principle, that I
encouraged the doing it almost before my face.

I say but too justly that I was empty of principle, because, as above, I
had yielded to him, not as deluded to believe it lawful, but as overcome
by his kindness, and terrified at the fear of my own misery if he should
leave me. So with my eyes open, and with my conscience, as I may say,
awake, I sinned, knowing it to be a sin, but having no power to resist.
When this had thus made a hole in my heart, and I was come to such a
height as to transgress against the light of my own conscience, I was
then fit for any wickedness, and conscience left off speaking where it
found it could not be heard.

But to return to our story. Having consented, as above, to his proposal,
we had not much more to do. He gave me my writings, and the bond for my
maintenance during his life, and for five hundred pounds after his
death. And so far was he from abating his affection to me afterwards,
that two years after we were thus, as he called it, married, he made his
will, and gave me a thousand pounds more, and all my household stuff,
plate, &c., which was considerable too.

Amy put us to bed, and my new friend--I cannot call him husband--was so
well pleased with Amy for her fidelity and kindness to me that he paid
her all the arrear of her wages that I owed her, and gave her five
guineas over; and had it gone no farther, Amy had richly deserved what
she had, for never was a maid so true to her mistress in such dreadful
circumstances as I was in. Nor was what followed more her own fault than
mine, who led her almost into it at first, and quite into it at last;
and this may be a farther testimony what a hardness of crime I was now
arrived to, which was owing to the conviction, that was from the
beginning upon me, that I was a whore, not a wife; nor could I ever
frame my mouth to call him husband or to say "my husband" when I was
speaking of him.

We lived, surely, the most agreeable life, the grand exception only
excepted, that ever two lived together. He was the most obliging,
gentlemanly man, and the most tender of me, that ever woman gave herself
up to. Nor was there ever the least interruption to our mutual kindness,
no, not to the last day of his life. But I must bring Amy's disaster in
at once, that I may have done with her.

Amy was dressing me one morning, for now I had two maids, and Amy was my
chambermaid. "Dear madam," says Amy, "what! a'nt you with child yet?"
"N