Уильям Шекспир - The Life of Timon of Athens стр 3.

What trumpet's that?

'Tis Alcibiades, and some twenty horse,
All of companionship.

Pray entertain them; give them guide to us.

You must needs dine with me. Go not you hence
Till I have thank'd you; when dinner's done,
Show me this piece. I am joyful of your sights.

Most welcome, sir!

So, so, there!
Aches contract and starve your supple joints!
That there should be small love 'mongst these sweet knaves,
And all this courtesy! The strain of man's bred out
Into baboon and monkey.

Sir, you have sav'd my longing, and I feed
Most hungerly on your sight.

Right welcome, sir!
Ere we depart we'll share a bounteous time
In different pleasures. Pray you, let us in.

What time o' day is't, Apemantus?

Time to be honest.

That time serves still.

The more accursed thou that still omitt'st it.

Thou art going to Lord Timon's feast.

Ay; to see meat fill knaves and wine heat fools.

Fare thee well, fare thee well.

Thou art a fool to bid me farewell twice.

Why, Apemantus?

Shouldst have kept one to thyself, for I mean to give thee none.

Hang thyself!

APEMANTUS. No, I will do nothing at thy bidding: make thy requests to thy friend.

Away, unpeaceable dog! or I'll spurn thee hence.

I will fly, like a dog, the heels of an ass.

He's opposite to humanity. Come, shall we in,
And taste Lord Timon's bounty? he outgoes
The very heart of kindness.

He pours it out; Plutus, the god of gold,
Is but his steward: no meed but he repays
Sevenfold above itself; no gift to him
But breeds the giver a return exceeding
All use of quittance.

The noblest mind he carries
That ever govern'd man.

Long may he live in fortunes! Shall we in?

I'll keep you company.

Most honour'd Timon,
It hath pleas'd the gods to remember my father's age,
And call him to long peace.
He is gone happy, and has left me rich:
Then, as in grateful virtue I am bound
To your free heart, I do return those talents,
Doubled with thanks and service, from whose help
I deriv'd liberty.

O! by no means,
Honest Ventidius: you mistake my love;
I gave it freely ever; and there's none
Can truly say he gives, if he receives:
If our betters play at that game, we must not dare
To imitate them; faults that are rich are fair.

A noble spirit.

Nay, my lords, ceremony was but devis'd at first
To set a gloss on faint deeds, hollow welcomes,
Recanting goodness, sorry ere 'tis shown;
But where there is true friendship there needs none.
Pray, sit; more welcome are ye to my fortunes
Than my fortunes to me.

My lord, we always have confess'd it.

Ho, ho! confess'd it; hang'd it, have you not?

O! Apemantus, you are welcome.

No,
You shall not make me welcome:
I come to have thee thrust me out of doors.

Fie! thou'rt a churl; ye've got a humour there
Does not become a man; 'tis much to blame.
They say, my lords, Ira furor brevis est;
But yond man is ever angry.
Go, let him have a table by himself;
For he does neither affect company,
Nor is he fit for it, indeed.

Let me stay at thine apperil, Timon:
I come to observe; I give thee warning on't.

I take no heed of thee; thou'rt an Athenian, therefore, welcome.
I myself would have no power; prithee; let my meat make thee
silent.

I scorn thy meat; 't'would choke me, for I should
Ne'er flatter thee. O you gods! what a number
Of men eats Timon, and he sees 'em not!
It grieves me to see so many dip their meat
In one man's blood; and all the madness is,
He cheers them up too.
I wonder men dare trust themselves with men:
Methinks they should invite them without knives;
Good for their meat, and safer for their lives.
There's much example for 't; the fellow that
Sits next him now, parts bread with him, pledges
The breath of him in a divided draught,
Is the readiest man to kill him: 't has been prov'd.
If I were a huge man, I should fear to drink at meals;
Lest they should spy my wind-pipe's dangerous notes:
Great men should drink with harness on their throats.

My lord, in heart; and let the health go round.

Let it flow this way, my good lord.

Flow this way! A brave fellow! he keeps his tides well. Those
healths will make thee and thy state look ill, Timon.
Here's that which is too weak to be a sinner,
Honest water, which ne'er left man i' the mire:
This and my food are equals; there's no odds:
Feasts are too proud to give thanks to the gods.

   Immortal gods, I crave no pelf;
   I pray for no man but myself.
   Grant I may never prove so fond
   To trust man on his oath or bond;
   Or a harlot for her weeping;
   Or a dog that seems a-sleeping;
   Or a keeper with my freedom;
   Or my friends, if I should need 'em.
   Amen. So fall to't.
   Rich men sin, and I eat root.