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, growing and groaning thither,
Nor doth my Flower want a Spring Shower,
My Sins and I joyning together.
But while I grow in a straight Line,
Still upwards bent, as if Heaven were my own,
Thy Anger comes, and I decline.—
What Frost to that! What Pole is not the Zone
Where alle Things burn, when thou dost turn,
And the least Frown of thine is shewn?
And now, in Age, I bud agayn,
After soe manie Deaths, I bud and write,
I once more smell the Dew and Rain,
And relish Versing! Oh my onlie Light!
It cannot be that I am he
On whom thy Tempests fell alle Night?
These are thy Wonders, Lord of Love,
To make us see we are but Flowers that glide,
Which, when we once can feel and prove,
Thou hast a Garden for us where to bide.
Who would be more, swelling their Store,
Forfeit their Paradise by theire Pride.
Thursday.
Father sent over Diggory with a Letter for me from deare Robin: alsoe, to ask when I was minded to return Home, as Mother wants to goe to Sandford. Fixed the Week after next; but Rose says I must be here agayn at the Apple-gathering. Answered Robin's Letter. He looketh not for Choyce of fine Words; nor noteth an Error here and there in the Spelling.
Tuesday.
Life flows away here in such unmarked Tranquilitie, that one hath Nothing whereof to write, or to remember what distinguished one Day from another. I am sad, yet not dulle; methinks I have grown some Yeares older since I came here. I can fancy elder Women feeling much as I doe now. I have Nothing to desire. Nothing to hope, that is likelie to come to pass—Nothing to regret, except I begin soe far back, that my whole Life hath neede, as 'twere, to begin over agayn. . . .
Mr. Agnew translates to us Portions of Thuanus his Historie, and the Letters of Theodore Bexa, concerning the French Reformed Church; oft prolix, yet interesting, especially with Mr. Agnew's Comments, and Allusions to our own Time. On the other Hand, Rose reads Davila, the sworne Apologiste of Catherine de' Medicis, whose charming Italian even I can comprehende; but alle is false and plausible. How sad, that the wrong Partie shoulde be victorious! Soe it may befall in this Land; though, indeede, I have hearde soe much bitter Rayling on bothe Sides, that I know not which is right. The Line of Demarcation is not soe distinctly drawn, methinks, as 'twas in France. Yet it cannot be right to take up Arms agaynst constituted Authorities?—Yet, and if those same Authorities abuse their Trust? Nay, Women cannot understand these Matters, and I thank Heaven they need not. Onlie, they cannot help siding with those they love; and sometimes those they love are on opposite Sides.
Mr. Agnew sayth, the secular Arm shoulde never be employed in spirituall Matters, and that the Hugenots committed a grave Mistake in choosing Princes and Admirals for their Leaders, insteade of simple Preachers with Bibles in their hands; and he askt, "did Luther or Peter the Hermit most manifestlie labour with the Blessing of God?"