'll counterpoise,

And make him weigh with her.

Old Ath.

Most noble lord,

Pawn me to this your honor, she is his.

Tim. My hand to thee; mine honor on my promise. Luc. Humbly I thank your lordship. Never may That state or fortune fall into my keeping,

Which is not owed to you!

[Exeunt LUCILIUS and old Athenian. Poet. Vouchsafe my labor, and long live your lordship! Tim. I thank you; you shall hear from me anon; Go not away. What have you there, my friend? Pain. A piece of painting, which I do beseech Your lordship to accept.

Tim.
Painting is welcome.
The painting is almost the natural man;
For since dishonor traffics with man's nature,
He is but outside. These pencilled figures are
Even such as they give out. I like your work,
And you shall find, I like it: wait attendance
Till you hear further from me.

Pain.
The gods preserve you!
Tim. Well fare you, gentlemen. Give me your hand;
We must needs dine together.-Sir, your jewel

Hath suffered under praise.

Jew.

What, my lord? dispraise?

Tim. A mere satiety of commendations. If I should pay you for it as 'tis extolled, It would unclew me quite.

Jew.

My lord, 'tis rated

As those, which sell, would give. But you well know,
Things of like value, differing in the owners,

Are prized by their masters: believe't, dear lord,
You mend the jewel by the wearing it.

Tim.

Well mocked.

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 will bear with your lordship.

Mer.

He'll spare none. Tim. Good morrow to thee, gentle Apemantus! Apem. Till I be gentle, stay thou for thy good morrow; When thou art Timon's dog, and these knaves honest. Tim. Why dost thou call them knaves? thou know'st them not.

Apem. Are they not Athenians?

Tim. Yes.

Apem. Then I repent not.

Jew. You know me, Apemantus.

Apem. Thou know'st, I do: I called thee by thy name. Tim. Thou art proud, Apemantus.

Apem. Of nothing so much, as that I am not like Timon.
Tim. Whither art going?

Apem. To knock out an honest Athenian's brains.
Tim. That's a deed thou'lt die for.

Apem. Right, if doing nothing be death by the law.
Tim. How likest thou this picture, Apemantus?

Apem. The best for the innocence.

Tim. Wrought he not well, that painted it?

Apem. He wrought better, that made the painter; and yet he's but a filthy piece of work.

Pain. You are a dog.

Apem. Thy mother's of my generation. What's she, if

I be a dog?

Tim. Wilt dine with me, Apemantus?

Apem. No; I eat not lords.

Pain. An thou shouldst, thou'dst anger ladies.

Apem. O, they eat lords: so they come by great bellies. Tim. That's a lascivious apprehension.

Apem. So thou apprehend'st it. Take it for thy labor. Tim. How dost thou like this jewel, Apemantus? Apem. Not so well as plain-dealing, which will not cost a man a doit.

Tim. What dost thou think 'tis worth?

Apem. Not worth my thinking.-How now, poet?
Poet. How now, philosopher?

Apem. Thou liest.

Poet. Art not one?

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