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    The Life of Timon of Athens
    The Life of Timon of Athens
    The Life of Timon of Athens
    Ebook118 pages59 minutes

    The Life of Timon of Athens

    By William Shakespeare

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    Timon of Athens (The Life of Tymon of Athens) is a play by William Shakespeare, published in the First Folio (1623) and probably written in collaboration with another author, most likely Thomas Middleton, in about 1605–1606. It is about the fortunes of an Athenian named Timon (and probably influenced by the philosopher of the same name). The central character is a well beloved citizen of Athens who through tremendous generosity spends his entire fortunes on corrupt hangers-on only interested in getting the next payout.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJH
    Release dateMar 24, 2019
    ISBN9788832556285
    Author

    William Shakespeare

    William Shakespeare was born in April 1564 in the town of Stratford-upon-Avon, on England’s Avon River. When he was eighteen, he married Anne Hathaway. The couple had three children—an older daughter Susanna and twins, Judith and Hamnet. Hamnet, Shakespeare’s only son, died in childhood. The bulk of Shakespeare’s working life was spent in the theater world of London, where he established himself professionally by the early 1590s. He enjoyed success not only as a playwright and poet, but also as an actor and shareholder in an acting company. Although some think that sometime between 1610 and 1613 Shakespeare retired from the theater and returned home to Stratford, where he died in 1616, others believe that he may have continued to work in London until close to his death.

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      Book preview

      The Life of Timon of Athens - William Shakespeare

      The Life of Timon of Athens

      William Shakespeare

      .

      DRAMATIS PERSONAE

      TIMON, a noble Athenian

      LUCIUS

      LUCULLUS flattering Lords.

      SEMPRONIUS

      VENTIDIUS, one of Timon's false Friends.

      APEMANTUS, a churlish Philosopher.

      ALCIBIADES, an Athenian Captain.

      FLAVIUS, Steward to Timon.

      FLAMINIUS

      LUCILIUS Servants to Timon.

      SERVILIUS

      CAPHIS

      PHILOTUS Servants to Timon's Creditors.

      TITUS

      HORTENSIUS

      Servants of Ventidius, and of Varro and Isidore (two

            of Timon's Creditor's).

      THREE STRANGERS.

      AN OLD ATHENIAN.

      A PAGE.

      A FOOL.

      Poet, Painter, Jeweller, and Merchant.

      PHRYNIA Mistresses to Alcibiades.

      TIMANDRA

      Lords, Senators, Officers, Soldiers, Servants, Thieves, and

      Attendants

      CUPID and Amazons in the Masque.

      Scene.—Athens, and the neighbouring Woods.

      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 conjur'd 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; breath'd, 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.

      When we for recompense have prais'd the vile,

      It stains the glory in that happy verse

      Which aptly sings the good.

      MERCHANT.

      [Looking at the jewel.]

      'Tis a good form.

      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'll say of it,

      It tutors nature: artificial strife

      Lives in these touches, livelier than life.

      [Enter certain SENATORS, who pass over the stage.]

      PAINTER.

      How this lord is followed!

      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, shap'd 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 slipp'ry 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-fac'd 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 thron'd: 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 conceiv'd to scope.

      This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks,

      With one man beckon'd from the rest below,

      Bowing his head against the steepy 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 LORD 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

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