, to visit some poor Folk. This Evening, Mr. _Agnew_ read
us the Prologue to the _Canterbury Tales_. How lifelike are the
Portraitures! I mind me that Mr. _Milton_ shewed me the _Talbot_ Inn,
that Day we crost the River with Mr. _Marvell_.

_Tuesday_.

How heartilie do I wish I had never read that same Letter!--or rather,
that it had never beene written. Thus it is, even with our Wishes. We
think ourselves reasonable in wishing some small Thing were otherwise,
which it were quite as impossible to alter as some great Thing.
Neverthelesse I cannot help fretting over the Remembrance of that Part
wherein he spake such bitter Things of my "most ungoverned Passion for
Revellings and Junketings." Sure, he would not call my Life too merrie
now, could he see me lying wakefulle on my Bed, could he see me
preventing the Morning Watch, could he see me at my Prayers, at my
Books, at my Needle. . . . He shall find he hath judged too hardlie of
poor _Moll_, even yet.

_Wednesday_.

Took a cold Dinner in a Basket with us to-day, and ate our rusticall
Repast on the Skirt of a Wood, where we could see the Squirrels at
theire Gambols. Mr. _Agnew_ lay on the Grasse, and _Rose_ took out her
Knitting, whereat he laught, and sayd she was like the _Dutch_ Women,
that must knit, whether mourning or feasting, and even on the Sabbath.
Having laught her out of her Work, he drew forth Mr. _George Herbert's_
Poems, and read us a Strayn which pleased _Rose_ and me soe much, that
I shall copy it herein, to have always by me.

How fresh, oh Lord: how sweet and clean
Are thy Returns! e'en as the Flowers in Spring,
To which, beside theire owne Demesne,
The late pent Frosts Tributes of Pleasure bring.
Grief melts away like Snow in May,
As if there were noe such cold Thing.

Who would have thought my shrivelled Heart
Woulde have recovered greenness? it was gone
Quite Underground, as Flowers depart
To see their Mother-root, when they have blown,
Where they together, alle the hard Weather,
Dead to the World, keep House alone.

These are thy Wonders, Lord of Power!
Killing and quickening, bringing down to Hell
And up to Heaven, in an Hour,
Making a Chiming of a passing Bell,
We say amiss "this or that is:"
Thy Word is alle, if we could spell.

Oh that I once past changing were!
Fast in thy Paradise, where no Flowers can wither;
Manie a Spring I shoot up faire,
Offering at Heaven, g