Timon of Athens

By William Shakespeare.

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Dramatis Personae

Timon, of Athens
Lucius, flattering lord
Lucullus, flattering lord
Sempronius, flattering lord
Ventidius, one of Timon’s false friends
Alcibiades, an Athenian captain
Apemantus, a churlish philosopher
Flavius, steward to Timon
Poet, painter, jeweller, and merchant
An old Athenian
Flaminius, servant of Timon
Lucilius, servant of Timon
Servilius, servant of Timon
Caphis, servant to Timon’s creditors
Philotus, servant to Timon’s creditors
Titus, servant to Timon’s creditors
Lucius, creditors
Hortensius, servant to Timon’s creditors
And other servants to Timon’s creditors
A page
A fool
Three strangers
Phrynia, mistress to Alcibiades
Timandra, mistress to Alcibiades
Cupid and Amazons in the mask
Other lords, senators, officers, soldiers, banditti, and attendants

Scene: Athens, and the neighbouring woods.

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.
Painter	I am glad you’re well.
Poet	I have not seen you long: how goes the world?
Painter	It wears, sir, as it grows.
Poet	Ay, that’s well known: But what particular rarity? what strange, Which manifold record not matches? See, Magic of bounty! all these spirits thy power Hath conjured to attend. I know the merchant.
Painter	I know them both; th’ other’s a jeweller.
Merchant	O, ’tis a worthy lord.
Jeweller	Nay, that’s most fix’d.
Merchant	A most incomparable man, breathed, as it were, To an untirable and continuate goodness: He passes.
Jeweller	I have a jewel here⁠—
Merchant	O, pray, let’s see’t: for the Lord Timon, sir?
Jeweller	If he will touch the estimate: but, for that⁠—
Poet	Reciting to himself. “When we for recompense have praised the vile, It stains the glory in that happy verse Which aptly sings the good.”
Merchant	’Tis a good form. Looking at the jewel.
Jeweller	And rich: here is a water, look ye.
Painter	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 nourish’d: 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?
Painter	A picture, sir. When comes your book forth?
Poet	Upon the heels of my presentment, sir. Let’s see your piece.
Painter	’Tis a good piece.
Poet	So ’tis: this comes off well and excellent.
Painter	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.
Painter	It is a pretty mocking of the life. Here is a touch; is’t good?
Poet	I will say of it, It tutors nature: artificial strife Lives in these touches, livelier than life.
	Enter certain Senators, and pass over.
Painter	How this lord is follow’d!
Poet	The senators of Athens: happy man!
Painter	Look, more!
Poet	You see this confluence, this great flood of visitors. I have, in this rough work, shaped out a man, 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 wax: 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 slippery 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-faced 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 throned: the base o’ the 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 conceived to scope. This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks, With one man beckon’d from the rest below, Bowing his head against the sleepy 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,