Pandolfo, Cricca.
Pan. Here's a strange man indeed, of skill profound!
How right he knew my business, 'fore he saw me!
And how thou scoff'st him, when we talk'd in private!
'Tis a brave instrument, his autocousticon.
Cri. In earnest, sir, I took him for a cheater;
As many, under name of cunning men,
With promise of astrology much abuse
The gaping vulgar, wronging that sacred skill,
That in the stars reads all our actions.
Pan. Are there no arches o'er our heads? Look, Cricca.
Cri. None but the arch of heaven, that cannot fall.
Pan. Is not that made of marble? I have read
A stone dropp'd from the moon;[271] and much I fear
The fit should take her now, and void another.
Cri. Fear nothing, sir; this charm'd mercurial cap
Shields from the fall of mountains: 'tis not a stone
Can check his art: walk boldly.
Pan. I do. Let's in.
[Exeunt.