Apemantus

Timon
O Apemantus, you are welcome.
Apemantus
No, you shall not make me welcome.
I come to have thee thrust me out of doors.
Timon
Fie, thou ’rt a churl. You’ve got a humor there
Does not become a man. ’Tis much to blame.—
They say, my lords, Ira furor brevis est,
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Hoy-day!
What a sweep of vanity comes this way.
They dance? They are madwomen.
Like madness is the glory of this life
As this pomp shows to a little oil and root.

Who lives that’s not depravèd or depraves?
Who dies that bears not one spurn to their graves
Of their friends’ gift?

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.
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Apemantus
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.

O, that men’s ears should be
To counsel deaf,
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Fool
Are you three usurers’ men?
All The Men
Ay, fool.
Fool
I think no usurer but has a fool to his servant.
My mistress is one, and I am her Fool. When men
come to borrow of your masters, they approach
sadly and go away merry, but they enter my master’s
house merrily and go away sadly.
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Timon
That nature, being sick of man’s unkindness,
Should yet be hungry! (He digs.) Common mother, thou
Whose womb unmeasurable and infinite breast
Teems and feeds all; whose selfsame mettle—
Whereof thy proud child, arrogant man, is puffed—
Engenders the black toad and adder blue,
The gilded newt and eyeless venomed worm,
With all th’ abhorrèd births below crisp heaven
Whereon Hyperion’s quick’ning fire doth shine:
Yield him who all thy human sons do hate,
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Apemantus
What things in the world canst thou nearest
compare to thy flatterers?
Timon
Women nearest, but men—men are the things
themselves. What wouldst thou do with the world,
Apemantus, if it lay in thy power?

What beast couldst thou be
that were not subject to a beast?

Apemantus
Give it the beasts,
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Timon
Away, thou issue of a mangy dog!
Choler does kill me that thou art alive.
I swoon to see thee.
Apemantus
Would thou wouldst burst!

Then, Timon, presently prepare thy grave.
Lie where the light foam of the sea may beat
Thy gravestone daily. Make thine epitaph,
That death in me at others’ lives may laugh.
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