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Hear you, master steward, where’s our master? Are we undone? cast off? nothing remaining?
Do you hear, master steward, where’s our master? Are we ruined? thrown away? is there nothing left?
Alack, my fellows, what should I say to you? Let me be recorded by the righteous gods, I am as poor as you.
Oh, my friends, what can I say to you? Let the righteous gods record me, I’m as poor as you are.
Such a house broke! So noble a master fall’n! All gone! and not One friend to take his fortune by the arm, And go along with him!
A house destroyed like this! A noble master fallen! All gone! And not One friend to take his fortune by the hand, And go with him!
As we do turn our backs From our companion thrown into his grave, So his familiars to his buried fortunes Slink all away, leave their false vows with him, Like empty purses pick’d; and his poor self, A dedicated beggar to the air, With his disease of all-shunn’d poverty, Walks, like contempt, alone. More of our fellows.
Just like we turn our backs On a friend thrown into the grave, His old companions sneak away from his buried wealth, Leaving their false promises with him, Like empty purses taken; and his poor self, A beggar abandoned to the open air, With his disease of total poverty, Walks alone, like scorn. More of our friends.
All broken implements of a ruin’d house.
All the broken pieces of a destroyed house.
Yet do our hearts wear Timon’s livery; That see I by our faces; we are fellows still, Serving alike in sorrow: leak’d is our bark, And we, poor mates, stand on the dying deck, Hearing the surges threat: we must all part Into this sea of air.
Still, we wear Timon’s livery on our hearts; I can see it on our faces; we’re still together, Serving the same sorrow: our ship’s leaking, And we, poor sailors, stand on the sinking deck, Hearing the waves threatening: we must all leave Into this sea of air.
Good fellows all, The latest of my wealth I’ll share amongst you. Wherever we shall meet, for Timon’s sake, Let’s yet be fellows; let’s shake our heads, and say, As ’twere a knell unto our master’s fortunes, ’We have seen better days.’ Let each take some; Nay, put out all your hands. Not one word more: Thus part we rich in sorrow, parting poor.
Good friends, all, I’ll share the last of my wealth with you. Wherever we meet, for Timon’s sake, Let’s still be together; let’s shake our heads, and say, As if it were a bell tolling for our master’s downfall, ‘We’ve seen better days.’ Let each of us take some; No more words: So we part rich in sorrow, parting poor.
O, the fierce wretchedness that glory brings us! Who would not wish to be from wealth exempt, Since riches point to misery and contempt? Who would be so mock’d with glory? or to live But in a dream of friendship? To have his pomp and all what state compounds But only painted, like his varnish’d friends? Poor honest lord, brought low by his own heart, Undone by goodness! Strange, unusual blood, When man’s worst sin is, he does too much good! Who, then, dares to be half so kind again? For bounty, that makes gods, does still mar men. My dearest lord, bless’d, to be most accursed, Rich, only to be wretched, thy great fortunes Are made thy chief afflictions. Alas, kind lord! He’s flung in rage from this ingrateful seat Of monstrous friends, nor has he with him to Supply his life, or that which can command it. I’ll follow and inquire him out: I’ll ever serve his mind with my best will; Whilst I have gold, I’ll be his steward still.
Oh, the terrible misery that glory brings us! Who wouldn’t want to be free from wealth, Since riches only lead to misery and contempt? Who would want to be mocked by glory? Or live In a false illusion of friendship? To have all the display and titles that come with power But only as a shallow decoration, like his fake friends? Poor, honest lord, brought down by his own heart, Ruined by his goodness! Strange, unnatural blood, When the worst sin a man can commit is doing too much good! Who, then, would dare to be so kind again? For generosity, which makes gods, still ruins men. My dearest lord, blessed, yet most cursed, Rich, only to be miserable, your great fortune Has become your greatest suffering. Alas, kind lord! He’s thrown in anger from this ungrateful seat Of monstrous friends, with nothing to his name To support his life, or command it. I’ll follow him and find him: I’ll always serve his mind with my best will; As long as I have gold, I’ll be his steward still.