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Imon, A Noble Athenian.

, } Two flattering Lords.
A pemantus, a churlish Philosopher.
Sempronius, another flattering Lord.
Alcibiades, an Athenian General.
Flavius, Steward to Timon.
Lucilius, Timon's Servants.




Several Servants to Usurers.

Ventidius, one of Timon's false Friends.
Cupid and Maskers.
Prinia, ?

Mistreljes to Alcibiades.
Timandra, j

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

cer, at several Doors.

Ρ Ο Ε Τ.
OOD 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
Hath conjur'd to attend.
I know the Merchant.

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Pain. I know them both, th'other's a Jeweller.
Mer. Oh 'tis a worthy Lord.
Jew. Nay, that's most fixt.

Mer. A most incomparable Man, breath'd as it were,
To an uncirable and continuate Goodness:
He passes ,

Jewi 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 vild,
It stains the Glory in that happy Verse,
Which aptly fings the good,

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

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

Poet. A thing slipt idly from me.
Our Poesie is as a Gown, which uses
From whence 'tis nourisht: The fire i'th' Flint
Shews not 'till it be struck: Our gentle Flame
Provokes it self, and like the current flies
Each bound it chases. What have you there?

Paix. 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 'cis, 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 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 will say of it,
It tutors Nature, artificial Strife
Lives in these touches livelier than Life.

Enter certain Senators,
Pain. How this Lord is followed !


Poet. The Senators of Athens, happy Men.
Pain. Lock, more.

Poet. You fee this confidence, this great flood 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 drift
Halts not particularly, but moves ie self
In a wide Sea of Wax, no leveil'd Malice
Infees one Comma in the Course I hold,
But flies an Eagle Aight, bold, and forth on,
Leaving no Tract bebind.

Pain. How shall I understand you?

Poet. I will uobolt to you.
You see how all Conditions, how all Minds,
As well of glib and flipp'ry Creatures, as
Of grave and sustere 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 plass-fac'd Flatterer
To Apemantus, that few things love's 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 togetl er.

Poet, Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant Hill
Feign'd Fortune to be thron'd. The base o'ch' Mount
Is rank'd with all Deserts, all kind of Natures,
That labour on the boom of this Sphere,

propagate their States; amongst them all,
Whore Eyes are on this Sovereign Lady fixt,
One do I personate of Lord Timon's frame,
Whom Fortune with her Ivory Hand walts to her,
Whose present Grace, to present Slaves and Servants
Translates his Rivals.

Pain. 'Ts conceiv’d, to scope
This Throne, this Fortune, and this Hill, methinks
With one Man beckn'd fom the rest below,
Bowing his Head against the steepy Mount,

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