As now they are, and making practised smiles,
As in a [looking-glass], and then to sigh, as 'twere
The mort o' the deer; O, that is entertainment
My bosom likes not, nor my brows! [Mamillius],
Art thou my boy?
Mam. Ay, my good lord.
120
Leon. I' fecks!
Why, that's my bawcock. What, [hast] smutch'd thy nose?