_Mar._ Did not my lord resign his interest, And make divorce 'twixt Margaret and him? _Lacy._ 'Twas but to try sweet Peggy's constancy. But will fair Margaret leave her love and lord? _Mar._ Is not heaven's joy before earth's fading bliss, And life above sweeter than life in love? _Lacy._ Why, then, Margaret will be shorn a nun? _Mar._ Margaret hath made a vow which may not be revok'd. _War._ We cannot stay, my lord; an if she be so strict, Our leisure grants us not to woo afresh. _Erms._ Choose you, fair damsel,--yet the choice is yours,-- Either a solemn nunnery or the court, God or Lord Lacy: which contents you best, To be a nun, or else Lord Lacy's wife? _Lacy._ A good motion.--Peggy, your answer must be short. _Mar._ The flesh is frail; my lord doth know it well, That when he comes with his enchanting face, Whate'er betide I cannot say him nay. Off goes the habit of a maiden's heart, And, seeing fortune will, fair Framlingham, And all the show of holy nuns, farewell! Lacy for me, if he will be my lord. _Lacy._ Peggy, thy lord, thy love, thy husband. Trust me, by truth of knighthood, that the king Stays for to marry matchless Elinor, Until I bring thee richly to the court, That one day may both marry her and thee.-- How say'st thou, Keeper? art thou glad of this? _Keeper._ As if the English king had given The park and deer of Fressingfield to me. _Erms._ I pray thee, my lord of Sussex, why art thou in a brown study? _War._ To see the nature of women; that be they never so near God, yet they love to die in a man's arms. _Lacy._ What have you fit for breakfast? We have hied And posted all this night to Fressingfield. _Mar._ Butter and cheese, and umbles of a deer, Such as poor keepers have within their lodge. _Lacy._ And not a bottle of wine? _Mar._ We'll find one for my lord. _Lacy._ Come, Sussex, let us in: we shall have more, For she speaks least, to hold her promise sure. [_Exeunt._ SCENE II.--FRIAR BACON'S _Cell._ _Enter a_ Devil. _Dev._ How restless are the ghosts of hellish spirits, When every charmer with his magic spells, Calls us from nine-fold-trenchèd Phlegethon, To scud and over-scour the earth in post Upon the speedy wings of swiftest winds! Now Bacon hath rais'd me from the darkest deep, To search about the world for Miles his man, For Miles, and to torment his lazy bones For careless watching of his Brazen Head. See where he comes: O, he is mine! _Enter_ MILES _in a gown and a corner-cap._