Act I. Scene
I.
Act I. Scene I.—Athens. A Hall in TIMON'S
House.
Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and
Others, at several doors.
Poet. Good day, sir.
Pain. I am glad you're 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 strange,
Which manifold record not matches? See,
Magic 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 fix'd.
Mer. A most incomparable man, breath'd, as
it were,
To an untirable and continuate goodness:
He passes.
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 recompense have prais'd
the vile,
It stains the glory in that happy verse
Which aptly sings the good.
Mer. [Looking at the jewel.] 'Tis a good.
form.
Jew. And rich: here is a water, look ye.
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 nourish'd: 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. 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 excel-
lent.
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?
Poet. I'll say of it,
It tutors nature: artificial strife
Lives in these touches, livelier than life.
Enter certain Senators, who pass over the stage.
Pain. How this lord is follow'd!
Poet. The senators of Athens: happy man!
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
Halts not particularly, but moves itself
In a wide sea of wax: no levell'd malice
Infects one comma in the course I hold;
But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on,
Leaving no tract behind.
Pain. How shall I understand you?
Poet. I will unbolt to you.
You see how all conditions, how all minds—
As well of glib and slippery creatures as
Of grave and austere quality—tender down
Their services to Lord Timon: his large fortune,
Upon his good and gracious nature hanging,
Subdues and properties to his love and tend-
ance
All sorts of hearts; yea, from the glass-fac'd
flatterer
To Apemantus, that few things loves better
Than to abhor himself: even he drops down
The knee before him and returns in peace
Most rich in Timon's nod.
Pain. 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 sphere
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.
Pain. 'Tis conceiv'd to scope.
This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, me-
thinks,
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 bis 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 mood
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
Fortune's
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 LORD TIMON, address-
ing himself courteously to every suitor; a
Messenger from VENTIDIUS talking with him;
LUCILIUS and other servants following.
Tim. Imprison'd is he, say you?
Mess. Ay, my good lord: five talents is his
debt,
His means most short, his creditors most strait:
four honourable letter he desires
To those have shut him up; which, failing,
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.
Mess. Your lordship ever binds him.
Tim. Commend me to him. I will send his
ransom;
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.
Mess. All happiness to your honour. [Exit.
Enter an Old Athenian.
Old Ath. Lord Timon, hear me speak.
Tim. Freely, good father.
Old Ath. Thou hast a servant nam'd Lucilius.
Tim. I have so: what of him?
Old Ath. Most noble Timon, call the man be-
fore thee.
Tim. Attends he here or no? 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 inclin'd to thrift,
And my estate deserves an heir more rais'd
Than one which holds a trencher.
Tim. Well; what further?
Old Ath. One only daughter have I, no kin
else,
On whom I may confer what I have got:
The maid is fair, o' the youngest for a bride,
And I have bred her at my dearest cost
In qualities of the best. This man of thine
Attempts her love: I prithee, noble lord,
Join with me to forbid him her resort;
Myself have spoke in vain.
Tim. The man is honest.
Old Ath. Therefore he will be, Timon:
His honesty rewards him in itself;
It must not bear my daughter.
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?
Luc. Ay, my good lord, and she accepts of it.
Old Ath. If in her marriage my consent be
missing,
I call the gods to witness, I will choose
Mine heir from forth the beggars of the world,
And dispossess her all.
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.
Tim. This gentleman of mine hath serv'd me
long:
To build his fortune I will strain a little,
For 'tis a bond in men. Give him thy daugliter;
What you bestow, in him I'll counterpoise,
And make him weigh with her.
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!
Tim. I thank you; you shall hear from me
anon:
Go not away. What have you there, my friend?
Pain. A piece of painting, which I do be-
seech
Your lordship to accept.
Tim. Painting is welcome.
The painting is almost the natural man;
For since dishonour traffics with man's nature,
He is but outside: these pencil'd figures are
Even such as they give out. I like your work;
And you shall find I like it: wait attendance
Till you hear further from me.
Pain. The gods preserve you!
Tim. Well fare you, gentleman: 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 extolled,
It would unclew me quite.
Jew. My lord, 'tis rated
As those which sell would give: but you well
know,
Things of like value, differing in the owners,
Are prized by their masters. Believe 't, dear
lord,
You mend the jewel by the wearing it.
Tim. Well mock'd.
Mer. No, my good lord; he speaks the com-
mon tongue,
Which all men speak with him.
Tim. Look, who comes here. Will you be
chid?
Enter APEMANTUS.
Jew. We'll bear, with your lordship.
Mer. He'll spare none.
Tim. Good morrow to thee, gentle Apemantus!
Apem. Till I be gentle, stay thou 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.
Tim. Whither art going?
Apem. To knock out an honest Athenian's
brains.
Tim. That's a deed thou'It die for.
Apem. Eight, if doing nothing be death by
the law.
Tim. How likest thou this picture, Apeman-
tus?
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're 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 apprehendest it, take it for
thy labour.
Tim. How dost thou like this jewel, Ape-
mantus?
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 feigned him a worthy fellow.
Poet. That's not feigned; he is so.
Apem. Yes, he is worthy of thee, and to pay
thee for thy labour: he that loves to be flattered
is worthy o' the flatterer. Heavens, that I were
a lord!
Tim. What wouldst do then, Apemantus?
Apem. Even as Apemantus does now; hate
a lord with my heart.
Tim. What, thyself?
Apem. Ay.
Tim. Wherefore?
Apem. That I had no angry wit to be a lord.
Art not thou a merchant?
Mer. Ay, Apemantus.
Apem. Traffic confound thee, if the gods will
not!
Mer. If traffic do it, the gods da it.
Apem. Traffic's thy god, and thy god con-
found thee!
Trumpet sounds. Enter a Servant.
Tim What trumpet's that?
Serv. 'Tis Alcibiades, and some twenty horse,
All of companionship.
Tim. Pray, entertain them; give them guide
to us. [Exeunt some Attendants.
You must needs dine with me. Go not you hence
Till I have thanked you; when dinner's done,
Show me this piece. I am joyful of your sights.
Enter ALCIBIADES, with his Company.
Most welcome, sir!
Apem. So, so, there!
Aches contract and starve your supple joints!
That there should be small love 'mongst these
sweet knaves,
And all this courtesy! The strain of man's
bred out
Into baboon and monkey.
Alcib. Sir, you have sav'd my longing, and
I feed
Most hungerly on your sight.
Tim. Right welcome, sir!
Ere we depart, we'll share a bounteous time
In different pleasures. Pray you, let us in.
[Exeunt all except APEMANTUS.
Enter two Lords.
First Lord. What time o' day is't, Apemantus?
Apem. Time to be honest.
First Lord. That time serves still.
Apem. The more accursed thou, that still
omitt'st it.
Sec. Lord. Thou art going to Lord Timon's
feast?
Apem. Ay; to see meat fill knaves and wine
heat fools.
See. Lord. Fare thee well, fare thee well.
Apem. Thou art a fool to bid me farewell twice.
Sec. Lord. Why, Apemantus?
Apem. Shouldst have kept one to thyself, for
I mean to give thee none.
First Lord. Hang thyself!
Apem. No, I will do nothing at thy bidding:
make thy requests to thy friend.
Sec. Lord. Away, unpeaceable dog! or I'll
spurn thee hence.
Apem. I will fly, like a dog, the heels of an
ass. [Exit.
First Lord. He's opposite to humanity. Come,
shall we in,
And taste Lord Timon's bounty? he outgoes
The very heart of kindness.
Sec. Lord. He pours it out; Plutus, the god
of gold,
Is but his steward: no meed but he repays
Sevenfold above itself; no gift to him
But breeds the giver a return exceeding
All use of quittance.
First Lord. The noblest mind he carries
That ever govern'd man.
Sec. Lord. Long may he live in fortunes!
Shall we in?
First Lord. I'll keep you company. [Exeunt.
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