Alb. The weight of this fad time we must obey, Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldeft hath borne moft; we that are young Shall never fee fo much, nor live fo long.

[Exeunt with a dead march*;.

The tragedy of Lear is defervedly celebrated among the dramas of Shakespeare. There is perhaps no play which keeps the attention fo ftrongly fixed, which fo much agitates our paffions, and interefts our curiofity. The artful involutions of diftinct interefts, the striking oppofition of contrary characters, the fudden changes of fortune, and the quick fucceffion of events, fill the mind with a perpetual tumult of indignation, pity, and hope. There is no fcene which does not contribute to the aggravation of the diftrefs or conduct of the action, and fcarce a line which does not conduce to the progressof the fcene. So powerful is the current of the poet's imagination, that the mind which once ventures within it, is hurried irresistibly along.

My learned friend Mr Warton, who has in the Adventurer very minutely criticifed this play, remarks, that the inftances of cruelty are too favage and fhocking, and that the intervention of Edmund destroys the fimplicity of the flory. Thefe objections may, I think, be an fwered, by repeating, that the cruelty of the daughters is an historical fact, to which the poet has added little, having only drawn it into a feries by dialogue and action But I am not able to apologife with equal plaufibility for the extrusion of Gloucester's eyes, which feems an act too horrid to be endured in dramatick exhibition, and fuch as must always compel the mind to relieve its diftrefs by incredulity. Yet let it be remembered, that our author well knew what would please the audience for which he wrote.

The injury done by Edmund to the fimplicity of the action is abundantly recompenfed by the addition of variety, by the art with which he is made to co-operate with the chief defign, and the opportunity which he gives the poet of combining perfidy with perfidy, and connecting the wicked fon with the wicked daughters, to imprefs this important moral, that villainy is never at a flop, that crimes lead to crimes, and at laft termi nate in ruin. Johnson.

VENTIDIUS, one of Timon's friends:

CUPID and Maskers.

Strangers.

PHRYNIA,

TIMANDRA,

Miftreffes to Alcibiades.

Thieves, Senators, Poet, Painter, Jeweller, and Mer chant; with Servants and Attendants.

SCENE Athens, and the Woods not far from it.

From LUCIAN's_dialogues.

TIMON of ATHENS.

ACT I. SCENE I.

A Hall in Timon's Houfe.

Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, and Merchant, ar feveral doors.

WOOD day, Sir.

G

Poet.

Pain. I'm glad y'are well.

I Poet. I have not feen you long. How goes

the world?

Pain. It wears, Sir, as it goes.
Poet. Ay, that's well known.

But what particular rarity? what so strange,
Which manifold record not matches? See,
Magick of bounty! all thefe fpirits thy power
Hath conjurd 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 moft incomparable man, breath'd as it.

were

To an untirable and continuate goodness.

He paffes

Few. I have a jewel here.

Mer. O, pray, let's fee't.

For the Lord Timon, Sir?

Few. If he will touch the estimate. But for that

Poet. When we for recompence have prais'd the vile

It ftains the glory in that happy verfe
Which aptly fings the good *.

Mer. Tis a good form. [Looking on the jewel. Few. And rich. Here is a water! Look ye. Pain. You're rapt, Sir, in fome work, fome dedication

To the great Lord.

Poet. A thing flip'd idly from me. Our poefy is as a gum, which oozes

From whence 'tis nourished. The fire i' th' flint Shows not 'till it be ftruck: 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?

Poet. Upon the heels of my prefentment †, Sir. Let's fee your piece.

Pain. 'Tis a good piece.

Poet. So 'tis.

This comes off well and excellent.

Pain. Indiff'rent.

Poet. Admirable! how this grace

Speaks his own ftanding? What a mental power This eye fhoots forth? How big imagination Moves in this lip? to the dumbnefs 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 fay of it,

It tutors nature; artificial ftrife

Lives in thofe touches livelier than life.

We must here suppose the poet bufy reading his own work; and that these three lines are the introduction of the poem addressed to Timon, which he afterwards gives the painter an account of. Warb.

As foon as my book has been prefented to Lord Timon. John/on.

+ how this grace

Speaks understanding? Ib..