SCENE II.--FRIAR BACON'S _cell at Brazen-nose.

_Enter_ FRIAR BACON, _and_ MILES _with books under his arm; with them_ BURDEN, MASON _and_ CLEMENT.

_Bacon._ Miles, where are you?

_Miles. Hic sum, doctissime et reverendissime doctor._

_Bacon. Attulisti nos libros meos de necromantia?_

_Miles. Ecce quam bonum et quam jucundum habitare libros in unum!_

_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 learnèd skill, Why flock you thus to Bacon's secret cell, A friar newly stall'd in Brazen-nose? Say what's your mind, that I may make reply.

_Burd._ 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 and the Grapes: that which is above us pertains nothing to us.

_Burd._ I tell thee, Bacon, Oxford makes report, Nay, England, and the court of Henry says Thou'rt 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 mean'st, ere many years or days be past, 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.

_Clem._ Bacon, we come not grieving at thy skill, But joying that our académy yields A man suppos'd 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, Etérnize Friar Bacon for his art.

_Mason._ Then, gentle friar, tell us thy intent.

_Bacon._ Seeing you come as friends unto the friar, Resolve[183] 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.[184] 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 contriv'd and fram'd 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 Cæsars liv'd and reign'd in Rome, With all the legions Europe doth contain, They should not touch a grass of English ground: The work that Ninus rear'd at Babylon, The brazen walls fram'd by Semiramis, Carv'd 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.

_Burd._ Is this possible?

_Miles._ I'll bring ye two or three witnesses.

_Burd._ 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.

_Burd._ 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 pass'd 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 Æsop 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.

_Burd._ 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 the Thames?

_Burd._ I was: what then?

_Bacon._ What book studied you thereon all night?

_Burd._ I! none at all; I read not there a line.

_Bacon._ Then, doctors, Friar Bacon's art knows naught.

_Clem._ What say you to this, Master Burden? doth he not touch you?

_Burd._ I pass not of[185] 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 no more learning in you than is in Balaam's ass.

_Bacon._ Masters, for that learn'd Burden's 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 sayings 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. [_Conjures._ _Per omnes deos infernales, Belcephon!_

_Enter_ Hostess _with a shoulder of mutton on a spit, and a_ Devil.

_Miles._ O, master, cease your conjuration, or you spoil all; for here'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._ O, 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 guess,[186] A motion mov'd me to look forth of door: No sooner had I pried into the yard, But straight a whirlwind hoisted me from thence, And mounted me aloft unto the clouds. As in a trance I thought nor fearèd naught, 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._ O, yes, good sir, he is my daily guest.-- What, Master Burden! 'twas but yesternight That you and I at Henley play'd at cards.

_Burd._ I know not what we did.--A pox of all conjuring friars!

_Clem._ 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, Think'st 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[187] 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 miss'd, 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_ Devil.

_Burd._ 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 up 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 callèd Brazen-nose[188] Is under him, and he the master there, So surely shall this head of brass be fram'd, 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, _et nunc et semper_; amen. [_Exeunt._