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      '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.

      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.

      Ay, marry, what of these?

      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.

      '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.

      Imprison'd is he, say you?

      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.

      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.

      Your lordship ever binds him.

      Commend me to him; I will send his ransom;

      And being enfranchis'd, bid him come to me.

      'Tis not enough to help the feeble up,

      But to support him after. Fare you well.

      All happiness to your honour.

      Lord Timon, hear me speak.

      Freely, good father.

      Thou hast a servant nam'd Lucilius.

      I have so: what of him?

      Most noble Timon, call the man before thee.

      Attends he here or no? Lucilius!

      Here, at your lordship's service.

      This fellow here, Lord Timon, this thy creature,

      By night frequents my house. I am a man

      That from my first have been inclin'd to thrift,

      And my estate deserves an heir more rais'd

      Than one which holds a trencher.

      Well; what further?

      One only daughter have I, no kin else,

      On whom I may confer what I have got:

      The maid is fair, o' the youngest for a bride,

      And I have bred her at my dearest cost

      In qualities of the best. This man of thine

      Attempts her love: I prithee, noble lord,

      Join with me to forbid him her resort;

      Myself have spoke in vain.

      The man is honest.

      Therefore he will be, Timon:

      His honesty rewards him in itself;

      It must not bear my daughter.

      Does she love him?

      She is young and apt:

      Our own precedent passions do instruct us

      What levity's in youth.

      TIMON. [To Lucilius.]

      Love you the maid?

      Ay, my good lord, and she accepts of it.

      If in her marriage my consent be missing,

      I call the gods to witness, I will choose

      Mine heir from forth the beggars of the world,

      And dispossess her all.

      How shall she be endow'd,

      If she be mated with an equal husband?

      Three talents on the present; in future, all.

      This gentleman of mine hath serv'd me long:

      To build his fortune I will strain a little,

      For 'tis a bond in men. Give him thy daughter:

      What you bestow, in him I'll counterpoise,

      And make him weigh with her.

      Most noble lord,

      Pawn me to this your honour, she is his.

      My

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