Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
Title: Search
Poet. Not one accompanying his declining foot.
Pain. Pain.
Pain. Tis common:
Pain. A thousand morall Paintings I can shew,
Pain. That shall demonstrate these quicke blowes of Fortunes,
Pain. More pregnantly then words. Yet you do well,
Pain. To shew Lord Timon, that meane eyes haue seene
Pain. The foot aboue the head.
Pain. Trumpets sound.
Pain. Enter Lord Timon, addressing himselfe curteously
Pain. to euery Sutor.
Tim. Tim.
Tim. Imprison'd is he, say you?
Mes. Mes.
Mes. I my good Lord, fiue Talents is his debt,
Mes. His meanes most short, his Creditors most straite:
Mes. Your Honourable Letter he desires
Mes. To those haue shut him vp, which failing,
Mes. Periods his comfort.