Page 3088 - Shakespeare - Vol. 3

I saw them speak together.

POET
Sir,
I have upon a high and pleasant hill [65]
Feign’d Fortune to be thron’d. The base o’ th’ mount
Is rank’d with all deserts, all kind 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, [70]

One do I personate of Lord Timon’s frame,
Whom Fortune with her ivory hand wafts to her,
Whose present grace to present slaves and servants
Translates his rivals.

PAINTER
’Tis conceiv’d to scope.

This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks, [75]
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.

POET
Nay, sir, but hear me on: −
All those which were his fellows but of late, [80]
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.

PAINTER
Ay marry, what of these? [85]

POET

When Fortune in her shift and change of mood