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TIMON, a noble Athenian.



two flattering Lords.

APEMANTUS, a churlife Philofopher.
SEMPRONIUS, another flattering Lord.
ALCIBIADES, an Athenian General.

FLAVIUS, Steward, to Timon.

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Thieves, Senators, Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Mercer and Merchant; with divers Servants and Attendants.

SCENE ATHENS, and the Woods not far from it.

The hint of part of this play taken from Lucian's

Dialogue of Timon.






A Hall in Timon's House.

Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and Mercer,



at feveral doors.

OOD day, Sir.

Pain. I am glad ye are well.

Poet. I have not feen you long, how goes the world?

Pain. It wears, Sir, as it grows.

Poet. Ay, that's well known.

But what particular rarity? what fo ftrange,
Which manifold Record not matches? fee,
Magick of bounty! all these spirits 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.

Few. I have a jewel here.

Mer. O pray let's fee't.

For the Lord Timon, Sir?

Jew. If he will touch the estimate: but for that-
Port, When we for recompence have prais'd the vile,

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It stains the glory in that happy verse

Which aptly fings the good.

[Repeating to himself. [Looking on the jewel.

Mer. 'Tis a good form.

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 poefie 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 it felf,

and, like the current, flies

Each bound it chafes. What have you there?

Pain. A picture, Sir:-and when comes your book forth? Poet. Upon the heels of my prefentment, 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 Arife

Lives in these touches, livelier than life.

Enter certain Senators.

Pain. How this Lord is followed!

Poet. The fenators of Athens! happy man!

Pain. Look, more!

Poet. You fee this confluence, this great flood of vifiters.

I have, in this rough work, fhap'd out a man

Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug
With ampleft entertainment. My free drift
Halts not particularly, but moves it felf
In a wide fea of wax *; no levell'd malice

Anciently they wrote upon waxen tables with an iron ftyle.


Infects one comma in the course I hold;
It flies an eagle-flight, bold, and forth on,
Leaving no track behind,

Pain. How fhall I understand you?
Poet. I'll unbolt to you.

You fee how all conditions, how all minds,
As well of glib and flipp'ry natures, as
Of grave and auftere quality, tender down
Their service to Lord Timon: his large fortune
Upon his good and gracious nature hanging,
Subdues and properties to his love and tendance
All forts of hearts; yea, from the glass-fac'd flatterer
To Apemantus, that few things loves better
Than to make himself abhorr'd; ev'n he drops down
The knee before him, and returns in peace
Moft rich in Timon's nod.

Pain. I faw them fpeak together.

Poet. 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 deferts, all kind of natures,
That labour on the bofom of this sphere
To propagate their states; amongst them all,
Whofe eyes are on this fov'reign Lady fixt,
One do I perfonate of Timon's frame,

Whom Fortune with her iv'ry hand wafts to her,
Whose prefent grace to prefent flaves and fervants
Tranflates his rivals.

Pain. 'Tis conceiv'd to th' fcope :

This throne, this fortune, and this hill, methinks,
With one man becken'd from the reft below
Bowing his head against the steepy mount,

To climb his happinefs, would be well expreft
In our condition.

Poet. Nay, but hear me on:

All thofe which were his fellows but of late,
Some better than his value, on the moment
Follow his ftrides, his lobbies fill with tendance,
Rain facrificial whifp'rings in his ear,
Make facred even his ftirrop, and through him
Drink the free air.


Pain. Ay, marry, what of these?

Poet. When Fortune in her fhift and change of mood
Spurns down her late belov'd, all his dependants
(Which labour'd after to the mountain's top,
Ev'n on their knees and hands,) let him flip down,
Not one accompanying his declining foot.
Pain. 'Tis common;

A thousand moral paintings I can shew,

That shall demonftrate these quick blows of fortune
More pregnantly than words. Yet you do well
To fhew Lord Timon, that men's eyes have feen
The foot above the head.


Trumpets found. Enter Timon addreffing bimself courteously to every Suitor.

Tim. Imprifon'd is he, fay you?

[To a Meffenger.
Mef. Ay, my good Lord, five talents is his debt,
His means moft fhort, his creditors most straight:
Your honourable letter he defires

To those have shut him up, which failing to him
Periods his comfort.

Tim. Noble Ventidius! well.

I am not of that feather, to shake off
My friend when he most needs me.
A gentleman that well deferves a help,

I know him

Which he fhall have. I'll pay the debt, and free him.
Mef. Your Lordship ever binds him.

Tim. Commend me to him, I will fend his ranfom,
And being enfranchiz'd, bid him come to me,

'Tis not enough to help the feeble up,

But to fupport him after. Fare you well.
Mef. All happiness to your Honour.
Enter an old Athenian.

0. Ath. Lord Timon, hear me fpeak.

Tim. Freely, good father.

0. Atb. Thou hait a fervant nam'd Lucilius.

Tim. I have fo: what of him?


0. Ath. Moft noble Timon, call the man before thee. Tim. Attends he here or no? Lucilius!



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