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Dramatis Personæ

TIMO N, a noble Athenian.
Lucius, } two flattering Lords.
Lucullus, S
Apemantus, a churlish Philofopher.
Sempronius, another flattering Lord.
Alcibiades, an Athenian General.
Flavius, Steward to Timon,
Flaminius,
Lucilius, Timon's Servants.
Servilius,
Caphis,
Varro,
Philo,

Several servants to Vfurers.
Titus,
Lucius,
Hortensius,
Ventidius, one of Timon's false Friends.
Cupid and Maskers.

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Thieves, Senators, Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Mercer and Mer

chant; with divers servants and attendants.

S CE N E Athens, and the Woods not

far from it.

The hint of part of this play taken from Lucian's Dialogue of

T I MO N of AT H E N S.

A CI I. SCENE I.

A Hall in Timon's House.

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Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and Mercer,

at several doors.

PoE т.
OOD 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, breach'd as it were
To an uptirable and continuate goodness.
Jew. I have a jewel here.

Mer.

a

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.
Our 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 felf, ---- 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 'ris,
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 a Our poesie is as a gown, which uses from whence ʼtis nourish'd.

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