Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and others, at several doorsPoetGood day, sir.PainterI am glad you’re well.PoetI have not seen you long: how goes the world?PainterIt wears, sir, as it grows.PoetAy, 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.PainterI know them both; th’ other’s a jeweller.MerchantO, ‘tis a worthy lord.JewellerNay, that’s most fix’d.MerchantA most incomparable man, breathed, as it were, To an untirable and continuate goodness: He passes. Jeweller: I have a jewel here-MerchantO, pray, let’s see’t: for the Lord Timon, sir? Jeweller: If he will touch the estimate: but, for that-Poet[Reciting to himself] 'When we for recompense have praised the vile, It stains the glory in that happy verse Which aptly sings the good.'Merchant'Tis a good form.Looking at the jewelJewellerAnd rich: here is a water, look ye.PainterYou are rapt, sir, in some work, some dedication To the great lord.PoetA thing slipp’d idly from me. Our poesy is as a gum, which oozes From whence 'tis nourish’d: 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?PainterA picture, sir. When comes your book forth?PoetUpon the heels of my presentment, sir. Let’s see your piece.Painter'Tis a good piece.PoetSo ‘tis: this comes off well and excellent.PainterIndifferent.PoetAdmirable: 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.PainterIt is a pretty mocking of the life. Here is a touch; is’t good?PoetI will say of it, It tutors nature: artificial strife Lives in these touches, livelier than life.Enter certain Senators, and pass overPainterHow this lord is follow’d!PoetThe senators of Athens: happy man!PainterLook, more!PoetYou 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 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.