Other Lords, Senators, Officers, Soldiers, Banditti, and Attendants. SCENE-Athens, and the woods adjoining. TIMON OF ATHENS. ACT I. SCENE I. Athens. A hall in TIMON's house. Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and others, at several doors. Poet. Good day, sir. Pain. I am glad you're well. Poet. I have not seen you long: how goes the world? Poet. Ay, that's well known: But what particular rarity? what strange, Jew. Nay, that's most fix'd. Mer. O, pray, let's see 't: for the Lord Timon, sir? Jew. If he will touch the estimate: but, for that Poet [reciting to himself]. "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 at the jewel. Jew. And rich: here is a water, look ye. Pain. You are rapt, sir, in some work, some dedication To the great lord. Poet. A thing slipp'd idly from me. From whence 'tis nourish'd: the fire i' the flint Pain. A picture, sir.-When comes your book forth? 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 Pain. It is a pretty mocking of the life. It tutors nature: artificial strife Lives in these touches, livelier than life. Enter certain Senators, and pass over. Pain. How this lord is follow'd! Poet. The senators of Athens:-happy man!(2) Pain. Look, more! 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; Pain. How shall I understand you? Poet. I will unbolt to you. You see how all conditions, how all minds Pain. I saw them speak together. Poet. Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill Is rank'd with all deserts, all kind of natures, Pain. 'Tis conceiv'd to scope. This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks, To climb his happiness, would be well express'd Poet. Nay, sir, but hear me on. All those which were his fellows but of late (Some better than his value), on the moment Make sacred even his stirrup, 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, |