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Ventidius, one of Timon's falfe Friends.
Phrynia, Miftreffes to Alcibiades.
Thieves, Senators, Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Mercer and Merchant; with divers Servants and Attendants.
SCENE Athens, and the Woods not far from it.
The hint of part of this play taken from Lucian's Dialogue of Timon.
TIMON of ATHENS.
A Hall in Timon's House.
Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and Mercer, at feveral doors.
OOD day, Sir.
Pain. I am glad ye are well.
Poet. I have not feen you long, how goes
Pain. It wears, Sir, as it grows.
Poet. Ay, that's well known.
But what particular rarity? what fo ftrange,
Jew. Nay, that's moft fixt.
Mer. A moft incomparable man, breath'd as it were
To an untirable and continuate goodness.
Jew. I have a jewel here.
Mer. O pray let's fee't.
For the Lord Timon, Sir?
Jew. If he will touch the estimate but for that
Poet. When we for recompence have prais'd the vile, It ftains the glory in that happy verse
Which aptly fings the good.
Mer. 'Tis a good form.
[Repeating to himself [Looking on the jewel
Jew. And rich; here is a water, look ye.
Pain. You're rapt, Sir, in fome work, fome dedication
To the great Lord.
Poet. A thing flipt idly from me.
Our poefie is as a gum, which iffues
The fire i' th' flint
Shews not 'till it be ftruck: our gentle flame
Provokes it felf,
and, like the current, flies
Each bound it 'chafes. What have you there? [forth? Pain. A picture, Sir: 'and when comes your book Poet. Upon the heels of my prefentment, Sir.
Let's fee your piece.
Pain. 'Tis a good piece.
Poet. So 'tis,
This comes off well and excellent.
Poet. Admirable! how this grace
Speaks his own ftanding! what a mental power
Pain. It is a pretty mocking of the life:
Poet. I'll fay of it,
It tutors nature, artificial ftrife
Lives in thefe touches, livelier than life.
Enter certain Senators.
Pain. How this Lord is followed!
Poet. The fenators of Athens! happy 'man!
Pain. Look, more!
Poet. You fee this confluence, this great flood of vifitors.
1 chafes. ... old edit. Theob. emend.
I have, in this rough work, fhap'd out a man
Pain. How fhall I understand you?
You see how all conditions, how all minds,
Than to make himself abhorr'd; ev'n he drops down The knee before him, and returns in peace
Moft rich in Timon's nod.
Pain. I faw them fpeak together.
Poet. I have upon a high and pleasant hill
Whom Fortune with her iv'ry hand wafts to her,
Pain. 'Tis conceiv'd 7 to th' fcope:
This throne, this fortune, and this hill, methinks,
(a) Anciently they wrote upon waxen tables with an iron fiyle.
6 abhor himself;