POLIXENES.
How! my lord!
What cheer? How is't with you, best brother?

HERMIONE.
You look
As if you held a brow of much distraction:
Are you mov'd, my lord?

LEONTES.
No, in good earnest.--
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,
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,
Will you take eggs for money?

MAMILLIUS.
No, my lord, I'll fight.

LEONTES.
You will? Why, happy man be 's dole!--My brother,
Are you so fond of your young prince as we