VENTIDIUS, one of Timon's false Friends.

APEMANTUS, a churlish Philosopher.

ALCIBIADES, an Athenian General.

FLAVIUS, Steward to Timon.

Servants of Varro, Ventidius, and Isidore. Two of Timon's Creditors. Cupid and Maskers.

Poet, Painter, Jeweller, and Merchant.

An old Athenian. A Page. A Fool. Three Strangers.

PHRYNIA,
TIMANDRA,

}

Mistresses to Alcibiades.

Lords, Senators, Officers, Soldiers, Banditti, and Attendants.

SCENE, Athens; and the Woods adjoining.

1 As far as we know, this drama was first printed in the folio 1623; where it was spread out in an unusual manner, as if to fill as many pages as possible, and supply a vacancy: of the two last pages one is occupied by "The Actors' names", and the other is a mere blank.

TIMON OF ATHENS.

ACT I.

SCENE I.-Athens. A Hall in Timon's House.

Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and Others, at several doors.2

Poet. GOOD day, sir.

Pain. I am glad y' 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 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.

Few.

Nay, that's most fix'd.

Mer. A most incomparable man; breath'd, as it were, To an untirable and continuate goodness:

2 The old stage-direction; and the stage had then usually two, and sometimes three, doors.

He PASSES.] As we now say, He surpasses.

Mer. O pray, let's see 't. For the lord Timon, sir?
Few. If he will touch the estimate; but, for that-
Poet. When we for recompense have prais'd the vile,
[Reading from a manuscript.

It stains the glory in that happy verse
Which aptly sings the good.

Mer.

'Tis a good form.

Few. And rich: here is a water, look ye.

Pain. You are rapt, sir, in some work, some dedication

to the great lord.

Poet. Our poesy

A thing slipp'd idly from me.

is as a gum, which oozes1

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 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?

4

---as a GUM, which OOZES]

The old copy, "as a gown which

uses"; and, four lines lower down, chases for chafes.