ACTI.

SCENE I.

SCENE A Hall in Timon's Houfe. Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and Mercer, at feveral Doors.

POET.

OOD Day, Sir.

Pain. I am glad ye are well.

Poet. I have not feen you long, how goes

the World?

Pain. It wears, Sir, as it grows.
Poet. Ay, that's well known.

But what particular Rarity? What fo ftrange,
Which manifold record not matches: See
Magick of Bounty, all thefe Spirits, thy Power
Hath conjur'd to attend.

I know the Merchant.

Pain. I know them both, th' other's a Jeweller.
Mer. Oh 'tis a worthy Lord.

Jew. Nay, that's moft fixt.

Mer. A moft incomparable Man, breath'd as it were, To an untirable and continuate Goodness:

He paffes

Jew. I have a Jewel here.

Mer. O pray let's fee't.

For the Lord Timon, Sir?

Few. If he will touch the Eftimate, 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 fome Work, fome Dedication

to the great Lord.

Poet. A thing flipt idly from me.

Our Poefie is as a Gown, which uses

From whence 'tis nourisht: The fire i'th' Flint
Shews not 'till it be ftruck: Our gentle Flame
Provokes it felf, and like the current flies

Each bound it chafes. What have you there?

Pain. A Picture, Sir:When comes your Book forth? Poet. Upon the Heels of my Prefentment, Sir.

Let's fee 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 fhoots 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 fay of it,

It tutors Nature, artificial Strife

Lives in thefe touches livelier than Life.

Enter certain Senators,

Pain. How this Lord is followed!

Poet.

Poet. The Senators of Athens, happy Men.

Pain. Look, more.

Poet. You fee this confluence, this great flood of Vifiters,

I have, in this rough Work, fhap'd out a Man,
Whom this beneath World doth embrace and hug
With ampleft Entertainment: My free drift
Halts not particularly, but moves it felf
In a wide Sea of Wax, no levell'd Malice
Infects one Comma in the Course I hold,
But flies an Eagle flight, bold, and forth on,
Leaving no Tract behind.

Pain. How fhall I underftand you?

Poet. I will unbolt to you.

You fee 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 forts 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
Moft rich in Timon's Nod.

Pain. I faw them speak together.

Poer. Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant Hill
Feign'd Fortune to be thron'd. The bafe o'th' Mount
Is rank'd with all Deferts, all kind of Natures,
That labour on the bofom of this Sphere,
Το propagate their States; amongst them all,
Whofe Eyes are on this Sovereign Lady fixt,
One do I perfonate of Lord Timon's frame,
Whom Fortune with her Ivory Hand wafts to her,
Whofe prefent Grace, to prefent Slaves and Servants
Tranflates his Rivals.

Pain. 'Ts conceiv'd, to fcope

This Throne, this Fortune, and this Hill, methinks
With one Man beckn'd from the reft below,

Bowing his Head against the steepy Mount,

To

To climb his Happiness, would be well expreft
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 ftrides, his Lobbies fill with tendance,
Rain facrificial Whifperings in his Ear,

Make facred even his Stirrop, and through him
Drink the free Air,

Pain. Ay marry, what of thefe?

Poet. When Fortune in her shift and change of Mood
Spurns down her late beloved; all his Dependants,
Which labour'd after him 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 thefe quick blows of Fortune,
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 Lord Timon addrefing himself courteously to every Suitor.

Tim. Imprifoned is he, fay you? [To a Messenger.
Mef. Ay, my good Lord, five Talents is his Debt,
His means moft short, his Creditors moft ftraight:
Your honourable Letter he defires

To thofe have fhut 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 moft needs me. I do know him
A Gentleman that well deferves a help,

Which he fhall have. I'll pay the Debt, and free him.
Mef. Your Lordship ever binds him.

Tim. Commend me to him, I will fend his Ranfom,

And being Enfranchized, 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.

[Exit. Enter

Enter an Old Athenian.

0. Ath. Lord Timon, hear me fpeak. Tim. Freely, good Father.

0. Ath. Thou haft a Servant nam'd Lucilius. Tim. I have fo: What of him?

0. Ath. Most Noble Timon, call the Man before thee. Tim. Attends he here or no? Lucilius.

Enter Lucilius.

Lucil. Here, at your Lordship's Service.

0. 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?

0. 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 coft,
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.

O. Ath. Therefore he will be, Timon,
His honefty rewards him in it felf,
It must not bear my Daughter.

Tim. Does the love him?

O. Ath. She is young, and apt:

Our own precedent Paffions do inftruct us,
What levity's in Youth.

Tim. Love you the Maid?

Lucil. Ay, my good Lord, and the accepts of it.
O. 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 al'.

Tim. How fhall fhe be endowed,

If the be mated with an equal Husband?

O. Ath. Three Talents on the prefent, in future all.
Tim. This Gentleman of mine hath ferv'd me long;

To