Imagens das páginas

Servafits to Timon's Creditors


Timon, a noble Athenian.

Lucius, 1

Lucullus, > Lords : flatterers of Timon.

Sempronius, J

Ventipius, one of Timon's false Friends.

Apemantus, a churlish Philosopher,

Alcibiades, an Athenian Captain.

Flavius, Steward to Timon.


Lucilius, }> Servants to Timon.







Servants of Varro, Yentidius, and Isidore: two of Timon's

Creditors. Cupid and Maskers. Three Strangers. Poet, Painter, Jeweller, and Merchant. An old Athenian. A Page. A Fool.

Phrynia, )

Timandra \ distresses to Alcibiades.

Lords, Senators, Officers, Soldiers, Thieves, and Attendants. SCENE: Athens, and the Woods adjoining.





Scene I. — Athens. A Hall in Timon's House.

Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and Others, at several doors.


GOOD day, sir.
Painter. I am glad y' 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 strange,
Which manifold record not matches ? — See,
Magic of beauty! all these spirits thy power
Hath conjur'd to attend. I know the merchant.
Pain. I know them both: th' other's a jeweller.
Merchant. 0, 'tis a worthy lord.
Jeweller. Nay, that's most flx'd.

Mer. A most incomparable man; breath'd as it
To an untirable and continuate goodness:
He passes.


Jew. I have a jewel here —

Mer. 0, pray, let's see't. For the Lord Timon, sir?

Jew. If he will touch the estimate; but, for that —

Poet. \_To himself*.] "When we for recompense have prais'd the vile, It stains the glory in that happy verse Which aptly sings the good."

Mer. \_Looking at the jewel.'] '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 idlely from me.

Our poesy is as a gum, which oozes
From whence 'tis nourish'd: the fire i' the flint
Shews 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, 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 'tis: 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'll say of it,

It tutors nature: artificial strife
Lives in these touches livelier than life.

Enter certain Senators, who pass over the stage.

Pain. How this lord is follow'd!

Poet. The Senators of Athens ; — happy man.

Pain. Look, more!

Poet. You see this confluence, this great flood of visitors. 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 itself 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 shall I understand you?

Poet. I will unbolt to you. You see how all conditions, how all minds, (As well of glib and slipp'ry creatures, as Of grave and austere 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 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 Most rich in Timon's nod.

Pain. I saw them speak together.

Poet. Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill, Feign'd Fortune to be thron'd: the base o' th' mount Is rank'd with all deserts, all kind of natures, That labour on the bosom of this sphere To propagate their states: amongst them all, Whose eyes are on this sovereign lady fix'd,

Vol. x. N

One do I personate of Lord Timon's frame;
Whom Fortune with her ivory hand wafts to her,
Whose present grace to present slaves and servants
Translates 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, sir, but hear me on.

All those which were his fellows but of late,
(Some better than his value) on the moment
Follow his strides; his lobbies fill with tendance,
Rain sacrificial whisperings in his ear,
Make sacred even his stirrup, 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 slip down, Not one accompanying his declining foot.

Pain. 'Tis common: A thousand moral paintings I can shew, That shall demonstrate these quick blows of Fortune's More pregnantly than words. Yet you do well To shew Lord Timon, that mean eyes have seen The foot above the head.

Trumpets sound. Enter Timon, attended; the Servant of Ventiditjs talking with him.

Timon, Imprisoned is he, say you?

Ventidius Servant. Ay, my good lord: five talents is his debt:

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