mutton to supper,
and a tester [145] in your purse, and go back again?

DICK. Ay, I pray you heartily, sir; for we called you but in jest,
I promise you.

MEPHIST. To purge the rashness of this cursed deed,
First, be thou turned to this ugly shape,
For apish deeds transformed to an ape.

ROBIN. O, brave! an ape! I pray, sir, let me have the carrying
of him about, to shew some tricks.

MEPHIST. And so thou shalt: be thou transformed to a dog, and
carry him upon thy back. Away! be gone!

ROBIN. A dog! that's excellent: let the maids look well to their
porridge-pots, for I'll into the kitchen presently.--Come, Dick,
come.
[Exeunt ROBIN and DICK.]

MEPHIST. Now with the flames of ever-burning fire
I'll wing myself, and forthwith fly amain(sic)
Unto my Faustus, to the Great Turk's court.
[Exit.]

Enter MARTINO and FREDERICK at several doors.

MARTINO. What, ho, officers, gentlemen!
Hie to the presence to attend the Emperor.--
Good Frederick, see the rooms be voided straight:
His majesty is coming to the hall;
Go back, and see the state [146] in readiness.

FREDERICK. But where is Bruno, our elected Pope,
That on a Fury's back came post from Rome?
Will not his grace consort the Emperor?

MARTINO. O, yes; and with him comes the German conjurer,
The learned Faustus, fame of Wittenberg,
The wonder of the world for magic art;
And he intends to shew great Carolus
The race of all his stout progenitors,
And bring in presence of his majesty
The royal shapes and perfect [147] semblances
Of Alexander and his beauteous paramour.

FREDERICK. Where is Benvolio?

MARTINO. Fast asleep, I warrant you;
He took his rouse [148] with stoops of Rhenish wine
So kindly yesternight to Bruno's health,
That all this day the sluggard keeps his bed.

FREDERICK. See, see, his window's ope! we'll call to him.

MARTINO. What, ho! Benvolio!

Enter BENVOLIO above, at a window, in his nightcap, buttoning.

BENVOLIO. What a devil ail you two?

MARTINO. Speak softly, sir, lest the devil hear you;
For Faustus at the court is late arriv'd,
And at his heels a [149] thousand Furies wait,
To accomplish whatsoe'er the doctor please.

BENVOLIO. What of this?

MARTINO