Follow his strides, his lobbies fill with tendance,
Rain sacrificial whisperings in his ear,
Make sacred even his stirrup, and through him
Drink the free air.

_Painter_. Ay, marry, what of these?

The Poet has half deserted his figure, and is losing himself in a new
description, from which the Painter impatiently recalls him. The text
is so artificially natural that it will bear the nicest natural
construction.

_Poet_. When Fortune, in her shift and
change of mood,
Spurns down her late beloved, all his dependants,
Which labored after him to the mountain's
top,
Even on their knees and hands, let him slip
down,
Not one accompanying his declining foot.

_Painter_. 'Tis common:
A thousand moral paintings I can show
That shall demonstrate these quick blows of
Fortune
More pregnantly than words. Yet you do
well
To show Lord Timon that mean eyes have
seen
The foot above the head.