_Miles._ Well, Friar Bacon, you have spent your seven years' study well, that can make your head speak but two words at once, "Time was." Yea, marry, time was when my master was a wise man, but that was before he began to make the Brazen Head. You shall lie while your arse ache, an your Head speak no better. Well, I will watch, and walk up and down, and be a peripatetian and a philosopher of Aristotle's stamp. [_A great noise._] What, a fresh noise? Take thy pistols in hand, Miles. _The Brazen Head._ Time is past. [_A lightning flashes forth, and a hand appears that breaks down the_ Head _with a hammer._ _Miles._ Master, master, up! hell's broken loose; your Head speaks; and there's such a thunder and lightning, that I warrant all Oxford is up in arms. Out of your bed, and take a brown-bill in your hand; the latter day is come. _Bacon._ Miles, I come. O passing warily watch'd! Bacon will make thee next himself in love. When spake the head? _Miles._ When spake the head! did not you say that he should tell strange principles of philosophy? Why, sir, it speaks but two words at a time. _Bacon._ Why, villain, hath it spoken oft? _Miles._ Oft! ay, marry, hath it, thrice: but in all those three times it hath uttered but seven words. _Bacon._ As how? _Miles._ Marry, sir, the first time he said, "Time is," as if Fabius Cumentator[225] should have pronounced a sentence; [the second time] he said "Time was"; and the third time with thunder and lightning, as in great choler, he said, "Time is past." _Bacon._ 'Tis past indeed. Ah, villain! time is past: My life, my fame, my glory, all are past.-- Bacon, the turrets of thy hope are ruin'd down, Thy seven years' study lieth in the dust: Thy Brazen Head lies broken through a slave, That watch'd, and would not when the Head did will.-- What said the Head first? _Miles._ Even, sir, "Time is." _Bacon._ Villain, if thou hadst call'd to Bacon then, If thou hadst watch'd, and wak'd the sleepy friar, The Brazen Head had utter'd aphorisms, And England had been circled round with brass: But proud Asmenoth, ruler of the north, And Demogorgon, master of the fates, Grudge that a mortal man should work so much. Hell trembled at my deep-commanding spells, Fiends frown'd to see a man their over-match; Bacon might boast more than a man might boast: But now the braves of Bacon have an end, Europe's conceit of Bacon hath an end, His seven years' practice sorteth to ill end: And, villain, sith my glory hath an end, I will appoint thee to some fatal end. Villain, avoid! get thee from Bacon's sight! Vagrant, go roam and range about the world, And perish as a vagabond on earth. _Miles._ Why, then, sir, you forbid me your service? _Bacon._ My service, villain! with a fatal curse, That direful plagues and mischief fall on thee.