Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Tim. You do your selues much wrong,
Tim. You bate too much of your owne merits.
Tim. Heere my Lord, a trifle of our Loue.
2. Lord. 2. Lord.
2. Lord. With more then common thankes
2. Lord. I will receyue it.
3. Lord. 3. Lord.
3. Lord. O he's the very soule of Bounty.
Tim. Tim.
Tim. And now I remember my Lord, you gaue good
Tim. words the other day of a Bay Courser I rod on. Tis yours
Tim. because you lik'd it.
1. L. 1. L.
1. L. Oh, I beseech you pardon mee, my Lord, in that.
Tim. You may take my word my Lord: I know no
Tim. man can iustly praise, but what he does affect. I weighe
Tim. my Friends affection with mine owne: Ile tell you true,
Tim. Ile call to you.
All Lor. All Lor.