THE HONOURABLE history OF friar BACON, AND friar BONGAY.  
As it was lately played by the Prince Palatine his Servants.  
Made by Robert Greene, Master of Arts.  
 
LONDON, Printed by ELIZABETH ALLDE dwelling near Christ-Church. 1630.   

THE HONOURABLE HISTORY OF friar BACON.  Enter Edward the first, malcontented with Lacy Earl of Lincoln, john Warren Earl of Sussex, and Ermsby Gentleman: Raph Simnell the king's fool. lacy. 
WHY looks my Lord like to a troubled sky,  
When heavens bright shine, is shadowed with a fog:  
O'late we ran the deer and through the lands  
Stripped with our Nags the lofty frolic Bucks,  
That scudded fore the teasers like the wind,  
ne'er was the deer of merry Fressingfield,  
So lustily pulled down by jolly mates,  
Nor shared the Farmers such fat venison,  
So frankly dealt this hundred years before:  
Nor have I seen my Lord more frolic in the chase,  
And now changed to a melancholy dump.  Warren. 
After the Prince got to the keeper's lodge  
And had been jocund in the house a while:  
Tossing of Ale and milk in country cans,  
Whether it was the country's sweet content,  
Or else the bonny Damsel filled us drink  
That seemed so stately in her stammel red:  
Or that a qualm did cross his stomach then,  
But straight he fell into his passions.  Ermsby. 
Sirrah Raphe, what say you to your master,  
Shall he thus all amort live malcontent?  Raphe. 
Hearest thou Ned? nay look if he will speak to me.  Edward. 
What sayst thou to me, Fool?  Raphe. 
I pray thee tell me Ned, art thou in love with the keeper's daughter?  Edward. 
How if I be, what then?  Raphe. 
Why then sirrah, I'll teach thee how to deceive Love.  Edward. 
How Raphe.  Raphe. 
Marry sirrah Ned, thou shalt put on my cap, and my coat, and my dagger, and I will put on thy clothes, and thy sword, and so thou shalt be my fool.  Edward. 
And what of this?  Raphe. 
Why so thou shalt beguile Love, for Love is such a proud scab, that he will never meddle with fools nor children. Is not Ralph's counsel good, Ned.  Edward. 
Tell me Ned lacy, didst thou mark the maid,  
How lively in her country weeds she looked?  
A bonnier wench all Suffolk cannot yield,  
All Suffolk, nay all England holds none such.  Raphe. 
Sirrah, Will Ermsby, Ned is deceived.  Ermsby. 
Why Raphe?  Raphe. 
He says all England hath no such, and I say, and I'll stand to it, there is one better in Warwickshire.  Warren. 
How provest thou that Raphe?  Raphe. 
Why is the Abbot a learned man, and hath he read many books, and thinkest thou he hath not more learning than thou to choose a bonny wench, yes warrant I thee by his whole Grammar.  Ermsby. 
A good reason Raphe.  Edward. 
I tell thee lacy, that her sparkling eyes  
Do lighten forth sweet love's alluring fire:  
And in her tresses she doth fold the looks  
Of such a gaze upon her golden hair,  
Her bashful white mixed with the morning's red,  
Luna doth boast upon her lovely cheeks,  
Her front is beauty's table where's she paints  
The glories of her gorgeous excellence:  
Her teeth are shelves of precious Margarites,  
Richly enclosed with ruddy coral cleves.  
Tush lacy, she is beauties overmatch,  
If thou survey'st her curious imagery.  lacy. 
I grant (my Lord) the Damsel is as fair,  
As simple suffolk's homely towns can yield:  
But in the Court be quainter Dames than she,  
Whose faces are enriched with honour's taint,  
Whose beauties stand upon the stage of fame,  
And vaunt their trophies in the Court of Love.  Edw. 
Ah Ned, but hadst thou watched her as myself,  
And seen the secret beauties of the maid,  
Their courtly coyness were but foolery.  Ermsby. 
Why how watched you her my Lord?  Edward. 
whenas she swept like Venus through the house,  
And in her shape fast folded up my thoughts:  
Into the milkhouse went I with the maid,  
And there amongst the cream-bowls she did shine,  
As Pallas, 'mongst her Princely housewifry:  
She turned her smock over her lily arms,  
And dived them into milk to run her cheese:  
But whiter than the milk her crystal skin,  
Checked with lines of Azure made her blush,  
That Art or Nature durst bring for compare,  
Ermsby if thou hadst seen as I did note it well,  
How beauty played the housewife, how this girl  
Like Lucrece laid her fingers to the work,  
Thou wouldst with Tarquin hazard Rome and all  
To win the lovely maid of Fressingfield.  Raphe. 
Sirrah Ned, wouldst fain have her?  Edward. 
I Raphe.  Raphe, 
Why Ned I have laid the plot in my head, thou shalt have her already.  Edward. 
I'll give thee a new coat and learn me that.  Raphe. 
Why sirrah Ned, we'll ride to Oxford to friar Bacon, oh he is a brave scholar sirrah, they say he is a brave necromancer, that he can make women of devils, and he can juggle cats into Costermongers.  Edward. 
And how then Raphe?  Raphe. 
marry sirrah, thou shalt go to him, and because thy father Harry shall not miss thee, he shall turn me to thee; and I'll to the Court, and I'll Prince it out, and he shall make thee either a silken purse, full of gold, or else a fine wrought smock.  Edward. 
But how shall I have the maid?  Raphe. 
Marry sirrah, if thou be'st a silken purse full of gold, then on Sundays she'll hang thee by her side, and you must not say a word. Now sir when she comes into a great press of people, for fear of the Cutpurse on a sudden she'll swap thee into her plackets, then sirrah being there, you may plead for yourself.  Ermsby. 
Excellent policy.  Edward. 
But how if I be a wrought smock?  Raphe. 
Then she'll put thee into her chest and lay thee into Lavender, and upon some good day she'll put thee on, and at night when you go to bed, then being turned from a smock to a man, you may make up the match.  lacy. 
Wonderfully wisely counselled, Raphe.  Edward. 
Raphe shall have a new Coat.  Raphe. 
God thank you when I have it on my back, Ned.  Edward. 
lacy the fool hath laid a perfect plot,  
For why our Country Marg'ret is so coy,  
And stands so much upon her honest points,  
That marriage or no market with the maid:  
Ermsby, it must be necromantic spells,  
And charms of Art that must enchain her love,  
Or else shall Edward never win the girl,  
Therefore my wags we'll horse us in the morn,  
And post to Oxford to this jolly friar,  
Bacon shall by his magic do this deed.  Warren. 
Content my Lord, and that's a speedy way  
To wean these headstrong puppies from the teat.  Edward. 
I am unknown, not taken for the Prince,  
They only deem us frolic Courtiers,  
That revel thus among our Liege's game:  
Therefore I have devised a policy,  
lacy, thou know'st next Friday is St. james,  
And then the Country flocks to Harlston fair,  
Then will the keeper's daughter frolic there,  
And overshine the troop of all the maids,  
That come to see, and to be seen that day.  
Haunt thee disguised among the Country swains,  
Fain thouart a farmer's son, not far from thence,  
Espy her loves, and who she liketh best:  
Coat him, and court her to control the clown,  
Say that the Courtier 'tired all in green,  
That helped her handsomely to run her cheese,  
And filled her father's lodge with venison,  
Commends him, and sends fairings to herself,  
Buy something worthy of her parentage,  
Not worth her beauty, for lacy, than the Fair  
Affords no jewel fitting for the maid:  
And when thou talkest of me, note if she blush,  
Oh then she loves, but if her cheeks wax pale,  
Disdain it is. lacy, send how she fares,  
And spare no time nor cost to win her loves.  lacy. 
I will, my Lord, so execute this charge,  
As if that lacy were in love with her.  Edward. 
Send letters speedily to Oxford of the news.  Raphe. 
And sirrah lacy, buy me a thousand thousand million of fine bells.  lacy. 
What wilt thou do with them, Raphe?  Raphe. 
marry every time that Ned sighs for the keeper's daughter, I'll tie a bell about him, so within three or four days I will send word to his father Harry, that his son and my master Ned is become Loves Morris dance.  Edward. 
Well, lacy, look with care unto thy charge,  
And I will haste to Oxford to the friar,  
That he by Art, and thou by secret gifts,  
mayst make me Lord of merry Fressingfield.  lacy. 
God send your Honour your hearts desire.  Exeunt. Enter friar Bacon, with Miles his poor scholar with books under his arm, with them Burden, Mason, Clement, three Doctors. Bacon. 
Miles, where are you?  Miles. 
Hic sum doctissime & reverendissime Doctor.  Bacon. 
Attulisti nos libros meos de Necromantia.  Miles. 
Ecce quam bonum & quam incundum habitare libros in vnum.  Bacon. 
Now Masters of our Academic State,  
That rule in Oxford Viceroys in your place,  
Whose heads contain Maps of the liberal Arts,  
Spending your time in depth of learned skill,  
Why flock you thus to Bacon's secret Cell,  
A friar newly stalled in Brazen-nose,  
Say what's your mind, that I may make reply.  Burden. 
Bacon, we hear, that long we have suspect,  
That thou art read in magic's mystery,  
In Pyromancy, to divine by flames,  
To tell by hydromantic, ebbs and tides,  
By Aeromancy, to discover doubts,  
To plain out questions, as Apollo did.  Bacon. 
Well Master Burden, what of all this?  Miles. 
marry sir, he doth but fulfil by rehearsing of these names, the Fable of the Fox & the Grapes, that which is above us, pertains nothing to us.  Burden. 
I tell thee Bacon, Oxford makes report,  
Nay England, and the Court of Henry says,  
Thart making of a brazen head by Art,  
Which shall unfold strange doubts and Aphorisms,  
And read a Lecture in Philosophy,  
And by the help of Devils and ghastly fiends,  
Thou meanst ere many years or days be passed,  
To compass England with a wall of brass.  Bacon. 
And what of this?  Miles. 
What of this, Master? why he doth speak mystically, for he knows if your skill fail to make a brazen head, yet Mother Waters' strong Ale will fit his turn to make him have a copper nose.  Clement. 
Bacon, we come not grieving at thy skill,  
But joying that our Academy yields  
A man supposed the wonder of the world,  
For if thy cunning work these miracles,  
England and Europe shall admire thy fame,  
And Oxford shall in characters of brass,  
And statues, such as were built up in Rome,  
Eternize friar Bacon for his Art.  Mason. 
Then gentle friar, tell us thy intent.  Bacon. 
Seeing you come as friends unto the friar,  
Resolve you Doctors, Bacon can by books,  
Make storming Boreas thunder from his cave,  
And dim fair Luna to a dark Eclipse,  
The great Arch-ruler, potentate of hell,  
Trembles, when Bacon bids him, or his fiends,  
Bow to the force of his Pentageron.  
What Art can work, the frolic friar knows,  
And therefore will I turn my Magic books,  
And strain out Necromancy to the deep,  
I have contrived and framed a head of brass,  
(I made Belcephon hammer out the stuff)  
And that by Art shall read Philosophy,  
And I will strengthen England by my skill,  
That if ten Caesars lived and reigned in Rome.  
With all the Legions Europe doth contain,  
They should not touch a grass of English ground,  
The work that Ninus reared at Babylon,  
The brazen walls framed by Semiramis,  
Carved out like to the portal of the Sun,  
Shall not be such as rings the English strand:  
From Dover to the market place of Rye.  Burden. 
Is this possible?  Miles. 
I'll bring ye two or three witnesses.  Burden. 
What be those?  Miles. 
Marry sir, three or four as honest Devils, and good companions as any be in hell.  Mason. 
No doubt but Magic may do much in this,  
For he that reads but Mathematic rules,  
Shall find conclusions, that avail to work  
Wonders that pass the common sense of men.  Burden. 
But Bacon roves a bow beyond his reach,  
And tells of more than Magic can perform:  
Thinking to get a fame by fooleries,  
Have I not passed as far in state of schools,  
And read of many secrets? yet to think.  
That heads of brass can utter any voice,  
Or more to tell of deep Philosophy,  
This is a Fable Aesop had forgot.  Bacon. 
Burden, thou wrong'st me in detracting thus,  
Bacon loves not to stuff himself with lies:  
But tell me fore these Doctors if thou dare,  
Of certain questions I shall move to thee.  Burden. 
I will, ask what thou can.  Miles. 
marry sir, he'll straight be on your pick pack to know whether the feminine or the masculine gender be most worthy.  Bacon. 
Were you not yesterday Master Burden at Henley upon Thames?  Burden. 
I was, what then?  Bacon 
What book studied you thereon all night?  Burden. 
ay, none at all, I read not there a line.  Bacon. 
Then Doctors, friar bacon's Art knows nought.  Clement. 
What say you to this, Master Burden, doth he not touch you?  Burden. 
I pass not of his frivolous speeches.  Miles. 
Nay Master Burden, my master ere he hath done with you, will turn you from a Doctor to a dunce, and shake you so small, that he will leave you no more learning in you then is in balam's Ass.  Bacon. 
Masters, for that learned Burdens skill is deep,  
And sore he doubts of Bacon's Cabalism:  
I'll show you why he haunts to Henley oft,  
Not Doctors for to taste the fragrant air:  
But there to spend the night in Alchemy,  
To multiply with secret spells of Art.  
Thus private steals he learning from us all,  
To prove my saying true, I'll show you straight,  
The book he keeps at Henley for himself.  Miles. 
Nay, now my master goes to conjuration, take heed.  Bacon. 
Masters, stand still, fear not, I'll show you but his book.  Here he conjures. 
Per omnes deos infernales Belcephon.  Enter a woman with a shoulder of mutton on a spit, and a Devid. Miles. 
Oh master cease your conjuration, or you spoil all, for her's a she devil come with a shoulder of mutton on a spit, you have marred the devil's supper, but no doubt he thinks our College fare is slender, and so hath sent you his cook with a shoulder of mutton to make it exceed.  Hostess. 
Oh where am I, or what's become of me?  Bacon. 
What art thou?  Hostess. 
Hostess at Henley, mistress of the Bell.  Bacon. 
How camest thou here?  Hostess. 
As I was in the kitchen 'mongst the maids,  
Spitting the meat against supper for my guests:  
A motion moved me to look forth of door,  
No sooner had I pried into the yard.  
But straight a whirlwind hoist me from thence,  
And mounted me aloft unto the clouds:  
As in a trance I thought nor feared nought,  
Nor know I where or whither I was ta'en:  
Nor where I am, nor what these persons be.  Bacon. 
No, know you not master Burden?  Hostess. 
Oh yes good sir, he is my daily guest.  
What, master Burden, 'twas but yesternight,  
That you and I at Henley played at cards.  Burden. 
I know not what we did, a pox of all conjuring Friars.  Clement. 
Now jolly friar tell us, is this the book that Burden is so careful to look on?  Bacon. 
It is, but Burden, tell me now,  
Thinkest thou that Bacon's necromantic skill  
Cannot perform his head and wall of brass,  
When he can fetch thine hostess in such post?  Miles. 
I'll warrant you, Master, if Master Burden could conjure as well as you, he would have his book every night from Henley to study on at Oxford.  Mason. 
Burden, what are you mated by this frolic friar?  
Look how he droops, his guilty conscience  
Drives him to bash and makes his hostess blush.  Bacon. 
Well Mistress for I will not have you missed,  
You shall to Henley to cheer up your guests  
Fore supper 'gin. Burden, bid her adieu,  
Say farewell to your hostess 'fore she goes,  
Sirrah away, and set her safe at home.  Hostess. 
Master Burden, when shall we see you at Henley?  Exeunt Hostess and the Devil. Burden. 
The Devil take thee and Henley too.  Miles. 
Master, shall I make a good motion?  Bacon. 
What's that?  Miles. 
marry sir, now that my hostess is gone to provide supper, conjure another spirit, and send Doctor Burden flying after.  Bacon. 
Thus Rulers of our Academic State,  
You have seen the friar frame his Art by proof:  
And as the College called Brazen-nose,  
Is under him, and he the Master there:  
So surely shall this head of brass be framed,  
And yield forth strange and uncouth Aphorisms:  
And Hell and Hecate shall fail the friar,  
But I will circle England round with brass.  Miles. 
So be it, & nunc & semper, Amen.  Exeunt omnes. Enter Margaret the fair maid of Fressingfield, with Thomas and jone, and other clowns: lacy disguised in Country apparel. Thomas. 
By my troth, Marg'ret, here's a weather is able to make a man call his father whoreson, if this wether hold, we shall have hay good chape, and butter and cheese at Harlston will bear no price.  Marg'ret. 
Thomas, maids when they come to see the fair  
Count not to make a cope for dearth of hay,  
When we have turned our butter to the salt,  
And set our cheese upon the racks.  
Then let our father's prize it as they please,  
We Country sluts of merry Fressingfield,  
Come to buy needless naughts to make us fine,  
And look that young men should be frank this day,  
And court us with such fairings as they can.  
Phoebus is blithe and, frolic, looks from heaven,  
As when he courted lovely Semele:  
Swearing the Pedlars shall have empty packs,  
If that fair weather may make chapmen buy.  lacy. 
But lovely Peggy Semele is dead,  
And therefore Phoebus from his Palace pries,  
And seeing such a sweet and seemly saint,  
Shows all his glory for to court yourself.  Marg'ret. 
This is a fairing gentle sir indeed,  
To soothe me up with such smooth flattery,  
But learn of me, your scoff's too broad before:  
Well Joan, our beauties must abide their jests,  
We serve the turn in jolly Fressingfield.  Ione. 
Marg'ret, a farmer's daughter for a farmer's son,  
I warrant you the meanest of us both,  
Shall have a mate to lead us from the Church:  
But Thomas, what's the news? what in a dump?  
Give me your hand, we are near a pedlar's shop,  
Out with your purse, we must have fairings now.  Thomas. 
Faith Joan and shall, I'll bestow a fairing on you, and then we will to the Tavern, and snap off a pint of wine or two.  All this while lacy whispers Marg'ret in the ear. Marg'ret. 
Whence are you sir, of Suffolk? for your terms are finer than the common sort of men.  Lacy. 
Faith lovely girl, I am of Beccles by,  
Your neighbour not above six miles from hence,  
A farmer's son that never was so quaint,  
But that he could do courtesy to such Dames:  
But trust me Marg'ret I am sent in charge,  
From him that revelled in your father's house,  
And filled his Lodge with cheer and venison,  
'tired in green, he sent you this rich purse:  
His token that he helped you run your cheese,  
And in the milkhouse chatted with yourself.  Marg'ret. 
To me? you forget yourself.  Lacy. 
Women are often weak in memory.  Marg'ret. 
Oh pardon sir, I call to mind the man,  
'twere little manners to refuse his gift,  
And yet I hope he sends it not for love:  
For we have little leisure to debate of that.  Ione. 
What, Marg'ret, blush not, maids must have their loves.  Thomas. 
Nay by the mass she looks pale as if she were angry.  Richard. 
Sirrah are you of Beccles? I pray how doth goodman Cob? my father bought a horse of him, I'll tell you Marg'ret, 'a were good to be a Gentleman's jade, for of all things the foul hilding could not abide a dung-cart.  Marg'ret. 
How different is this Farmer from the rest,  
That erst as yet hath pleased my wandering sight  
His words are witty, quickened with a smile,  
His courtesy gentle, smelling of the Court,  
facile and debonair in all his deeds,  
Proportioned as was Paris, when in grey,  
He courted Oenon in the vale by Troy.  
Great Lords have come and pleaded for my love,  
Who but the keeper's Lass of Fressingfield?  
And yet methinks this farmer's jolly son,  
Passeth the proudest that hath pleased mine eye.  
But Peg disclose not that thou art in love,  
And show as yet no sign of love to him,  
Although thou well wouldst wish him for thy love:  
Keep that to thee till time doth serve thy turn,  
To show the grief wherein they heart doth burn.  
Come Joan and Thomas, shall we to the Fair,  
You Beccles man will not forsake us now.  Lacy. 
Not whilst I may have such quaint girls as you.  Marg'ret. 
Well if you chance to come by Fressingfield,  
Make but a step into the keeper's Lodge,  
And such poor fare as Woodmen can afford,  
Butter and cheese, cream, and fat venison,  
You shall have store, and welcome therewithal.  Lacy. 
Gramarcy's peggy, look for me ere long.  Exeunt omnes. Enter Henry the third, the Emperor, the King of Castile, Eleanor his daughter, jaques Vandermast a German. Henry. 
Great men of Europe, Monarchs of the West,  
Ringed with the walls of old Oceanus,  
Whose lofty surges like the battlements,  
That compassed high built Babel in with Towers,  
Welcome my Lords, welcome brave western Kings,  
To England's shore, whose promontory cliffs,  
Shows Albion is another little world,  
Welcome says English Henry to you all,  
Chiefly unto the lovely Eleanor,  
Who dared for Edward's sake cut through the seas,  
And venture as Agenor's Damsel through the deep,  
To get the love of Henry's wanton son.  Castile. 
England's rich Monarch brave Plantagenet,  
The Pyren mounts swelling above the clouds,  
That ward the wealthy Castile in with walls,  
Could not detain the beauteous Eleanor,  
But hearing of the same of Edward's youth,  
She dared to brook Neptunus' haughty pride,  
And bide the brunt of froward Aeolus,  
Then may fair England welcome her the more.  Eleanor. 
After that English Henry by his Lords,  
Had sent Prince Edward's lovely counterfeit,  
A present to the Castile Eleanor,  
The comely portrait of so brave a man,  
The virtuous fame discoursed of his deeds,  
Edward's courageous resolution,  
Done at the holy Land fore Damas' walls,  
Led both mine eye and thoughts in equal links,  
To like so of the English monarch's son,  
That I attempted perils for his sake.  Emperor. 
Where is the Prince, my Lord?  henry. 
He posted down, not long since from the Court,  
To Suffolk side, to merry Framingham,  
To sport himself amongst my fallow deer,  
From thence by packets sent to Hampton house,  
We hear the Prince is ridden with his Lords,  
To Oxford in the Academy there,  
To hear dispute amongst the learned men:  
But we will send forth letters for my son,  
To will him come from Oxford to the Court.  Emp. 
Nay rather Henry, let us as we be,  
Ride for to visit Oxford with our train,  
Fain would I see your Universities,  
And what learned men your Academy yields,  
From Hapsburg have I brought a learned Clerk,  
To hold dispute with English Orators.  
This Doctor surnamed jaques Vandermast,  
A German borne, passed into Padua,  
To Florence, and to fair Bolonia,  
To Paris, Rheims, and stately Orleans,  
And talking there with men of Art, put down  
The chiefest of them all in Aphorisms,  
In Magic, and the Mathematic rules,  
Now let us Henry try him in your Schools.  Henry. 
He shall my Lord, this motion likes me well,  
we'll progress straight to Oxford with our trains,  
And see what men our Academy brings.  
And wonder Vandermast welcome to me,  
In Oxford shalt thou find a jolly friar,  
Called friar Bacon, England's only flower,  
Set him but Nonplus in his magic spells,  
And make him yield in Mathematic rules,  
And for thy glory I will bind thy brows,  
Not with a poet's Garland made of bays,  
But with a Coronet of choicest gold,  
Whilst then we fir to Oxford with our troops,  
let's in and banquet in our English Court.  Exit. Enter Raphe Simnell in Edward's apparel, Edward, Warren, Ermsby, disguised. Raphe. 
Where be these vagabond knaves, that they attend no better on their master?  Edward. 
If it please your Honour, we are ready at an inch.  Raphe. 
Sirrah Ned, I'll have no more post-horse to ride on,  
I'll have another fetch.  Ermsby. 
I pray you how is that, my Lord?  Raphe. 
marry sir, I'll send to the isle of Eely for four or five dozen of Geese, and I'll have them tide six and six together with whipcord. Now upon their backs will I have a fair field bed, with a Canopy, and so when it is my pleasure, I'll flee into what place I please; this will be easy.  Warren. 
Your honour hath said well, but shall we to Brazen-nose College before we pull off our boots.  Ermsby. 
Warren, well motioned, we will to the friar  
Before we revel it within the town.  
Raphe, see you keep your countenance like a Prince.  Raphe. 
Wherefore have I such a company of cutting knaves to wait upon me, but to keep & defend my countenance against all mine enemies? have you not good swords and bucklers?  Enter Bacon and Miles. Ermsby. 
Stay, who comes here?  Warren. 
Some Scholar, and we'll ask him where friar Bacon is.  Bacon. 
Why thou arrant dunce, shall I never make thee good scholar, doth not all the Town cry out, and say, friar bacon's subsizar is the greatest blockhead in all Oxford? why thou canst not speak one word of true Latin.  Miles. 
No sir, yes what is this else; Ego sum tuus homo, I am your man, I warrant you sir, as good Tully's phrase as any is in Oxford.  Bacon. 
Come sirrah, what part of speech is Ego.  Miles. 
Ego, that is I, marry nomen substantivo.  Bacon. 
How prove you that?  Miles. 
Why sir, let him prove himself and 'a will, I can be heard felt and understood.  Bacon. 
Oh gross dunce.  Here beat him. Edward. 
Come let us break off this dispute between these two. Sirrah, where is Brazen-nose College?  Miles. 
Not far from Coppersmiths' hall.  Edward. 
What dost thou mock me?  Miles. 
Nor I sir, but what would you at Brazen-nose?  Ermsby. 
marry we would speak with friar Bacon.  Miles. 
Whose men be you?  Ermsby. 
marry scholar, here's our master.  Raphe. 
Sirrah, I am the master of these good-fellows, mayst thou not know me to be a Lord by my reparel?  Miles. 
Then here's good game for the hawk, for here's the master fool, and a covey of Coxcombs, one wise man I think would spring you all.  Edward. 
gog's wounds Warren kill him.  Warren. 
Why Ned, I think the devil be in my sheath, I cannot get out my dagger.  Ermsby. 
Nor I mine, 'swounds Ned, I think I am bewitched.  Miles. 
A company of Scabs, the proudest of you all draw your weapon if he can.  
See how boldly I speak now my master is by.  Edward. 
I strive in vain, but if my sword be shut,  
And conjured fast by magic in my sheath,  
Villain here is my fist.  Strike him a box on the ear. Miles. 
Oh I beseech you conjure his hand too, that he may not lift his arms to his head, for he is light-fingered.  Raphe. 
Ned strike him, I'll warrant thee by mine honour.  Bacon. 
What means the English Prince to wrong my man?  Edward. 
To whom speakest thou?  Bacon. 
To thee.  Edward. 
Who art thou?  Bacon. 
Could you not judge when all your swords grew fast,  
That friar Bacon was not far from hence,  
Edward King Henry's son, and Prince of Wales,  
Thy fool disguised cannot conceal thyself,  
I know both Ermsby and the Sussex Earl,  
Else friar Bacon had but little skill.  
Thou comest in post from merry Fressingfield,  
Fast fancied to the keeper's bonny Lass,  
To crave some succour of the jolly friar,  
And Lacy Earl of Lincoln hast thou left,  
To 'treat fair Marg'ret to allow thy loves:  
But friends are men, and Love can baffle Lords.  
The Earl both woos and courts her for himself.  Warren. 
Ned, this is strange, the friar knoweth all.  Ermsby. 
Apollo could not utter more than this.  Edward. 
I stand amazed to hear this jolly friar,  
Tell even the very secrets of my thoughts:  
But learned Bacon since thou knowest the cause,  
Why I did post so fast from Fressingfield,  
Help friar at a pinch, that I may have  
The love of lovely Marg'ret to myself,  
And as I am true Prince of Wales, I'll give  
Living and lands to strength thy College state.  Warren. 
Good friar help the Prince in this.  Raphe. 
Why servant Ned, will not the friar do it? Were not my sword glued to my scabbard by conjuration, I would cut off his head and make him do it by force.  Miles. 
In faith my Lord, your manhood and your sword is all alike, they are so fast conjured that we shall never see them.  Ermsby. 
What Doctor in a dump? tush help the Prince,  
And thou shalt see how liberal he will prove,  Bacon. 
Crave not such actions, greater dumps than these,  
I will my Lord strain out my magic spells,  
For this day comes the Earl of Fressingfield;  
And fore that night shuts in the day with dark,  
They'll be betrothed each to other fast:  
But come with me, we'll to my study straight,  
And in a glass prospective I will show  
What's done this day in merry Fressingfield.  Edward. 
Gramercies Bacon, I will 'quite thy pain.  Bacon. 
But send your train, my Lord, into the Town,  
My scholar shall go bring them to their Inn:  
meanwhile we'll see the knavery of the Earl.  Edward. 
Warren, leave me and Ermsby, take the fool,  
Let him be master, and go revel it,  
Till I and friar Bacon talk a while.  Warren. 
We will, my Lord.  Raphe. 
Faith Ned, and I'll Lord it out till thou comest, I'll be Prince of Wales over all the black pots in Oxford.  Exeunt. Bacon and Edward goes into the study. Bacon. 
Now frolic Edward, welcome to my Cell,  
Here tempers friar Bacon many toys:  
And holds this place his Consistory Court,  
Wherein the devils plead homage to his words,  
Within this glass prospective thou shalt see  
This day what's done in merry Fressingfield,  
twixt lovely peggy and the Lincoln Earl.  Edward. 
friar, thou gladst me, now shall Edward try,  
How Lacy meaneth to his Sovereign Lord.  Bacon. 
Stand there and look directly in the glass.  Enter Marg'ret and Fryer Bungay. Bacon. 
What sees my Lord?  Edward. 
I see the keeper's lovely lass appear,  
As bright-sun as the Paramour of Mars,  
Only attended by a jolly friar.  Bacon. 
Sit still and keep the crystal in your eye.  Marg'ret. 
But tell me friar Bungay, is it true,  
That this fair courteous Country Swain,  
Who says his father is a Farmer nigh,  
Can be Lord Lacy Earl of Lincolnshire.  Bungay. 
peggy 'tis true, 'tis Lacy for my life:  
Or else mine Art and cunning both do fail,  
Left by Prince Edward to procure his loves:  
For he in green that holp to run your cheese,  
Is son to Henry, and the Prince of Wales.  Marg'ret. 
Be what he will, his lure is but for lust.  
But did Lord lacy like poor Marg'ret,  
Or would he deign to wed a Country Lass?  
friar, I would his humble handmaid be,  
And for great wealth, 'quite him with courtesy.  Bungay. 
Why Marg'ret dost love him?  Marg'ret. 
His personage like the pride of vaunting Troy,  
Might well avouch to shadow Helen's scape:  
His wit is quick and ready in conceit,  
As Greece afforded in her chiefest prime  
Courteous, ah friar full of pleasing smiles,  
Trust me I love too much; to tell thee more,  
Suffice to me he is England's Paramour.  Bungay. 
Hath not each eye that viewed thy pleasing face,  
Surnamed thee fair maid of Fressingfield?  Marg'ret 
Yes Bungay, and would God the lovely Earl  
Had that in esse, that so many sought.  Bungay. 
Fear not, the friar will not be behind,  
To show his cunning to entangle Love.  Edward. 
I think the friar courts the bonny wench,  
Bacon, methinks he is a lusty churl.  Bacon. 
Now look, my Lord.  Enter Lacy. Edward's. 
gog's wounds Bacon, here comes Lacy.  Bacon. 
Sit still my Lord, and mark the Comedy.  Bungay. 
Here's Lacy, Marg'ret, step aside a while.  Lacy. 
Daphne the Damsel, that caught Phoebus fast,  
And locked him in the brightness of her looks,  
Was not so beauteous in Apollo's eyes,  
As is fair Marg'ret to the Lincoln Earl,  
Recant thee: Lacy, thou art put in trust,  
Edward thy sovereign's son hath chosen thee  
A secret friend to court her for himself:  
And darest thou wrong thy Prince with treachery?  
Lacy, Love makes no exception of a friend,  
Nor deems it of a Prince, but as a man:  
Honour bids me control him in his lust,  
His wooing is not for to wed the girl,  
But to entrap her and beguile the lass:  
Lacy, thou lovest, then brook not such abuse,  
But wed her, and abide thy PRINCE's frown:  
For die, then see her live disgraced.  Marg'ret. 
Come, friar, I will shake him from his dumps,  
How cheer you sir, a penny for your thought:  
you're early up, pray God it be the near',  
what are come from Beccles in a morn so soon?  Lacy. 
Thus watchful are such men as live in love,  
Whose eyes brook broken slumbers for their sleep.  
I tell thee, peggy, since last Harlston fair,  
My mind hath felt a heap of passions.  Marg'ret. 
A trusty man that court it for your friend,  
Woo you still for the Courtier all in green?  
I marvel that he sues not for himself.  Lacy. 
peggy, I pleaded first to get your grace for him:  
But when mine eyes surveyed your beauteous looks,  
Love like a wag, straight dived into my heart,  
And there did shrine the Idea of yourself:  
Pity me though I be a farmer's son,  
And measure not my riches, but my love.  Marg'ret. 
You are very hasty for to garden well,  
Seeds must have time to sprout before they spring,  
Love ought to creep as doth the dial's shade,  
For timely ripe, is rotten too too soon.  Bungay. 
Deus hic, room for a merry friar,  
What, youth of Beccles, with the keeper's Lass?  
'Tis well, but tell me hear you any news,  Marg'ret. 
No, friar, what news.  Bungay. 
Hear you not how the Pursuivants do post,  
With Proclamations through each Country town?  Lacy. 
For what, gentle friar? tell the news.  Bungay. 
Dwellest thou in Beccles, & hear'st not these news?  
Lacy the Earl of Lincoln is late fled  
From Windsor Court, disguised like a Swain,  
And lurks about the Country here unknown.  
Henry suspects him of some treachery,  
And therefore doth proclaim in every way,  
That who can take the Lincoln Earl, shall have  
Paid in the Exchequer twenty thousand Crowns.  Lacy. 
The Earl of Lincoln? friar, thou art mad,  
It was some other, thou mistakest the man:  
The Earl of Lincoln? why it cannot be.  Marg'ret. 
Yes, very well my Lord, for you are he,  
The keeper's daughter took you prisoner,  
Lord Lacy yield, I'll be your jailor once.  Edward. 
How familiar they be, Bacon.  Bacon. 
Sit still, and mark the sequel of their loves.  lacy. 
Then am I double prisoner to thyself,  
peggy, I yield, but are these news in jest?  Marg'ret. 
In jest with you, but earnest unto me:  
For why, these wrongs do wring me at the heart,  
Ah how these Earls and Noblemen of birth,  
Flatter and feign to forge poor women's ill!  lacy. 
Believe me, Lass, I am the Lincoln Earl,  
I not deny, but 'tired thus in rags,  
I lived disguised to win fair Peggy's love.  Marg'ret. 
What love is there where wedding ends not love?  lacy. 
I meant, fair girl, to make thee Lacy's wife.  Marg'ret. 
I little think that Earls will stoop so low.  lacy. 
Say, shall I make thee Countess ere I sleep?  Marg'ret. 
Handmaid unto the Earl so please himself:  
A wife in name, but servant in obedience.  lacy. 
The Lincoln Countess, for it shall be so,  
I'll plight the bands and seal it with a kiss.  Edward. 
gog's wounds, Bacon, they kiss, I'll stab them.  Bacon. 
Oh hold your hands (my Lord) it is the glass.  Edward. 
choler to see the traitors 'gree so well,  
Made me think the shadows substances.  Bacon. 
'Twere a long poniard, my Lord, to reach between  
Oxford and Fressingfield, but sit still and see more.  Bungay. 
Well, Lord of Lincoln, if your loves be knit,  
And that your tongues and thoughts do both agree:  
To avoid ensuing jars, I'll hamper up the match,  
I'll take my Portace forth, and wed you here,  
Then go to bed and seal up your desires.  lacy. 
friar, content, peggy how like you this?  Marg'ret. 
What likes my Lord, is pleasing unto me.  Bungay. 
Then handfast hand, and I will to my book.  Bacon. 
What sees my Lord now?  Edward. 
Bacon, I see the lovers hand in hand,  
The friar ready with his Portace there,  
To wed them both, then am I quite undone,  
Bacon, help now, if e'er thy magic served,  
Bacon, help now, if e'er thy magic served,  
Help, Bacon, stop the marriage now,  
If Devils or Necromancy may suffice,  
And I will give thee forty thousand Crowns.  Bacon. 
Fear not, my Lord, I'll stop the jolly Friar,  
For mumbling up his orisons this day.  Lacy. 
Why speak'st not Bungay? friar, to thy book.  Bungay is mute, crying, Hud, hud. Marg'ret. 
How lookest thou, friar, as a man distraught,  
Reft of thy senses, Bungay? show by signs  
If thou be dumb, what passion holdeth thee.  Lacy. 
He's dumb indeed: Bacon hath with his devils  
Enchanted him, or else some strange disease,  
Or Apoplexy hath possessed his lungs:  
But, peggy, what he cannot with his book,  
We'll 'twixt us both unite it up in heart.  Marg'ret. 
Else let me die (my Lord) a miscreant.  Edward. 
Why stands friar Bacon so amazed?  Bacon. 
I have struck him dumb, my Lord, & if your honour please:  
I'll fetch this Bungay straightway from Fressingfield,  
And he shall dine with us is Oxford here.  Edward. 
Bacon, do that, and thou contentest me.  Lacy. 
Of courtesy, Marg'ret, let us lead the Friar  
Unto thy father's lodge, to comfort him  
With broths to bring him from this hapless trance.  Marg'ret. 
Or else my Lord, we were passing unkind  
To leave the Friar so in his distress.  Enter a Devil, and carry Bungay on his back. Marg'ret. 
O help, my Lord, a Devil, a Devil, my Lord,  
Look how he carries Bungay on his back:  
Let's hence, for Bacon's spirits be abroad.  Exeunt. Edward. 
Bacon, I laugh to see the jolly friar  
Mounted upon the Devil, and how the Earl  
Flees with his bonny lass for fear.  
as soon as Bungay is at Brazen-nose,  
I will in post hie me to Fressingfield,  
And 'quite these wrongs on Lacy ere it be long.  Bacon. 
So be it, my Lord, but let us to our dinner:  
For ere we have taken our repast awhile,  
We shall have Bungay brought to Brazen-nose.  Exeunt. Enter three Doctors, Burden, Mason, Clement. Mason. 
Now that we are gathered in the Regent house,  
It fits us talk about the king's repair,  
For he trooped with all the Western Kings,  
That lie alongst the Danzig Seas by East,  
North by the clime of frosty Germany,  
The Almain Monarch, and the Saxon Duke,  
Castile, and lovely Eleanor, with him,  
Have in their jests resolved for Oxford Town.  Burden. 
We must lay plots for stately Tragedies,  
Strange Comic shows, such as proud Roscius  
Vaunted before the Roman Emperors.  Clement. 
To welcome all the Western Potentates,  
But more the King by letters hath foretell,  
That Frederick the Almain Emperor,  
Hath brought with him a German of esteem,  
Whose surname is Don jaques Vandermast,  
Skilful in Magic and those secret arts.  Mason. 
Then must we all make suit unto the friar,  
To Friar Bacon, that he vouch this task,  
And undertake to countervail in skill  
The German, else there's none in Oxford can  
Match and dispute with learned Vandermast.  Burden. 
Bacon, if he will hold the German play,  
We'll teach him what an English Friar can do:  
The Devil I think dare not dispute with him.  Clement. 
Indeed mas. Doctor, he pleasured you,  
In that he brought your hostess with her spit,  
From Henley, posting unto Brazen-nose.  Burden. 
A vengeance on the Friar for his pains,  
But leaving that, let's to Bacon straight,  
To see if he will take this task in hand.  Clement. 
Stay! what rumour is this? The town is up in a mutiny, what hurly-burly is this?  Enter a Constable, with Raphe, Warren, Ermsby, and Miles. Constable. 
Nay masters, if you were ne'er so good, you shall before the Doctors to answer your misdemeanour.  Burden. 
What's the matter, fellow?  Constable. 
marry sir, here's a company of Rufflers, that drinking in the Tavern, have made a great brawl, and almost killed the Vintner.  Miles. 
Salve, Doctor Burden, this lubberly Lurden,  
Ill shaped and ill faced, disdained and disgraced,  
What he tells unto vobis, mentitur de nobis.  Burden. 
Who is the master and chief of this crew?  Miles. 
Ecce asinum mundi, figura rotundi,  
Neat, sheet and fine, as brisk as a cup of wine.  Burden. 
What are you?  Raphe. 
I am, father Doctor, as a man would say, the bell-wether of this company, these are my Lords, and I the Prince of Wales.  Clement. 
Are you Edward the king's son?  Raphe. 
Sirrah Miles, bring hither the Tapster that drew the wine, & I warrant when they see how soundly I have broke his head, they'll say 'twas done by no less man than a Prince.  Mason. 
I cannot believe that this is the Prince of Wales.  Warren. 
And why so, sir?  Mason. 
For they say the Prince is a brave & a wise Gentleman.  Warren. 
Why, and thinkest thou, Doctor, that he is not so?  
Dar'st thou detract and derogate from him,  
Being so lovely and so brave a Youth?  Ermsby. 
Whose face shining with many a sugared smile,  
Betrays that he is bred of princely race.  Miles. 
And yet, master Doctor, to speak like a Proctor,  
And tell unto you, what is veriment and true,  
To cease off this quarrel; look but on his apparel,  
Then mark but my talis, he is great Prince of Walis,  
The chief of our gregis, and filius Regis,  
Then ware what is done, for he is Henry's white son.  Raphe. 
Doctors, whose doting nightcaps are not capable of my ingenious dignity, know that I am Edward Plantagenet, whom if you displease, will make a ship that shall hold all your Colleges, and so carry away the University with a fair wind, to the Bankside in Southwark, how sayst thou Ned Warren, shall I not do it?  Warren. 
Yes my good Lord, and if it please your Lordship, I will gather up all your old pantofles, and with the cork, make you a pinnace of five hundred ton, that shall serve the turn marvelous well, my Lord.  Ermsby. 
And I my Lord will have Pioneers to undermine the Town, that the very Gardens and Orchards be carried away for your Summer walks.  Miles. 
And with scientia and great diligentia,  
Will conjure and charm, to keep you from harm,  
That utrum horum mavis, your very great navis,  
Like Bartlet's ship, from Oxford do skip,  
With Colleges and schools, full loaden with fools,  
Quid dices ad hoc, worshipful Domine Dawcock?  Clement. 
Why harebrained Courtiers, are you drunk or mad,  
To taunt us up with such scurrility?  
Deem you us men of base and light esteem,  
To bring us such a fop for Henry's son?  
Call out the Beadles and convey them hence  
Straight to Bocardo, let the Roisters lie  
Close clapped in bolts, until their wits be tame.  Ermsby. 
Why, shall we to prison my Lord?  Raphe. 
What sayst, Miles, shall I honour the prison with my presence?  Miles. 
No, no, out with your blades, and hamper these jades,  
Have a flirt and a crash, now revel dash,  
And teach these Sacerdos, that the Bocardos,  
Like Peasants and clues, are meet for themselves.  Mason. 
To the prison with them, Constable.  Warren. 
Well (Doctors) seeing I have sported me,  
With laughing at these mad and merry wags,  
Know that Prince Edward is at Brazen-nose,  
And this, attired like the Prince of Wales,  
Is Raphe, King Henry's only loved fool,  
I, Earl of Essex, and this Ermsby,  
One of the privy Chamber to the King,  
Who while the Prince with friar Bacon stays,  
Have revelled in Oxford as you see.  Mason. 
My Lord, pardon us, we knew not what you were;  
But Courtiers may make greater scapes than these,  
willt please your Honour dine with me today?  Warren. 
I will, master Doctor, and satisfy the Vintner for his hurt; only I must desire you to imagine him all this forenoon the Prince of Wales.  Mason. 
I will, sir.  Raphe. 
And upon that I will lead the way, only I will have Miles go before me, because I have heard Henry say, that wisdom must go before Majesty.  Exeunt omnes. Enter Prince Edward with his poniard in his hand, Lacy and Marg'ret. Edward. 
lacy, thou canst not shroud thy traitorous thoughts,  
Nor cover, as did Cassius, all his wiles,  
For Edward hath an eye that looks as far,  
As Linceus from the shores of Grecia.  
Did not I sit in Oxford by the friar,  
And see thee court the maid of Fressingfield,  
Sealing thy flattering fancies with a kiss?  
Did not proud Bungay draw his portasse forth,  
And joining hand in hand, had married you,  
If friar Bacon had not struck him dumb,  
And mounted him upon a spirit's back,  
That we might chat at Oxford with the Friar?  
Traitor, what answer'st? Is not all this true?  Lacy. 
Truth all, my Lord, and thus I make reply,  
At Harlstone Fair there courting for your Grace,  
whenas mine eye surveyed her curious shape,  
And drew the beauteous glory of her looks,  
To dive into the centre of my heart,  
Love taught me that your Honour did but jest,  
That Princes were in fancy but as men,  
How that the lovely maid of Fressingfield  
Was fitter to be Lacy's wedded wife,  
Than Concubine unto the Prince of Wales.  Edward. 
Injurious Lacy, did I love thee more  
Than Alexander his Hephestion?  
Did I unfold the passions of my love,  
And lock them in the closet of thy thoughts?  
Wert thou to Edward second to himself,  
Sole friend, and partner of his secret loves;  
And could a glance of fading beauty break  
Th'enchained fetters of such private friends?  
Base coward, false, and too effeminate,  
To be corrival with a Prince in thoughts!  
From Oxford have I posted since I dined,  
To 'quite a Traitor 'fore that Edward sleep?  Marg'ret. 
'Twas I, my Lord, not Lacy stepped awry:  
For oft he sued and courted for yourself,  
And still wooed for the Courtier all in green:  
But I, whom fancy made but overfond,  
Pleaded myself with looks as if loved,  
I fed mine eye with gazing on his face,  
And still bewitched loved lacy with my looks,  
My heart with sighs, mine eyes pleaded with tears,  
My face held pity and content at once,  
And more I could not cipher out by signs,  
But that I loved Lord Lacy with my heart:  
Then worthy Edward, measure with thy mind,  
If women's favours will not force men fall,  
If beauty, and if darts of piercing love,  
Is not of force to bury thoughts of friends.  Edward. 
I tell thee, peggy, I will have thy loves,  
Edward, or none shall conquer Marg'ret;  
In Frigates bottomed with rich Sethin planks,  
Topped with the lofty Firs of Libanon,  
Stemmed and encased with burnished ivory,  
And overlaid with plates of Persian wealth,  
Like Thetis shalt thou wanton on the waves,  
And draw the Dolphins to thy lovely eyes,  
To dance Lavoltas in the purple streams,  
Sirens with harps and silver Psalteries,  
Shall wait with music at thy Frigates stem,  
And entertain fair Marg'ret with her lays;  
England and England's wealth shall wait on thee,  
Britain shall bend unto her PRINCE's love,  
And do due homage to thine Excellence,  
If thou wilt be but Edward's Marg'ret.  Marg'ret. 
Pardon, my Lord, if jove's great Royalty  
Sent me such presents as to Danae,  
If Phoebus tied in Latona's webs,  
Come courting from the beauty of his lodge,  
The dulcet tunes of frolic mercury,  
Not all the wealth heaven's treasury affords,  
Should make me leave Lord Lacy, or his love.  Edward. 
I have learned at Oxford then this point of schools,  
Ablata causa, tollitur effectus.  
Lacy, the cause, that Marg'ret cannot love,  
Nor fix her liking on the English Prince.  
Take him away, and then the effects will fail.  
Villain, prepare thyself: for I will bathe  
My poniard in the bosom of an Earl.  lacy. 
Rather than live, and miss fair Margret's love,  
Prince Edward, stop not at the fatal doom,  
But stab it home, end both my loves and life.  Marg. 
Brave Prince of Wales, honoured for Royal deeds,  
'twere sin to stain fair Venus' courts with blood,  
Loves conquest ends, my Lord, in courtesy,  
Spare Lacy, gentle Edward, let me die,  
For so both you and he do cease your loves.  Edward. 
lacy shall die as Traitor to his Lord.  Lacy. 
I have deserved it, Edward, act it well.  Marg. 
What hopes the Prince to gain by Lacy's death?  Edward. 
To end the loves twixt him and Margaret.  Marg. 
Why, thinks King Henry's son that Margret's love  
Hangs in th' uncertain balance of proud Time,  
That death shall make a discord of our thoughts?  
No, stab the Earl, and 'fore the morning Sun  
Shall vaunt him thrice over the lofty East,  
Marg'ret will meet her Lacy in the heavens.  Lacy. 
If ought betides to lovely Marg'ret,  
That wrongs or wrings her honour from content,  
Europe's rich wealth, nor England's Monarchy,  
Should not allure Lacy to overlive.  
Then Edward, short my life, and end her loves.  Marg. 
Rid me, and keep a friend worth many loves.  Lacy. 
Nay, Edward, keep a love worth many friends.  Marg. 
And if thy mind be such as fame hath blazed,  
Then Princely Edward, let us both abide  
The fatal resolution of thy rage,  
Banish thou fancy, and embrace revenge,  
And in one tomb knit both our carcases,  
Whose hearts were linked in one perfect love,  Edward. 
Edward, art thou that famous Prince of Wales,  
Who at Damasco beat the Sarazens,  
And brought'st home triumph on thy Lances point?  
And shall thy plumes be pulled by Venus down?  
Is't princely to dissever lover's loves?  
Leave, Ned, and make a virtue of this fault,  
And further Peg and Lacy in their loves;  
So in subduing fancy's passion,  
Conquering thyself, thou get'st the richest spoil.  
Lacy, rise up. Fair peggy, here's my hand,  
The Prince of Wales hath conquered all his thoughts,  
And all his loves he yields unto the Earl.  
Lacy, enjoy the maid of Fressingfield,  
Make her thy Lincoln Countess at the Church.  
And Ned, as he is true Plantagenet,  
Will give her to thee frankly for thy wife.  Lacy. 
Humbly I take her of my Sovereign,  
As if that Edward gave me England's right,  
And riched me with the Albion Diadem.  Marg'ret. 
And doth the English Prince mean true?  
Will he vouchsafe to cease his former loves,  
And yield the title of a Country maid,  
Unto Lord Lacy?  Edward. 
I will, fair peggy, as I am true Lord.  Marg'ret. 
Then Lordly Sir, whose conquest is as great,  
In conquering love, as Caesar's victories,  
Marg'ret as mild and humble in her thoughts,  
As was Aspasia unto Cyrus' self,  
Yields thanks, and next Lord Lacy, doth enshrine  
Edward the second secret in her heart.  Edward. 
Gramercy, peggy, now that vows are past,  
And that your loves are not to be revolt:  
Once, Lacy, friends again, come, we will post  
To Oxford: for this day the King is there,  
And brings for Edward Castile Eleanor.  
peggy, I must go see and view my wife;  
I pray God I like her as I loved thee.  
Beside, Lord Lincoln, we shall hear dispute,  
Twixt friar Bacon, and learned Vandermast,  
Peggy, we'll leave you for a week or two.  Marg'ret. 
As it please Lord Lacy: but love's foolish looks  
Think footsteps miles, and minutes to be hours.  Lacy. 
I'll hasten, peggy, to make short return.  
But please your Honour go unto the Lodge,  
We shall have Butter, Cheese, and Venison.  
And yesterday I brought for Marg'ret,  
A lusty bottle of neat claret wine:  
Thus can we feast and entertain your Grace.  Edward. 
'Tis cheer, Lord Lacy, for an Emperor,  
If he respect the person and the place.  
Come, let us in, for I will all this night  
Ride post until I come to Bacon's cell.  Exeunt. Enter Henry, Emperor, Castile, Eleanor, Vandermast, Bungay. Emperor. 
Trust me, Plantagenet, these Oxford Schools  
Are richly seated near the riverside:  
The mountains full of fat and fallow deer,  
The battling pastures laid with Kine and Flocks,  
The Town gorgeous with high built Colleges,  
And Scholars seemly in their grave attire,  
Learned in searching the principles of Art.  
What is thy judgement, jaques Vandermast?  Vander. 
That Lordly are the buildings of the Town,  
Spacious the rooms, and full of pleasant walks:  
But for the Doctors, how that they be learned,  
It may be meanly, for aught I can hear.  Bungay. 
I tell thee, German, Hapsburg holds none such,  
None read so deep, as Oxenford contains,  
There are within our Academic state,  
Men that may lecture it in Germany,  
To all the Doctors of your Belgic Schools.  Henry. 
Stand to him, Bungay, charm this Vandermast,  
And I will use thee as a Royal King.  Vandermast. 
Wherein darest thou dispute with me?  Bungay. 
In what a Doctor and a friar can.  Vandermast. 
Before rich Europe's Worthies put thou forth  
The doubtful question unto Vandermast.  Bungay. 
Let it be this, Whether the spirits of Pyromancy or  
Geomancy, be most predominant in Magic?  Vander. 
I say, of Pyromancy.  Bungay. 
And I of Geomancy.  Vander. 
The Cabalists that write of Magic spells,  
As Hermes, Melchie, and Pythagoras,  
Affirm that 'mongst the quadruplicity  
Of elemental essence, Terra is but thought,  
To be a punctum squared to the rest:  
And that the compass of ascending elements  
Exceed in bigness as they do in height;  
judging the concave Circle of the Sun,  
To hold the rest in his Circumference;  
If then, as Hermes says, the fire be great'st,  
Purest, and only giveth shapes to spirits:  
Then must these Demons that haunt that place,  
Be every way superior to the rest.  Bungay. 
I reason not of elemental shapes,  
Nor tell I of the concave latitudes,  
Noting their essence, nor their quality,  
But of the spirits that Pyromancy calls,  
And of the vigour of the geomantic Fiends.  
I tell thee, German, Magic haunts the grounds,  
And those strange Necromantic spells,  
That work such shows and wondering in the world,  
Are acted by those geomantic sprites,  
That Hermes calleth Terrae filii.  
The fiery spirits are but transparent shades,  
That lightly pass as Heralds to bear news,  
But earthly Fiends closed in the lowest deep,  
Dissever mountains, if they be but charged,  
Being more gross and massy in their power.  Vandermast. 
Rather these earthly geomantic spirits,  
Are dull and like the place where they remain:  
For when proud Lucifer fell from the heavens,  
The spirits and Angels that did sin with him,  
Retained their local essence as their faults,  
All subjects under luna's Continent,  
The which offended less, hang in the fire,  
And second faults did rest within the air,  
But Lucifer and his proud-hearted fiends,  
Were thrown into the Centre of the earth,  
Having less understanding than the rest,  
As having greater sin, and lesser grace.  
Therefore such gross and earthly spirits do serve,  
For jugglers, Witches, and vild Sorcerers,  
Whereas the pyromantic Genij,  
Are mighty, swift, and of far reaching power.  
But grant that Geomancy hath most force,  
Bungay, to please these mighty Potentates,  
Prove by some instance what thy Art can do.  Bungay. 
I will.  Emper. 
Now English Harry, here begins the game,  
We shall see sport between these learned men.  Vandermast. 
What wilt thou do?  Bungay. 
Show thee the Tree leaved with refined gold,  
Whereon the fearful Dragon held his seat,  
That watched the Garden called Hesperides,  
Subdued and won by conquering Hercules.  Vandermast. 
Well done.  Here Bungay conjures, and the Tree appears with the Dragon shooting fire. henry. 
What say you Royal Lordlings to my friar?  
Hath he not done a point of cunning skill?  Vander. 
Each Scholar in the Necromantic spells  
Can do as much as Bungay hath performed.  
But as Alcmena's bastard raised this Tree,  
So will I raise him up as when he lived,  
And cause him pull the Dragon from his seat,  
And tear the branches piecemeal from the root,  
Hercules, Prodi, Prodi, Hercules.  Hercules appears in his Lion's skin. Hercules. 
Quis me vult?  Vandermast. 
jove's bastard son, thou Libyan Hercules,  
Pull off the sprigs from off the Hesperian Tree,  
As once thou didst to win the golden fruit.  
Hercules. Fiat.  Here he begins to break the branches. Vander. 
Now Bungay, if thou canst by Magic charm  
The Fiend, appearing like great Hercules,  
From pulling down the branches of the Tree,  
Then art thou worthy to be counted learned.  Bungay. 
I cannot.  Vander. 
Cease Hercules, until I give thee charge.  
Mighty Commander of this English I'll,  
henry, come from the stout Plantagenets,  
Bungay is learned enough to be a friar:  
But to compare with jaques Vandermast,  
Oxford and Cambridge must go seek their Cells,  
To find a man to match him in his Art.  
I have given nonplus to the Paduans,  
To them of Sien, Florence, and Bologna,  
Rheims, Louvain, and fair Rotterdam,  
Franckford, Utrecht, and Orleans:  
And now must henry, if he do me right,  
Crown me with Laurel, as they all have done.  Enter Bacon. Bacon. 
All hail to this Royal Company,  
That sit to hear and see this strange dispute:  
Bungay, how standst thou as a man amazed?  
What, hath the German acted more than thou?  Vandermast. 
What art thou that question'st thus?  Bacon. 
Men call me Bacon.  Vander. 
Lordly thou look'st, as if that thou wert learned?  
Thy countenance, as if science held her seat  
Between the circled arches of thy brows.  Henry. 
Now monarchs, hath the German found his match?  Emperor. 
Bestir thee jaques, take not now the foil,  
Lest thou dost lose, what foretime thou didst gain.  Vandermast. 
Bacon, wilt thou dispute?  Bacon. 
No, unless he were more learned than Vandermast.  
For yet tell me, what hast thou done?  Vandermast. 
Raised Hercules to ruinate that tree,  
That Bungay mounted by his Magic spells.  Bacon. 
Set Hercules to work.  Vander. 
Now Hercules, I charge thee to thy task,  
Pull off the golden branches from the root.  Hercules. 
I dare not. Seest thou not great Bacon here,  
Whose frown doth act more than thy Magic can?  Vandermast. 
By all the Thrones, and Dominations,  
Virtues, Powers, and mighty Hierarchies,  
I charge thee to obey to Vandermast.  Hercules. 
Bacon, that bridles headstrong Belcephon,  
And rules Asmenoth guider of the North:  
Binds me from yielding unto Vandermast.  Hen. 
How now, Vandermast, have you met with your match?  Vander. 
Never before was't known to Vandermast,  
That men held Devils in such obedient awe.  
Bacon doth more than Art, or else I fail.  Emperor. 
Why, Vandermast, art thou overcome?  
Bacon dispute with him, and try his skill;  Bacon. 
I come not, monarchs, for to hold dispute  
With such a Novice as is Vandermast;  
I came to have your Royalties to dine  
With friar Bacon here in Brazen-nose;  
And, for this German troubles but the place,  
And holds the Audience with a long suspense,  
I'll send him to his Academy hence.  
Thou Hercules, whom Vandermast did raise,  
Transport the German unto Hapsburg straight,  
That he may learn by travel 'gainst the Springs,  
More secret dooms and Aphorisms of Art,  
Vanish the Tree, and thou away with him.  Exit the spirit with Vandermast, and the Tree. Emperor. 
Why, Bacon, whither dost thou send him?  Bacon. 
To Hapsburg, there your Highness at return,  
Shall find the German in his Study safe.  Henry. 
Bacon, thou hast honoured England with thy skill,  
And made fair Oxford famous by thine Art,  
I will be English Henry to thyself.  
But tell me, shall we dine with thee today?  Bacon. 
With me, my Lord; and while I fit my cheer,  
See where Prince Edward comes to welcome you:  
Gracious as the morningstar of heaven.  Exit. Enter Edward, lacy, Warren, Ermsby. Emperor. 
Is this Prince Edward, Henry's Royal son?  
How martial is the figure of his face!  
Yet lovely and beset with Amorets.  Henry. 
Ned, where hast thou been?  Edward. 
At Framingham, my Lord, to try your Bucks,  
If they could scape the teasers or the toil:  
But hearing of these Lordly Potentates  
Landed, and progressed up to Oxford town,  
I posted to give entertain to them,  
Chief to the Almain Monarch, next to him,  
And joint with him, Castile, and saxony,  
Are welcome as they may be to the English Court.  
Thus for the men. But see, Venus appears,  
Or one that overmatcheth Venus in her shape,  
Sweet Eleanor, beauties highswelling pride,  
Rich nature's glory, and her wealth at once:  
Fair of all fairs, welcome to Albion,  
Welcome to me, and welcome to thine own,  
If that thou deign'st the welcome from myself.  Eleanor. 
Martial Plantagenet, Henry's high-minded son,  
The mark that Eleanor did count her aim,  
I liked thee 'fore I saw thee; now I love,  
And so as in so short time I may:  
Yet so, as time shall never break that so,  
And therefore so accept of Eleanor.  Castile. 
Fear not, my Lord, this couple will agree,  
If love may creep into their wanton eyes:  
And therefore, Edward, I accept thee here,  
Without suspense, as my adopted son.  Henry. 
Let me that joy in these consorting greets,  
And glory in these honours done to Ned,  
Yield thanks for all these favours to my son,  
And rest a true Plantagenet to all.  Enter Miles with a cloth and trenchers, and salt. Miles. 
Salvete omnes Reges, that govern your Greges, in Saxony, and Spain, in England, and in Almain: for all this frolic rabble must I cover the table, with trenchers, salt, and cloth, and then look for your broth.  Emperor. 
What pleasant fellow is this?  Henry. 
'tis, my Lord, Doctor bacon's poor Scholar.  Miles. 
My master hath made me sewer of these great Lords, and (God knows) I am as serviceable at a table, as a Sow is under an Apple tree: 'tis no matter, their cheer shall not be great, and therefore what skill where the salt stand before or behind?  Castile. 
These Scholars know more skill in Axioms,  
How to use quips and sleights of Sophistry,  
Then for to cover courtly for a King.  Enter Miles with a mess of pottage and broth, and after him Bacon. Miles. 
Spill, sir? why, do you think I never carried twopenny chop before in my life? By your leave, Nobile decus, for here comes Doctor bacon's pecus, being in his full age, to carry a mess of pottage.  Bacon. 
Lordlings, admire not if your cheer be this,  
For we must keep our Academic fare,  
No riot where Philosophy doth reign:  
And therefore, Henry, place these Potentates,  
And bid them fall unto their frugal cates.  Emp. 
Presumptuous friar, what, scoff'dst thou at a King?  
What, dost thou taunt us with thy peasant's fare,  
And give us cates fit for Country Swains?  
henry, proceeds this jest of thy consent,  
To twit us with a pittance of such price?  
Tell me, and Frederick will not grieve thee long.  henry. 
By Henry's honour and the Royal faith  
The English Monarch beareth to his friend,  
I knew not of the friar's feeble fare,  
Nor am I pleased he entertains you thus.  Bacon. 
Content thee, Frederick, for I showed thee cates,  
To let thee see how scholars use to feed:  
How little meat refines our English wits.  
Miles take away, and let it be thy dinner.  Miles. 
marry sir, I will, this day shall be a festival day with me:  
For I shall exceed in the highest degree.  Exit Miles. Bacon. 
I tell thee, Monarch, all the German Peers  
Could not afford thy entertainment such,  
So Royal and so full of Majesty,  
As Bacon will present to Frederick,  
The Basest waiter that attends thy cups,  
Shall be in honours greater than thyself:  
And for thy cates rich Alexandria drugs,  
Fetched by caravels from Egypt's richest straits:  
Found in the wealthy strand of Africa,  
Shall royalize the table of my King,  
Wines richer than the Gyprian Courtesan  
Quaffed to Augustus' Kingly countermatch,  
shallbe caroused in English Henry's feasts:  
Candy shall yield the richest of her canes,  
Persia down her Volga by canoes,  
Send down the secrets of her spicery.  
The Afrique Dates, mirabiles of Spain,  
Conserves, and Suckets from Tiberias,  
Cates from judea choicer than the lamp  
That fired Rome with sparks of gluttony,  
Shall beautify the board for Frederick,  
And therefore grudge not at a friar's feast.  Enter two Gentlemen, Lambert, and Serlsby, with the Keeper. Lambert. 
Come frolic, Keeper of our Liege's game,  
Whose table spread hath ever Venison,  
And jacks of wine to welcome passengers.  
Know I am in love with jolly Marg'ret,  
That ouer-shines our Damsels, as the Moon  
Darkeneth the brightest sparkles of the night,  
In Laxfield here my land and living lies,  
I'll make thy daughter jointure of it all,  
So thou consent to give her to my wife,  
And I can spend five hundred marks a year.  Serlsby. 
I am the Landlord Keeper of thy holds,  
By copy all thy living lies in me.  
Laxfield did never see me raise my due,  
I will infeoff Marg'ret in all,  
So she will take her to a lusty Squire.  
Keeper. Now courteous Gentles, if the keeper's girl  
Hath pleased the liking fancy of you both,  
And with her beauty hath subdued your thoughts,  
'Tis doubtful to decide the question.  
It joys me that such men of great esteem,  
Should lay their liking on this base estate,  
And that her state should grow so fortunate,  
To be a wife to meaner men than you.  
But sith such Squires will stoop to keeper's fee,  
I will t'avoid displeasure of you both,  
Call Marg'ret forth, and she shall make her choice.  Exit. Lambert. 
Content, Keeper, send her unto us.  
Why, Serlsby, is thy wife so lately dead?  
Are all thy loves so lightly passed over,  
As thou canst wed before the year be out?  Serlsby. 
I live not, Lambert, to content the dead,  
Nor was I wedded but for life to her,  
The grave ends, and begins a married state.  Enter Marg'ret. Lambert. 
peggy, the lovely flowers of all towns,  
suffolk's fair Helen, and rich England's star,  
Whose beauty tempered with her housewifry,  
Makes England talk of merry Fressingfield.  Serlsby. 
I cannot trick it up with poesies,  
Nor paint my passions with comparisons,  
Nor tell a tale of Phoebus and his loves,  
But this believe me, Laxfield here is mine,  
Of ancient rent seven hundred pounds a year,  
And if thou canst but love a Country Squire,  
I will infeoff thee, Marg'ret, in all,  
I cannot flatter, try me if thou please.  Mar. 
Brave neighbouring Squires, the stay of suffolk's clime,  
A keeper's daughter is too base in 'gree  
To match with men accounted of such worth:  
But might I not displease, I would reply.  
Lambert. Say, peggy, nought shall make us discontent.  Marg'ret. 
Then Gentiles, note that love hath little stay,  
Nor can the flames that Venus sets on fire,  
Be kindled but by fancy's motion,  
Then pardon, Gentiles, if a Maid's reply  
Be doubtful, while I have debated with myself,  
Who, or of whom Jove shall constrain me like.  Serlsby. 
Let it be me, and trust me, Marg'ret,  
The meads environed with silver streams,  
Whose battling pastures fatten all my flocks,  
Yielding forth fleeces stapled with such wool,  
As Lempster cannot yield more finer stuff,  
And forty kine with fair and burnished heads,  
With strutting dugs that paggle to the ground,  
Shall serve thy dairy if thou wed with me.  Lambert. 
Let pass the Country wealth, as flocks and kine,  
And lands that wave with Ceres' golden sheaves,  
Filling my barns with plenty of the fields:  
But, peggy, if thou wed thyself to me,  
Thou shalt have garments of embroidered silk,  
Lawns, and rich networks for thy head attire,  
Costly shall be thy fair habiliments,  
If thou wilt be but Lambert's loving wife.  Marg'ret. 
Content you, Gentles, you have proffered fair,  
And more than fits a Country maids degree:  
But give me leave to counsel me a time,  
For fancy blooms not at the first assault;  
Give me but ten days' respite, and I will reply,  
Which or to whom myself affectionates.  Serlsby. 
Lambert, I tell thee, thou art importunate,  
Such beauty fits not such a base Esquire:  
It is for Serlsby to have Marg'ret.  Lamb. 
Thinkst thou with wealth to overreach me,  
Serlsby? I scorn to brook thy Country braves.  
I dare thee, Coward, to maintain this wrong,  
At dint of Rapier single in the field  Serlsby. 
I'll answer Lambert what I have avouched.  
Marg'ret, farewell, another time shall serve.  Exit Serlsby. Lambert. 
I'll follow. peggy, farewell to thyself,  
Listen how well I'll answer for thy love.  Exit Lambert. Marg'ret. 
How Fortune tempers lucky haps with frowns,  
And wrongs me with the sweets of my delight!  
Love is my bliss, and love is now my bale.  
Shall I be Helen in my forward fates,  
As I am Helen in my matchless hue,  
And set rich Suffolk with my face afire?  
If lovely Lacy were but with his peggy,  
The cloudy darkness of his bitter frown  
Would check the pride of these aspiring Squires,  
Before the term of ten days be expired,  
whenas they look for answer of their loves,  
My Lord will come to merry Fressingfield,  
And end their fancies, and their follies both;  
Till when, peggy be blithe and of good cheer.  Enter a Post with a letter and a bag of gold. Post. 
Fair lovely Damsel, which way leads this path?  
How might I post me unto Fressingfield?  
Which footpath leadeth to the keeper's Lodge?  Marg'ret. 
Your way is ready, and this path is right,  
myself do dwell hereby in Fressingfield;  
And if the Keeper be the man you seek,  
I am his daughter: may I know the cause?  Post. 
Lovely and once beloved of my Lord,  
No marvel if his eye was lodged so low,  
When brighter beauty is not in the heavens,  
The Lincoln Earl hath sent you Letters here,  
And with them, just an hundred pounds in gold.  
Sweet bonny wench, read them, and make reply.  Marg'ret. 
The scrolls that love sent Danaë,  
Wrapped in rich closures of fine burnished gold,  
Were not more welcome than these lines to me.  
Tell me, whilst that I do unrip the scales,  
Lives Lacy well, how fares my lovely Lord?  Post. 
Well, if that wealth may make men to live well.  The letter, and Marg'ret reads it. 
THe blooms of the Almond tree grow in a night, & vanish in a morn, the flies Haemerae (fair peggy) take life with the Sun, and die with the dew, fancy that slippeth in with a gaze, goeth out with a wink; and too timely loves, have ever the shortest length. I write this as thy grief, and my folly, who at Fressingfield loved that which time hath taught me to be but mean dainties, eyes are dissemblers, and fancy is but queasy, therefore know, Marg'ret, I have chosen a Spanish Lady to be my wife, chief waiting-woman to the Princess Eleanor, a Lady fair, and no less fair than thyself, honourable and wealthy, in that I forsake thee, I leave thee to thine own liking, and for thy dowry I have sent thee an hundred pounds, & ever assure thee of my favour, which shall avail thee and thine much. Farewell. Not thine, nor his own.  Edward Lacy. Marg'ret. 
Fond Ate, doomer of bad boasting fates,  
That wraps proud Fortune in thy snaky locks,  
Didst thou enchant my birthday with such stars,  
As lightened mischief from their infancy?  
If heavens had vowed, if stars had made decree,  
To show in me their froward influence,  
If Lacy had but loved, heavens, hell and all,  
Could not have wronged the patience of my mind.  Post. 
It grieves me, Damsel, but the Earl is forced  
To love the Lady, by the king's command.  Marg'ret. 
The wealth combined within the English shelves,  
Europe's Commander, nor the English King,  
Should not have moved the love of peggy from her Lord.  Post. 
What answer shall I return to my Lord?  Marg'ret. 
First, for thou cam'st from Lacy whom I loved,  
Ah, give me leave to sigh at every thought,  
Take thou, my friend, the hundred pound he sent:  
For Margret's resolution craves no dower;  
The world shall be to her as vanity,  
Wealth, trash; love, hate; pleasure, despair:  
For I will straight to stately Framingham,  
And in the Abbey there be shorn a Nun,  
And yield my loves and liberty to God.  
Fellow, I give thee this, not for the news,  
For those be hateful unto Marg'ret,  
But for thouart Lacee's man, once Margret's love.  Post. 
What I have heard, what passions I have seen,  
I'll make report of them unto the Earl.  Exit Poast. Marg'ret. 
Say, that she joys his fancies be at rest,  
And prays that his misfortunes may be hers.  Exit. Enter friar Bacon drawing the curtains with a white stick, a book in his hand, and a lamp lit by him, and the brazen head, and Miles, with weapons by him. Bacon. 
Miles, where are you?  Miles. 
Here, sir.  Bacon. 
How chance you tarry so long?  Miles. 
Think you that the watching of the brazen head craves no furniture? I warrant you, sir, I have so armed myself, that if all your devils do come, I will not fear them an inch.  Bacon. 
Miles, thou know'st that I have dived into hell,  
And sought the darkest palaces of the Fiends,  
That with my Magic spells great Belcephon  
Hath left his lodge and kneeled at my cell,  
The rafters of the earth rent from the poles,  
And three-formed Luna hid her silver looks;  
Trembling upon her concave continent,  
When Bacon read upon his Magic book,  
With seven years tossing necromantic charms,  
Poring upon dark hecat's principles,  
I have framed out a monstrous head of brass,  
That by th'enchanting forces of the Devil,  
Shall tell out strange and uncouth Aphorisms,  
And gird fair England with a wall of brass.  
Bungay and I have watched these threescore days,  
And now our vital spirits crave some rest,  
If Argus lived and had his hundred eyes,  
They could not overwatch phobeter's night,  
Now Miles, in thee rests friar's Bacon's weal,  
The honour and renown of all his life,  
Hangs in the watching of this brazenhead;  
Therefore I charge thee by the immortal God,  
That holds the souls of men within his fist,  
This night thou watch; for ere the morning star  
Sends out his glorious glister on the North,  
The head will speak; then (Miles) upon thy life,  
Wake me: for then by Magic Art I'll work,  
To end my seven years' task with excellence,  
If that a wink but shut thy watchful eye,  
Then farewell bacon's glory and his fame,  
Draw close the curtains, Miles, now for thy life,  
Be watchful and  Here he falleth asleep. Miles. 
So, I thought you would talk yourself asleep anon, and 'tis no marvel, for Bungay on the days, and he on the nights, have watched just these ten and fifty days, now this is the night, and 'tis my task and no more. Now jesus bless me, what a goodly head it is, & a nose! You talk of nos autem glorificare; but here's a nose, that I warrant may be called nos autem popelar for the people of the parish. Well I am furnished with weapons, now sir, I will set me down by a post, and make it as good as a watchman to wake me if I chance to slumber.  
I thought, goodman head, I would call you out of your memento passion o' God, I have almost broke my pate: Up, Miles, to your task, take your brown bill in your hand, here's some of your master's Hobgoblins abroad. With this, a great noise.  The Head speaks. Head. 
Time is.  Miles. 
Time is. Why, Master Brazenhead, have you such a capital nose, and answer you with syllables, Time is? is this all my master's cunning, to spend seven years' study about Time is? Well, sir, it may be, we shall have some orations of it anon; well, I'll watch you as narrowly as ever you were watched, and I'll play with you as the Nightingale with the Slowworm, I'll set a prick against my breast; now rest there, Miles, Lord have mercy upon me, I have almost killed myself: up, Miles, list how they rumble.  Head. 
Time was.  Miles. 
Well, Friar Bacon, you have spent your seven years' study well, that can make your Head speak but two words at once, Time was: yea marry, time was when my Master was a wise man, but that was before he began to make the Brazenhead. You shall lie while you arse ache, and your Head speak no better: well, I will watch and walk up and down, and be a Peripatetian and a Philosopher of Aristotle's stamp. What, a fresh noise? Take thy Pistols in hand, Miles.  Here the Head speaks, and a lightning flasheth forth and a hand appears that breaketh down the Head with a hammer. Head. 
Time is passed.  Miles. 
Master, master, up, hell's broken loose, your head speaks, and there's such a thunder and lightning, that I warrant, all Oxford is up in arms; out of your bed, take a brown bill in your hand, the latter day is come.  Bacon. 
Miles, I come. O passing warily watched;  
Bacon will make thee next himself in love.  
When spoke the Head?  Miles. 
When spoke the Head? did not you say that he should tell strange principles of Philosophy? Why sir, it speaks but two words at a time.  Bacon. 
Why villain, hath it spoken oft?  Miles. 
Oft, I marry hath it thrice: but in all those three times it hath uttered but seven words.  Bacon. 
As how?  Miles. 
marry sir, the first time he said, Time is, as if Fabuis Commentator should have pronounced a sentence: he said, Time was: and the third time with thunder and lightning, as in great choler, he said, Time is passed.  Bacon. 
'tis past indeed. A Ah, time is past:  
My life, my fame, my glory, all are past:  
Bacon, the turrets of thy hope are ruined down,  
Thy seven years' study lieth in the dust:  
Thy Brazenhead lies broken through a slave  
That watched, and would not when the Head did will.  
What said the Head first?  Miles. 
even, Time is.  Bacon. 
Villain, if thou hadst called to Bacon then,  
If thou hadst watched and waked the sleepy friar,  
The Brazenhead had uttered Aphorisms,  
And England had been circled round with brass:  
But proud Astmeroth, ruler of the North,  
And Demogorgon, master of the Fates,  
Grudge that a mortal man should do so much.  
Hell trembled at my deep commanding spells,  
Fiends frowned to see a man their overmatch,  
Bacon might boast more than a man might boast:  
But now the braves of Bacon have an end,  
Europe's conceit of Bacon hath an end:  
His seven years' practice sorteth to ill end:  
And villain, sith my glory hath an end,  
I will appoint thee fatal to some end.  
Villain, avoid, get thee from Bacon's sight:  
Vagrant, go roam and range about the world,  
And perish as a vagabond on earth.  Miles. 
Why then, sir, you forbid me your service.  Bacon. 
My service, villain? with a fatal curse,  
That direful plagues and mischief fall on thee.  Miles. 
'tis no matter, I am against you with the old proverb, The more the Fox is cursed, the better he fares. God be with you, sir, I'll take but a book in my hand, a wide sleeved gown on my back, and a crowned cap on my head, and see If I can want promotion.  Bacon. 
Some fiend or ghost haunt on thy weary steps,  
Until they do transport thee quick to hell:  
For Bacon shall have never merry day,  
To lose the fame and honour of his Head.  Exit. Enter Emperor, Castile, Henry, Eleanor, Edward, lacy, Raphe. Emper. 
Now lovely Prince, the Prince of Albion's wealth,  
How fares the Lady Eleanor and you?  
What, have you courted and found Castile fit,  
To answer England in equivalence?  
Wilt be a match 'twixt bonny Nell and thee?  Edward. 
Should Paris enter in the courts of Greece,  
And not lie fettered in fair Helen's looks?  
Or Phoebus scape those piercing amorets,  
That Daphne glanced at his deity?  
Can Edward then sit by a flame and freeze,  
Whose heat puts Helen and fair Daphne down?  
Now monarchs, ask the Lady if we 'gree  Henry. 
What, Madam, hath my son found grace or no?  Eleanor. 
Seeing my Lord his lovely counterfeit,  
And hearing how his mind and shape agreed,  
I come not, trooped with all this warlike train,  
Doubting of love, but so affectionate,  
As Edward hath in England what he won in Spain.  Castile. 
A match, my Lord, these wantons needs must love:  
Men must have wives, and women must be wed,  
Let's haste the day to honour up the rites.  Raphe. 
Sirrah Harry, shall Ned marry Nell?  Henry. 
ay, Raphe, how then?  Raphe. 
marry Harry, follow my counsel, send for friar Bacon to marry them, for he'll so conjure him and her with his necromancy, that they shall love together like Pig & Lamb whilst they live.  Castile. 
But hearst thou, Raphe, art thou content to have Eleanor to thy Lady?  Raphe. 
ay, so she will promise me two things.  Castile. 
What's that, Raphe?  Raphe. 
That she will never scold with Ned, nor fight with me, Sirrah Harry, I have put her down with a thing unpossible.  Henry. 
What's that, Raphe?  Raphe. 
Why Harry, didst thou ever see that a woman could both hold her tongue and her hands? no: but when egg-pies grow on Appletrees, then will thy grey Mare prove a Bagpiper.  Emperor. 
What says the Lord of Castille and the Earl of Lincoln, that they are in such earnest and secret talk?  Castile. 
I stand, my Lord, amazed at his talk?  
How he discourseth of the constancy  
Of one surnamed for beauty's excellence,  
The fair maid of Fressingfield.  Henry. 
'tis true, my Lord, 'tis wondrous for to hear,  
Her beauty passing Mars's Paramour:  
Her virgins right as rich as Vesta's was,  
Lacy and Ned have told me miracles.  Castile. 
What says Lord Lacy? shall she be his wife?  Lacy. 
Or else Lord Lacy is unfit to live.  
May it please your Highness give me leave to post  
To Fressingfield, I'll fetch the bonny girl,  
And prove in true appearance at the Court,  
What I have vouched often with my tongue.  Henry. 
Lacy, go to the null of my Stable,  
And take such Coursers as shall fit thy turn,  
Hie thee to Fressingfield, and bring home the Lass,  
And, for her fame flies through the English coast,  
If it may please the Lady Eleanor,  
One day shall match your Excellence and her.  Eleanor. 
We Castille Ladies are not very coy,  
Your Highness may command a greater boon:  
And glad were I to grace the Lincoln Earl  
With being partner of his marriage day.  Edward. 
Gramercy, Nell, for I do love the Lord,  
As he that's second to myself in love.  Raphe. 
You love her? Madam Nell, never believe him you, though he swears he loves you.  Eleanor. 
Why Raphe?  Raphe. 
Why, his love is like unto a tapster's glass that is broken with every touch; for he loved the fair maid of Fressingfield once out of all hoe; nay Ned, never wink upon me, I care not, I.  Hen. 
Raphe tells all, you shall have a good Secretary of him.  
But, Lacy, haste thee post to Fressingfield:  
For ere thou hast fitted all things for her state,  
The solemn marriage day will be at hand.  Lacy. 
I go, my Lord.  Exit Lacy. Emperor. 
How shall we pass this day, my Lord?  Henry. 
To horse, my Lord, the day is passing fair,  
we'll fly the Partridge, or go rouse the deer.  
Follow, my Lords, you shall not want for sport.  Exeunt. Enter friar Bacon with friar Bungay, to his Cell. Bungay. 
What means the friar that frolicked it of late,  
To sit as melancholy in his Cell,  
As if he had neither lost nor won today?  Bacon. 
Ah Bungay, my brazenhead is spoiled,  
My glory gone, my seven years' study lost:  
The fame of Bacon bruited through the world,  
Shall end and perish with this deep disgrace.  Bungay. 
Bacon hath built foundation on his fame,  
So surely on the wings of true report,  
With acting strange and uncouth miracles,  
As this cannot infringe what he deserves.  Bacon. 
Bungay, sit down, for by prospective skill,  
I find this day shall fall out ominous,  
Some deadly act shall betide me ere I sleep:  
But what and wherein little can I guess.  Bungay. 
My mind is heavy whatsoever shall hap.  Enter two Scholars, sons to Lambert and Serlsby. Knock. Bacon. 
Who's that knocks?  Bungay. 
Two Scholars that desire to speak with you.  Bac. 
Bid them come in. Now, my youths, what would you have?  1. Scholar. 
Sir, we are Suffolk men & neighbouring friends,  
Our fathers in their Countries lusty Squires,  
Their lands adjoin, in Crackfield mine doth dwell,  
And his in Laxfield, we are College mates,  
Sworn brothers; as our fathers live as friends.  Bacon. 
To what end is all this?  2. Scholar. 
Hearing your worship kept within your Cell  
A glass prospective wherein men might see,  
What so their thoughts' or hearts' desire could wish,  
We come to know how that our fathers fare.  Bacon. 
My glass is free for every honest man.  
Sit down, and you shall see ere long,  
How or in what state your friendly fathers live,  
meanwhile tell me your names.  Lambert. 
Mine Lambert.  3. Scholar. 
And mine Serlsby.  Bacon. 
Bungay, I smell there will be a Tragedy.  Enter Lambert and Serlsby, with Rapiers and Daggers. Lambert. 
Serlsby, thou hast kept thine hour like a man,  
thouart worthy of the title of a Squire:  
That durst for proof of thy affection,  
And for thy mistress' favour prize thy blood;  
Thou know'st what words did pass at Fressingfield,  
Such shameless braves as manhood cannot brook:  
ay, for I scorn to bear such piercing taunts,  
Prepare thee, Serlsby, one of us will die.  Serlsby. 
Thou seest I single thee the field,  
And what I spoke, I'll maintain with my sword:  
Stand on thy guard, I cannot scold it out.  
And if thou kill me, think I have a son,  
That lives in Oxford in the Broadgate's hall,  
Who will revenge his father's blood with blood.  Lambert. 
And Serlsby, I have there a lusty boy,  
That dares at weapon buckle with thy son,  
And lives in Broadgate's too as well as thine;  
But draw thy Rapier: for we'll have a bout.  Bacon. 
Now lusty younkers, look within the glass,  
And tell me if you can discern your sires.  1. Schol. 
Serlsby, 'tis hard, thy father offers wrong,  
To combat with my father in the field.  2. Schol. 
Lambert, thou liest, my father's is the abuse,  
And thou shalt find it, if my father have harm.  Bungay. 
How goes it, sirs?  1. Schol. 
Our fathers are in combat hard by Fressingfield.  Bacon, 
Sit still, my friends, and see the event.  Lambert. 
Why standst thou, Serlsby, doubtst thou of thy life?  
A veny, man, fair Marg'ret craves so much.  Serlsby. 
Then this for her.  1. Scholar. 
Ah, well thrust.  2. Scholar. 
But mark the ward.  Lambert. 
Oh, I am slain.  Serlsby. 
And I, Lord have mercy on me.  1. Scholar. 
My father slain, Serlsby ward that.  The two Scholars stab one another. 2. Scholar. 
And so is mine, Lambert, I'll 'quite thee well.  Bungay. 
O strange stratagem!  Bacon. 
See, friar, where the fathers both lie dead.  
Bacon, thy magic doth effect this massacre:  
This glass prospective worketh many woes,  
And therefore seeing these lusty Brutes,  
These friendly youths did perish by thine Art.  
End all thy magic and thine Art at once:  
The poniard that did end the fatal lives,  
Shall break the cause efficiat of their woes,  
So fade the glass, and end with it the shows,  
That necromancy did infuse the crystal with.  He breaks the glass. Bung. 
What means learned Bacon thus to break his glass?  Bacon. 
I tell thee, Bungay, it reputes me sore,  
That ever Bacon meddled in this Art,  
The hours I have spent in pyromantic spells,  
The fearful tossing in the latest night,  
Of papers full of necromantic charms,  
Conjuring and adjuring Devils and Fiends,  
With Stole and Albe, and strange Pentaganon,  
The wresting of the holy Name of God,  
As Sother, Eleanor, and Adonai,  
Alpha, Manoth, and Tetragrammaton,  
With praying to the fivefold powers of heaven,  
Are instances that Bacon must be damned,  
For using Devils to countervail his God.  
Yet, Bacon, cheer thee, drown not in despair,  
Sins have their salves, repentance can do much:  
Think mercy sits where justice holds her seat,  
And from those wounds those bloody Jews did pierce,  
Which by thy magic oft did bleed afresh,  
From thence for thee the dew of mercy drops,  
To wash the wrath of high Jehovah's ire,  
And make thee as a newborn babe from sin.  
Bungay, I'll spend the remnant of my life  
In pure devotion, praying to my God,  
That he would save what Bacon vainly lost.  Exit. Enter Marg'ret in nun's apparel, Keeper, her father, and their friend. Keeper. 
Marg'ret, be not so headstrong in these vows.  
Oh bury not such beauty in a Cell:  
That England hath held famous for the hue.  
Thy father's hair like to the silver blooms:  
That beautifies the shrubs of Africa  
Shall fall before the dated time of death,  
Thus to forgo his lovely Marg'ret.  Marg'ret. 
A father, when the harmony of heaven  
Soundeth the measures of a lively faith:  
The vain Illusions of this flattering world,  
Seem odious to the thoughts of Marg'ret.  
I loved once, Lord Lacy was my love,  
And now I hate myself for that I loved,  
And doted more on him than on my God:  
For this I scourge myself with sharp repents;  
But now the touch of such aspiring sins  
Tells me, all love is lust, but love of heavens:  
That beauty used for love is vanity,  
The world contains nought but alluring baits:  
Pride, flattery, and inconstant thoughts,  
To shun the pricks of death, I leave the world,  
And vow to meditate on heavenly bliss,  
To live in Framingham a holy Nun,  
Holy and pure in conscience and in deed:  
And for to wish all maids to learn of me,  
To seek heaven's joy before earth's vanity.  Friend. 
And will you then, Marg'ret, be shorn a Nun, and so leave us all?  Marg'ret. 
Now farewell world, the engine of all woe,  
Farewell to friends and father, welcome Christ:  
Adieu to dainty robes, this base attire  
Better befits an humble mind to God,  
Than all the show of rich habiliments.  
Love, oh Love, and with fond Love farewell,  
Sweet Lacy, whom I loved once so dear,  
Ever be well, but never in my thoughts,  
Lest I offend to think on Lacy's love:  
But even to that as to the rest, farewell.  Enter Lacy, Warrain, Ermsby, booted and spurred. Lacy. 
Come on my wags, we're near the keeper's Lodge,  
Here have I oft walked in the watery Meads,  
And chatted with my lovely Marg'ret.  Warren. 
Sirrah Ned, is not this the Keeper?  Lacy. 
'tis the same,  Ermsby. 
The old lecher hath gotten holy mutton to him, a Nun, my Lord.  Lacy. 
Keeper, how farest thou holla man, what cheer,  
How doth peggy thy daughter and my love?  Keeper. 
Ah, good my Lord! oh, woe is me for Peg,  
See where she stands clad in her nun's attire,  
Ready for to be shorn in Framingham:  
She leaves the world, because she left your love,  
Oh good my Lord, persuade her if you can.  Lacy. 
Why how now Marg'ret, what a malcontent,  
A Nun? what holy father taught you this,  
To task yourself to such a tedious life,  
As die a maid? 'twere injury to me,  
To smother up such beauty in a Cell.  Marg'ret. 
Lord Lacy, thinking of thy former misse,  
How fond the prime of wanton years were spent  
In love, Oh fie upon that fond conceit,  
Whose hap and essence hangeth in the eye,  
I leave both love and love's content at once,  
Betaking me to him that is true love,  
And leaving all the world for love of him.  Lacy. 
Whence, peggy, comes this Metamorphosis?  
What, shorn a Nun, and I have from the Court  
Posted with coursers to convey thee hence,  
To Windsor, where our marriage shall be kept?  
Thy wedding robes are in the tailor's hands.  
Come, peggy, leave these peremptory vows.  Marg'ret. 
Did not my Lord resign his interest,  
And make divorce 'twixt Marg'ret and him?  Lacy. 
'Twas but to try sweet Peggy's constancy:  
But will fair Marg'ret leave her love and Lord?  Marg'ret. 
Is not heaven's joy before earth's fading bliss?  
And life above sweeter than life in love?  Lacy. 
Why then, Marg'ret will be shorn a Nun.  Marg. 
Marg'ret hath made a vow, which may not be revoked.  Warren. 
We cannot stay, my Lord, and if she be so strict,  
Our leisure grants us not to woo afresh.  Ermsby. 
Choose you, fair Damsel, yet the choice is yours,  
Either a solemn Nunnery, or the Court,  
God, or Lord Lacy, which contents you best,  
To be a Nun, or else Lord Lacy's wife?  Lacy. 
A good motion. peggy, your answer must be short.  Marg. 
The flesh is frail, my Lord doth know it well,  
That when he comes with his enchanting face,  
Whatsoever betide, I cannot say him nay.  
Off goes the habit of a maiden's heart,  
And seeing fortune will, fair Framingham,  
And all the show of holy Nuns, farewell,  
Lacy for me, if he will be my Lord.  Lacy. 
peggy, thy Lord, thy love, thy husband,  
Trust me, by truth of Knighthood, that the King  
Stays for to marry matchless Eleanor,  
Until I bring thee richly to the Court,  
That one day may both marry her and thee.  
How sayst thou Keeper, art thou glad of this?  Keeper. 
As if the English King had given  
The Park and deer of Fressingfield to me.  Ermesby. 
I pray thee my Lord of Sussex, why art thou in a brown study?  Warren. 
To see the nature of women, that be they never so near God, yet they love to die in a man's arms.  Lacy. 
What have you fit for breakfast? we have hied and posted all this night to Fressingfield.  Marg'ret. 
Butter and cheese, and humbles of a deer,  
Such as poor Keepers have within their Lodge.  Lacy. 
And not a bottle of wine?  Marg'ret. 
we'll find one for my Lord.  Lacy. 
Come, Sussex, let's in, we shall have more, for she speaks least, to hold her promise sure.  Exeunt. Enter a Devil to seek Miles. Devil. 
How restless are the ghosts of hellish sprites,  
When every Charmer with his Magic spells  
Calls us from ninefold trenched Phlegethon,  
To scud and overscour the earth in post,  
Upon the speedy wings of swiftest winds?  
Now Bacon hath raised me from the darkest deep,  
To search about the world for Miles his man,  
For Miles, and to torment his lazy bones,  
For careless watching of his brazenhead.  
See where he comes: Oh he is mine.  Enter Miles with a gown and a corner cap. Miles. 
A Scholar, quoth you, marry sir, I would I had been made a bottle-maker, when I was made a scholar; for I can get neither to be a Deacon, Reader, nor Schoolmaster; no, not the clerk of a Parish; some call me dunce: another saith, my head is as full of Latin, as an egg's full of oatmeal: thus I am tormented, that the Devil and Friar Bacon haunts me. Good Lord, here's one of my master's Devils I'll go speak to him: what master Plutus, how cheer you?  Devil. 
Dost thou know me?  Miles. 
Know you, sir, why are not you one of my master's Devils, that were wont to come to my master Doctor Bacon, at Brazen-nose?  Devil. 
Yes marry am I.  Miles. 
Good Lord, M. Plutus, I have seen you a thousand times at my masters, and yet I had never the manners to make you drink; but sir, I am glad to see how conformable you are to the state; I warrant you, he's as yeomanly a man, as you shall see, mark you masters, here's a plain honest man, without welt or guard; but I pray you sir, do you come lately from hell?  Devil. 
I marry, how then?  Miles. 
Faith, 'tis a place I have desired long to see, have you not good tippling houses there? may not a man have a lusty fire there, a pot of good Ale, a pair of cards, a swinging piece of chalk, and a brown toast that will clap a white waistcoat on a cup of good drink?  Devil. 
All this you may have there.  Miles. 
You are for me, friend, and I am for you: but I pray you, may I not have an office there?  Devil. 
Yes, a thousand: what wouldst thou be?  Miles. 
By my troth, sir, in a place, where I may profit myself. I know hell is a hot place, and men are marvelous dry, and much drink is spent there; I would be a Tapster.  Devil. 
Thou shalt,  Miles. 
There's nothing lets me from going with you, but that 'tis a long journey, and I have never a horse.  Devil. 
Thou shalt ride on my back.  Miles. 
Now surely here's a courteous devil, that for to pleasure his friend, will not stick to make a jade of himself: but I pray you goodman friend, let me move a question to you.  Devil. 
What's that?  Miles. 
I pray you, whether is your pace a trot or an amble?  Devil. 
An amble.  Miles. 
'tis well, but take heed it be not a trot,  
But 'tis no matter, I'll prevent it.  Devil. 
What dost?  Miles. 
marry, friend, I put on my spurs: for if I find your pace either a trot, or else uneasy, I'll put you to a false gallop, I'll make you feel the benefit of my spurs.  Devil. 
Get up upon my back.  Miles. 
Oh Lord, here's even a goodly marvel, when a man rides to hell on the Devils back.  Exeunt roaring. Enter the Emperor with a pointless sword, next, the King of Castile, carrying a sword with a point, Lacy carrying the Globe, Edward Warren carrying a rod of gold with a Dove on it, Ermsby with a Crown and Sceptre, the Queen with the fair maid of Fressingfield on her left hand, Henry, Bacon, with other Lords attending. Edward. 
Great Potentates, earth's miracles for state,  
Think that Prince Edward humbles at your feet,  
And for these favours on his martial sword,  
He vows perpetual homage to yourselves,  
Yielding these honours unto Eleanor.  henry. 
Gramercies, Lordings, old Plantagenet,  
That rules and sways the Albion Diadem,  
With tears discovers these conceived joys,  
And vows requital, if his men at arms,  
The wealth of England, or due honours done  
To Eleanor, may 'quite his Favourites.  
But all this while what say you to the Dames,  
That shine like to the crystal lamps of heaven?  Emperor. 
If but a third were added to these two,  
They did surpass those gorgeous Images,  
That gloried Ida with rich beauty's wealth.  Marg'ret. 
'tis I, my Lords, who humbly on my knee,  
Must yield her orisons to mighty jove,  
For lifting up his handmaid to this state,  
Brought from her homely cottage to the Court,  
And graced with Kings, Princes and Emperors,  
To whom (next to the noble Lincoln Earl)  
I vow obedience, and such humble love,  
As may a handmaid to such mighty men.  Eleanor. 
Thou martial man, that wears the Almain Crown,  
And you the Western Potentates of might,  
The Albion Princess English Edward's wife,  
Proud that the lovely star of Fressingfield,  
Fair Marg'ret, Countess to the Lincoln Earl,  
Attends on Eleanor: gramercies, Lord, for her.  
'tis I give thanks for Marg'ret to you all,  
And rest for her due bounden to yourselves.  henry. 
Seeing the marriage is solemnised,  
Let's march in triumph to the Royal feast.  
But why stands friar Bacon here so mute?  Bacon. 
Repentant for the follies of my youth,  
That magic's secret mysteries misled,  
And joyful that this Royal marriage  
Portends such bliss unto this matchless Realm.  Hen. 
Why, Bacon, what strange event shall hap to this Land?  
Or what shall grow from Edward and his Queen?  Bacon. 
I find by deep prescience of mine Art,  
Which once I tempered in my secret Cell,  
That here where Brute did build his Troynovant,  
From forth the Royal Garden of a King,  
Shall flourish out so rich and fair a bud,  
Whose brightness shall deface proud Phoebus flower,  
And overshadow Albion with her leaves.  
Till then, Mars shall be master of the field,  
But then the stormy threats of wars shall cease,  
The horse shall stamp as careless of the pike,  
Drums shall be turned to timbrels of delight,  
With wealthy favours, plenty shall enrich  
The strand that gladded wandering Brute to see,  
And peace from heaven shall harbour in these leaves,  
That gorgeous beautifies this matchless flower,  
Apollo's Hellitropian then shall stoop,  
And Venus' hyacinth shall veil her top,  
juno shall shut her Gilliflowers up,  
And Pallas Bay shall bash her brightest green.  
Ceres carnation in comfort with those,  
Shall stoop and wonder at Diana's Rose.  henry. 
This Prophesy is mystical,  
But glorious Commanders of Europa's love,  
That makes fair England like that wealthy isle,  
Circled with Gihon and first Euphrates,  
In royalizing Henry's Albion,  
With presence of your princely mightiness,  
Let's march, the tables all are spread,  
And viands such as England's wealth affords,  
Are ready set to furnish out the boards,  
You shall have welcome, mighty Potentates,  
It rests to furnish up this Royal Feast,  
Only your hearts be frolic: for the time  
Craves that we taste of nought but jouissance.  
Thus glories England over all the West.  Exeunt omnes. Omne tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci. 
FINIS.