Pronounces him a sovereign king, I feel
No setting of the current in my blood
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?