Actus Primus. Scœna Prima.

Enter Poet, Painter, Ieweller, Merchant, and Mercer, at seuerall doores.
Poet. Good day Sir.
Pain. I am glad y'are well.
Poet. I haue not seene you long, how goes the World?
Pain. It weares sir, as it growes.
Poet. I that's well knowne:
But what particular Rarity? What strange,
Which manifold record not matches: see
Magicke of Bounty, all these spirits thy power
Hath coniur'd to attend.
I know the Merchant.
Pain. I know them both: th'others a Ieweller.
Mer. O 'tis a worthy Lord.
Iew. Nay that's most fixt.
Mer. A most incomparable man, breath'd as it were,
To an vntyreable and continuate goodnesse:
He passes.
Iew. I haue a Iewell heere.
Mer. O pray let's see't. For the Lord Timon, sir?
Iewel. If he will touch the estimate. But for that—
Poet. When we for recompence haue prais'd the vild,
It staines the glory in that happy Verse,
Which aptly sings the good.
Mer. 'Tis a good forme.
Iewel. And rich: heere is a Water looke ye.
Pain. You are rapt sir, in some worke, some Dedica­
tion to the great Lord.
Poet. A thing slipt idlely from me.
Our Poesie is as a Gowne, which vses
From whence 'tis nourisht: the fire i'th'Flint
Shewes not, till it be strooke: our gentle flame
Prouokes it selfe, and like the currant flyes
Each bound it chases. What haue you there?
Pain. A Picture sir: when comes your Booke forth?
Poet. Vpon the heeles of my presentment sir.
Let's see your peece.
Pain. 'Tis a good Peece.
Poet. So 'tis, this comes off well, and excellent.
Pain. Indifferent.
Poet. Admirable: How this grace
Speakes his owne standing: what a mentall power
This eye shootes forth? How bigge imagination
Moues in this Lip, to th'dumbnesse of the gesture,

One might interpret.
Pain. It is a pretty mocking of the life:
Heere is a touch: Is't good?
Poet. I will say of it,
It Tutors Nature, Artificiall strife
Liues in these toutches, liuelier then life.
Enter certaine Senators.
Pain. How this Lord is followed.
Poet. The Senators of Athens, happy men.
Pain. Looke moe.
Po. You see this confluence, this great flood of visitors,
I haue in this rough worke, shap'd out a man
Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hugge
With amplest entertainment: My free drift
Halts not particularly, but moues it selfe
In a wide Sea of wax, no leuell'd malice
Infects one comma in the course I hold,
But flies an Eagle fl1ght, bold, and forth on,
Leauing no Tract behinde.
Pain. How shall I vnderstand you?
Poet. I will vnboult to you.
You see how all Conditions, how all Mindes,
As well of glib and slipp'ry Creatures, as
Of Graue and austere qualitie, tender downe
Their seruices to Lord Timon: his large Fortune,
Vpon his good and gracious Nature hanging,
Subdues and properties to his loue and tendance
All sorts of hearts; yea, from the glasse‑fac'd Flatterer
To Apemantus, that few things loues better
Then to abhorre himselfe; euen hee drops downe
The knee before him, and returnes in peace
Most rich in Timons nod.
Pain. I saw them speake together.
Poet. Sir, I haue vpon a high and pleasant hill
Feign'd Fortune to be thron'd.
The Base o'th'Mount
Is rank'd with all deserts, all kinde of Natures
That labour on the bosome of this Sphere,
To propagate their states; among'st them all,
Whose eyes are on this Soueraigne Lady fixt,
One do I personate of Lord Timons frame,
Whom Fortune with her Iuory hand wafts to her,
Whose present grace, to present slaues and seruants
Translates his Riuals.
Pain. 'Tis conceyu'd, to scope
This Throne, this Fortune, and this Hill me thinkes