thee: for all thy living Is 'mongst the dead, and all the lands thou hast Lie in a pitch'd field. Ay, defiled 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 court'sies. Now, Apemantus, if thou wert not sullen, I would be good to thee. No, I'll nothing: for if I should be bribed too, there would be none left to rail upon thee, and then thou wouldst sin the faster. Thou givest so long, Timon, I fear me thou wilt give away thyself in paper shortly: what need these feasts, pomps and vain-glories? Nay, an you begin to rail on society once, I am sworn not to give regard to you. Farewell; and come with better music. So: Thou wilt not hear me now; thou shalt not then: I'll lock thy heaven from thee. O, that men's ears should be To counsel deaf, but not to flattery! And late, five thousand: to Varro and to Isidore He owes nine thousand; besides my former sum, Which makes it five and twenty. Still in motion Of raging waste? It cannot hold; it will not. If I want gold, steal but a beggar's dog, And give it Timon, why, the dog coins gold. If I would sell my horse, and buy twenty more Better than he, why, give my horse to Timon, Ask nothing, give it him, it foals me, straight, And able horses. No porter at his gate, But rather one that smiles and still invites All that pass by. It cannot hold: no reason Can found his state in safety. Caphis, ho! Caphis, I say! Here, sir; what is your pleasure? Get on your cloak, and haste you to Lord Timon; Importune him for my moneys; be not ceased With slight denial, nor then silenced when-- 'Commend me to your master'--and the cap Plays in the right hand, thus: but tell him, My uses cry to me, I must serve my turn Out of mine own; his days and times are past And my reliances on his fracted dates Have smit my credit: I love and honour