All of Shakespeare’s plays.
Five thousand crowns, my lord.
Alas, my lord,-
Put in now, Titus.
Many do keep their chambers are not sick:
And, if it be so far beyond his health,
Methinks he should the sooner pay his debts,
And make a clear way to the gods.
Ay, but this answer will not serve.
Ha! is not that his steward muffled so?
He goes away in a cloud: call him, call him.
Flaminius! Sir, a word: pray, is my lord ready to
Five thousand mine.
Mark, how strange it shows,
Timon in this should pay more than he owes:
And e'en as if your lord should wear rich jewels,
And send for money for 'em.
Ay, but the days are wax'd shorter with him:
You must consider that a prodigal course
Is like the sun's; but not, like his, recoverable.
I fear 'tis deepest winter in Lord Timon's purse;
That is one may reach deep enough, and yet
Welcome, good brother.
What do you think the hour?
And Sir Philotus too!
Ay, and I think
One business does command us all; for mine Is money.
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