_Bacon._ Crave not such actions greater dumps than these? I will, my lord, strain out my magic spells; For this day comes the earl to Fressingfield, And 'fore that night shuts in the day with dark, They'll be betrothèd each to other fast. But come with me; we'll to my study straight, And in a glass prospective[194] I will show What's done this day in merry Fressingfield. _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. _War._ We will, my lord. _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._ SCENE III.--FRIAR BACON'S _Cell._ 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] What sees my lord? _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?