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Mer. O, pray, let's see it: For the lord Timon,
sir? Jew. If he will touch the estimate: But, for
thatPoet. When we for recompense 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 you. Pain. You are rapt, 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? 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 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,
Enter certain Senators, and pass over.
Pain. How shall I understand you?
I'll unbolt to you.
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
mount Is rank'd with all deserts, all kind of natures, That labour on the bosom of this spliere To propagate their states: amongst them all, Whose eyes are on this sovereign lady fix’d, 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.
'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. 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 stirrup, and through him Drink the free air. Pain.
Ay, marry, what of these? Poet. When Fortune, in her shift and change of
inood, 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, That shall demonstrate these quick blows of for
tune 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. Tim. Imprison'd is he, say you? Ven. Serv. Ay, my good lord: five talents is his
debt; His means most short, his creditors most strait : 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 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
him. Ven. Serv. Your lordship ever binds him. Tim. Commend me to him: I will send his ran
som; And, being enfranchis’d, bid him come to me:'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.
Freely, good father.
fore thee. Tim. Attends he here, or no?-Lucilius !
Well; what further?
The man is honest.
Does she love him?