_Enter_ MILES _with a cloth and trenchers and salt._ _Miles. Salvete, omnes reges,_ That govern your _greges_ In Saxony and Spain, In England and in Almain! For all this frolic rabble Must I cover the table With trenchers, salt, and cloth; And then look for your broth. _Emp._ What pleasant fellow is this? _K. Hen._ 'Tis, my lord, Doctor Bacon's poor scholar. _Miles._ [_aside_]. My master hath made me sewer of these great lords; and, God knows, I am as serviceable at a table as a sow is under an apple-tree: 'tis no matter; their cheer shall not be great, and therefore what skills where the salt stand, before or behind?[216] [_Exit._ _K. of Cast._ These scholars know more skill in axioms, How to use quips and sleights of sophistry, Than for to cover courtly for a king. _Re-enter_ MILES _with a mess of pottage and broth; and after him,_ BACON. _Miles._ Spill, sir? why, do you think I never carried twopenny chop before in my life?-- By you leave, _nobile decus_, For here comes Doctor Bacon's _pecus_, Being in his full age To carry a mess of pottage. _Bacon._ Lordings, admire not if your cheer be this, For we must keep our academic fare; No riot where philosophy doth reign: And therefore, Henry, place these potentates, And bid them fall unto their frugal cates. _Emp._ Presumptuous friar! what, scoff'st thou at a king? What, dost thou taunt us with thy peasant's fare, And give us cates fit for country swains?-- Henry, proceeds this jest of thy consent, To twit us with a pittance of such price? Tell me, and Frederick will not grieve thee long. _K. Hen._ By Henry's honour, and the royal faith The English monarch beareth to his friend, I knew not of the friar's feeble fare, Nor am I pleas'd he entertains you thus. _Bacon._ Content thee, Frederick, for I show'd the cates To let thee see how scholars use to feed; How little meat refines our English wits:-- Miles, take away, and let it be thy dinner. _Miles._ Marry, sir, I will. This day shall be a festival-day with me, For I shall exceed in the highest degree. [_Exit._