Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

PLAYS contain'd in this Volume.

TIMON of ATHENS.

CORIOLAN V S.

JULIUS CÆSAR

ANTONT and CLEOPATRA.

TITUS AND RONICVS.

МАСВЕТН.

AMBRARE

NEW YORK

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]

Thieves, Senators, Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Mercer and Merchant; with divers fervants and attendants.

SCENE Athens, and the Woods not
far from it.

The hint of part of this play taken from Lucian's Dialogue of

TIMON of ATHENS

ACT I. SCENE I.
A Hall in Timon's House.

Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and Mercer,
at feveral doors.

POET.

OOD day, Sir.

Pain. I am glad ye are well.

Poet. I have not feen you long, how goes the

world?

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? fee
(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, breath'd as it were To an untirable and continuate goodness.

Jew. I have a jewel here.

Mer.

Mer. O pray let's fee'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 fings the good.

a

Mer. 'Tis a good form.

Jew. And rich; here is a water, look ye.

[Looking on the jewel.

Pain. You're rapt, Sir, in fome work, fome dedication

To the great lord.

Poet. A thing flipt idly from me.

Our poefie is as a gum, which iffues

From whence 'tis nourished. The fire i'th' flint

Shews not 'till it be ftruck: our gentle flame

Provokes it self, ---- and like the current flies

Each bound it chases. What have you there?

Pain. A picture, Sir: ----- when comes your book forth?

Poet. Upon the heels of my presentment, Sir.

Let's fee your piece.

Pain. 'Tis a good piece.

Poet. So 'tis,

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 fay of it,

It tutors nature, artificial strife

Lives in these touches, livelier than life.

Enter

a

Our poefie is as a gown, which uses from whence 'tis nourish'd.

« ZurückWeiter »