Having marked that Mr. Agnew and Rose affected not Companie on this
Day, spent it chieflie by myself, except at Church and Meal-times;
partlie in my Chamber, partlie in the Garden Bowre by the Beehives.
Made manie Resolutions, which, in Church, I converted into Prayers and
Promises. Hence, my holy Peace.
Monday.
Rose proposed, this Morning, we shoulde resume our Studdies. Felt loath to comply, but did soe neverthelesse, and afterwards we walked manie Miles, 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.