The Life of Timon of Athens - Уильям Шекспир

Good day, sir.

I am glad you're well.

I have not seen you long. How goes the world?

It wears, sir, as it grows.

Ay, that's well known;
But what particular rarity? what strange,
Which manifold record not matches? See,
Magic of bounty! all these spirits thy power
Hath conjur'd to attend! I know the merchant.

I know them both; th' other's a jeweller.

O, 'tis a worthy lord!

Nay, that's most fix'd.

A most incomparable man; breath'd, as it were,
To an untirable and continuate goodness.
He passes.

I have a jewel here

O, pray let's see't: for the Lord Timon, sir?

If he will touch the estimate: but for that

When we for recompense have prais'd the vile,
It stains the glory in that happy verse
Which aptly sings the good.

'Tis a good form.

And rich: here is a water, look ye.

You are rapt, sir, in some work, some dedication
To the great lord.

A thing slipp'd idly from me.
Our poesy is as a gum, which oozes
From whence 'tis nourish'd: the fire i' the flint
Shows not till it be struck; our gentle flame
Provokes itself, and like the current flies
Each bound it chafes. What have you there?

A picture, sir. When comes your book forth?

Upon the heels of my presentment, sir.
Let's see your piece.

'Tis a good piece.

So 'tis: this comes off well and excellent.

Indifferent.

Admirable! How this grace
Speaks his own standing! what a mental power
This eye shoots forth! how big imagination
Moves in this lip! to the dumbness of the gesture
One might interpret.

It is a pretty mocking of the life.
Here is a touch; is't good?

I'll say of it,
It tutors nature: artificial strife
Lives in these touches, livelier than life.

How this lord is followed!

The senators of Athens: happy man!

Look, more!

You see this confluence, this great flood of visitors.
I have, in this rough work, shap'd out a man
Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug
With amplest entertainment: my free drift
Halts not particularly, but moves itself
In a wide sea of wax: no levell'd malice
Infects one comma in the course I hold:
But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on,
Leaving no tract behind.

How shall I understand you?

I will unbolt to you.
You see how all conditions, how all minds
As well of glib and slipp'ry creatures as
Of grave and austere quality tender down
Their services to Lord Timon: his large fortune,
Upon his good and gracious nature hanging,
Subdues and properties to his love and tendance
All sorts of hearts; yea, from the glass-fac'd flatterer
To Apemantus, 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.

Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill
Feign'd Fortune to be thron'd: the base o' the mount
Is rank'd with all deserts, all kind of natures
That labour on the bosom of this sphere
To propagate their states: amongst them all,
Whose eyes are on this sovereign lady fix'd
One do I personate of Lord Timon's frame,
Whom Fortune with her ivory hand wafts to her;
Whose present grace to present slaves and servants
Translates his rivals.

'Tis conceiv'd to scope.
This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks,
With one man beckon'd from the rest below,
Bowing his head against the steepy mount
To climb his happiness, would be well express'd
In our condition.

Nay, sir, but hear me on.
All those which were his fellows but of late,
Some better than his value, on the moment
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.

Ay, marry, what of these?

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

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

Imprison'd is he, say you?

Ay, my good lord. Five talents is his debt,
His means most short, his creditors most strait:
Your honourable letter he desires
To those have shut him up; which, failing,
Periods his comfort.

Noble Ventidius! Well:
I am not of that feather to shake off
My friend when he must need me. I do know him
A gentleman that well deserves a help,
Which he shall have: I'll pay the debt and free him.

Your lordship ever binds him.

Commend me to him; I will send his ransom;
And being enfranchis'd, bid him come to me.
'Tis not enough to help the feeble up,
But to support him after. Fare you well.

All happiness to your honour.

Lord Timon, hear me speak.

Freely, good father.

Thou hast a servant nam'd Lucilius.

I have so: what of him?

Most noble Timon, call the man before thee.

Attends he here or no? Lucilius!

Here, at your lordship's service.

This fellow here, Lord Timon, this thy creature,
By night frequents my house. I am a man
That from my first have been inclin'd to thrift,
And my estate deserves an heir more rais'd
Than one which holds a trencher.

Well; what further?

One only daughter have I, no kin else,
On whom I may confer what I have got:
The maid is fair, o' the youngest for a bride,
And I have bred her at my dearest cost
In qualities of the best. This man of thine
Attempts her love: I prithee, noble lord,
Join with me to forbid him her resort;
Myself have spoke in vain.

The man is honest.

Therefore he will be, Timon:
His honesty rewards him in itself;
It must not bear my daughter.

Does she love him?

She is young and apt:
Our own precedent passions do instruct us
What levity's in youth.
TIMON. [To Lucilius.]
Love you the maid?

Ay, my good lord, and she accepts of it.

If in her marriage my consent be missing,
I call the gods to witness, I will choose
Mine heir from forth the beggars of the world,
And dispossess her all.

How shall she be endow'd,
If she be mated with an equal husband?

Three talents on the present; in future, all.

This gentleman of mine hath serv'd me long:
To build his fortune I will strain a little,
For 'tis a bond in men. Give him thy daughter:
What you bestow, in him I'll counterpoise,
And make him weigh with her.

Most noble lord,
Pawn me to this your honour, she is his.

My hand to thee; mine honour on my promise.

Humbly I thank your lordship. Never may
That state or fortune fall into my keeping
Which is not owed to you!

Vouchsafe my labour, and long live your lordship!

I thank you; you shall hear from me anon:
Go not away. What have you there, my friend?

A piece of painting, which I do beseech
Your lordship to accept.

Painting is welcome.
The painting is almost the natural man;
For since dishonour traffics with man's nature,
He is but outside: these pencill'd figures are
Even such as they give out. I like your work;
And you shall find I like it: wait attendance
Till you hear further from me.

The gods preserve you!

Well fare you, gentleman: give me your hand;
We must needs dine together. Sir, your jewel
Hath suffered under praise.

What, my lord! dispraise?

A mere satiety of commendations;
If I should pay you for 't as 'tis extoll'd,
It would unclew me quite.

My lord, 'tis rated
As those which sell would give: but you well know,
Things of like value, differing in the owners,
Are prized by their masters. Believe't, dear lord,
You mend the jewel by the wearing it.

Well mock'd.

No, my good lord; he speaks the common tongue,
Which all men speak with him.

Look who comes here. Will you be chid?

We'll bear, with your lordship.

He'll spare none.

Good morrow to thee, gentle Apemantus!

Till I be gentle, stay thou for thy good morrow;
When thou art Timon's dog, and these knaves honest.

Why dost thou call them knaves? thou know'st them not.

Are they not Athenians?

Yes.

Then I repent not.

You know me, Apemantus?

Thou know'st I do; I call'd thee by thy name.

Thou art proud, Apemantus.

Of nothing so much as that I am not like Timon.

Whither art going?

To knock out an honest Athenian's brains.

That's a deed thou'lt die for.

Right, if doing nothing be death by the law.

How likest thou this picture, Apemantus?

The best, for the innocence.

Wrought he not well that painted it?

APEMANTUS. He wrought better that made the painter; and yet he's but a filthy piece of work.

You're a dog.

Thy mother's of my generation: what's she, if I be a dog?

Wilt dine with me, Apemantus?

No; I eat not lords.

An thou shouldst, thou'dst anger ladies.

O! they eat lords; so they come by great bellies.

That's a lascivious apprehension.

So thou apprehendest it, take it for thy labour.

How dost thou like this jewel, Apemantus?

APEMANTUS. Not so well as plain dealing, which will not cost a man a doit.

What dost thou think 'tis worth?

Not worth my thinking. How now, poet!

How now, philosopher!

Thou liest.

Art not one?

Yes.

Then I lie not.

Art not a poet?

Yes.

APEMANTUS. Then thou liest: look in thy last work, where thou hast feigned him a worthy fellow.

That's not feigned; he is so.

Yes, he is worthy of thee, and to pay thee for thy
labour: he that loves to be flattered is worthy o' the flatterer.
Heavens, that I were a lord!

What wouldst do then, Apemantus?

Even as Apemantus does now; hate a lord with my heart.

What, thyself?

Ay.

 Wherefore?

That I had no angry wit to be a lord. Art not thou a merchant?

Ay, Apemantus.

Traffic confound thee, if the gods will not!

If traffic do it, the gods do it.

Traffic's thy god, and thy god confound thee!