You gods, reward them! Prithee, man, look cheerly. These old fellows Have their ingratitude in them hereditary. Their blood is caked, ’tis cold, it seldom flows; ’Tis lack of kindly warmth they are not kind; And nature, as it grows again toward earth, Is fashioned for the journey, dull and heavy. Go to Ventidius. Prithee, be not sad, Thou art true and honest, ingenuously I speak, No blame belongs to thee. Ventidius lately Buried his father, by whose death he’s stepped Into a great estate. When he was poor, Imprisoned and in scarcity of friends, I cleared him with five talents. Greet him from me, Bid him suppose some good necessity Touches his friend, which craves to be remembered With those five talents. That had, give’t these fellows To whom ’tis instant due. Ne’er speak, or think That Timon’s fortunes ’mong his friends can sink.

Timon Monologue from Timon of Athens

Rehearse Timon's monologue