Cri. 'Tis an ill time to marry.
The moon grows fork'd, and walks with Capricorn.
Pan. Peace, fool! these words are full of mysteries.
Alb. What ominous face and dismal countenance,
Mark'd for disasters, hated of all the heavens,
Is this that follows you?
Pan. He is my servant;
A plain and honest speaker, but no harm in him.
Cri. What see you in my face?
Alb. Horror and darkness, death and gallowses:
I'd swear thou'rt hang'd, stood'st thou but two foot higher;
But now thy stars threaten a nearer death.
Sir, send to toll his knell.
Pan. What, is he dead?
Alb. He shall be by the dint of many stabs;
Only I spy a little hope of 'scaping
Thorough the clouds and foul aspects of death.
Cri. Sir, pray give no credit to this cheater;
Or with his words of art he'll make you doat
As much on his feign'd skill, as on fair Flavia.