Original: O, no doubt, my good friends, but the gods themselves have provided that I shall have much help from you: how had you been my friends else?

Modern: Oh, without a doubt, my good friends, the gods themselves have arranged that you will help me greatly—otherwise, how could you truly be my friends?

Original: why have you that charitable title from thousands, did not you chiefly belong to my heart?

Modern: Why would thousands of people call you generous if you didn’t truly belong close to my heart?

Original: I have told more of you to yourself than you can with modesty speak in your own behalf; and thus far I confirm you.

Modern: I have praised you more to myself than you could humbly say about yourselves, and I stand by everything I’ve said.

Original: O you gods, think I, what need we have any friends, if we should ne’er have need of ‘em?

Modern: Oh gods, I think to myself, what’s the point of having friends if we never actually need them?

Original: they were the most needless creatures living, should we ne’er have use for ‘em, and would most resemble sweet instruments hung up in cases that keep their sounds to themselves.

Modern: They would be completely useless beings if we never had use for them, like beautiful musical instruments locked away in cases that never get to make music.

Original: Why, I have often wished myself poorer, that I might come nearer to you.

Modern: I’ve often wished I was poorer so I could be closer to you as equals.

Original: We are born to do benefits: and what better or properer can we call our own than the riches of our friends?

Modern: We’re born to help each other, and what better wealth can we claim as our own than the generosity of our friends?

Original: O, what a precious comfort ‘tis, to have so many, like brothers, commanding one another’s fortunes!

Modern: Oh, what a wonderful comfort it is to have so many friends like brothers, all sharing each other’s wealth!

Original: O joy, e’en made away ere ‘t can be born!

Modern: Oh, this joy is so overwhelming it disappears before it can even fully form!

Original: Mine eyes cannot hold out water, methinks: to forget their faults, I drink to you.

Modern: I think my eyes can’t hold back tears—let me drink to you and forget any wrongs between us.

Act I, Scene ii of Timon of Athens takes place at a lavish banquet hosted by Timon in his home in Athens. Timon is surrounded by his many friends, flatterers, and guests, whom he entertains with extraordinary generosity. During the feast, a lord informs Timon that Ventidius, a friend whom Timon had recently freed from debtor’s prison by paying his debts, has sent Timon a gift of double the sum in gratitude now that Ventidius has inherited his father’s estate. Timon refuses to accept repayment, declaring that he gave the money freely as a friend and desires no return. Apemantus, a cynical and blunt philosopher, is also present at the banquet and refuses to participate in the festivities, instead offering sharp criticisms of Timon’s guests, whom he views as hollow flatterers and parasites feeding off of Timon’s wealth. Timon, undeterred by Apemantus’s sour commentary, continues to celebrate and shower his guests with gifts.

As the feast continues, a group of ladies disguised as Amazons arrives, sent by one of Timon’s lords as a form of entertainment, accompanied by music and dancing. Timon welcomes the entertainment warmly. Following the revelry, Timon proceeds to bestow lavish gifts upon his guests, including horses and jewels, dismissing any suggestion that his generosity is excessive. The loyal steward Flavius watches these proceedings with visible concern over Timon’s finances, though he is unable to restrain his master’s spending. The scene closes with Timon’s guests departing full of praise for their host, while Apemantus delivers a final cynical remark, and Flavius reflects with growing unease on the unsustainable nature of Timon’s boundless liberality.

Timon of Athens tells the story of a wealthy Athenian nobleman whose excessive generosity leads to his downfall. In the first half of the play, Timon lavishes gifts, throws extravagant banquets, and freely lends money to anyone who asks, despite warnings from his loyal steward Flavius about his dwindling finances. Timon dismisses these concerns, believing his generosity will be repaid by the loyalty of his many friends. However, his creditors eventually come calling, and Timon discovers he has no money left to pay his debts.

When Timon’s financial ruin becomes apparent, he sends servants to ask his former friends and beneficiaries for loans to help him through his crisis. One by one, they all refuse him with various excuses - Lucilius claims his money is tied up in investments, Lucullus pretends not to be home, and Sempronius feels insulted that Timon didn’t ask him first. Faced with this universal rejection, Timon invites all his false friends to one final feast, where he serves them warm water and stones, then curses them and banishes himself from Athens.

Timon retreats to a cave in the wilderness outside Athens, where he becomes a misanthropic hermit, railing against humanity and civilization. While digging for roots to eat, he discovers gold in the earth. Various visitors come to see him in his exile, including the loyal Flavius, the philosopher Apemantus (who had always criticized Timon’s generosity), thieves seeking the gold, and the exiled general Alcibiades who is marching against Athens. Timon gives away the gold freely but refuses all attempts at reconciliation or friendship. The play ends with news of Timon’s death reaching Athens, where Alcibiades has successfully taken the city and promises to restore order and justice.