[Exit.]

TIMON.
You do yourselves much wrong;
You bate too much of your own merits;
Here, my lord, a trifle of our love.

SECOND LORD.
With more than common thanks I will receive it.

THIRD LORD.
O! he's the very soul of bounty!

TIMON.
And now I remember, my lord, you gave
Good words the other day of a bay courser
I rode on: it is yours because you lik'd it.

THIRD LORD.
O! I beseech you, pardon me, my lord, in that.

TIMON.
You may take my word, my lord: I know no man
Can justly praise but what he does affect:
I weigh my friend's affection with mine own.
I'll tell you true; I'll call to you.

ALL LORDS.
O! none so welcome!