Уильям Шекспир - The Life of Timon of Athens

Hoy-day! what a sweep of vanity comes this way:
They dance! they are mad women.
Like madness is the glory of this life,
As this pomp shows to a little oil and root.
We make ourselves fools to disport ourselves;
And spend our flatteries to drink those men
Upon whose age we void it up again,
With poisonous spite and envy.
Who lives that's not depraved or depraves?
Who dies that bears not one spurn to their graves
Of their friend's gift?
I should fear those that dance before me now
Would one day stamp upon me: it has been done:
Men shut their doors against a setting sun.

You have done our pleasures much grace, fair ladies,
Set a fair fashion on our entertainment,
Which was not half so beautiful and kind;
You have added worth unto 't and lustre,
And entertain'd me with mine own device;
I am to thank you for 't.

My lord, you take us even at the best.
APEMANTUS. Faith, for the worst is filthy; and would not hold taking, I doubt me.

Ladies, there is an idle banquet
Attends you; please you to dispose yourselves.

Most thankfully, my lord.

Flavius!

My lord!

The little casket bring me hither.

Yes, my lord. [Aside.] More jewels yet!
There is no crossing him in 's humour;
Else I should tell him well, i' faith, I should,
When all's spent, he'd be cross'd then, an he could.
'Tis pity bounty had not eyes behind,
That man might ne'er be wretched for his mind.

Where be our men?

Here, my lord, in readiness.

Our horses!

O, my friends! I have one word to say to you;
Look you, my good lord,
I must entreat you, honour me so much
As to advance this jewel; accept it and wear it,
Kind my lord.

I am so far already in your gifts —

So are we all.

My lord, there are certain nobles of the Senate
Newly alighted and come to visit you.

They are fairly welcome.

I beseech your honour,
Vouchsafe me a word; it does concern you near.

Near! why then, another time I'll hear thee.
I prithee let's be provided to show them entertainment.

I scarce know how.

May it please vour honour, Lord Lucius,
Out of his free love, hath presented to you
Four milk-white horses, trapp'd in silver.

I shall accept them fairly; let the presents
Be worthily entertain'd.

How now! What news?

THIRD SERVANT. Please you, my lord, that honourable gentleman, Lord Lucullus, entreats your company to-morrow to hunt with him, and has sent your honour two brace of greyhounds.

I'll hunt with him; and let them be receiv'd,
Not without fair reward.

He commands us to provide, and give great gifts,
And all out of an empty coffer;
Nor will he know his purse, or yield me this,
To show him what a beggar his heart is,
Being of no power to make his wishes good.
His promises fly so beyond his state
That what he speaks is all in debt; he owes
For every word: he is so kind that he now
Pays interest for 't; his land's put to their books.
Well, would I were gently put out of office
Before I were forc'd out!
Happier he that has no friend to feed
Than such that do e'en enemies exceed.
I bleed inwardly for my lord.

You do yourselves much wrong;
You bate too much of your own merits;
Here, my lord, a trifle of our love.

With more than common thanks I will receive it.

O! he's the very soul of bounty!

And now I remember, my lord, you gave
Good words the other day of a bay courser
I rode on: it is yours because you lik'd it.

O! I beseech you, pardon me, my lord, in that.

You may take my word, my lord: I know no man
Can justly praise but what he does affect:
I weigh my friend's affection with mine own.
I'll tell you true; I'll call to you.

O! none so welcome!

I take all and your several visitations
So kind to heart, 'tis not enough to give;
Methinks, I could deal kingdoms to my friends,
And ne'er be weary. Alcibiades,
Thou art a soldier, therefore seldom rich;
It comes in charity to thee; for all thy living
Is 'mongst the dead, and all the lands thou hast
Lie in a pitch'd field.

Ay, defil'd land, my lord.

We are so virtuously bound, —

And so am I to you.

So infinitely endear'd, —

All to you. Lights, more lights!

The best of happiness,
Honour, and fortunes, keep with you, Lord Timon!

Ready for his friends.

What a coil's here!
Serving of becks and jutting out of bums!
I doubt whether their legs be worth the sums
That are given for 'em. Friendship's full of dregs:
Methinks, false hearts should never have sound legs.
Thus honest fools lay out their wealth on curtsies.

Now, Apemantus, if thou wert not sullen,
I would be good to thee.