A Poem of the Throne of the Lord, 'Tymon's'

i have upon a high and pleasant hill, feigned fortune to be throned. You see how all conditions, as well as of glib and slippery creatures, tender down their services to lord tyman. Yea from the glass faced flatterer to apomantus, that few things loves better than to abhor himself, even he drops down the knee before him and returns in peace most rich. In timon's nod, i saw them speak together. But hear me on all those which were his fellows. His lobbies fill with tendants. Rain sacrificial whisperings in his ear make sacred even his stirrup. And through him drink the free air.