The booke he keepes at Henly for himselfe. 110
Miles. Nay, now my maister goes to conjuration, take heed.
Bacon. Maisters,[1300] stand still, feare not, Ile shewe you but his booke.
Here he conjures.
Per omnes deos infernales, Belcephon! 114
Enter a Woman with a shoulder of mutton on a spit, and a Devill.
Miles. Oh, maister, cease your conjuration, or you spoile all; for heeres a shee divell come with a shoulder of mutton on a spit: you have mard the divels supper; but no doubt hee thinkes our colledge fare is slender, and so hath sent you his cooke with a shoulder of mutton, to make it exceed.
Hostesse. Oh, where am I, or whats become of me? 120
Bacon. What art thou?
Hostesse. Hostesse at Henly, mistresse of the Bell.