[_Exit _LEONORA.
_Rod_. This troubles me exceedingly.
_Man_. A note put privately into my hand
By Angelina's woman? She's my creature:
There's something in't; I'll read it to myself.--
[_Aside_.
_Rod_. Brother, what paper's that?
_Man_. Some begging verses,
Delivered me this morning on my wedding.
_Rod_. Pray, let me see them.
_Man_. I have many copies,
Please you to entertain yourself with these.
[_Gives him another paper_. MANUEL _reads_.
SIR,
_My lady feigns this sickness to delude you:
Her brother hates you still; and the plot is,
That he shall marry first your sister,
And then deny you his_.--
_Yours_, LEONORA.
POSTSCRIPT.
_Since I writ this, I have so wrought upon her,
(Who, of herself, is timorous enough)
That she believes her brother will betray her,
Or else be forced to give her up to you;
Therefore, unknown to him, she means to fly:
Come to the garden door at seven this evening,
And there you may surprise her; mean time, I
Will keep her ignorant of all things, that
Her fear may still increase_.
_Enter_ LEONORA _again_.
_Rod_. How now? How does your lady?
_Leon_. So ill, she cannot possibly wait on you.
_Man_. Kind heaven, give me her sickness!
_Rod_. Those are wishes:
What's to be done?
_Man_.
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