Nurse. Speak softly, Sir; my master's turning blue.
He's not been sensible since last November.
Rig. Fun. (aside) Nor ever was, that I can e'er remember.
But we must talk before his course is run.
Moore. Who's that?—my sight grows dim—Is't Rigdum Fun?
Rig. Fun. The same, great Moore!
Moore. But, bless me! all in black!
What! mourn a living man! Alack! alack!
Rig. Fun. I wear prospective mourning, thus to shew
The solemn grandeur of prophetic woe.