It tutors nature: artificial strife Enter certain Senators, and pass over. Poet. You see this confluence, this great flood of visitors. I have, in this rough work, shaped out a man, Pain. How shall I understand you? Of grave and austere quality), tender down Pain. I saw them speak together. mount Is ranked with all deserts, all kind of natures, Pain. "Tis conceived to scope. This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks, With one man beckoned from the rest below, Bowing his head against the steepy mount To climb his happiness, would be well expressed In our condition. Poet. 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. Nay, sir, but hear me on: Pain. Ay, marry, what of these? Poet. When Fortune, in her shift and change of mood, Spurns down her late beloved, all his dependents, Which laboured 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 shew, Fortune More pregnantly than words. Yet you do well To shew lord Timon that mean eyes have seen The foot above the head. Trumpet sounds. Enter TIMON, attended; the Imprisoned is he, say you? Ven. Serv. 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 to him, 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. Ven. Serv. Your lordship ever binds him. Tim. Commend me to him: I will send his ransom; And, being enfranchised, bid him come to me: Enter an Old Athenian. Old Ath. Lord Timon, hear me speak. Old Ath. Thou hast a servant named Lucilius. Tim. How likest thou this picture, Apemantus? 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 are a dog. Apem. Thy mother's of my generation: what's she, if I be a dog? Tim. Wilt dine with me, Apemantus? 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. |