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Poet. Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill, Feign'd Fortune to be throp'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 land wafts to her; Whose present grace to present slaves and servants Translates his rivals. Pain.
'Tis conceiv'd to scope.
Nay, sir, but hear me on:
Ay, marry, what of these?
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 eyesg have seen The foot above the head.
• To advance their conditions of life. + Whisperings of officious servility.
Inhale. fi. e. Inferior spectators.
Trumpets sound. Enter Timon, attended; the
Servant of Ventidius talking with him. Tim.
Imprison'd is he, say you? Ven. Sero. Ay, my good lord: five talents is his
His means most short, his creditors most strait:
Noble Ventidius! Well;
Ven. Sero. Your lordship ever binds him.
Enter an old Athenian.
Old Ath. Lord Timon, hear me speak.
Freely, good father.
thee. Tim. Attends he here, or no?-Lucilius!
Luc. Here, at your lordship's service.
Well; what further?
The man is honest. Old Ath. Therefore he will be, Timon: His honesty rewards him in itself, It must not bear my daughter. Tim.
Does slie love him?
Tim. [To Lucilius.] Love you the maid?
Old Ath. If in her marriage my consent be missing,
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 liath 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 pro
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
Painting is welcome.
The gods preserve you! Tim. Well fare you, gentlemen: Give me your
What, my lord ? dispraise?
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: beliere'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.
* 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.
Tim. Look, who comes here. Will you be chid?
Jew. We will bear, with your lordship.
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. Apem. Are they not Athenians? Tim. Yes. Apem. Then I repent not. Jew. You know me, Apemantus. Apem. Thou koowest, I do; I call'd thee by thy
name. Tim. Thou art proud, Apemantus.
Apem. Of nothing so much, as that I am not like Timon.
Tim. Whither art going?
Apem. Right, if doing nothing be death by the law.
Tim. How likest thou this picture, Apemantas?
Apem. He wrought better, that made the painter; and yet he's but a filthy piece of work.
Pain. You are a dog.
Apem. Thy mother's of my generation; What's she, if I be a dog?
Tim. Wilt dine with me, Apemantus ?
Apem. O, they eat lords; so they come by great bellies.
Tim. That's a lascivious apprehension. Apem. So thou apprehend'st it: Take it for thy labour,