Tow'rd him as sire. How is't with you, old man,
Tow'rd him they call your son?--

KING.
Alas! Alas!

SEG.
Your sorrow, then?

KING.
Beholding what I do.

SEG.
Ay, but how know this sorrow that has grown
And moulded to this present shape of man,
As of your own creation?

KING.
Ev'n from birth.

SEG.
But from that hour to this, near, as I think,
Some twenty such renewals of the year
As trace themselves upon the barren rocks,
I never saw you, nor you me--unless,
Unless, indeed, through one of those dark masks
Through which a son might fail to recognize
The best of fathers.

KING.