POET.
I have not seen you long. How goes the world?
PAINTER.
It wears, sir, as it grows.
POET.
Ay, 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.
PAINTER.
I know them both. Th’ other’s a jeweller.
MERCHANT.
O, ’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—
MERCHANT.
O, pray let’s see’t. For the Lord Timon, sir?
JEWELLER.
If he will touch the estimate. But for that—