University of Virginia Library

Scen. 2.

Enter Timon; Siparius, and a Page.

But sure he has some high design in hand, he pores so
fixtly upon the ground, as on my life he has some swinging
stuff for our fresh Dabrides, who have invested themselves
in the Platonick Order: and retain courage enough to
make an exchange of their old Consorts with their new
Confidents and amorous pretenders.—Let us hear him,
he mumbles so strangely, he must surely either disburthen
self, or stifle his teeming Birth for want of timely delivery.

Timon.

Good, as I live wondrous good: this is the way
to catch the old one. Be all things ready Siparius?

Sip.

How do you mean Sir?

Tim.

What a drolling bufflehead is this.—He has been
Book-holder to my Revels for decads of years, and the
Cuckoldry Drone, as if he had slept in Triphonius cave, all
his dayes, desires to know my meaning in the Track of his
own Calling!—Sir, shall I question you in your own Dialect?
Be your Stage-curtains artificially drawn, and so
covertly shrouded, as the squint-ey'd Groundling may not
peep in to your discovery?

Sipar.

Leave that care to me Sir; it is my charge.

Tim.

But were our Bills poasted, that our House may
be with a numerous Auditory stored; our Boxes by Ladies
of quality and of the new dress croudingly furnished; our
Galleries and Ground-front answerably to their Pay
compleated?

Sip.

Assure your self Sir, nothing is a wanting; that may
give way to the Poets improvement.

Tim.

Thou sayst well; this is indeed the Poets third
day: and must raise his Pericranium deeply steep'd in Frontineack,
a fair revenue for his rich Timonick Fancy; or he
must take a long adue of the spirit of Sack and that noble
Napry till the next Vintage.—But Siparius.

Sip.

Your will Sir.

Tim.

Besure, that you hold not your Book at too much
distance: the Actors, poor Lapwings, are but pen-feathred:
and once out, out for ever. We had a time, indeed,

and it was a golden time for a pregnant Fancy; when
the Actor could imbellish his Author, and return a Pean
to his Pen in every accent. But our great disaster at Cannæ,
then which none ever more tragical to our Theatre, made
a speedy dispatch of our rarest Roscio's, closing them joyntly
in one Funeral Epilogue.—Now for you Boy, as you
play the Chorus, so be mindful of your Hint. I know you
to be a Wag by nature; and you must play the Waggish
Actor.

Page.

I shall not sleep in my action Sir; if your line
have so much life as to provoke a laughter; I shall not
strangle the height of your Conceit with a dull gesture:
nor weaken the weight of your Plot with too flat or unbecoming
a deportment.

Tim.

Thou promisest fairly; go on.

Trillo.

And so does Timon too, or his judgement fails
him.—Well, I will accoast him.—Health to our stock
of Stoical wit, ingenious Timon.—Come Sir, what brave
Dramatick Piece has your running Mercury now upon the
Loom? The Title of your new Play, Sir?

Tim.

Every Poast may sufficiently inform you: nay the
Fame of the City cannot chuse but eccho it to you: so
much is expected: neither shall you discover a Mouse
peeping out of a Mountain, believe it.

Trillo.

No; nor a Monkey dancing his Trick-a-tee on a
Rope, for want of strong Lines from the Poets pen.

Tim.

You are ith' right on't, Trillo; These Pigmies of
mine shall not play the egregious Puppies in deluding an
ignorant Rabble with the sad presentment of a

roasted Savage.

Trillo.

Your Conceit is above the scale of admiration.
—But the Subject of your Invention, Sir, where may you
lay your Scene: and what Name you bestow upon this
long expected Comedy?

Tim.

My Scene, Trillo, is

Horn-Alley: the Name it
bears, is Lady Alimony. The Subject I shall not preoccupate:
Let the Fancies of my thirsty Auditory fall a
working; if ever their small expence confined to three
hours space were better recompensed; I will henceforth
disclaim my Society with an happy Genius: and bestow
the remainder of my time in catching Flyes with Domitian.

Trillo.

Excellent, Excellent. I am confident your acrimonious
spirit will dis-curtain our Changeable-taffaty Ladies
to an hair.

Tim.

Thou know'st my humour; and let me perish, if I
do not pursue it. Thou hast heard no doubt, how I never
found any branch more pleasingly fruitful, nor to my view
more grateful, then when I found a Woman hanging on
it: wishing heartily that all Trees in mine Orchard bore
such fruit.

Tril.

If your wish had prov'd true, no doubt but your
Orchard would have rendred you store of Medlers.
—But your hour, Sir, your hour.

Tim.

You know, Trillo, our Theatral time to a minute.
One thing I must tell you; and you will attest it upon our
Presentment: That never was any Stage, since the first
erection of our ancient Roman Amphitheaters, with suitable
Properties more accurately furnished: with choiser
Musick more gracefully accommodated: nor by Boyes,
though young, with more virile spirits presented.

Tril.

I'm already nouz'd in your Poetical Springe: and
shall henceforth wish for your sake, that all Crop-ear'd
Histriomastixes, who cannot endure a civil witty Comedy,
but by his rackt exposition renders it down-right Drollery,
may be doom'd to Ancyrus, and skip there amongst
Satyrs, for his rough and severe censure.

Tim.

Parnassus is a debtor to thee Trillo for thy clear
and serene opinon of the Muses and their individual Darling:
of which Meniey, to imprint our Addresses all the
better in your memory, our Stage presents ever the most
lively and lovely fancy:

“Where th'Stage breaths Lines, Sceans, Subject, Action fit,
“Th'Age must admire it, or it has no Wit.

Tril.

Yet I have heard Timon, that you were sometimes
Stoical, and could not endure the noise of an Enterlude,

but snuff at it as the Satyr did at the first sight of fire.

Tim.

All this is most authentically true: But shall I unbosom
my self ingeniously to thee, my dear Trillo? As
his hate to Woman made Eupolis eat Nettle pottage; so
became I fired in my spirit: my experience of a Shrow
drove me to turn the shrewd Comedian: and yet all our
Boxes are stor'd with compleat Doxes: nay some, whose
carriage gives life to this days action.

Tril.

May the Poets day prove fair and fortunate: full
Audience and honest Door-keepers. I shall perchance
rank my self amongst your Gallery-men.

Tim.

We shall hold our Labours incomparably heightned
by the breath of such approved Judgements.

Enter Messenger.

Sir, here is a proud peremptory pragmatical Fellow
newly come into our Tyring-room, who disturbs our preparation;
vowing like a desperate Haxter, that he has express
Command to seize upon all our Properties.

Tim.

The Devil he has; what furious Mercury might
this be?

Mes.

Nay, Sir, I know not what he may be, but sure
if he be what he seems to be, he can be no less then one of
our City Hectors, but I hope your spirit will conjure him,
and make him a Clinias.—He speaks nothing less then
braving Buff-leather Language: and has made all our
Boyes so feverish, as if a Quotidian Ague had seiz'd on
them.

Tim.

Sure it is one of our Trapanning Decoyes, sent
forth for a Champion to defend those Ladies engaged
honour, whom our Stage is this day to present: This shall
not serve their turn.—Call him in; we will collar him.

Tril.

Hah-hah-hah! This will prove rare sport, to see
how the Poets Genius will grapple with this Bandog.