T I

I M O N

OF

ATHENS.

Thieves, Senators, Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Mercer and Merchant; with divers fervants and attendants.

SCENE, Athens; and the Woods not far from it.

ΤΙΜΟΝ

TIMON of ATHEN S.

ACT I.

SCENE, A Hall in Timon's House.

Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and Mercer, at feveral doors.

NOOD day, Sir.

G

РОЕ Т.

7

Pain. I am glad y' are well.

Poet. I have not feen you long; how goes the world? Pain. It wears, Sir, as it

goes.

Poet: Ay, that's well known.

But what particular rarity? what fo ftrange,
Which manifold record not matches? fee,

(Magick of bounty !) all these fpirits thy power
Hath conjur'd to attend. I know the merchant.
Pain. I know them both; th' other's a jeweller.
Mer. O'tis a worthy Lord!

Jew. Nay, that's most fixt.

Mer. A moft incomparable man, breath'd as it were To an untirable and continuate goodness.

He paffes

Jeru. I have a jewel here. Mer. O, pray, let's fee't: For the Lord Timon, Sir?

VOL. VI.

F

Few.

Jer. If he will touch the estimate: but for thatPoet. When we for recompence have prais'd the vile, It ftains the glory in that happy verse

Which aptly fings the good.

Mer. 'Tis a good form.

[Looking on the jewel.

Jew. And rich; here is a water, look ye.

Pain. You're rapt, Sir, in fome work, fome dedication

To the great Lord.

Poet. A thing flipt idly from me.

Our poefy is as a gum, which iffues
From whence 'tis nourished.

The fire i' th' flint

Shews not, 'till it be ftruck: our gentle flame

Provokes itself,-and like the current flies

Each bound it chafes. What have you there? (1)
Pain. A picture, Sir :-when comes your book forth?
Poet. Upon the heels of my presentment, Sir.
Let's fee your piece.

Pain. 'Tis a good piece.

Poet. So tis,

This comes off well and excellent.

Pain. Indiff'rent.

Poet. Admirable! how this grace

Speaks his own ftanding? what a mental power
This eye fhoots 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 fay of it,

It tutors nature; artificial ftrife

Lives in those touches, livelier than life.

(1) Each bound it chases.-] How, chases? The flood, indeed beating up upon the fhore, covers a part of it, but cannot be faid to drive the fhore away. The poet's allufion is to a wave, which, foaming and chafing on the fhore, breaks; and then the water feems to the eye to retire. So, in Lear.

The murmuring furge,

That on th' unnumber'd idle pebbles chafes, &c.

And fo in Jul. Cæfar.

The troubled Tiber, chafing with his shores.

Enter