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.

you ?

Pain. How shall I understand Poet. I'll unbolt to you. You see how all conditions, how all minds (As well of glib and slippery creatures, as 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 flatterert,

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'the 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.

*My design does not stop at any particular character. + Open, explain. One who shows by reflection the looks of his patron.

§ To advance their conditions of life.

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 e'en 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 show,

That shall demonstrate these quick blows of fortune
More pregnantly than words. Yet you do well
To show lord Timon, that mean eyes‡ have seen
The foot above the head.

Trumpets sound. Enter Timon, attended; the Servant of Ventidius talking with him. Imprison'd is he, say you? Ven. Serv. Ay, my good lord: five talents is his debt;

Tim.

His means most short, his creditors most strait :
Your honourable letter he desires

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

Tim.

Noble Ventidius! Well;

+ Inhale.

*Whisperings of officious servility.

i. e. Inferior spectators.

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;

And, being enfranchis'd, bid him come to me:
"Tis not enough to help the feeble up,
But to support him after.-Fare you well.
Ven. Serv. All happiness to your honour!

thee.

Tim. Attends he here, or no?-Lucilius!

[Exit.

Enter an old Athenian.

Old Ath. Lord Timon, hear me speak.
Tim.

Freely, good father. Old Ath. Thou hast a servant nam'd Lucilius. Tim. I have so: What of him?

Old Ath. Most noble Timon, call the man before

Enter Lucilius.

Luc. Here, at your lordship's service.

Old Ath. This fellow here, lord Timon, this thy

creature,

By night frequents my house. I am a man
That from my first have been inclin'd to thrift:
And my estate deserves an heir more rais'd,
Than one which holds a trencher.

Tim. Well; what further? Old Ath. One only daughter have I, no kin else, On whom I may confer what I have got : The maid is fair, o'the youngest for a bride, And I have bred her at my dearest cost, In qualities of the best. This man of thine Attempts her love: I pr'ythee, noble lord, Join with me to forbid him her resort; Myself have spoke in vain.

Tim.

The man is honest.

Old Ath. Therefore he will be, Timon:
His honesty rewards him in itself,
It must not bear my daughter.

Tim.

Old Ath. She is young, and apt :
Our own precedent passions do instruct us
What levity's in youth.

Tim. [To Lucilius.] Love you the maid?
Luc. Ay, my good lord, and she accepts of it.
Old Ath. If in her marriage my consent be missing,
I call the gods to witness, I will choose
Mine heir from forth the beggars of the world,
And dispossess her all.

Does she love him?

Tim. How shall she be endow'd, If she be mated with an equal husband? Old Ath. Three talents, on the present; in future, all.

Tim. This gentleman of mine hath serv'd me long; To build his fortune, I will strain a little, For 'tis a bond in men. Give him thy daughter: What you bestow, in him I'll counterpoise, And make him weigh with her.

Old Ath. Most noble lord, Pawn me to this your honour, she is his.

Tim. My hand to thee; mine honour on my promise.

Luc. Humbly I thank your lordship: Never may That state or fortune fall into my keeping, Which is not ow'd to you!

[Exeunt Lucilius and old Athenian. Poet. Vouchsafe my labour, and long live your lordship!

Tim. I thank you; you shall hear from me anon: Go not away.-What have you there, my friend? Pain. A piece of painting, which I do beseech Your lordship to accept.

Tim.
Painting is welcome.
The painting is almost the natural man ;
For since dishonour trafficks with man's nature,
He is but outside: These pencil'd figures are

Even such as they give out*, I like your work; And you shall find, I like it: wait attendance Till you hear further from me.

Pain.

The gods preserve you! Tim. Well fare you, gentlemen: Give me your hand :

We must needs dine together.-Sir, your jewel
Hath suffer'd under praise.

Jew.

What, my lord? dispraise? Tim. A mere satiety of commendations. If I should pay you for't as 'tis extoll'd, It would unclew† me quite.

Jew.

My lord, 'tis rated As those, which sell, would give: But you well know,

Things of like value, differing in the owners,
Are prized by their masters: believe't, dear lord,
You mend the jewel by wearing it.

Tim.

Well mock'd. Mer. No, my good lord; he speaks the common tongue,

Which all men speak with him.

Tim. Look, who comes here. Will you be chid?

Enter Apemantus.

Jew. We will bear, with your lordship. Mer. He'll spare none. Tim. Good morrow to thee, gentle Apemantus! Apem. Till I be gentle, stay for thy good-morrow; When thou art Timon's dog, and these knaves honest. Tim. Why dost thou call them knaves? thou know'st them not.

A pem. Are they not Athenians?

Tim. Yes.

Apem. Then I repent not.

Jew. You know me, Apemantus.

Apem. Thou knowest, I do; I call'd thee by thy

name.

* Pictures have no hypocrisy; they are what they profess to be. To unclew a man, is to draw out the whole mass of his fortunes.