BOTH.
Most thankfully, my lord.
TIMON.
Will you indeed?
BOTH.
Doubt it not, worthy lord.
TIMON.
There’s never a one of you but trusts a knave
That mightily deceives you.
BOTH.
Do we, my lord?
TIMON.
Ay, and you hear him cog, see him dissemble,
Know his gross patchery, love him, feed him,
Keep in your bosom, yet remain assured
That he’s a made-up villain.
PAINTER.
I know not such, my lord.
POET.
Nor I.
TIMON.
Look you, I love you well. I’ll give you gold.
Rid me these villains from your companies,
Hang them or stab them, drown them in a draught,
Confound them by some course, and come to me,
I’ll give you gold enough.
BOTH.
Name them, my lord, let’s know them.