nlie one I would even wish to see at my
bravest, when deepe Love casteth out Feare; and that is of Sister
_Anne_, whome I never associate with the Worme and Winding-sheete. Oh
no! I think _she_, at leaste, dwells amonge the Starres, having sprung
straite up into Lighte and Blisse the Moment she put off Mortalitie;
and if she, why not others? Are _Adam_ and _Abraham_ alle these Yeares
in the unconscious Tomb? Theire Bodies, but surelie not their
Spiritts? else, why dothe _Christ_ speak of _Lazarus_ lying in
_Abraham's_ Bosom, while the Brothers of _Dives_ are yet riotouslie
living? Yet what becomes of the Daye of generall Judgment, if some be
thus pre-judged? I must aske Mr. _Milton,--_yes, I thinke I can finde
it in my Heart to aske him about this in some solemn, stille Hour, and
perhaps he will sett at Rest manie Doubts and Misgivings that at
sundrie Times trouble me; being soe wise a Man.

_Bedtime_.

. . . Glad to steale away from the noisie Companie in the Supper-roome,
(comprising some of _Father's_ Fellow-magistrates,) I went down with
_Robin_ and _Kate_ to the Fish-ponds; it was scarce Sunset: and there,
while we threw Crumbs to the Fish and watched them come to the Surface,
were followed, or ever we were aware, by Mr. _Milton_, who sate down on
the stone Seat, drew _Robin_ between his Knees, stroked his Haire, and
askt what we were talking about. _Robin_ sayd I had beene telling them
a fairie Story; and Mr. _Milton_ observed that was an infinite
Improvement on the jangling, puzzle-headed Prating of Country Justices,
and wished I woulde tell it agayn. But I was afrayd. But _Robin_ had
no Feares; soe tolde the Tale roundlie; onlie he forgot the End. Soe
he found his Way backe to the Middle, and seemed likelie to make it
last alle Night; onlie Mr. _Milton_ sayd he seemed to have got into the
Labyrinth of _Crete_, and he must for Pitie's Sake give him the Clew.
Soe he finished _Robin's_ Story, and then tolde another, a most lovelie
one, of Ladies, and Princes, and Enchanters, and a brazen Horse, and he
sayd the End of _that_ Tale had been cut off too, by Reason the Writer
had died before he finished it. But _Robin_ cryed, "Oh! finish this
too," and hugged and kist him; soe he did; and methoughte the End was
better than the Beginninge. Then he sayd, "Now, sweet _Moll_, you have
onlie spoken this Hour past, by your Eyes; and we must heare your
pleasant Voice." "An Hour?" cries _Robin_. "Where are al