_Bacon._ Miles, thou know'st that I have divèd into hell, And sought the darkest palaces of fiends; That with my magic spells great Belcephon Hath left his lodge and kneelèd at my cell; The rafters of the earth rent from the poles, And three-form'd Luna hid her silver looks, Trembling upon her concave continent, When Bacon read upon his magic book. With seven years' tossing necromantic charms, Poring upon dark Hecat's principles, I have fram'd out a monstrous head of brass, That, by the enchanting forces of the devil, Shall tell out strange and uncouth aphorisms, And girt fair England with a wall of brass. Bungay and I have watch'd these threescore days, And now our vital spirits crave some rest: If Argus liv'd, and had his hundred eyes, They could not over watch Phobetor's night. Now, Miles, in thee rests Friar Bacon's weal: The honour and renown of all his life Hangs in the watching of this Brazen Head; Therefore I charge thee by the immortal God, That holds the souls of men within his fist, This night thou watch; for ere the morning-star Sends out his glorious glister on the north, The head will speak: then, Miles, upon thy life, Wake me; for then by magic art I'll work To end my seven years' task with excellence. If that a wink but shut thy watchful eye, Then farewell Bacon's glory and his fame! Draw close the curtains, Miles: now, for thy life, Be watchful, and--[_Falls asleep._ _Miles._ So; I thought you would talk yourself asleep anon; and 'tis no marvel, for Bungay on the days, and he on the nights, have watch'd just these ten and fifty days: now this is the night, and 'tis my task, and no more. Now, Jesus bless me, what a goodly head it is! and a nose! you talk of _nos autem glorificare_;[223] but here's a nose that I warrant may be called _nos autem populare_ for the people of the parish. Well, I am furnished with weapons: now, sir, I will set me down by a post, and make it as good as a watchman to wake me, if I chance to slumber. I thought, Goodman Head, I would call you out of your _memento_ ... Passion o' God, I have almost broke my pate! [_A great noise._] Up, Miles, to your task; take your brown-bill[224] in your hand; here's some of your master's hobgoblins abroad. _The Brazen Head._ Time is. _Miles._ Time is! Why, Master Brazen-head, have you such a capital nose, and answer you with syllables, "Time is"? Is this all my master's cunning, to spend seven years' study about "Time is"? Well, sir, it may be we shall have some better orations of it anon: well, I'll watch you as narrowly as ever you were watched, and I'll play with you as the nightingale with the slow-worm; I'll set a prick against my breast. Now rest there, Miles.--Lord have mercy upon me, I have almost killed myself! [_A great noise._] Up, Miles; list how they rumble. _The Brazen Head._ Time was.