_P. Edw._ 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.
_P. Edw._ Warren, leave me:--and, Ermsby, take the fool: Let him be master and go revel it, Till I and Friar Bacon talk awhile.
_Ralph._ Faith, Ned, and I'll lord it out till thou comest; I'll be Prince of Wales over all the black-pots[195] in Oxford. [_Exeunt._
FRIAR BACON _and_ PRINCE EDWARD _go into the study._[196]
_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.
_P. Edw._ Friar, thou glad'st me: now shall Edward try How Lacy meaneth to his sovereign lord.
_Bacon._ Stand there and look directly in the glass.
_Enter_ MARGARET _and_ FRIAR BUNGAY.[197]
_P. Edw._ I see the Keeper's lovely lass appear, As brightsome as the paramour of Mars, Only attended by a jolly friar.
_Bacon._ Sit still, and keep the crystal in your eye.
_Mar._ 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?
_Bun._ 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 you run your cheese, Is son to Henry, and the Prince of Wales.
_Mar._ Be what he will, his lure is but for lust: But did Lord Lacy like poor Margaret, Or would he deign to wed a country lass, Friar, I would his humble handmaid be, And for great wealth quite him with courtesy.
_Bun._ Why, Margaret, dost thou love him?
_Mar._ His personage, like the pride of vaunting Troy, Might well avouch to shadow Helen's rape: 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's England's paramour.
_Bun._ Hath not each eye that view'd thy pleasing face Surnamèd thee Fair Maid of Fressingfield?