POET

G Ood day Sir. I have not seen you long, how goes the World? I 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. When we for recompense have praised the vild, It stains the glory in that happy Verse, Which aptly sings the good. A thing slipped idly from me. Our Poesy is as a Gown, which uses From whence it's nourished: the fire in the Flint Shows not, till it be struck: our gentle flame Provokes it self, and Like the currant flies Each bound it chases. What have you there? Upon the heals of my presentment sir. Let's see your piece. So it's, this comes off well, and excellent. 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. I will say of it, It Tutors Nature, Artificial strife Lives in these toutches, livelier then life. The Senators of Athens, happy men. I will vnboult 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 glasse-fac'd Flatterer To Apemantus, that few things loves better Then to abhor himself; even he drops down The knee before him, and returns in peace Most rich in Timon's nod. Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill Feigned Fortune to be throned. The Base of the Mount Is ranked with all deserts, all kind of Nature's That labour on the bosom of this Sphere, To propagate their states; amongst them all, Whose eyes are on this Sovereign Lady fixed, 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. Nay Sir, but hear me on: All those which were his Fellows but of late, Some better then his value; on the moment Follow his strides, his Lobbies fill with tendance, Rain Sacrificial whisperings in his ear, Make Sacred even his styrrop, and through him Drink the free Air. When Fortune in her shift and change of mood Spurns down her late beloved; all his Dependants Which laboured after him to the Mountains top, Even on their knees and hand, let him fit down, Not one accompanying his declining foot. Vouchsafe my Labour, And long live your Lordship. How now Philosopher? Art not one? Then I lie not. Yes. That's not feigned, he is so. What's to be thought of him? Does the Rumor hold for true, That he's so full of Gold? Then this breaking of his, Ha been but a Try for his Friends? What have you now To present unto him? I must serve him so too; Tell him of and intent that's coming towards him. I am thinking What I shall say I have provided for him: It must be a personating of himself: A Satire against the softness of Prosperity, With a Discovery of the infinite Flatteries That follow youth and opulency. Nay let's seek him. Then do we sin against our own estate, When we may profit meet, and come too late. Hail worthy Timon. Sir: Having often of your open Bounty tasted, Hearing you were retired, your Friends fallen off, Whose thankless Nature's (Oh abhorred Spirits) Not all the Whips of Heaven, are large enough What, to you, Whose Starlike Nobleness gave life and influence To their whole being? I am rapt, and cannot cover The monstrous bulk of this Ingratitude With any size of words. Nor I. You see this confluence, this great flood of visitors, I have in this rough work, shaped out a man Whom this beneath world does embrace and hug With amplest entertainment: My free drift Halts not particularly, but moves it self In a wide Sea of wax, no leveled malice Infects one comma in the course I hold, But flies and Eagle flight, bold, and forth on, Leaving no Tract behind.