Pain. So, so, my lord. 80
Tim. E'en so, sir, as I say. And, for thy fiction,[2685]
Why, thy verse swells with stuff so fine and smooth
That thou art even natural in thine art.
But, for all this, my honest-natured friends,[2686]
I must needs say you have a little fault: 85
Marry, 'tis not monstrous in you; neither wish I[2687]
You take much pains to mend.
Both. Beseech your honour
To make it known to us.
Tim. You'll take it ill.
Both. Most thankfully, my lord.
Tim. Will you, indeed?
Both. Doubt it not, worthy lord. 90
Tim. There's never a one of you but trusts a knave[2688]
That mightily deceives you.
Both. Do we, my lord?
Tim. Ay, and you hear him cog, see him dissemble,[2689]
Know his gross patchery, love him, feed him,[2690]
Keep in your bosom: yet remain assured[2691] 95
That he's a made-up villain.