The elongated S's have been changed to small s's and the conjoined ae have been changed to ae. I have left the spelling, punctuation, capitalization as close as possible to the printed text. I have corrected some spelling mistakes (I have put together a spelling dictionary devised from the spellings of the Geneva Bible and Shakespeare's First Folio and have unified spellings according to this template), typo's and expanded abbreviations as I have come across them. Everything within brackets [] is what I have added. So if you don't like that you can delete everything within the brackets if you want a purer Shakespeare. Another thing that you should be aware of is that there are textual differences between various copies of the first folio. So there may be differences (other than what I have mentioned above) between this and other first folio editions. This is due to the printer's habit of setting the type and running off a number of copies and then proofing the printed copy and correcting the type and then continuing the printing run. The proof run wasn't thrown away but incorporated into the printed copies. This is just the way it is. The text I have used was a composite of more than 30 different First Folio editions' best pages. David Reed ===================================================================== The Life of Timon of Athens Enter Poet, Painter, Ieweller, Merchant, and Mercer, at seuerall doores. 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 Mer. 'Tis a good forme Iewel. And rich: heere is a Water looke ye Pain. You are rapt sir, in some worke, some Dedication to the great Lord Poet. A thing slipt idlely from me. Our Poesie is as a Gowne, which vses From whence 'tis nourisht: the fire i'th' Flint Shewes not, till it be strooke: our gentle flame Prouokes it selfe, and like the currant flyes Each bound it chases. What haue you there? Pain. A Picture sir: when comes your Booke forth? Poet. Vpon the heeles of my presentment sir. Let's see your peece Pain. 'Tis a good Peece Poet. So 'tis, this comes off well, and excellent Pain. Indifferent