That labour on the bofom of this sphere
To propagate their ftates; amongst them all,
Whose 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,
Whose present grace to prefent flaves and fervants
Tranflates his rivals.

Pain. 'Tis conceiv'd to th' Scope. (3)

This Throne, this Fortune, and this Hill, methinks,
With one man becken'd from the reft below,
Bowing his head against the steepy mount

To climb his happinefs, would be well exprest
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 ftrides; his lobbies fill with tendance:

Rain facrificial whifp'rings in his ear;

Make facred even his stirrop; 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 these quick blows of fortune

(3) 'Tis conceiv'd, to fcope

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, TXT Tuxes, rectà ad Scopum tendis: and Cicero has thus exprefs'd on the like Occafion, Signum oculis deftinatum feris. This Sense our Author, in his Henry 8th, expreffes;

I think, you've hit the Mark.

And in his Julius Cæfar, at the Conclufion of the first A&t ;
Him, and his Worth, and dar great Need of him,
You have right well conceited.

More

More pregnantly than words. Yet you do well
To fhew lord Timon, that mean eyes have feen
The foot above the head.

Trumpets found. Enter Timon, addreffing himself courteously to every fuitor.

Tim. Imprifon'd is he, fay you?

[To a Meffenger.
Mef. Ay, my good lord; five talents is his debt,
His means moft fhort, 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 deferves a help,

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

But to fupport him after. Fare you well.
Mef. All happiness to your Honour!

Enter an old Athenian,

Old Ath. Lord Timon, hear me speak.

Tim. Freely, good father.

Old Ath. Thou haft a fervant nam'd Lucilius.

Tim. I have fo: what of him?

[Exit.

Old Ath. Moft noble Timon, 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,
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 beft. This man of thine
Attempts her love: I pray thee, noble lord,
Join with me to forbid him her resort ;
My felf have spoke in vain.

Tim. The man is honeft.

Old Ath. Therefore he will be, Timon. (4) His honefty rewards him in it felf,

It must not bear my daughter.

Tim. Does fhe love him?

Old Ath. She is young, and apt:

Our own precedent paffions do inftruct us,
What levity's in youth.

Tim. Love you the maid?

Luc. Ay, my good lord, and fhe accepts of it.
Old Ath. If in her marriage my confent be miffing,

I call the Gods to witnefs, I will chufe

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

Tim. How fhall the be endowed,

If fhe be mated with an equal husband?

Old Ath. Three talents on the prefent, in future all.
Tim. This gentleman of mine hath ferv'd me long;
To build his fortune I will ftrain a little,

For 'tis a bond in men. Give him thy daughter:
What you beftow, in him I'll counterpoife,

And make him weigh with her.

Old Ath. Moft noble lord,

Pawn me to this your honour, fhe is his.

Tim. My hand to thee, mine honour on my promise.
Luc. Humbly I thank your Lordship: never may

(4) Therefore he will be, Timon.] The Thought is closely exprefs'd, and obfcure: but this feems the Meaning. "If the Man be honest, my Lord, for that Reason he will be fo in this; and not endeavour "at the Injustice of gaining my Daughter without my Confent."

66

Mr. Warburton.

That state, or fortune, fall into my keeping,

Which is not ow'd to you. [Exeunt Luc. and old Athenian.
Poet. Vouchfafe my labour, and long live your lordship!
Tim. I thank you, you fhall hear from me anon:
Go not away. 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 almoft the natural man :
For fince difhonour trafficks with man's nature,
He is but out-fide: pencil'd figures are
Ev'n fuch as they give out. I like your Work;
And you fhall find, I like it: wait attendance
'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.
If I fhould pay you for't as 'tis extoll'd,
It would unclew me quite.

Jew. My lord, 'tis rated

As thofe, which fell, would give: but you well know,
Things of like value, differing in the owners,

Are by their mafters priz'd; Believe't, dear lord,
You mend the jewel by the wearing it.

Tim. Well mock'd.

Mer. No, my good lord, he fpeaks the common tongue, Which all men fpeak with him.

Tim. Look, who comes here.

Will you be chid?

Enter Apemantus.

Few. We'll bear it with your lordship.

Mer. He'll fpare none.

Tim. Good morrow to thee, gentle Apemantus!

Apem. 'Till I be gentle, ftay for thy good morrow; When thou art Timon's dog, and thefe knaves honest.

Tim. Why doft thou call them knaves, thou know'ft

Apem. Are they not Athenians?

Tim. Yes.

Apem. Then I repent not.

Jew. You know me, Apemantus.

[them not?

Apem. Thou know'ft I do, I call'd thee by thy name. Tim. Thou art proud, Apemantus.

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

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

Apem. Right, if doing nothing be death by the law.
Tim. How lik'ft thou this Picture, Apemantus?
Apem. The beft, 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. Y'are a dog.

Apem. Thy mother's of my generation: what's fhe, if I be a dog?

Tim. Wilt dine with me, Apemantus?

Apem. No, I eat not lords.

Tim. If thou fhould'ft, thou'dft anger ladies.

Apem. O, they eat lords; fo they come by great bellies. Tim. That's a lafcivious apprehenfion.

Apem. So, thou apprehend'ft it. Take it for thy labour.
Tim. How doft thou like this jewel, Apemantus?
Apem. Not fo well as Plain-dealing, which will not coft
a man a doit.

Tm. What doft thou think 'tis worth?
Apem. Not worth my thinking.
Poet. How now, Philofopher?

Apem. Thou lieft.

Poet. Art thou not one?

Apem. Yes.

Poet. Then I lie not.

How now, Poet?

Apem. Then thou lieft: look in thy laft work, where

thou haft feign'd him a worthy fellow.

Pcet.