Bacon. What book studied you thereon all night?
Burd. I! none at all; I read not there a line.
Bacon. Then, doctors, Friar Bacon's art knows naught.
Clem. What say you to this, Master Burden? doth he not touch you?
Burd. I pass not of[185] his frivolous speeches.
Miles. Nay, Master Burden, my master, ere he hath done with you, will turn you from a doctor to a dunce, and shake you so small, that he will leave no more learning in you than is in Balaam's ass.
Bacon. Masters, for that learn'd Burden's skill is deep,
And sore he doubts of Bacon's cabalism,
I'll show you why he haunts to Henley oft:
Not, doctors, for to taste the fragrant air,
But there to spend the night in alchemy,
To multiply with secret spells of art;
Thus private steals he learning from us all.
To prove my sayings true, I'll show you straight
The book he keeps at Henley for himself.
Miles. Nay, now my master goes to conjuration, take heed.
Bacon. Masters, stand still, fear not, I'll show you but his book. [Conjures. Per omnes deos infernales, Belcephon!