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ing that modicum of “small Latin” allowed him by Ben Jonson, would enable him to make out. This seems to have been no unusual mode of becoming acquainted with Greek authors in that age, when many of them were still without English translations; for I have been surprised to observe how often even the learned authors of the age of Elizabeth and James, such as Burton, in the “Anatomy of Melancholy,” Jeremy Taylor, and others, refer to and quote the latin versions of Greek fathers and philosophers.

costumE, ETC.

In the literary costume of this drama, the congruity of its details with ancient manners, there are no striking deviations from historical probability, except in the odd transference of such names as Lucullus, Ventidius, etc., to Athens. These, so diligent a reader of North's “Plutarch” as Shakespeare was could not but have known to belong to Rome alone, and could have used them only from haste and inadvertence. This is, then, either an additional mark of the careless haste with which the subordinate parts of the play were sketched out, or else, if there be any ground for the theory of its authorship above suggested, it is an error of the dramatist who filled up the chasms of the original work.

The localities, etc., represented in the illustrations of this play, and transferred from the illustrated English editions, are chiefly of such Athenian remains as belong to the historical period of Alcibiades.

For the other costume, Mr. Planché of course recommends to the artist the “Elgin marbles" as the principal anthorities. “The age of Pericles, (he adds,) rich in art, as well as luxurious and magnificent, was the period which immediately preceded that of Timon; and it would of course suggest the employment, in the representation of the drama, of great scenic splendour.”

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Jew. If he will touch the estimate; but, for that— Poet. “When we for recompence have prais'd the vile, It stains the glory in that happy verse Which aptly sings the good.” Mer. 'Tis a good form. Jew. And rich: here is a water, look ye. 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 nourish'd : the fire i' the flint Shows not, till it be struck; our gentle flame

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Provokes itself, and, like the current, flies Pain. Indifferent.

Each bound it chafes. What have you there? Poet. Admirable ! How this gra--
Pain. A picture, sir.—When comes your book || Speaks his own standing; what a mental Power
forth This eye shoots forth; how big imagination
Poet. Upon the heels of my presentment, sir. Moves in this lip; to the dumbness of the gest T-
Let's see your piece. One might interpret. - -
Pain. 'Tis a good piece. Pain. It is a pretty mocking of the life.

Poet. So 'tis: this comes off well, and excellent. || Here is a touch; is't good!

Poet. I'll say of it, | One do I personate of lord Timon's frame: It tutors nature: artificial strife Whom Fortune with her ivory hand wafts to Lives in these touches, livelier than life. her, - FantEnter certain Senators, who pass over the stage. Yo: to present slaves and servant Pain. How this lord is follow'd ' Pain. 'Tis conceiv'd to scope. Poet. The senators of Athens:–happy men! This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks, Pain. Look, more ' With one man beckon'd from the rest below, Poet. You see this confluence, this great flood of || Bowing his head against the steepy mount visitors. To climb his happiness, would be well express'd I have in this rough work shap'd out a man, In our condition. Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug Poet. Nay, sir, but hear me on. With amplest entertainment: my free drift All those which were his fellows but of late, Halts not particularly, but moves itself (Some better than his value,) on the moment In a wide sea of wax : no levell'd malice Follow his strides; his lobbies fill with tendance, Infects one comma in the course I hold, Rain sacrificial whisperings in his ear, But flies an eagle flight, bold, and forth on, Make sacred even his stirrup, and through him Leaving no tract behind. Drink the free air. Pain. How shall I understand you? Pain. Ay, marry, what of these ? Poet. I will unbolt to you. Poet. When Fortune, in her shift and change of You see how all conditions, how all minds, mood, (As well of glib and slippery creatures, as Spurns down her late belov'd, all his dependants, Of grave and austere quality,) tender down Which labour'd after him to the mountain's top, Their services to lord Timon : his large fortune, Even on their knees and hands, let him slip down, Upon his good and gracious nature hanging, Not one accompanying his declining foot. Subdues and properties to his love and tendance Pain. 'Tis common: All sorts of hearts; yea, from the glass-fac'd flatterer | A thousand moral paintings I can show, To Apemantus, that few things loves better That shall demonstrate these quick blows of For Than to abhor himself: even he drops down tune's The knee before him, and returns in peace | More pregnantly than words. Yet you do well, Most rich in Timon's nod. | To show lord Timon, that mean eyes have seen £o. saw them speak together. The foot above the head. oet. Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill, Feign'd Fortune to o i. is: base o' the Trumpets sound. Enter Troos, attended: the mount Servant of VENtidius talking with him. Is rank'd with all deserts, all kind of natures, Tim. Imprison'd is he, say you! That labour on the bosom of this sphere Wen. Serv. Ay, my good lord: five talents is his To propagate their states: amongst them all, debt:

• Whose eyes are on this sovereign lady fix’d, His means most short, his creditors most strait:

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And you

Your honourable letter he desires
To those have shut him up; which failing,
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
I 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

ransom;
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!

(Exit.
Enter an old Athenian.
Old Ath. Lord Timon, hear me speak.
Tim.

Freely, good father.
Old Ath. Thou hast a servant nam'd Lucilius.
Tim. I have so: what of him !
Old Ath. Most noble Timon, call the man before

thee.
T'im. Attends be here, or no !-Lucilius !

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

creature,
By night frequents my house. I am a man
That from my first have been inclin'd to thrift,
And my estate deserves an heir, more rais'd
Than one which holds a trencher.
Tim.

Well; what further?
Old Ath. One only daughter have I; no kin else,
On whom I may confer what I have got :
The maid is fair, o' the youngest for a bride,
And I have bred her at my dearest cost
In qualities of the best. This man of thine
Attempts her love: I pr’ythee, noble lord,
Join with me to forbid bim her resort;
Myself have spoke in vain.
Tim.

The man is honest.
Old Ath. Therefore he will be, Timon:
His honesty rewards him in itself;
It must not bear my daughter.
Tim.

Does she love him?
Old Ath. She is young, and apt:
Our own precedent passions do instruct us
What levity's in youth.

Tim. [TO Lucilius.) Love you the maid ?
Luc. Ay, my good lord ; and she accepts of it.
Old Ath. If in her marriage my consent be

missing,
I call the gods to witness, I will choose
Mine heir from forth the beggars of the world,
And dispossess her all.
Tim.

How shall she be endow'd,
If she be mated with an equal husband ?
Old Ath. Three talents on the present; in future

all. Tim. This gentleman of mine hath serv'd me

long : To build his fortune, I will strain a little, For 'tis a bond in med. Give him thy daughter; What you bestow, in him I'll counterpoise, And make him weigh with her. Old Ath.

Most noble lord, Pawn me to this your honour, she is his.

T'im. My hand to thee; mine honour on iny

promise. Luc. Humbly I thank your lordship. Never may That state or fortune fall into my keeping, Which is not ow'd to you!

(Ereunt Lucilius, and old Athenian. Poet. Vouchsafe my labour, and long live your

lordship! Tim. I thank you; you shall hear from me anon : Go not away.-What have you there, my friend?

Pain. A piece of painting, which I do beseech
Your lordship to accept.
Tim.

Painting is welcome.
The painting is almost the natural man;
For since dishonour traffics with man's nature,
He is but outside : these pencil'd figures are
Even such as they give out. I like your work,

shall find, I like it: wait attendance
Till you hear further from me.
Pain.

The gods preserve you! Tim. Well fare you, gentleman: give me your

hand;
We must needs dine together.—Sir, your jewel
Hath suffer'd under praise.
Jew.

What, my lord! dispraise ?
Tim. A mere satiety of commendations.
If I should pay you for’t as 'tis extollid,
It would unclew me quite.
Jew.

My lord, 'tis rated As those which sell would give: but you well know, Things of like value, differing in the owners, Are prized by their masters. Believe't, dear lord, You mend the jewel by the wearing it. Tim.

Well mock'd. Mer. No, my good lord; he speaks the common

tongue, Which all men speak with him. Tim. Look, who comes here. Will you be chid?

Enter APEMANTUS.
Jew. We'll bear, with your lordship.
Mer.

He'll spare none. Tim. Good morrow to thee, gentle Apemantus. Apem. Till I be gentle, stay thou for thy good

morrow; When thou art Timon's dog, and these knaves

honest. Tim. Why dost thou call them knaves ? thon

know'st them not. Apem. Are they not Athenians ? Tim. Yes. Apem. Then I repent not. Jew. You know me, Apemantus. Apem. Thou know'st I do; I call’d thee by thy

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Tim. Thou art proud, Apemantus.

Apem. Of nothing so much, as that I am not like Timon.

Tim. Whither art going?
Apem. To knock out an honest Athenian's brains.
Tim. That's a deed thou'lt die for.

Apem. Right, if doing nothing be death by the law.

Tim. How likest thou this picture, Apemantus ?
Apem. The best, for the innocence.
Tim. Wrought he not well that painted it?

Apem. He wrought better that made the painter; and yet he's but a filthy piece of work.

Pain. Y'are a dog.

Apem. Thy mother's of my generation : what's she, if I be a dog ?

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