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    Timon of Athens
    Timon of Athens
    Timon of Athens
    Ebook135 pages1 hour

    Timon of Athens

    By William Shakespeare

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    The Life of Timon of Athens is a play by William Shakespeare about the legendary Athenian misanthrope Timon (and probably influenced by the eponymous philosopher, as well), generally regarded as one of his most obscure and difficult works. Originally grouped with the tragedies, it is generally considered such, but some scholars group it with the problem comedies.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJA
    Release dateJun 7, 2018
    ISBN9782291037422
    Author

    William Shakespeare

    William Shakespeare was an English poet, playwright, and actor. He is widely regarded as the greatest dramatist in the English language. Shakespeare is often called England’s national poet and the “Bard of Avon.”  

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      Book preview

      Timon of Athens - William Shakespeare

      Timon of Athens

      William Shakespeare

       Copyright © 2018 by OPU

      All rights reserved.

      No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

      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, 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 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.

      Messenger

      Your lordship ever

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