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The Life of Timon of Athens
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TIMON
Art thou Timandra?
TIMANDRA
Yes.
TIMON
Be a whore still; they love thee not that use thee;
Give them diseases, leaving with thee their lust.
Make use of thy salt hours; season the slaves
For tubs and baths; bring down rose-cheeked youth
To the tub – fast and the diet.
TIMANDRA
Hang thee, monster!
ALCIBIADES
Pardon him, sweet Timandra, for his wits
Are drown'd and lost in his calamities.
I have but little gold of late, brave Timon,
The want whereof doth daily make revolt
In my penurious band: I have heard, and griev'd
How cursed Athens, mindless of thy worth,
Forgetting thy great deeds, when neighbour states,
But for thy sword and fortune, trod upon them, —
TIMON
I prithee, beat thy drum, and get thee gone.
ALCIBIADES
I am thy friend, and pity thee, dear Timon.
TIMON
How dost thou pity him whom thou dost trouble?
I had rather be alone.
ALCIBIADES
Why, fare thee well:
Here is some gold for thee.
TIMON
Keep it, I cannot eat it.
ALCIBIADES
When I have laid proud Athens on a heap, —
TIMON
Warr'st thou 'gainst Athens?
ALCIBIADES
Ay, Timon, and have cause.
TIMON
The gods confound them all in thy conquest;
And thee after, when thou hast conquer'd!
ALCIBIADES
Why me, Timon?
TIMON
That, by killing of villains,
Thou wast born to conquer my country.
Put up thy gold: go on, – here's gold, – go on;
Be as a planetary plague, when Jove
Will o'er some high-vic'd city hang his poison
In the sick air: let not thy sword skip one.
Pity not honour'd age for his white beard;
He is an usurer. Strike me the counterfeit matron;
It is her habit only that is honest,
Herself's a bawd. Let not the virgin's cheek
Make soft thy trenchant sword; for those milk paps
That through the window-bars bore at men's eyes,
Are not within the leaf of pity writ,
But set them down horrible traitors. Spare not the babe,
Whose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust their mercy;
Think it a bastard, whom the oracle
Hath doubtfully pronounc'd thy throat shall cut,
And mince it sans remorse. Swear against objects;
Put armour on thine ears and on thine eyes,
Whose proof nor yells of mothers, maids, nor babes,
Nor sight of priests in holy vestments bleeding,
Shall pierce a jot. There's gold to pay thy soldiers:
Make large confusion; and, thy fury spent,
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Книгу прочитать не могу, везде ЛитРес свой нос сунул, как и где скачать полную версию бесплатно!?!?