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Timon, A Noble Athenian.


Two flattering Lords.
A pemancus, a churliss Philosopher.
Sempronius, another flattering Lord,
Alcibiades, an Athenian General.
Flavius, Steward to Timon. :
Flaminius, 2
Lucilius, ŞTimon's Servants,

Varro, Philo, Ticus,


Several Servants to Ufurers, Lucius, Hortensius, Ventidius, one of Timon's false Friends. Cupid and Maskers. Prinia, } Milfrelses to Alcibiades.' Timandra, JAMII Thieves, Senators, Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Mer. cer and Merchant ; with divers Servants and Attendants.

SCENE Athens, and the Woods not far

from it.

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. OF

ΑΤ Η Ε Ν .


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

cer, at several Doors.

р о т. O OD Day, Sir.. Pain, I am glad ye are well. Poet. I have not seen you long, how goes the World?

Pain. It wears, Sir, as it grows,

Poet. Ay, that's well known.
But what particular Rarity? What so strange,
Which manifold record not matches: See
Magick of Bounty, all these Spirits, thy Power in
Hath conjur'd to attend. ... .
I know the Merchant.



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Which ma particular Rey, that's well is grows,

Pain. I know them both, th’other's a Jeweller.

Mer. O'tis a worthy Lord. i 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'r. For the Lord Timon, Sir?
Jew. If he will touch the Estimate, but for that

Poet. When we for recompence have prais'd the vild,
It stains the Glory in that happy Verle,
Which aptly fings the good.

Mer. 'Tis a good form.
Jew, And rich; here is Water, look ye.

Pain, You are rapf, Sir, in some Work, for Dedication to the great Lord.

Poet. A thing flipt idly from me. .
Our Poesie is as a Gown, which uses
From whence 'tis nourisht: The fire i'ch' Flint
Shews not 'till it be ftruck: Our gentle Flame
Provokes it filf, and like the current fies
Lach bound it chases. What have you there?

Paix. A Pi&ure, 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 'ris, this comes off well and excellent.
Pain. Indifferent.

Poet. Admirable! How this Grace
Speaks his own standing; what a mental Power
This Eye Moots forth? How big Imagination
Moves in this Lip; to ch'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 will say of it,
It tutors Nature, artificial Strife
Lives in these touches livelier than Life.

Enter certain Senators.
Pain. Hvw this Lord is followed!


Poer. The Senators of Athens, happy Men.
Pain. Look, more.

Poet. You see this confluence, this great food of Visiters,
I have, in this rough Work, shap'd out a Man,
Whom this beneath World doth embrace and hug
With amplest Entertainment : My free drife
Halos not particularly, but moves it self
In a wide Sea of Wax, no levelld Malice
Infects one Comma in the Course I hold,
But flies an Eagle flight, bold, and forth on,
Leaving no Traå behind.

Pain. How shall I understand you?
Poet. I will unbolt to you.
You see how all Conditions, how all Minds,
As well of glib and flipp'ry Creatures, as
Of grave and auftere 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-fac'd 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 pleafant 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 Sovereign Lady fixt,
One de 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 conceiv'd, to scope
This Throne, this Fortune, and this Hill, methinks
With one Man beckn'd from the rest below,
Bowing his Head against the feepy Mount,

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