THE

PLAY S

OF

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE,

ACCURATELY PRINTED FROM

THE TEXT OF MR. STEEVENS'S

Timon, a noble Athenian.

Lucius,

Lucullus,

Sempronius,

} Lords, and flatterers of Timon.

Ventidius, one of Timon's false Friends.
Apemantus, a churlish Philosopher.
Alcibiades, an Athenian General.

Flavius, Steward to Timon.

Flaminius,

Lucilius,

}

Timon's Servants.

Servilins,

Caphis,

Philotus,

Titus;

Servants to Timon's Creditors.

Lucius,

Hortensias,

Two Servants of Varro, and the Servant of
Isidore; two of Timon's Creditors.

Cupid and Maskers. Three Strangers.
Poet, Painter, Jeweller, and Merchant.
An old Athenian. A Page, A Fool.

Phrynia, *
Timandra,

}

Mistresses to Alcibiades.

Other Lords, Senators, Officers, Soldiers,
Thieves, and Attendants.

SCENE, Athens; and the Woods adjoining.

TIMON OF ATHENS.

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 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 inanifold 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; t'other's a jeweller.
Mer. O, 'is 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. "Tis a good form.

[Looking on the jewel.

Jew. And rich: here is a water, look you. 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 nourished: 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. And 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?

Poet. I'll say of it,