_Leon._ I' fecks! 120 Why, that's my bawcock. What, hast smutch'd thy nose? They say it is a copy out of mine. Come, captain, We must be neat; not neat, but cleanly, captain: And yet the steer, the heifer and the calf Are all call'd neat.--Still virginalling 125 Upon his palm!--How now, you wanton calf! Art thou my calf?
_Leon._ Thou want'st a rough pash and the shoots that I have. To be full like me: yet they say we are Almost as like as eggs; women say so, 130 That will say any thing: but were they false As o'er-dyed blacks, as wind, as waters, false As dice are to be wish'd by one that fixes No bourn 'twixt his and mine, yet were it true To say this boy were like me. Come, sir page, 135 Look on me with your welkin eye: sweet villain! Most dear'st! my collop! Can thy dam?--may't be?-- Affection! thy intention stabs the centre: Thou dost make possible things not so held, Communicatest with dreams;--how can this be?-- 140 With what's unreal them coactive art, And fellow'st nothing: then 'tis very credent Thou mayst co-join with something; and thou dost, And that beyond commission, and I find it, And that to the infection of my brains 145 And hardening of my brows.
_Pol._ How, my lord! What cheer? how is't with you, best brother?
_Her._ You look As if you held a brow of much distraction: Are you moved, my lord?
_Leon._ No, in good earnest. 150 How sometimes nature will betray its folly, Its tenderness, and make itself a pastime To harder bosoms! Looking on the lines Of my boy's face, methoughts I did recoil Twenty-three years, and saw myself unbreech'd, 155 In my green velvet coat, my dagger muzzled, Lest it should bite its master, and so prove, As ornaments oft do, too dangerous: How like, methought, I then was to this kernel, This squash, this gentleman. Mine honest friend, 160 Will you take eggs for money?
_Leon._ You will! why, happy man be's dole! My brother, Are you so fond of your young prince, as we Do seem to be of ours?
_Pol._ If at home, sir, 165 He's all my exercise, my mirth, my matter: Now my sworn friend, and then mine enemy; My parasite, my soldier, statesman, all: He makes a July's day short as December; And with his varying childness cures in me 170 Thoughts that would thick my blood.