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.
O '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.

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 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.
^noteOur poesie is as a gum, which issues
From whence 'tis nourished. 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.
Indiff'rent.

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'll 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'll 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 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 glass-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
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 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 conceiv'd, to scope
This throne, this fortune, and this hill, methinks
With one man becken'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, 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 whisp'rings 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 belov'd, all his dependants
(Which labour'd after to the mountain's top,
Ev'n 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.

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