The Life of Timon of Athens. Уильям Шекспир

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СКАЧАТЬ we for recompense have prais’d the vile,

      It stains the glory in that happy verse

      Which aptly sings the good.

      MERCHANT. [Looking at the jewel.]

      'Tis a good form.

      JEWELLER.

      And rich: here is a water, look ye.

      PAINTER.

      You are rapt, sir, in some work, some dedication

      To the great lord.

      POET.

      A thing slipp’d idly from me.

      Our poesy is as a gum, which oozes

      From whence ’tis nourish’d: the fire i’ the flint

      Shows not till it be struck; our gentle flame

      Provokes itself, and like the current flies

      Each bound it chafes. What have you there?

      PAINTER.

      A picture, sir. When comes your book forth?

      POET.

      Upon the heels of my presentment, sir.

      Let’s see your piece.

      PAINTER.

      'Tis a good piece.

      POET.

      So ‘tis: this comes off well and excellent.

      PAINTER.

      Indifferent.

      POET.

      Admirable! How this grace

      Speaks his own standing! what a mental power

      This eye shoots forth! how big imagination

      Moves in this lip! to the dumbness of the gesture

      One might interpret.

      PAINTER.

      It is a pretty mocking of the life.

      Here is a touch; is’t good?

      POET.

      I’ll say of it,

      It tutors nature: artificial strife

      Lives in these touches, livelier than life.

      [Enter certain SENATORS, who pass over the stage.]

      PAINTER.

      How this lord is followed!

      POET.

      The senators of Athens: happy man!

      PAINTER.

      Look, more!

      POET.

      You see this confluence, this great flood of visitors.

      I have, in this rough work, shap’d out a man

      Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug

      With amplest entertainment: my free drift

      Halts not particularly, but moves itself

      In a wide sea of wax: no levell’d malice

      Infects one comma in the course I hold:

      But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on,

      Leaving no tract behind.

      PAINTER.

      How shall I understand you?

      POET.

      I will unbolt to you.

      You see how all conditions, how all minds–

      As well of glib and slipp’ry creatures as

      Of grave and austere quality–tender down

      Their services to Lord Timon: his large fortune,

      Upon his good and gracious nature hanging,

      Subdues and properties to his love and tendance

      All sorts of hearts; yea, from the glass-fac’d flatterer

      To Apemantus, that few things loves better

      Than to abhor himself: even he drops down

      The knee before him, and returns in peace

      Most rich in Timon’s nod.

      PAINTER.

      I saw them speak together.

      POET.

      Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill

      Feign’d Fortune to be thron’d: the base o’ the mount

      Is rank’d with all deserts, all kind of natures

      That labour on the bosom of this sphere

      To propagate their states: amongst them all,

      Whose eyes are on this sovereign lady fix’d

      One do I personate of Lord Timon’s frame,

      Whom Fortune with her ivory hand wafts to her;

      Whose present grace to present slaves and servants

      Translates his rivals.

      PAINTER.

      'Tis conceiv’d to scope.

      This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks,

      With one man beckon’d from the rest below,

      Bowing his head against the steepy mount

      To climb his happiness, would be well express’d

      In our condition.

      POET.

      Nay, sir, but hear me on.

      All those which were his fellows but of late,

      Some better than his value, on the moment

      Follow his strides, his lobbies fill with tendance,

      Rain sacrificial whisperings in his ear,

      Make sacred even his stirrup, and through him

      Drink the free air.

СКАЧАТЬ