And I, for winking at your discords too, Cap. O, brother Montague! give me thy hand: Can I demand. Mon. But I can give thee more; For I will raise her statue in pure gold, That, while Verona by that name is known, As that of true and faithful Juliet. Cap. As rich shall Romeo by his lady lie; Poor sacrifices of our enmity! Prince. A glooming peace this morning with it brings, For never was a story of more woe, Than this of Juliet and her Romeo. [Exeunt. SERVILIUS TIMANDRA, Mistresses to Alci biades. Lords, Senators, Officers, Soldiers, Thieves, and Attendants. SCENE, Athens; and the Woods adjoining. 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 y' are well. Poet. I have not seen you long. How goes the world? Pain. It wears, Sir, as it grows. Poet. But what particular rarity? what strange, Ay, that's well known; Which manifold record not matches? See, Jew. Nay, that 's most fix'd. Mer. A most incomparable man; breath'd, as it were, To an untirable and continuate goodness: 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 recompence have prais'd the vile, It stains the glory in that happy verse Which aptly sings the good." Mer. 'T is a good form. Jew. And rich: here is a water, look ye. 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 't is nourish'd: the fire i' the flint Each bound it chafes. Poet. Upon the heels of my presentment, Sir. Let's see your piece. Pain. 'T is a good piece. Poet. So 't is this comes off well, and excellent. Pain. Poet. Indifferent. Admirable! How this grace Speaks his own standing; what a mental power Pain. It is a pretty mocking of the life. Here is a touch; is 't good? Poet. I'll say of it, It tutors nature: artificial strife Lives in these touches, livelier than life. Enter certain Senators, who pass over the Stage. Pain. Poet. Pain. Poet. How this lord is follow'd! The senators of Athens: Look, more! happy men! You see this confluence, this great flood of visitors. I have in this rough work shap'd out a man, Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug Pain. How shall I understand you? You see how all conditions, how all minds, Pain. I saw them speak together. Poet. Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill, To propagate their states: amongst them all, Whose eyes are on this sovereign lady fix'd, Whose present grace to present slaves and servants This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks, To climb his happiness, would be well express'd Poet. Nay, Sir, but hear me on. All those which were his fellows but of late, (Some better than his value) on the moment Make sacred even his stirrup, and through him Pain. Ay, marry, what of these? Poet. When Fortune, in her shift and change of mood, Which labour'd after him to the mountain's top, Pain. "T is common: A thousand moral paintings I can show, That shall demonstrate these quick blows of Fortune's Trumpets sound. Enter TIMON, attended; the Servant of VENTIDIUS talking with him. Tim. Imprison'd is he, say you? Ven. Serv. Ay, my good lord: five talents is his debt; |