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 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 Pain. It is a pretty mocking of the life. 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, Pain. How shall I understand you? Poet. I will unbolt to you. You see how all conditions, how all minds, 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; Pain. 'Tis conceiv'd to scope. This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks, To climb his happiness, would be well express'd Poet. Nay, sir, but hear me on. Make sacred even his stirrup, and through him 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 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; |