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Mer. O, pray, let's see it: For the lord Timon,
sir? Jew. If he will touch the estimate: But, for
that Poet. When we for recompense have prais'd the vile, It stains the glory in that happy verse Which aptly sings the good. Mer.
'Tis a good form.
[Looking on the jewel. Jew. And rich: here is a water, look you. Pain. You are rapt, sir, in some work, some
dedication To the great lord. Poet.
A thing slipp'd 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
What have you there? Pain. A picture, sir.—And when comes your
'Tis a good piece.
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?
I'll say of it,
Enter certain Senators, and pass over. Pain. How this lord's follow'd! Poet. The senators of Athens;—Happy men! Pain. Look, more! Poet. You see this confluence, this great flood
Pain. How shall I understand you?
I'll unbolt to you.
grave and austere quality,) tender down
Most rich in Timon's nod.
I saw them speak together. Poet. Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill, Feign'd Fortune to be thron'd: The base o’the
eyes are on this sovereign lady fix’d,
'Tis conceiv'd to scope.
Nay, sir, but hear me on:
Ay, marry, what of these?
mood, Spurns down her late belov’d, all his dependants, Which labour'd 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 for
tune More pregnantly than words. Yet you do well, To show lord Timon, that mean eyes have seen The foot above the head.
Trumpets sound. E
Enter Timon, attended; the Servant
of Ventidius talking with him. Tim.
Imprison'd is he, say you? Ven. Serv. Ay, my good lord: five talents is his
debt; His means most short, his creditors most strait: 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 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 ran
som; And, being enfranchis’d, 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 honour!
Enter an old Athenian.
Freely, good father.
fore thee. Tim. Attends he here, or no?-Lucilius !
Luc. Here, at your lordship’s service.
Well; what further?
The man is honest.
Does she love him?