VENTIDIUS, one of Timon's false Friends.

APEMANTUS, a churlish Philosopher.

ALCIBIADES, an Athenian Captain.

FLAVIUS, Steward to Timon.

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

Lords, Senators, Officers, Soldiers, Thieves, and Attendants.

SCENE: Athens, and the Woods adjoining.

(206)

THE LIFE OF

TIMON OF ATHENS.

ACT I.

SCENE I. — Athens. A Hall in TIMON'S House.

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

(OOD day, sir.

G

POET.

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. O, 'tis a worthy lord.

Jeweller.

Nay, that's most fix'd.

Mer. A most incomparable man; breath'd as it

were,

To an untirable and continuate goodness:

He passes.

Jew.

I have a jewel here

Mer. O, 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 i̇' 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, ast
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,

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 VENTIDIUS talking with him.

Timon.

Imprison'd is he, say you? Ventidius' Servant. Ay, my good lord: five tal

ents is his debt;