Alon. Stand: who goes there?
Bel. Friends.
Alon. Friends! Who are you?
Bel. Noble Don Alonzo, such as are watching for your good.
Alon. Is it you, Sennor Inglis? Why all this noise and tumult? Where are my daughters and my niece? But, in the first place, though last named, how came you hither, sir?
Bel. I came hither—by astrology, sir.
Mask. My master's in; heavens send him good shipping with his lie, and all kind devils stand his friends!
Alon. How! by astrology, sir? Meaning, you came hither by art magic.
Bel. I say by pure astrology, sir; I foresaw by my art, a little after I had left you, that your niece and daughters would this night run a risque of being carried away from this very garden.
Alon. O the wonders of this speculation!