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

Poet.

Ood day Sir.

doores.

Pain. I am glad y'are well.

Poet. I have not seene you long, how goes the World?

Pain. It weares sir, as it growes.

Poet. I that's well knowne:

But what particular Rarity? What strange,
Which manifold record not matches: see

Magicke of Bounty, all these spirits thy power
Hath conjur'd to attend.

I know the Merchant.

Pain. I know them both: th'others a Jeweller.

Mer. O 'tis a worthy Lord.

Jew.

Nay that's most fixt.

Mer. A most incomparable man, breath'd as it were,

To an untyreable and continuate goodnesse :

He passes.

Jew. I have a Jewell heere.

Mer. O pray let's see't. For the Lord Timon, sir?
Jewel. If he will touch the estimate. But for that-

Poet. When we for recompence have prais'd the vild,

Jewel. And rich: heere is a Water looke ye.
Pain. You are rapt sir, in some worke, some Dedication

Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hugge
With amplest entertainment: My free drift
Halts not particularly, but moves it selfe
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 behinde.

Pain. How shall I understand you?
Poet.

I will unboult to you.

You see how all Conditions, how all Mindes,

As well of glib and slipp'ry Creatures, as

Of Grave and austere qualitie, tender downe

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 glasse-fac'd Flatterer

To Apemantus, that few things loves better

Then to abhorre himselfe; even hee drops downe

The knee before him, and returnes in peace

Most rich in Timons nod.

Pain.

I saw them speake 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 kinde of Natures
That labour on the bosome of this Sphere,
To propagate their states; among'st them all,
Whose eyes are on this Soveraigne Lady fixt,
One do I personate of Lord Timons frame,
Whom Fortune with her Ivory hand wafts to her,
Whose present grace, to present slaves and servants
Translates his Rivals.

Pain.

'Tis conceyv'd, to scope This Throne, this Fortune, and this Hill me thinkes With one man becken'd from the rest below,