I have a jewel here. Jew. Poet. When we for recompense have prais'd the vile, Which aptly sings the good. Mer. 'Tis a good form. [Looking on the jewel. Jew. And rich: here is a water, look you. Pain. You are rapt, sir, in some work, some dedi cation To the great lord. Poet. A thing slipp'd idly from me. Our poesy is as a gum, which oozes From whence 'tis nourished: The fire i'the flint Each bound it chafes. What have you there? Pain. A picture, sir.-And when comes your book forth? Poet. Upon the heels of my presentment, sir. Let's see your piece. 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 H Moves in this lip! to the dumbness of the gesture One might interpret. Pain. It is a pretty mocking of the life. Here is a touch; Is't good? Poet. I'll say of it, It tutors nature: artificial strife Lives in these touches, livelier than life. Enter certain Senators, and pass over. Pain. How this lord's follow'd! Poet. The senators of Athens;-Happy men! Pain. Look, more! Poet. You see this confluence, this great flood of visitors. I have, in this rough work, shap'd out a man, Pain. How shall I understand you? + I'll unbolt to you. You see how all conditions, how all minds, (As well of glib and slippery creatures, as Of grave and austere quality,) tender down 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 glass-fac'd flatterer Pain. I saw them speak together. Poet. Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill, To propagate their states: amongst them all, Pain. 'Tis conceiv'd to scope7. This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks, Poet. Nay, sir, but hear me on: Follow his strides, his lobbies fill with tendance, Make sacred even his stirrop, 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, Pain. 'Tis common: A thousand moral paintings I can show, To show lord Timon, that mean eyes have seen Trumpets sound. Enter TIMON, attended; the Servant of Ventidius talking with him. Tim. Imprison'd is he, say you? Ven. Serv. Ay, my good lord: five talents is his debt; His means most short, his creditors most strait: Your honourable letter he desires To those have shut him up; which falling to him, Tim. Noble Ventidius! Well; I am not of that feather, to shake off My friend when he must need me. I do know him A gentleman, that well deserves a help, Which he shall have: I'll pay the debt, and free him. Ven. Serv. Your lordship ever binds him. Tim. Commend me to him: I will send his ransom; And, being enfranchis'd, bid him come to me:- But to support him after 10.-Fare you well. Enter an old Athenian. Old Ath. Lord Timon, hear me speak. Tim. [Exit. Freely, good father. Old Ath. Thou hast a servant nam'd Lucilius. Tim. I have so: what of him? Old Ath. Most noble Timon, call the man before thee. Tim. Attends he here, or no?-Lucilius! Enter LUCILIUS. Luc. Here, at your lordship's service. Old Ath. This fellow here, lord Timon, this thy creature, By night frequents my house. I am a man That from my first have been inclin'd to thrift; And my estate deserves an heir more rais'd, Than one which holds a trencher. Tim. Well; what further? Old Ath. One only daughter have I, no kin else, On whom I may confer what I have got: The maid is fair, o'the youngest for a bride, And I have bred her at my dearest cost, In qualities of the best. This man of thine Attempts her love: I pr'ythee, noble lord, |