SIR SAMPSON, SCANDAL, FORESIGHT, MISS FORESIGHT, MRS. FRAIL.
FORE. What says he? What, did he prophesy? Ha, Sir Sampson, bless us!
How are we?
SIR SAMP. 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.