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Mer. O, pray, let's see it: For the lord Timon,
Jew. If he will touch the estimate: But, for that
Poet. When we for recompense have prais'd the vile, It stains the glory in that happy verse
Which aptly sings the good.
'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 dedication
To the great lord.
A thing slipp'd idly from me. Our poesy is as a gum, which oozes
From whence 'tis nourished: The fire i'the flint
Poet. Upon the heels of my presentment, sir. Let's see your piece.
'Tis a good piece.
Poet. So 'tis: this comes off well and excellent. Pain. Indifferent.
Admirable: How this grace Speaks his own standing! what a mental power This eye shoots forth! how big imagination
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?
I'll say of it,
It tutors nature: artificial strife
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?
To Apemantus, that few things loves better
Most rich in Timon's nod.
I saw them speak together.. Poet. Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill, Feign'd Fortune to be thron'd: The base o'the
Is rank'd with all deserts, all kind of natures,
Pain. 'Tis conceiv'd to scope. This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks, With one man beckon'd from the rest below, Bowing his head against the steepy mount To climb his happiness, would be well express'd In our condition.
Make sacred even his stirrup, and through him
Ay, marry, what of these?
Poet. When Fortune, in her shift and change of 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,
More pregnantly than words. Yet you do well, To show lord Timon, that mean eyes have seen The foot above the head.
Trumpets sound. Enter Timon, attended; the Servant of Ventidius talking with him.
Imprison'd is he, say you?
His means most short, his creditors most strait:
To those have shut him up; which failing to him,
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
Noble Ventidius! Well;
Vèn. 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:-
Enter an old Athenian.
Old Ath. Lord Timon, hear me speak.
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!
Luc. Here, at your lordship's service.
Old Ath. This fellow here, lord Timon, this thy
By night frequents my house. I am a man
That from my first have been inclin'd to thrift;
Well; what further?
Does she love him?