Poet. Good day Sir
Pain. I am glad y'are well
Poet. I haue not seene you long, how goes
the World?
Pain. It weares sir, as it growes
Poet. I that's well knowne:
But what particular Rarity? What strange,
Which manifold record not matches: see
Magicke of Bounty, all these spirits thy power
Hath coniur'd to attend.
I know the Merchant
Pain. I know them both: th' others a Ieweller
Mer. O 'tis a worthy Lord
Iew. Nay that's most fixt
Mer. A most incomparable man, breath'd as it were,
To an vntyreable and continuate goodnesse:
He passes
Iew. I haue a Iewell heere
Mer. O pray let's see't. For the Lord Timon, sir?
Iewel. If he will touch the estimate. But for that-
Poet. When we for recompence haue prais'd the vild,
It staines the glory in that happy Verse,
Which aptly sings the good