POET.
Good Day, Sir.

Pain.
I am glad ye are well.

Poet.
I have not seen you long, how goes the World?

Pain.
It wears, Sir, as it grows.

Poet.
Ay, that's well known.
But what particular Rarity? What so strange,
Which manifold record not matches: See
Magick of Bounty, all these Spirits, thy Power
Hath conjur'd to attend.
I know the Merchant.

Pain.
I know them both, th' other's a Jeweller.

Mer.
Oh 'tis a worthy Lord.

Jew.
Nay, that's most fixt.

Mer.
A most incomparable Man, breath'd as it were,
To an untirable and continuate Goodness:
He passes—

Jew.
I have a Jewel here.

Mer.
O pray let's see'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 vild,
It stains the Glory in that happy Verse,
Which aptly sings the good.

Mer.
'Tis a good form.

Jew.
And rich; here is Water, look ye.

Pain.

You are rapt, Sir, in some Work, some Dedication to the great Lord.

Poet.
A thing slipt idly from me.
Our Poesie is as a Gown, which uses
From whence 'tis nourisht: The fire i'th' Flint
Shews not 'till it be struck: Our gentle Flame
Provokes it self, and like the current flies
Each bound it chases. What have you there?

Pain.
A Picture, Sir:—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.

Pain.
Indifferent.

Poet.
Admirable! How this Grace
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 will say of it,
It tutors Nature, artificial Strife
Lives in these 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 this 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
Halts not particularly, but moves it self
In a wide Sea of Wax, 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.
I will unbolt to you.
You see how all Conditions, how all Minds,
As well of glib and slipp'ry 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
To Apemantus, that few things loves better
Than to abhor himself, even he drops down
The Knee before him, and returns in peace
Most rich in Timon's Nod.

Pain.
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'th' 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 fixt,
One do I personate of Lord Timon's frame,
Whom Fortune with her Ivory Hand wafts to her,
Whose present Grace, to present Slaves and Servants
Translates his Rivals.

Pain.
'Ts conceiv'd, to scope
This Throne, this Fortune, and this Hill, methinks
With one Man beckn'd from the rest below,
Bowing his Head against the steepy Mount,

To climb his Happiness, would be well exprest
In our Condition.

Poet.
Nay, Sir, 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,
Rain sacrificial Whisperings in his Ear,
Make sacred even his Stirrop, and through him
Drink the free Air.

Pain.
Ay marry, what of these?

Poet.
When Fortune in her shift and change of Mood
Spurns down her late beloved; 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 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. Trumpets sound. Enter Lord Timon addressing himself courteously to every Suitor.

Tim.
Imprisoned is he, say you? [To a Messenger.

Mes.
Ay, my good Lord, five Talents is his Debt,
His means most short, his Creditors most straight:
Your honourable Letter he desires
To those have shut him up, which failing to him,
Periods his Comfort.

Tim.
Noble Ventidius! well—
I am not of that Feather, to shake off
My Friend when he most needs me. I do know him
A Gentleman that well deserves a help,
Which he shall have. I'll pay the Debt, and free him.

Mes.
Your Lordship ever binds him.

Tim.
Commend me to him, I will send his Ransom,
And being Enfranchized, bid him come to me;
'Tis not enough to help the feeble up,
But to support him after. Fare you well.

Mes.
All Happiness to your Honour. [Exit.

Enter an Old Athenian.

O. Ath.
Lord Timon, hear me speak.

Tim.
Freely, good Father.

O. Ath.
Thou hast a Servant nam'd Lucilius.

Tim.
I have so: What of him?

O. Ath.
Most Noble Timon, call the Man before thee.

Tim.
Attends he here or no? Lucilius. Enter Lucilius.

Lucil.
Here, at your Lordship's Service.

O. 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?

O. Ath.
One only Daughter have I, no Kin else,
On whom I may confer what I have got:
The Maid is fair, o'th'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 pray thee, Noble Lord,
Join with me to forbid him her Resort;
My self have spoke in vain.

Tim.
The Man is honest.

O. Ath.
Therefore he will be, Timon,
His honesty rewards him in it self,
It must not bear my Daughter.

Tim.
Does she love him?

O. Ath.
She is young, and apt:
Our own precedent Passions do instruct us,
What levity's in Youth.

Tim.
Love you the Maid?

Lucil.
Ay, my good Lord, and she accepts of it.

O. Ath.
If in her Marriage my consent be missing,
I call the Gods to witness, I will chuse
Mine Heir from forth the Beggars of the World,
And dispossess her all.

Tim.
How shall she be endowed,
If she be mated with an equal Husband?

O. Ath.
Three Talents on the present, in future all.

Tim.
This Gentleman of mine hath 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.

O. Ath.
Most noble Lord,
Pawn me to this your Honour, she is his.

Tim.
My Hand to thee,
Mine Honour on my Promise.

Luc.
Humbly I thank your Lordship never may
That State or Fortune fall into my keeping,
Which is not owed to you. [Exit.

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
Your Lordship to accept.

Tim.
Painting is welcome.
The Painting is almost the natural Man:
For since Dishonour trafficks with Man's Nature,
He is but out-side: The Pensil'd Figures are
Even such as they give out. I like your work,
And you shall find I like it: Wait Attendance
'Till you hear further from me.

Pain.
The Gods preserve ye.

Tim.
Well fare you Gentleman; Give me your Hand,
We must needs dine together: Sir, your Jewel
Hath suffered under Praise.

Jew.
What my Lord? dispraise?

Tem.
A meer satiety of Commendations,
If I should pay you for't as 'tis extoll'd,
It would unclew me quite.

Jew.
My Lord, 'tis rated
As those which sell would give: But you well know,
Things of like value differing in the Owners,
Are priz'd so by their Masters. Believ't, dear Lord,
You mend the Jewel by the wearing it.

Tim.
Well mock'd. Enter Apemantus.

Mer.
No, my good Lord, he speaks the common Tongue,
Which all Men speak with him.

Tim.
Look who comes here, will you be chid?

Jew.
We'll bear with your Lordship.

Mer.
He'll spare none.

Tim.
Good morrow to thee, gentle Apemantus.

Apem.
'Till I be gentle, stay thou 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 know'st 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.

To knock out an honest Athenians Brains.

Tim.

That's a deed thou'lt die for.

Apem.

Right, if doing nothing be Death by the Law.

Tim.

How lik'st thou this Picture, Apemantus?

Apem.

The best, for the Innocence.

Tim.

Wrought he not well that Painted it?

Apem.

He wrought better that made the Painter, and yet he's but a filthy piece of work.

Pain.

Y'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.
No, I eat not Lords.

Tim.
And thou should'st, thoud'st anger Ladies.

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.

Tim.
How dost thou like this Jewel, Apemantus?

Apem.

Not so well as plain-dealing, which will not cost a Man a Doit.

Tim.
What dost thou think 'tis worth?

Apem.
Not worth my thinking.
How now, Poet?

Poet.
How now, Philosopher?

Apem.
Thou liest.

Poet.
Art not one?

Apem.
Yes.

Poet.
Then I lie not.

Apem.
Art not a Poet?

Poet.
Yes.

Apem.
Then thou liest:

Look in thy last work, where thou hast feign'd him a worthy Fellow.

Poet.

That's not feign'd, he is so.

Apem.

Yes, he is worthy of thee, and to pay thee for thy Labour. He that loves to be flattered is worthy o'th' flatterer. Heavens, that I were a Lord!

Tim.

What would'st do then, Apemantus?

Apem.

E'vn as Apemantus does now, hate a Lord with my Heart.

Tim.
What, thy self?

Apem.
Ay.

Tim.
Wherefore?

Apem.
That I had no angry wit to be a Lord.
Art not thou a Merchant?

Mer.
Ay, Apemantus.

Apem.
Traffick confound thee, if the Gods will not.

Mer.
If Traffick do it, the Gods do it.

Apem.
Traffick's thy God, and thy God confound thee. Trumpet Sounds. Enter a Messenger.

Tim.
What Trumpet's that?

Mes.
'Tis Alcibiades, and some twenty Horse,
All of Companionship.

Tim.
Pray entertain them, give them guide to us;
You must needs dine with me: Go not you hence
'Till I have thankt you; and when dinner's done
Shew me this piece. I am Joyful of your sights. Enter Alcibiades with the rest.
Most welcome Sir.

Apem.

So, so, their Aches contract, and starve your supple Joynts: That there should be small Love amongst these

sweet Knaves, and all this Courtesie. The strain of Man's bred out into Baboon and Monkey.

Alc.
You have sav'd my Longing, and I feed
Most hungerly on your sight.

Tim.
Right welcome, Sir.
E'er we depart, we'll share a bounteous time
In differnt Pleasures. Pray you let us in. [Exeunt. Manet Apemantus. Enter Lucius and Lucullus.

Luc.

What time a day is't, Apemantus?

Apem.

Time to be honest.

Luc.

That time serves still.

Apem.

The most accursed thou that still omit'st it.

Lucull.

Thou art going to Lord Timon's Feast.

Apem.

Ay, to see Meat fill Knaves, and Wine heat Fools.

Lucull.
Fare thee well, fare thee well.

Apem.
Thou art a Fool to bid me farewel twice.

Lucull.
Why, Apemantus?

Apem.

Thou should'st have kept one to thy self, for I mean to give thee none.

Luc.

Hang thy self.

Apem.
No, I will do nothing at thy bidding:
Make thy Requests to thy Friend.

Lucull.
Away unpeaceable Dog,
Or I'll spurn thee hence.

Apem.
I will fly, like a Dog, the heels o'th' Ass.

Luc.
He's opposite to humanity.
Come, shall we in,
And taste Lord Timon's Bounty? He outgoes
The very Heart of Kindness.

Lucull.
He pours it out; Plutus, the God of Gold,
Is but his Steward: No meed but he repays
Seven-fold above it self; no Gift to him,
But breeds the giver a return, exceeding
All use of Quittance.

Luc.
The noblest mind he carries,
That ever govern'd Man.

Lucull.
Long may he live in Fortunes: Shall we in?

Luc.
I'll keep you Company. [Exeunt.

Hautboys Playing, Loud Musick. A great Banquet serv'd in; and then enter Lord Timon, Lucius, Lucullus, Sempronius and other Athenian Senators, with Ventidius. Then comes dropping after all, Apemantus discontendedly like himself.

Ven.
Most honoured Timon,
It hath pleas'd the Gods to remember my Father's age,
And call him to long Peace:
He is gone happy, and has left me rich.
Then as in grateful Virtue I am bound
To your free Heart, I do return those Talents,
Doubled with Thanks and Service, from whose help
I deriv'd Liberty.

Tim.
O by no means,
Honest Ventidius: You mistake my Love,
I gave it freely ever, and there's none
Can truly say he gives, if he receives:
If our Betters play at that Game, we must not dare
To imitate them. Faults that are rich are fair.

Ven.
A Noble Spirit.

Tim.
Nay, my Lords, Ceremony was but devis'd at first
To set a Gloss on faint Deeds, hollow welcomes,
Recanting goodness, sorry e'er 'tis shown:
But where there is true Friendship there needs none.
Pray, sit, more welcome are ye to my Fortunes,
Then my Fortunes to me. [They sit down.

Luc.
My Lord, we always have confest it.

Apem.
Ho, ho, confest it? Hang'd it? Have you not?

Tim.
O Apemantus, you are welcome.

Apem.
No: You shall not make me welcome.
I come to have thee thrust me out of Doors.

Tim.
Fye, th'art a Churle; ye have got a humour there
Does not become a Man, 'tis much to blame:
They say, my Lords, Ira furor brevis est,
But yond Man is ever Angry.
Go, let him have a Table by him self:
For he does neither affect Company,
Nor is he fit for't indeed.

Apem.
Let me stay at thine apperil, Timon:
I come to observe, I give thee warning on't.

Tim.

I take no heed of thee; th'art an Athenian, therefore welcome: I my self would have no Power—prethee let my Meat make thee silent.

Apem.

I scorn thy Meat, 'twould choak me: For I should ne'er flatter thee. Oh you Gods! What a number of Men eat Timon, and he sees 'em not? It grieves me to see so many dip their Meat in one Man's Blood, and all the madness is, he cheers them up too.

There's much Example for't, the Fellow that sits next him now, parts Bread with him, pledges the Breath of him in a divided Draught, is the readiest Man to kill him. 'T has been proved. If I were a huge Man, I should fear to drink at Meals, lest they should spy my Wind-pipes dangerous Notes: Great Men should drink with harness on their Throats.

Tim.

My Lord in Heart; and let the Health go round.

Lucul.

Let it flow this way, my good Lord.

Apem.

Flow this way!—A brave Fellow! he keeps his Tides well; those Healths will make thee and thy State look ill, Timon.