THE LIFE OF TYMON

OF ATHENS.

Actus Primus. Scana Prima.

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,

It staines the glory in that happy Verse,

Which aptly sings the good.

Mer.

'Tis a good forme.

Jewel. And rich: heere is a Water looke ye.

Pain. You are rapt sir, in some worke, some Dedication to the great Lord.

Poet. A thing slipt idlely from me.

Our Poesie is as a Gowne, which uses

From whence 'tis nourisht: the fire i'th Flint
Shewes not, till it be strooke: our gentle flame
Provokes it selfe, and like the current flyes
Each bound it chafes. What have you there?

Pain. A Picture sir: when comes your Booke forth?
Poet. Upon the heeles of my presentment sir.

Poet. So 'tis, this comes off well, and excellent.
Pain. Indifferent.

grace

Poet.
Admirable: How this
Speakes his owne standing: what a mentall power
This eye shootes forth? How bigge imagination
Moves in this Lip, to th'dumbnesse of the gesture,
One might interpret.

Pain. It is a pretty mocking of the life:
Heere is a touch: Is't good?

Poet.

I will say of it,

It Tutors Nature, Artificiall strife

Lives in these touches, livelier then life.

Enter certaine Senators.

Pain. How this Lord is followed.

Poet. The Senators of Athens, happy men.

Pain. Looke moe.

Po. You see this confluence, this great flood of visitors,

I have in this rough worke, shap'd out a man

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,