SCENE III.
3 noteEnter Apemantus.
Will you be chid?
Jew.
We'll bear it with your Lordship.
Mer.
He'll spare none.
4 note
Tim.
Good morrow to thee, gentle Apemantus!
Apem.
'Till I be gentle, stay for thy good morrow.
When thou art Timon's dog, and these knaves honest—
Tim.
Why dost thou call them knaves, thou know'st
them not?
Apem.
Are they not Athenians?
Tim.
Yes.
Apem.
Then I repent not.
Jew.
You know me, Apemantus.
Apem.
Thou know'st I do, I call'd thee by thy name.
Tim.
Thou art proud, Apemantus.
Apem.
Of nothing so much, as that I am not like
Timon.
Tim.
Whither art going?
Apem.
To knock out an honest Athenian's brains.
Tim.
That's a deed thou'lt die for.
Apem.
Right, if doing nothing be death by the law.
Tim.
How lik'st thou this Picture, Apemantus?
-- 178 --
Apem.
The best for the innocence.
Tim.
Wrought he not well that painted it?
Apem.
He wrought better that made the Painter;
and yet he's but a filthy piece of work.
Pain.
Y'are a dog.
Apem.
Thy mother's of my generation; what's she,
if I be a dog?
Tim.
Wilt dine with me, Apemantus?
Apem.
No, I eat not Lords.
Tim.
If thou shouldst thou'dst anger ladies.
Apem.
O, they eat Lords; so they come by great
bellies.
Tim.
That's a lascivious apprehension.
Apem.
So, thou apprehend'st. Take it for thy labour.
Tim.
How dost thou like this jewel, Apemantus?
Apem.
Not so well as Plain-dealing, which will not
cost a man a doit.
Tim.
What dost thou think 'tis worth?
Apem.
Not worth my thinking. How now, Poet?
Poet.
How now, Philosopher?
Apem.
Thou liest.
Poet.
Art thou not one?
Apem.
Yes.
Poet.
Then I lie not.
Apem.
Art not a Poet?
Poet.
Yes.
Apem.
Then thou liest. Look in thy last work,
where thou hast feign'd him a worthy fellow.
Poet.
That's not feign'd, he is so.
Apem.
Yes, he is worthy of thee, and to pay thee
for thy labour. He, that loves to be flatter'd, is
worthy o'th' flatterer. Heav'ns, that I were a Lord!
Tim.
What would'st do then, Apemantus?
Apem.
Ev'n as Apemantus does now, hate a Lord
with my heart.
Tim.
What, thyself?
Apem.
Ay.
-- 179 --
Tim.
Wherefore?
Apem.
5 note
That I had no angry wit to be a Lord.—
Art thou not a Merchant.
Mer.
Ay, Apemantus.
Apem.
Traffick confound thee, if the Gods will not!
Mer.
If Traffick do it, the Gods do it.
Apem.
Traffick's thy God, and thy God confound thee!
Trumpets sound. Enter a Messenger.
Tim.
What trumpet's that?
Mes.
'Tis Alcibiades, and some twenty horse
All of companionship.
Tim.
Pray entertain them, give them guide to us.
You must needs dine with me. Go not you hence,
'Till I have thank't you; and when dinner's done,
Shew me this piece.
Enter Alcibiades with the rest.
I'm joyful of your sights.
Most welcome, Sir!
[Bowing and embracing.
Apem.
So, so! Aches contract, and starve your supple
joints! That there should be small love amongst
these sweet knaves, and all this courtesy! 6 noteThe strain
of man's bred out into baboon and monkey.
Alc.
You have sav'd my longing, and I feed
Most hungerly on your sight.
-- 180 --
Tim.
Right welcome, Sir.
7 noteEre we do part, we'll share a bounteous time
In different pleasures. Pray you, let us in.
[Exeunt.
Samuel Johnson [1765], The plays of William Shakespeare, in eight volumes, with the corrections and illustrations of Various Commentators; To which are added notes by Sam. Johnson (Printed for J. and R. Tonson [and] C. Corbet [etc.], London) [word count] [S11001].
