SIR SAMPSON, SCANDAL, FORESIGHT, MISS FORESIGHT, MRS FRAIL.
What says he? What, did he prophesy? Ha, Sir Sampson, bless
us! How are we?
SIR SAMPSON LEGEND
Are we? A pox o' your prognostication. Why, we are
fools as we use to be. Oons, that you could not foresee that the
moon would predominate, and my son be mad. Where's your
oppositions, your trines, and your quadrates? What did your Cardan
and your Ptolemy tell you? Your Messahalah and your Longomontanus,
your harmony of chiromancy with astrology. Ah! pox on't, that I
that know the world and men and manners, that don't believe a
syllable in the sky and stars, and sun and almanacs and trash,
should be directed by a dreamer, an omen-hunter, and defer business
in expectation of a lucky hour, when, body o' me, there never was a
lucky hour after the first opportunity.