Bacon. Oh, hold your handes, my lord, it is the glasse!
Edward. Coller to see the traitors gree so well
Made me[1358] thinke the shadowes substances. 130
Bacon. Twere a long poinard, my lord, to reach betweene Oxford and Fresingfield; but sit still and see more.[1359]
Bungay. Well, Lord of Lincolne, if your loves be knit,
And that your tongues and thoughts do both agree,
To avoid insuing jarres, Ile hamper up the match: 135
Ile take my portace[1360] forth and wed you heere.
Then go to bed and scale up your desires.
Lacie. Frier, content.—Peggie, how like you this?