TIMON OF ATHENS. ACT I. SCENE I. Athens. A Hall in Timon's House. Enter Poct, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and Others, at several doors. Poet. Good day, sir. Pain. I am glad you 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, Jew. 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. When we for recompense have prais'd the vile, It stains the glory in that happy verse Which aptly sings the good. Mer. 'Tis a good form. [Looking on the jewel. Jew. And rich: here is a water, look you. Pain. You are rapt, sir, in some work, some dedi cation To the great lord. Poet. A thing slipp'd idly from me. Our poesy is as a gum, which oozes From whence 'tis nourished: The fire i'the flint Each bound it chafes. What have you there? Pain. A picture, sir.-And 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, Poet. Admirable: How this grace Speaks his own standing! what a mental power Moves in this lip! to the 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, and pass over. Pain. How this lord's follow'd! Poet. The senators of Athens-Happy men! Pain. Look, more! Poet. You see this confluence, this great flood of visitors. I have, in this rough work, shap'd out a man, + I'll unbolt to you. Pain. How shall I understand you? 6 All sorts of hearts; yea, from the glass-fac'd flatterer Pain. I saw them speak together. To propagate their states: amongst them all, Pain. 'Tis conceiv'd to scope7. This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks, Poet. Nay, sir, but hear me on: Make sacred even his stirrop, 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, Pain. 'Tis common: A thousand moral paintings I can show, That shall demonstrate these quick blows of fortune Trumpets sound. Enter TIMON, attended; the Servant of Ventidius talking with him. Tim. Imprison'd is he, say you? Ven. Serv. Ay, my good lord: five talents is his debt; His means most short, his creditors most strait: Your honourable letter he desires To those have shut him up; which falling to him, Tim. Noble Ventidius! Well; I am not of that feather, to shake off My friend when he must need me. I do know him A gentleman, that well deserves a help, Which he shall have: I'll pay the debt, and free him. Ven. Serv. Your lordship ever binds him. Tim. Commend me to him: I will send his ransom; |