Pericles, Prince of Tyre. Уильям Шекспир

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      What a drunken knave was the sea to cast thee in our way!

      A man whom both the waters and the wind,

      In that vast tennis-court, have made the ball

      For them to play upon, entreats you pity him;

      He asks of you, that never used to beg.

      FIRST FISHERMAN. No, friend, cannot you beg? Here's them in our country of Greece gets more with begging than we can do with working.

      Canst thou catch any fishes, then?

      I never practised it.

      SECOND FISHERMAN. Nay, then thou wilt starve, sure; for here's nothing to be got now-a-days, unless thou canst fish for 't.

      What I have been I have forgot to know;

      But what I am, want teaches me to think on:

      A man throng'd up with cold: my veins are chill,

      And have no more of life than may suffice

      To give my tongue that heat to ask your help;

      Which if you shall refuse, when I am dead,

      For that I am a man, pray see me buried.

      FIRST FISHERMAN. Die quoth-a? Now gods forbid! I have a gown here; come, put it on; keep thee warm. Now, afore me, a handsome fellow! Come, thou shalt go home, and we'll have flesh for holidays, fish for fasting-days, and moreo'er puddings and flap-jacks, and thou shalt be welcome.

      I thank you, sir.

      Hark you, my friend; you said you could not beg.