And see him safe i' the Tower. Cran.

For me?

Receive him,

Stay, good my lords; I have a little yet to say. Look there, my lords; By virtue of that ring, I take my cause Out of the gripes of cruel men, and give it To a most noble judge, the king my master. Cham. This is the king's ring. Sur.

"Tis no counterfeit. Suf. 'Tis the right ring, by heaven: I told ye all, When we first put this dangerous stone a rolling, "Twould fall upon ourselves. Nor.

Do you think, my lords, The king will suffer but the little finger Of this man to be vex'd?

Cham. "Tis now too certain: How much more is his life in value with him? 'Would I were fairly out on't.

Crom.

My mind gave me,
In seeking tales and informations
Against this man (whose honesty the devil
And his disciples only envy at),

Ye blew the fire that burns ye: Now have at ye.
Enter KING, frowning on them; takes his seat.
Gar. Dread sovereign, how much are we bound
to Heaven

In daily thanks, that gave us such a prince;
Not only good and wise, but most religious:
One that, in all obedience, makes the church
The chief aim of his honour; and, to strengthen
That holy duty, out of dear respect,
His royal self in judgment comes to hear,
The cause betwixt her and this great offender.
K. Hen. You were ever good at sudden com-
mendations,

Bishop of Winchester. But know, I come not
To hear such flattery now, and in my presence;
They are too thin and base to hide offences.
To me you cannot reach; you play the spaniel,
And think with wagging of your tongue to win

me;

But, whatsoe'er thou tak'st me for, I am sure,
Thou hast a cruel nature and a bloody.
Good man [to CRANMER), sit down. Now let me
see the proudest

He, that dares most, but wag his finger at thee:
By all that's holy, he had better starve,
Than but once think his place becomes thee not.
Sur. May it please your grace,-
K. Hen.
No, sir, it does not please me.
I thought I had had men of some understanding
And wisdom, of my council; but I find none.
Was it discretion, lords, to let this man,
This good man (few of you deserve that title),
This honest man, wait like a lousy footboy
At chamber-door? and one as great as you are?
Why, what a shame was this' Did my commission
Bid ye so far forget yourselves? I gave ye
Power as he was a counsellor to try him,
Not as a groom; There's some of ye, I see,
More out of malice than integrity,

Would try him to the utmost, had ye mean;
Which ye shall never have, while I live.
Chan.
Thus far,
My most dread sovereign, may it like your grace
To let my tongue excuse all. What was purpos'd
Concerning his imprisonment, was rather
(If there be faith in men) meant for his trial,
And fair purgation to the world, than malice;
I am sure, in me.

K. Hen. Well, well, my lords, respect him.
Take him, and use him well, he's worthy of it.
I will say thus much for him, if a prince
May be beholden to a subject, I

Am, for his love and service, so to him.
Make me no more ado, but all embrace him;
Be friends, for shame, my lords. My lord of
Canterbury,

I have a suit which you must not deny me;
That is, a fair young maid, that yet wants baptism,
You must be godfather, and answer for her.

Cran. The greatest monarch now alive may glory
In such an honour: How may I deserve it,
That am a poor and humble subject to you?
K. Hen. Come, come, my lord, you'd spare your
spoons; you shall have'

Two noble partners with you; the old Duchess of Norfolk

And Lady Marquis Dorset: Will these please you? Once more, my lord of Winchester, 1 charge you, Embrace, and love this man.

Gar.

And brother-love, I do it. Cran.

With a true heart,

And let Heaven Witness, how dear I hold this confirmation. K. Hen. Good man, those joyful tears show thy true heart.

The commen voice, I see, is verified
Of thee, which says thus, "Do my lord of Can-
terbury

A shrewd turn, and he is your friend for ever."
Come, lords, we trifle time away; I long
To have this young one made a Christian.
As I have made ye one, lords, one remain;
So I grow stronger, you more honour gain.
[Exeunt.

SCENE III.-The Palace Yard.

Noise and tumult within. Enter Porter and his Man.

Port. You'll leave your noise anon, ye rascals: Do you take the court for Paris-garden? ye rude slaves, leave your gaping.

[Within.] Good master porter, I belong to the larder.

Port. Belong to the gallows, and be hanged, you rogue: Is this a place to roar in ?-Fetch ine a dozen crab-tree staves, and strong ones; these are but switches to them.-I'll scratch your heads You must be seeing christenings? Do you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rascals?

Man. Pray, sir, be patient; 'tis as much impos sible

(Unless we sweep them from the door with cannons)
To scatter them, as 'tis to make them sleep
On May-day morning; which will never be:
We may as well push against Paul's, as stir them.
Port. How got they in, and be hang'd?
Man. Alas, I know not; How gets the tide in?
As much as one sound cudgel of four foot
(You see the poor remainder) could distribute,
I made no spare, sir.

Port.

You did nothing, sir.

Man. I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand, to mow them down before me: but, if I spare any that had a head to hit, either young or old, he or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker, let me never hope to see a chine again; and that I would not for a cow, God save her.

[Within.] Do you hear, master porter? Port. I shall be with you presently, good master puppy.-Keep the door close, sirrah. Man. What would you have me do?

Port. What should you do, but knock them down by the dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? or have we some strange Indian with the great tool come to court, the women so besiege us? Bless me, what a fry of fornication is at door! On my Christian conscience, this one christening will beget a thousand; here will be father, godfather, and all together.

Man. The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is a fellow somewhat near the door, he should be a brazier by his face, for, o' my conscience, twenty of the dog-days now reign in 's nose; all that stand about him are under the line, they need no other penance: That fire-drake did I hit three times on the head, and three times was his nose discharged against me; he stands there, like a mortar-piece, to blow us. There was a haberdasher's wife of small wit near him, that railed upon me till her pink'd porringer fell off her head, for kindling such a combustion in the state. miss'd the meteor once, and hit that woman, who cried out, clubs! when I might see from far some forty truncheoneers draw to her succour, which were the hope of the Strand, where she was quartered. They fell on; I made good my place; at length they came to the broomstaff with ine; I defied them still; when suddenly a file of boys behind them, loose shot, delivered such a shower of pebbles, that I was fain to draw mine honour in, and let them win the work: The devil is amongst them, I think, surely,

Port. These are the youths that thunder at a play-house, and fight for bitten apples; that no audience, but the Tribulation of Tower-hill, or the limbs of Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure. I have some of them in Limbo Patrum, and there they are like to dance these three days; besides the running banquet of two beadles, that is to come.

Enter the Lord Chamberlain.

Cham. Mercy o'me, what a multitude are here! They grow still too, from all parts they are coming,

As if we kept a fair here! Where are these porters,

These lazy knaves?-Ye have made a fine hand, fellows.

There's a trim rabble let in: Are all tnese
Your faithful friends o' the suburbs? We shall have
Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies,
When they pass back from the christening.
Port.
An't please your honour
We are but men; and what so many may do,
Not being torn a pieces, we have done :
An army cannot rule them.

Cham.

As I live, If the king blame me for't, I'll lay ye all By the heels, and suddenly; and on your heads Clap round fines, for neglect: You are lazy knaves; And here ye lie baiting of bumbards, when Ye should do service.-Hark, the trumpets sound; They are come already from the christening:

Go, break among the press, and find a way out
To let the troop pass fairly; or I'll find
A Marshalsea, shall hold you play these two

months.

Port. Make way there for the princess. Man. You great fellow, stand close up, or I'll make your head-ache.

Port. You i' the camblet, get up o' the rail; I'll pick you o'er the pales else. [Exeunt.

SCENE IV.-The Palace.

Enter trumpets, sounding; then Two Aldermen, Lord Mayor, Garter, CRANMER, Duke of NORFOLK, with his marshal's staff, Duke of SUFFOLK, Two Noblemen bearing great standing bowls for the christening gifts; then Four Noblemen, bearing a canopy, under which the Duchess of NORFOLK, godmother, bearing the child, richly habited in a mantle, &c. Train borne by a Lady: then follows the Marchioness of DORSET, the other godmother, and Ladies. The troop pass once about the stage, and Garter speaks.

Gart. Heaven from thy endless goodness, send prosperous life, long, and ever happy, to the high and mighty princess of England, Elizabeth!

Flourish. Enter KING and Train.

Cran. [Kneeling.] And to your royal grace, and the good queen,

My noble partners, and myself, thus pray ;-
All comfort, joy, in this most gracious lady,
Heaven ever laid up to make parents happy,
May hourly fall upon ye!

K. Hen. Thank you, good lord archbishop,
What is her name?
Cran.
K. Hen.

Elizabeth.

Stand up, lord.— [The KING kisses the child. With this kiss take my blessing: God protect thee! Into whose hands I give thy life. Cran. K. Hen. My noble gossips, ye have been too prodigal :

Amen.

I thank ye heartily; so shall this lady,
When she has so much English.
Cran.

Let me speak, sir,
For heaven now bids me; and the words I utter
Let none think flattery, for they'll find them truth.
This royal infant (heaven still move about her!)
Though in her cradle, yet now promises
Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings,
Which time shall bring to ripeness: She shall be
(But few now living can behold that goodness)
A pattern to all princes living with her,
And all that shall succeed: Sheba was never
More covetous of wisdom and fair virtue,
Than this pure soul shall be: all princely graces
That mould up such a mighty piece as this is,
With all the virtues that attend the good,

Shall still be doubled on her: truth shall nurse her,

Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her: She shall be lov'd, and fear'd: Her own shall bless

her:

Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn, And hang their heads with sorrow: Good grows with her:

In her days, every man shall eat in safety Under his own vine, what he plants; and sing The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours: God shall be truly known; and those about her From her shall read the perfect ways of honou

TIMSON, a noble Athenian.
LUCIUS, a Lord and a flatterer of Timon.
LUCULLUS, a Lord and a flatterer of Timon.
SEMPRONIUS, a Lord and a flatterer of Timen.
VENTIDIUS, one of Timon's false friends,
APEMANTUS, a churlish philosopher.
ALCIBIADES, an Athenian general.
FLAVIUS, steward to Timon.
FLAMINIUS, servant to Timon.
LUCILIUS, servant to Timon.
SERVILIUS, servant to Timon.

CAPHIS, servant to Timon's creditors.
PHILOTUS, servant to Timon's Creditors.
TITUS, servant to Timon's creditors.
LUCIUS, servant to Timon's creditors.

SCENE 1.-Athens. A Hall in Timon's House.

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,
Magic of bounty! all these spirits thy power
Hath conjur'd 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; breath'd, as
it were,

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?
[that-
Jew. If he will touch the estimate: But, for
Poet. "When we for recompense have prais'd
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

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 be struck; our gentle flame
Provokes itself, and, like the current, flies
Each bound it chafes. What have you there?
Pain. A picture, sir.-When comes your book
forth?

'Tis a good piece.

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.

Pain. 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, and pass over.
Pain. How this lord's follow'd!
Poet. The senators of Athens:-Happy men!
Pain. 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.

Pain. How shall I understand you?
Poet.
I'll unbolt 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 glass-fac'd
flatterer

To Apemantus, that few things loves better
Than to abhor himself: even he drops down

Is rank'd with all deserts, all kinds 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 band wafts to her;
Whose present grace to present slaves and
Translates his rivals.
[servants
'Tis conceived 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.

Pain.

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.

Pain.

Ay, marry, what of these? Poet. When Fortune, in her shift and change of mood,

Spurns down her late belov'd, 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.
Pain. '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 TIMON, attended; the
Servant of VENTIDIUS talking with him.
Tim.
Imprison'd is he, say you?
Ven. Serv. 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 to him,

Periods his comfort.

Tim.

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, [him. Which he shall have: I'll pay the debt and free Ven. Serv. Your lordship ever binds him. Tim. Commend me to him: I will send his

ransom:

Enter LUCILIUS.

Luc. Here, at your lordship's service.

Old Ath. This fellow here, Lord Timon, this By night frequents my house. I am a man thy creature, That from my first have been inclined to thrift; And my estate deserves an heir more rais'd Than one which holds a trencher. Tim.

Well: what further?
Old Ath. One only daughter have I, no kin else,
The maid is fair, o' the youngest for a bride,
On whom I may confer what I have got:
And I have bred her at my dearest cost,
In qualities of the best. This man of thine
Join with me to forbid him her resort;
Attempts her love: I prithee, noble lord,
Myself have spoke in vain.

Tim.
The man is honest.
Old Ath. Therefore he will be, Timon:
His honesty rewards him in itself,
It must not bear my daughter.
Tim.

Does she love him?
Our own precedent passions do instruct us
Old Ath. She is young and apt:
What levity's in youth.

Tim. [To LUCILIUS] Love you the maid?
Luc. Ay, my good lord, and she accepts of it.
Old Ath. If in her marriage my consent be
missing,

Mine heir from forth the beggars of the world,
I call the gods to witness, I will choose
And dispossess her all.

Tim.

How shall she be endow'd, If she be mated with an equal husband? Old Ath. Three talents, on the present; in future, all.

Tim. This gentleman of mine hath serv'd me To build his fortune I would strain a little, long; For 'tis a bond in men. Give him thy daughter: What you bestow, in him I'll counterpoise, And make him weigh with her. Old Ath. Most noble lord, Pawn me to this your honour; she is his. Tim. My hand to thee; mine honour on my

promise.

That state or fortune fall into my keeping,
Luc. Humbly I thank your lordship: Never may
Which is not ow'd to you!

[Exeunt LUCILIUS and Old Athenian. Poet. Vouchsafe my labour, and long live your lordship! [anon:

Tim. I thank you; you shall hear from me Go not away. What have you there, my friend? Your lordship to accept. Pain. A piece of painting, which I do beseech

Tim.

The painting is almost the natural man;
Painting is welcome.

For since dishonour traffics with man's nature,
He is but outside: These pencil'd figures are
Even such as they give out. I like your work;
And you shall find I like it: wait attendance
Till you hear further from me.
Pain.
The gods preserve you!
Tim. Well fare you, gentlemen: Give me
your hand;

We must needs dine together.-Sir, your jewel
Hath suffer'd under praise.

Jew.

What, my lord? dispraise? Tim. A mere satiety of commendations, If I should pay you for't as 'tis extoll'd It would unclew me quite.