Poet.
4 noteWhen we for recompence have prais'd the vile,
It stains the glory in that happy verse
Which aptly sings the good.
Mer.
'Tis a good form.
[Looking on the jewel.
Jew.
And rich. Here is a water. Look ye.
Pain.
You're rapt, Sir, in some work, some dedication
To the great Lord.
Poet.
A thing slipt idly from me.
Our Poesy is as a Gum, 5 notewhich oozes
From whence 'tis nourished. The fire i'th' flint
-- 169 --
Shews not, 'till it be struck: our gentle flame
Provokes itself, 6 note
and like the current flies
Each bound it chafes. What have you there?
Pain.
A picture, Sir. When comes your book forth?
Poet.
7 noteUpon the heels of my presentment, Sir.
Let's see your piece.
Pain.
'Tis a good piece.
Poet.
So 'tis.
8 note
This comes off well and excellent.
Pain.
Indiff'rent.
Poet.
Admirable? 9 note
how this grace
-- 170 --
Speaks his own standing? What a mental power
This eye shoots forth? How big imagination
Moves in this lip? To th' 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; 1 note
artificial strife
Lives in those touches, livelier than life.
Enter certain Senators.
Pain.
How this Lord is followed!
Poet.
The Senators of Athens! happy men!
Pain.
Look, more!
Poet.
You see 2 notethis confluence, this great flood of visiters.
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
-- 171 --
3 noteHalts not particularly, but moves itself
4 noteIn a wide sea of wax; 5 note
no levell'd malice
Infects one comma in the course I hold,
But flies an eagle-flight, bold, and forth on,
Leaving no tract behind.
Pain.
How shall I understand you?
Poet.
6 noteI'll unbolt to you.
You see, how all conditions, how all minds,
As well of 7 noteglib and slipp'ry creatures, as
Of grave and austere quality, tender down
Their Service 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 8 noteglass-fac'd flatterer
To Apemantus, that few things loves better
Than to abhor himself; ev'n he drops down
The knee before him, and returns in peace
Most rich in Timon's nod.
Pain.
I saw them speak together.
Poet.
I have upon a high and pleasant hill
Feign'd Fortune to be thron'd. The Base o'th' mount
-- 172 --
Is 9 noterank'd with all deserts, all kind of natures,
That labour on the bosom of this sphere
1 note
To propagate their states; amongst them all,
Whose eyes are on this sov'reign lady fixt,
One do I personate of Timon's frame,
Whom Fortune with her iv'ry hand wafts to her,
Whose present grace to present slaves and servants
Translates his rivals.
Pain.
'Tis 2 noteconceiv'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 exprest
3 noteIn our condition.
Poet.
Nay, but hear me on:
All those which were his fellows but of late,
Some better than his value, on the moment
Follow his strides; his lobbies fill with 'tendance;
4 noteRain sacrificial whisp'rings in his ear;
Make sacred even his stirrop; and 5 note
through him
Drink the free air.
-- 173 --
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,
Which labour'd after 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 shew,
That shall demonstrate these quick blows of fortune
More pregnantly than words; yet you do well
To shew Lord Timon, that mean eyes have seen
The foot above the head.
Samuel Johnson [1765], The plays of William Shakespeare, in eight volumes, with the corrections and illustrations of Various Commentators; To which are added notes by Sam. Johnson (Printed for J. and R. Tonson [and] C. Corbet [etc.], London) [word count] [S11001].
