Bacon. Feare not, my lord, Ile stop the jolly frier
For[1361] mumbling up[1362] his orisons this day. 150
Lacie. Why speakst not, Bungay? Frier, to thy booke.
Bungay is mute, crying, 'Hud, hud.'
Margret. How lookest thou, Frier, as a man distraught?
Reft of thy sences, Bungay? shew by signes,
If thou be dum, what passions[1363] holdeth thee.
Lacie. Hees dumbe indeed: Bacon hath with his divels 155
Enchanted him, or else some strange disease
Or appoplexie hath possest his lungs: