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 thatPoet. When we for recompense have praised the vile, It stains the glory in that happy verse Which aptly sings the good. Mer. "Tis a good form. [Looking at the jewel. Jew. And rich: here is a water, look you. Pain. You are apt, Sir, in some work, some dedication 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 Shows not, till it be struck; our gentle flame Provokes itself, and, like the current, flies Each bound it chafes. What have you there? Pain. A picture, Sir.-And when comes your book forth? 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 Moves in this lip! to the dumbness of the gesture Pain. It is a pretty mocking of the life. 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, shaped out a man, Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug With amplest entertainment: My free drift Pain. How shall I understand you ? Poet. I'll unbolt** to you. * Give the price. + Reading his poem. As soon as my book has been presented to Timon. I. e. the contest of art with nature. Does not stop at any particular character. Anciently they wrote upon wax tablets with an iron pen. **Explain. You see how all conditions, how all minds Pain. I saw them speak together. Poet. Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill, Whom Fortune with her ivory hand wafts to her; Pain. "Tis conceived to scope. This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks, Poet. Nay, Sir, but hear me on: All those which were his fellows but of late Make sacred even his stirrup, and through him 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, Pain. "Tis common: A thousand moral paintings I can show That shall demonstrate these quick blows of fortune The foot above the head. Trumpets sound. Enter TIMON, attended; the SERVANT of VENTIDIUS talking with him. Tim. Imprison'd is he, say you? * One who shows by reflection the looks of his patron. + Crowded with people of all classes of merit. To advance their condition of life. Ven. Serv. Ay, my good lord: five talents is his debt; To those have shut him up; which failing 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 Which he shall have: I'll pay the debt, and free him. Tim. Commend me to him: I will send his ransom; "Tis not enough to help the feeble up, But to support him after.-Fare you well. Ven. Serv. All happiness to your honour! Enter an old ATHENIAN. Old Ath. Lord Timon, hear me speak. Tim. Freely, good father. Old Ath. Thou hast a servant named Lucilius. Tim. I have so: What of him? Old Ath. Most noble Timon, call the man before thee. 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 inclined to thrift; And my estate deserves an heir more raised, Tim. Well: what further? Old Ath. One only daughter have I, no kin else, Tim. The man is honest. Old Ath. Therefore he will be, Timon: Tim. Does she love him? Old Ath. She is young, and apt: Our own precedent passions do instruct us What levity's in youth. Tim. [to LUCILIUS]. Love you the maid? Old Ath. If in her marriage my consent be missing, I call the gods to witness, I will choose [Exit. Mine heir from forth the beggars of the world, Tim. How shall she be endow'd, If she be mated with an equal husband? Old Ath. Three talents, on the present; in future, all. For 'tis a bond in men. Give him thy daughter: Old 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! [Exeunt LUCILIUS and old ATHENIAN. Poet. Vouchsafe my labour, and long live your lordship! Go not away. What have you there, my friend? Tim. Painting is welcome. The painting is almost the natural man; For since dishonour traffics with man's nature, Pain. The gods preserve you! Tim. Well fare you, gentlemen: Give me your hand; We must needs dine together.-Sir, your jewel Hath suffer'd under praise. Jew. What, my lord? dispraise ? Tim. A mere 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 Are prized by their masters; believe 't, dear lord, Tim. Well mock'd. 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? Enter APEMANTUS. Jew. We will bear, with your lordship. Mer. He'll spare none. Tim. Good morrow to thee, gentle Apemantus ! Held as due. + Unwind. According to. Apem. Till I be gentle, stay 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. Apem. To knock out an honest Athenian's brains. Tim. That's a deed thou'lt die for. Apem. Right, if doing nothing be death by the law. Tim. How likest 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. You 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. An thou shouldst, thou'dst 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 flatter'd, is worthy o' the flatterer. Heavens, that I were a lord! Tim. What wouldst do then, Apemantus ? Apem. Even as Apemantus dões now, hate a lord with my heart. Tim. What, thyself? Арет. Ау. Tim. Wherefore ? Apem. That I had no angry wit to be a lord. Art not thou a merchant? |