Pericles, Prince of Tyre. Уильям Шекспир

up with cold: my veins are chill,

      And have no more of life than may suffice

      To give my tongue that heat to ask your help;

      Which if you shall refuse, when I am dead,

      For that I am a man, pray see me buried.

      FIRST FISHERMAN. Die quoth-a? Now gods forbid! I have a gown here; come, put it on; keep thee warm. Now, afore me, a handsome fellow! Come, thou shalt go home, and we'll have flesh for holidays, fish for fasting-days, and moreo'er puddings and flap-jacks, and thou shalt be welcome.

PERICLES

      I thank you, sir.

SECOND FISHERMAN

      Hark you, my friend; you said you could not beg.