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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.
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.”
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
Provokes itself, and, like the current, flies Pain. Indifferent.
Each bound it chafes. What have you there? Poet. Admirable ! How this gra--
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:
Your honourable letter he desires
Noble Ventidius! Well;
him. Ven. Serv. Your lordship ever binds him. Tim. Commend me to him: I will send his
Freely, good father.
Well; what further?
The man is honest.
Does she love him?
Tim. [TO Lucilius.) Love you the maid ?
How shall she be endow'd,
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
Painting is welcome.
shall find, I like it: wait attendance
The gods preserve you! Tim. Well fare you, gentleman: give me your
What, my lord! dispraise ?
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?
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
Tim. Thou art proud, Apemantus.
Apem. Of nothing so much, as that I am not like Timon.
Tim. Whither art going?
Apem. Right, if doing nothing be death by the law.
Tim. How likest thou this picture, Apemantus ?
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 ?