Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant,

GOOD day, fir.

Pain.

feveral doors.

Poet.

I am glad you are well.

Poet. I have not feen you long; How go Pain. It wears, fir, as it grows.

Poet. Ay, that But what particular rarity? what strange, Which manifold record not matches? See, Magick of bounty! all thefe fpirits thy pow Hath conjur'd to attend. I know the merc Pain. I know them both; t'other's a jew Mer. O, 'tis a worthy lord!

Jew.

Nay, that's Mer. A moft incomparable man; breath To an untirable and continuate goodness: He paffes.

Jew. I have a jewel here.

Mer. O, pray, let's fee't: For the lord T few. If he will touch the estimate: But Poet. When we for recompenfe have prais'a

B

It flains the glory in that happy verse

Which aptly fings the good.

Mer.

'Tis a good form.

[Looking on the jewel.

Jew. And rich: here is a water, look you.

Pain. You are rapt, fir, in fome work, fome dedication great lord.

To the

Poet.

A thing flipp'd idly from me.
Our poefy 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 you there?

Pain. A picture, fir.-And when comes your book

forth?

Poet. Upon the heels of my prefentment, fir.

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 the 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'll fay of it,

It tutors nature: artificial ftrife

Lives in thefe touches, livelier than life.

Enter certain Senators, and pafs over.

Pain. How this lord's follow'd!

Poet. The fenators of Athens;-Happy men!

3

Pain.

the flint ame

es mere?

es your bo

fir.

llent.

race

er

ure

But flies an eagle flight, bold, and forth on,
Leaving no tract behind.

Pain. How fhall I understand you?

Poet.

I'll un

You see how all conditions, how all minds,
(As well of glib and flippery creatures, as
Of grave and auftere quality,) tender down
Their fervices to lord Timon: his large fort
Upon his good and gracious nature hanging
Subdues and properties to his love and tend
All forts of hearts; yea, from the glass-fac'
To Apemantus, that few things loves bette
Than to abhor himself: even he drops dow
The knee before him, and returns in peace
Moft rich in Timon's nod.

Pain.

I saw them speak

Poet. Sir, I have, upon a high and pleafar
Feign'd Fortune to be thron'd: The bafe o
Is rank'd with all deferts, all kind of natur
That labour on the bofom of this sphere
To propagate their states: amongst them al
Whose eyes are on this fovereign lady fix'd
One do I perfonate of lord Timon's frame,
Whom Fortune with her ivory hand wafts

Whose present grace to present slaves and fervants
Tranflates his rivals.

Pain.

'Tis conceiv'd to scope.

This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks,
With one man beckon'd from the rest below,
Bowing his head against the steepy mount

To climb his happiness, would be well express'd
In our condition.

Poet.

Nay, fir, 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 whisperings in his ear,

Make sacred even his stirrop, and through him
Drink the free air.

Pain.

Ay, marry, what of these?

Poet. When Fortune, in her shift and change of 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 flip down, Not one accompanying his declining foot.

Pain. 'Tis common:

A thousand moral paintings I can show,

That shall demonstrate these quick blows of fortune
More pregnantly than words. Yet you do well,
To fhow lord Timon, that mean eyes have seen
The foot above the head.

Trumpets found. Enter TIMON, attended; the Servant of VENTIDIUS talking with him.

Tim.

Imprifon'd is he, fay you?

Ven. Serv. Ay, my good lord: five talents is his debt;

Ven. Serv, Your lordship ever binds him Tim. Commend me to him: I will fend And, being enfranchis'd, bid him come to 'Tis not enough to help the feeble up, But to fupport him after.-Fare you well. Ven. Serv. All happiness to your honour

Enter an old Athenian.

Old Ath. Lord Timon, hear me speak.
Tim.

Freely Old Ath. Thou haft a fervant nam'd Luci Tim. I have fo: What of him?

Old Ath. Moft noble Timon, call the mar Tim. Attends he here, or no?—Lucilius

Enter LUCILIUS.

Luc. Here, at your lordship's service.
Old Ath. This fellow here, lord Timon,

ture,

By night frequents my house. I am a man That from my first have been inclin'd to th And my eftate deferves an heir more rais'd, Than one which holds a trencher.