F. B. Son to your noble lordship.

L. L. Well done, my boy. What hath called thee here?

F. B. I came to see thyself.

L. L. What seek ye, Francis?

F. B. My lord, cheer up your heart. Your foes are

nigh,

And this soft courage makes your followers faint.
L. L. Hold, villain! hold! Should I suspect
Thou wouldst betray me, I would murder thee.

F. B. I am too mean a subject for thy wrath;
Upon her grace, be thou reveng'd and let me live;
But kill me with thy weapon, not with words,
Or, rather, use thy sword to rid thee of thy foes;
My breast can better brook thy dagger's point,
Than can my ears, among this company,

Hear thee so make our gracious Queen thy theme!
If thou please, let us hence, and thus avoid

Her ill-timed suspicion. Bitter fear

O'er-shades me; it is folly, in the streets

So to babble and talk. Thy fingers to thy lips,

And I will respect thee as a father,

But thy discretion better can persuade,

Than I am able to instruct or teach;

Therefore let us go cheerfully together,

And digest thy angry choler on thine enemies.

If thou forsake our gracious Queen,

To waste thyself upon a fugitive,

Thou art not worthy, sir, of preservation.

L. L. Boy, by my soul, she knew not what she did

When thus she spake to me. Knowest thou

That I am banished? Ah! hadst thou heard

Her foul reproaches, full deeply then,
Thou hadst divin'd my unqualitied shame.

F. B. My lord, I have heard and seen all.
L. L. Well then,

Should I not ease my heart, even if it be
With hazard of my head? I prithee, boy,
Trouble me no more.

F. B. What valor were it, when a cur doth grin,
For one to thrust his hand between his teeth,
When he might spurn him with his foot away?
To take all vantages, is no impeach

Of valor, sir. What would your lordship do?
Make stand against the Queen?

My lord, so strives the woodcock with the gynne,
So doth the connie struggle in the net.

L. L. So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd booty.
F. B. So true men yield, with robbers so o'ermatcht.
Wrath makes you deaf; you talk like one that doth
Upon a mole-hill stand, and reach with outstretcht arms,
At rocky mountains, yet, when all is done,
Hath parted but the shadow with his hand.
Come, your father's, Northumberland's, head—
After many scorns, many foul taunts-they took,
And on the gates they set the same, and there
It did remain, the saddest spectacle
That ere was view'd: and, ten to one, she'll do
To you as was unto Northumberland done.

L. L. I know it well; yet blame me not. She forbade my tongue to speak, and boy,

I' th' presence of my servants, aye, with outstretcht throat, Did tell the world aloud my privy faults.

F. B. The fox barks not, when he would steal the lamb;

Dismiss your followers and abate your wrath.
I grant that oft she puts her tongue to speech
Not fit for Albion's sovereign; but for you,
My lord, it had been better you had kiss'd
Your three fingers, than with your tongue to tell
The passion of your heart. She is your Queen,
And heedful ears may chance to find you out;
Then will thick darkness and the gloomy shade
Of death environ you, till mischief and despair
Drive you to break your neck, or hang yourself.
L. L. Peace, peace!

Boiling choler chokes the passage of my voice!

I'll plant the Scottish Queen even in the chair of state. This answer (at my dearest cost) I will

Return to her.

F. B. My gracious lord, the cedar,

Whose arms give shelter to the princely eagle,
Under whose shade the ramping lion sleeps,

Whose top-branch overpeers Jove's spreading tree,

And keeps low shrubs from Winter's powerful wind,
Yields to the axe's edge: those eyes,

That now are piercing as the mid-day sun

To search the secrets of the world,

Will then be dimm'd with death's black veil;

The wrinkles on your brows, which have been liken'd oft

To kingly sepulchres, with blood be fill'd;

Your glory smear'd in dust and blood; your parks,

Your walks, your manors, be delivered

Unto your foes; and of all your lands,

Naught will be left but your poor body's length.
Dig not your grave! turn not to earth and dust!
Away, away! live, rule and reign!

Turn th' leaf and read, and in the interim,
Having weigh'd it, recover all your loss again.
Think what hath chanc'd, is but new honors come
Upon you, which like to strange garments, fit
Not to their mould but with the aid of use.
Be patient, good my lord, cease to lament.

L. L. Thy speech shows fair; be thou my advocate With the angry Queen.

F. B. What would you have me plead for, my lord?
L. L. As thou lovest and tenderest me,

Dissuade the Queen from having me banish'd.
Oh! banished!-that one word-banished!
It presses to my memory,

Like evil deeds to dying sinners' minds!
Plead for me that I be not exiled.

F. B. My lord, your lordship knows, it lies
Not in my power to dissuade the Queen;
But I will testify my zeal unto the crown,

And, as I bear your name, with show of zeal
Will speak in your behalf. Why look you still
So stern and tragical?

Ĺ. L. Thou wilt be repuls'd.

F. B. It may be very likely; but I hope
That words, sweetly placed and modestly directed,
Will change her mind and save you from exile.
Come, my lord, break not now into passion,
But speak her fair and flatter, most obsequious
And willing.

L. L. Knowing how hardly I can brook abuse,
It is not well, thus boldly to whip me!
Yet I, in silence, will keep in, and if
There yet remains of thy persuading art

A little remnant, why, appease, I pray,
Our jealous Queen.

F. B. My lord, I will plead well
Your fair deserts, and be assur❜d I will
Repeal you, or adventure to be banished

Myself. But look, my lord, our torches die.

L. L. Do not light them.

I'll lock thy worthy counsel in my breast,
And what I do imagine, let it rest.

(Exeunt.)

Scena Secunda.

(Audience Room of the Palace.)

QUEEN ELIZABETH and MASTER FRANCIS BACON.

Queen Elizabeth. Well pleadest thou, for this great

peer,

But tell me, sith that thou and I are here,

How is't t'enrich the storehouse of thy powerful wit,
That this great bagpipe man, that roars so loud
And thunders in the night, comes not himself?

Francis Bacon. He hath sent me in his stead, and

As did Aeneas old Anchises bear,

So bear I, upon my manly shoulders,
My father's fame; but Aeneas bare a living load,
Nothing so heavy as these woes of his.
Uncurable discomfit reigns within

His heart, and he doth entreat your grace, that
Have into monstrous habits put the graces
That once were his, with charity to interpret