Rich. It has the falling sickness, Albemarle,
And now lies low as earth.
Alb. Then set thy foot
Upon it that it rise no more.
Rich. 'Tis done.
Alb. What fools are they who think that dying men
Speak oracles to pivot action on,
When death's decay so blurs each fading sense
They know but darkly of the world about,
And of realities all plain to us