_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.