QueenʼsMen Editions

About this text

  • Title: Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay (Quarto)
  • Editors: Christopher Hicklin, Christopher Matusiak

  • Copyright Queen's Men Editions. This text may be freely used for educational, non-profit purposes; for all other uses contact the Editor.
    Author: Robert Greene
    Editors: Christopher Hicklin, Christopher Matusiak
    Peer Reviewed

    Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay (Quarto)

    The honourable historie of Frier Bacon.
    Seeds must haue time to sprout before they spring,
    720Loue ought to creepe as doth the dials shade,
    For timely ripe is rotten too too soone.
    Bungay. Deus hic, roome for a merry Frier,
    What youth of Beckles, with the keepers lasse,
    Tis well, but tell me heere you any newes.
    725Margret. No, Frier what newes.
    Bungay. Heere you not how the purseuants do post,
    With proclamations through ech country towne:
    Lacie. For what gentle frier tell the newes.
    Bungay. Dwelst thou in Beckles & heerst not of these news,
    730Lacie the Earle of Lincolne is late fled
    From Windsor court disguised like a swaine,
    And lurkes about the countrie heere vnknowne.
    Henrie suspects him of some trecherie,
    And therefore doth proclaime in euery way,
    735That who can take the Lincolne earle, shall haue
    Paid in the Exchequer twentie thousand crownes.
    Lacie. The earle of Lincoln, Frier thou art mad,
    It was some other, thou mistakest the man:
    The earle of Lincolne, why it cannot be.
    740Margret. Yes verie well my lord, for you are he,
    The keepers daughter tooke you prisoner,
    Lord Lacie yeeld, Ile be your gailor once.
    Edward. How familiar they be Bacon.
    Bacon. Sit still and marke the sequell of their loues.
    745Lacie. Then am I double prisoner to thy selfe,
    Peggie, I yeeld, but are these newes in iest,
    Margret. In iest with you, but earnest vnto me:
    For why, these wrongs do wring me at the heart,
    Ah how these earles and noble men of birth,
    750Flatter and faine to forge poore womens ill.
    Lacie. Beleeue me lasse, I am the Lincolne earle,
    I not denie, but tyred thus in rags
    I liued disguisd to winne fair Peggies loue.
    Margret. What loue is there where wedding ends not loue?