To County Paris: then comes she to me, And, with wild looks, bid me devise some mean 240 To rid her from this second marriage, Or in my cell there would she kill herself. Then gave I her, so tutor'd by my art, Prince. We still have known thee for a holy man. Prince. Give me the letter; I will look on it. Page. He came with flowers to strew his lady's grave; And bid me stand aloof, and so I did: Anon comes one with light to ope the tomb; And by and by my master drew on him; And then I ran away to call the watch. 250 260 270 280 Prince. This letter doth make good the friar's words, Their course of love, the tidings of her death: And here he writes that he did buy a poison Of a poor 'pothecary, and therewithal Came to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet. That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love. Have lost a brace of kinsmen: all are punish'd. Mon. But I can give thee more: Cap. As rich shall Romeo's by his lady's lie; Poor sacrifices of our enmity! 290 300 Prince. A glooming peace this morning with it brings; The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head: Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished: For never was a story of more woe [Exeunt. 310 1 SCENE I. Athens. A hall in Timon's house. Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and others, at several door's. I am glad you're well. Poet. I have not seen you long: how goes the world? 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. Pain. I know them both; th' other's a jeweller. Mer. O, 'tis a worthy lord. Jew. Nay, that's most fix'd. Mer. A most incomparable man, breathed, as it were, 10 To an untirable and continuate goodness: He passes. Jew. I have a jewel here Mer. O, pray, let's see't: for the Lord Timon, sir? It stains the glory in that happy verse 'Tis a good form. [Looking at the jewel. 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 'tis nourish'd: the fire i' the flint Each bound it chafes. Pain. A picture, sir. Poct. Upon the heels Let's see your piece. Pain. What have you there? When comes your book forth? of my presentment, sir. 'Tis a good piece. Poet. So 'tis: this comes off well and excellent. Poet. Admirable: how this grace Speaks his own standing! what a mental power Pain. It is a pretty mocking of the life. Poet. I will say of it, It tutors nature: artificial strife Lives in these touches, livelier than life. Enter certain Senators, and pass over. Pain. How this lord is follow'd! Poet. The senators of Athens: happy man! Pain. Look, more! 20 30 40 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 In a wide sea of wax: no levell'd malice Pain. How shall I understand you? 50 I will unbolt to you. You see how all conditions, how all minds, Pain. I saw them speak together. Pain. 'Tis conceived to scope. To climb his happiness, would be well express'd Poet. Make sacred even his stirrup, and through him Pain. 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. |