Enter Edgar.
Pat! he comes, like the catastrophe of the old comedy: my cue is villainous melancholy, with a sigh like Tom o’Bedlam.—O, these eclipses do portend these divisions! Fa, sol, la, mi.
EDGAR.
How now, brother Edmund, what serious contemplation are you in?
EDMUND.
I am thinking, brother, of a prediction I read this other day, what should follow these eclipses.
EDGAR.
Do you busy yourself with that?
EDMUND.
I promise you, the effects he writes of succeed unhappily: as of unnaturalness between the child and the parent; death, dearth, dissolutions of ancient amities; divisions in state, menaces and maledictions against King and nobles; needless diffidences, banishment of friends, dissipation of cohorts, nuptial breaches, and I know not what.
EDGAR.
How long have you been a sectary astronomical?
EDMUND.
Come, come! when saw you my father last?
EDGAR.
The night gone by.
EDMUND.
Spake you with him?