No, would I could, for then I'de never fear,
But when I found her Honour gone astray,
I'd send her Life to fetch mine back again.

_Enter _Cælia_._

_Cæl._ What's your Command, my Lord?

_Anto._ Prethee, my Dear, do not retire too much,
But shew a merry freedom to our Friends,
That they may think us happy, themselves welcome.

_Cæl._ My Lord, I shall, and reason have to do it;
But I desire you would dispence my absence,
Only a little time, I being preparing
A general Confession I shall make to Morrow.

_Anto._ You'l be too long about it.

_Cæl._ No, my Lord, I take the shortest way
In writing what my thoughts can re-collect.

_Ant._ You would not let me read it, when y'have done?

_Cæl._ I do confess I should be loath, my Lord.
But yet from any Sin concerns your self,
I am as free as are the purer Angels,
Or may I find no profit by my Prayers.

_Anto._ I will believe thee; go, make haste and do it.