Scene XI.

Love for Love

by William Congreve

SIR SAMPSON, SCANDAL, FORESIGHT, MISS FORESIGHT, MRS FRAIL.

FORESIGHT
What says he? What, did he prophesy? Ha, Sir
Sampson, bless us! How are we?

SIR SAMPSON LEGEND
Are we? A pox o' your prognostication.
Why, we are fools as we use to be. Oons, that you could not foresee
that the moon would predominate, and my son be mad. Where's your
oppositions, your trines, and your quadrates? What did your Cardan
and your Ptolemy tell you? Your Messahalah and your Longomontanus,
your harmony of chiromancy with astrology. Ah! pox on't, that I that
know the world and men and manners, that don't believe a syllable in
the sky and stars, and sun and almanacs and trash, should be directed
by a dreamer, an omen-hunter, and defer business in expectation of a
lucky hour, when, body o' me, there never was a lucky hour after the
first opportunity.