_Mar._ Yes, Bungay, and would God the lovely earl Had that _in esse_, that so many sought. _Bun._ Fear not, the friar will not be behind To show his cunning to entangle love. _P. Edw._ I think the friar courts the bonny wench; Bacon, methinks he is a lusty churl. _Bacon._ Now look, my lord. _Enter_ LACY _disguised as before._ _P. Edw._ Gog's wounds, Bacon, here comes Lacy! _Bacon._ Sit still, my lord, and mark the comedy. _Bun._ Here's Lacy, Margaret, step aside awhile. [_Retires with_ MARGARET. _Lacy._ Daphne, the damsel that caught Phœbus fast, And lock'd him in the brightness of her looks, Was not so beauteous in Apollo's eyes As is fair Margaret to the Lincoln Earl. Recant thee, Lacy, thou art put in trust:-- Edward, thy sovereign's son, hath chosen thee, A secret friend, to court her for himself, And dar'st thou wrong thy prince with treachery?-- Lacy, love makes no exception of a friend, Nor deems it of a prince but as a man. Honour bids thee control him in his lust; His wooing is not for to wed the girl, But to entrap her and beguile the lass. Lacy, thou lov'st; then brook not such abuse, But wed her, and abide thy prince's frown: For better die, than see her live disgrac'd. _Mar._ Come, friar, I will shake him from his dumps.-- [_Comes forward._ How cheer you, sir? a penny for your thought: You're early up, pray God it be the near.[198] What, come from Beccles in a morn so soon? _Lacy._ Thus watchful are such men as live in love, Whose eyes brook broken slumbers for their sleep. I tell thee, Peggy, since last Harleston fair My mind hath felt a heap of passions. _Mar._ A trusty man, that court it for your friend: Woo you still for the courtier all in green?-- [_Aside._] I marvel that he sues not for himself. _Lacy._ Peggy, I pleaded first to get your grace for him; But when mine eyes survey'd your beauteous looks, Love, like a wag, straight div'd into my heart, And there did shrine the idea of yourself. Pity me, though I be a farmer's son, And measure not my riches, but my love. _Mar._ You are very hasty; for to garden well, Seeds must have time to sprout before they spring: Love ought to creep as doth the dial's shade, For timely ripe is rotten too-too soon. _Bun._ [_coming forward_]. _Deus hic_; room for a merry friar! What, youth of Beccles, with the Keeper's lass? 'Tis well; but tell me, hear you any news. _Mar._ No, friar: what news? _Bun._ Hear you not how the pursuivants do post With proclamations through each country-town? _Lacy._ For what, gentle friar? tell the news.