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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 tax. 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.

PAINTER.

How shall I understand you?

POET.

I will unbolt to you.

You see how all conditions, how all minds-

As well of glib and slipp'ry 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 tendance

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.

PAINTER.

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' th' 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.

PAINTER.

'Tis conceiv'd to scope.

This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks,

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 his 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.

PAINTER.

Ay, marry, what of these?

POET.

When Fortune in her shift and change of mood

Spurns down her late beloved, 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.

PAINTER.

'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 TIMON, addressing himself

courteously to every suitor, a MESSENGER from

VENTIDIUS talking with him; LUCILIUS and other servants following

TIMON.

Imprison'd is he, say you?

MESSENGER.

Ay, my good lord. Five talents is his debt;

His means most short, his creditors most strait.

Your honourable letter he desires

To those have shut him up; which failing,

Periods his comfort.

TIMON.

Noble Ventidius! Well.

I am not of that feather to shake of

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.

MESSENGER.

Your lordship ever binds him.

TIMON.

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.

MESSENGER.

All happiness to your honour! Exit

Enter an OLD ATHENIAN

OLD ATHENIAN.

Lord Timon, hear me speak.

TIMON.

Freely, good father.

OLD ATHENIAN.

Thou hast a servant nam'd Lucilius.

TIMON.

I have so; what of him?

OLD ATHENIAN.

Most noble Timon, call the man before thee.

TIMON.

Attends he here, or no? Lucilius!

LUCILIUS.

Here, at your lordship's service.

OLD ATHENIAN.

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.

TIMON.

Well; what further?

OLD ATHENIAN.

One only daughter have I, no kin else,

On whom I may confer what I have got.

The maid is fair, o' th' youngest for a bride,

And I have bred her at my dearest cost