's well known:--
But what particular rarity? what strange,
That manifold record not matches? See,

And we fancy him waving his hand in an enthusiastic manner,--

Magic of bounty! all these spirits thy power
Hath conjured to attend.

Which manner is only a high-flowing habit, for he adds in the same
breath, dropping his figure suddenly,--

I know the merchant.
_Painter._ I know them both; t'other's a jeweller.

It is certainly natural that painters should know jewellers,--and,
perhaps, that poets should be able to recognize merchants, though the
converse might not hold. We now know who the next speakers are, and soon
distinguish them.

_Merchant._ Oh, 'tis a worthy lord!
_Jeweller._ Nay, that's most fixed.
_Merchant._ A most incomparable man; breathed as it were
To an untirable and continuate goodness:
He passes.
_Jeweller._ I have a jewel here.

The Jeweller being known, the Merchant is; and, it will be noticed that
the first speaks in a cautious manner.

_Merchant._ Oh, pray, let's see it! For the lord Timon, Sir?
_Jeweller._ If he will touch the estimate; but, for that----

We begin to suspect who is the "magic of bounty" and the "incomparable
man," and also to have an idea that all these people have come to his
house to see him.--While the Merchant examines the jewel, the first who
spoke, the high-flown individual, is pacing and talking to himself near
the one he met:--

_Poet. When we for recompense have praised the vile,
It stains the glory in that happy verse
Which aptly sings the good._

Perhaps he is thinking of himself. The Merchant and Jeweller do not hear
him;--they stand in twos at opposite sides of the stage.

_Merchant_. 'Tis a good form.
[_Looking at the jewel._

He observes only that the stone is well cut; but the Jeweller adds,--

_Jeweller_. And rich: here is a water, look you.

While they are interested in this and move backward, the two others come
nearer the front.

_Painter_. You are rapt, Sir, in some work, some dedication
To the great lord.

This is said, of course, with reference to the other's recent soliloquy.
And now we are going to know them.

_Poet_. A thing slipped 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 files
Each bound it chaf