_Mar._ First, for thou cam'st from Lacy whom I lov'd,-- Ah, give me leave to sigh at every thought!-- Take thou, my friend, the hundred pound he sent; For Margaret's resolution craves no dower: The world shall be to her as vanity; Wealth, trash; love, hate; pleasure, despair: For I will straight to stately Framlingham, And in the abbey there be shorn a nun, And yield my loves and liberty to God. Fellow, I give thee this, not for the news, For those be hateful unto Margaret, But for thou'rt Lacy's man, once Margaret's love.
_Post._ What I have heard, what passions I have seen, I'll make report of them unto the earl.
_Mar._ Say that she joys his fancies be at rest. And prays that his misfortune may be hers. [_Exeunt._
FRIAR BACON _draws the curtains and is discovered, lying on a bed,_[222] _with a white stick in one hand, a book in the other, and a lamp lighted beside him; and the_ Brazen Head, _and_ MILES _with weapons by him._
_Miles._ Think you that the watching of the Brazen Head craves no furniture? I warrant you, sir, I have so armed myself that if all your devils come, I will not fear them an inch.
_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._