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The Plays of William Shakspeare (7); Timon of Athens. Coriolanus. Julius Ceasar. Antony and Cleopatra
The Plays of William Shakspeare Timon of Athens Coriolanus Julius Ceasar Antony and Cleopatra - 7 Author:William Shakespeare Volume: 7 General Books publication date: 2009 Original publication date: 1811 Original Publisher: J. Nichols Subjects: Drama / Shakespeare Literary Criticism / Shakespeare Notes: This is a black and white OCR reprint of the original. It has no illustrations and there may be typos or missing text. When you buy the General Books edition ... more »of this book you get free trial access to Million-Books.com where you can select from more than a million books for free. Excerpt: TIMON OF ATHENS. ACT I. SCENE /. Athens. A Hall in Timon's House. Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and Others, at several Doors. Poet. Good day, sir. Pain. I am glad you are well. Poet. I have not seen you long; How goes the world ? Pain. It wears, sir, as it grows. Poet. Ay, that's well known : But what particular rarity ? what strange, Which manifold record not matches ? See, Magick of bounty! all these spirits thy power Hath conjur'd to attend. I know the merchant. Pain. I know them both ; t'other's a jeweller. Mer. O, 'tis a worthy lord! Jew. Nay, that's most fix'd. Mer. A most incomparable man; breath'd, as it were,1 To an untirable and continuate goodness: He passes. Jew. I have a jewel here. 1 breath'd, as it were,] Breathed is inured by constant practice; so trained as not to be wearied. To breathe a horse, i- to exercise him for the course. Johnson. ' I If passes.] i. e. exceeds, goes beyond common bounds. Mer. O, pray, let's sce't: For the lord Timon, sir ? Jew. If he will touch the estimate :3 But, for that Poet. When ice for recompense have praisd the vile, It stains the glory in that happy verse Which aptly sings the good. Mer. Tis a good form. [Looking at the Jewel. Jew. And rich: here is a water, look you. Pain. You are rapt, sir, in some work, some dedication 'i .... To the great lord. Poet. A thing slipp'd idly from me. Our poesy is as a gum, which oozes From whence 'tis nourished: The fire i'the flint Shows not, till it ...« less