You'll take it ill.

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 assur'd
That he's a made-up villain.

PAINTER.
I know not such, my lord.

POET.
Nor I.