MOR. Thou holy man, to whom the higher powers Have given the gift of cures beyond conceit, Welcome thou art unto Earl Morgan's house: The house of sorrow yet, unless by thee Our joys may spring anew; which if they do, Reward and praise shall both attend on thee. LACY. And we will ever reverence thy name, Making the chronicles to speak thy praise: So Honorea may but have her speech. DUN. My lords, you know the hallow'd gift of tongues Comes from the selfsame power that gives us breath: He binds and looseth them at his dispose; And in his name will Dunstan undertake To work this cure upon fair Honorea. Hang there, my harp, my solitary muse, Companion of my contemplation. [_He hangs his harp on the wall_. And, lady, kneel with me upon the earth, That both our prayers may ascend to heaven. [_They kneel down. Then enters_ CLINTON, _with_ BELPHEGOR, _terming himself_ CASTILIANO, _and_ AKERCOCK, _as_ ROBIN GOODFELLOW. CLIN. So shall you do the lady a good turn, And bind both him and me to you for ever. [_Aside_.] BEL. I have determin'd what I mean to do. [_Aside_.] CLIN. Here be the earls, and with them is the friar. [_Aside_.] BEL. What, is he praying? [_Aside_.] CLIN. So methinks he is; But I'll disturb him. [_Aside_.] By your leave, my lords, Here is a stranger from beyond the seas Will undertake to cure your lordship's daughter. MOR. The holy abbot is about the cure. BEL. Yea, but, my lord, he'll never finish it. MOR. How canst thou tell? What countryman art thou? BEL. I am by birth, my lord, a Spaniard born, And by descent came of a noble house; Though, for the love I bare[437] to secret arts, I never car'd to seek for vain estate, Yet by my skill I have increas'd my wealth. My name Castiliano, and my birth No baser than the best blood of Castile. Hearing your daughter's strange infirmity, Join'd with such matchless beauty and rare virtue, I cross'd the seas on purpose for her good. DUN. Fond man, presuming on thy weaker skill, That think'st by art to overrule the heavens! Thou know'st not what it is thou undertak'st. No, no, my lord, your daughter must be cur'd By fasting, prayer, and religious works; Myself for her will sing a solemn mass, And give her three sips of the holy chalice; And turn my beads with aves and with creeds: And thus, my lord, your daughter must be help'd. CAS. 'Zounds, what a prating keeps the bald-pate friar! My lord, my lord, here's church-work for an age? Tush! I will cure her in a minute's space, That she shall speak as plain as you or I. [DUNSTAN' _harp sounds on the wall_. FOR. Hark, hark, my lord! the holy abbot's harp Sounds by itself so hanging on the wall! DUN. Unhallowed man, that scorn'st the sacred rede,[438] Hark how the testimony of my truth Sounds heavenly music with an angel's hand, To testify Dunstan's integrity, And prove thy active boast of no effect.