_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._ SCENE III.--_Harleston Fair._ _Enter_ MARGARET _and_ JOAN; THOMAS, RICHARD, _and other Clowns; and_ LACY _disguised in country apparel._ _Thom._ By my troth, Margaret, here's a weather is able to make a man call his father "whoreson": if this weather hold, we shall have hay good cheap, and butter and cheese at Harleston will bear no price. _Mar._ Thomas, maids when they come to see the fair Count not to make a cope[189] for dearth of hay: When we have turn'd our butter to the salt, And set our cheese safely upon the racks, Then let our fathers price 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. Phœbus is blithe, and frolic looks from heaven, As when he courted lovely Semele, Swearing the pedlers shall have empty packs, If that fair weather may make chapmen buy. _Lacy._ But, lovely Peggy, Semele is dead, And therefore Phœbus from his palace pries, And, seeing such a sweet and seemly saint, Shows all his glories for to court yourself. _Mar._ 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. _Joan._ Margaret, 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. [LACY _whispers_ MARGARET _in the ear._ But, Thomas, what's the news? what, in a dump? Give me your hand, we are near a pedler's shop; Out with your purse, we must have fairings now. _Thom._ 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. _Mar._ Whence are you, sir? of Suffolk? for your terms Are finer than the common sort of men.