Nurse. 'Tis the Old Women,—pr'ythee, do not scare 'em,—
Who to the last have bought your Vox Stellarum;
They're sorely griev'd, and fear that you will die;
And then, alack-a-day! who'll read the sky?
Moore. Oh, ah!—yes—well,—just so—just so,
I see—I feel—I smell—I know—I know.
Nurse. Poor soul! he's going fast. Oh! shocking shock!
So kind a master.... Bless me! there's a knock!
Enter Rigdum Funnidos, in deep mourning.
Rig. Fun. "Ye black and midnight hags! what is't ye do?"