_Enter_ Amaranta, _with a note, and_ Moor.
_Amar_.
Is thy Master gone out?
_Moor_.
Even now, the Curate fetch'd him,
About a serious business as it seem'd,
For he snatch'd up his Cloak, and brush'd his Hat straight,
Set his Band handsomely, and out he gallop'd.
_Amar_.
'Tis well, 'tis very well, he went out, _Egla_,
As luckily, as one would say, go Husband,
He was call'd by providence: fling this short Paper
Into _Leandro's_ Cell, and waken him,
He is monstrous vexed, and musty, at my Chess-play;
But this shall supple him, when he has read it:
Take your own Recreation for two hours,
And hinder nothing.
_Moor_.
If I do, I'll hang for't.
[_Exeunt_.