Enter Hostess with a shoulder of mutton on a spit, and a Devil.
Miles. O, master, cease your conjuration, or you spoil all; for here's a she-devil come with a shoulder of mutton on a spit: you have marred the devil's supper; but no doubt he thinks our college fare is slender, and so hath sent you his cook with a shoulder of mutton, to make it exceed.
Hostess. O, where am I, or what's become of me?
Bacon. What art thou?
Hostess. Hostess at Henley, mistress of the Bell.
Bacon. How camest thou here?
Hostess. As I was in the kitchen 'mongst the maids,
Spitting the meat against supper for my guess,[186]
A motion mov'd me to look forth of door:
No sooner had I pried into the yard,
But straight a whirlwind hoisted me from thence,
And mounted me aloft unto the clouds.
As in a trance I thought nor fearèd naught,
Nor know I where or whither I was ta'en,
Nor where I am, nor what these persons be.
Bacon. No? know you not Master Burden?
Hostess. O, yes, good sir, he is my daily guest.—
What, Master Burden! 'twas but yesternight
That you and I at Henley play'd at cards.
Burd. I know not what we did.—A pox of all conjuring friars!
Clem. Now, jolly friar, tell us, is this the book that Burden is so careful to look on?