As if you held a brow of much distraction:
[Are you] moved, my lord?
150
Leon. 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,