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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,
Lucilius, Timon's Servants.

Several servants to Vfurers.
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 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

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. 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


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


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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