I sat me down to watch, upon a Bank,
With Ivy canopied, and interwove
With flaunting Honeysuckle, and beganne,
Wrapt in a pleasing Fit of Melancholic,
To meditate.
The Text of my Meditation was this, drawne from the same loved Source:—
This I hold firm:
Virtue may be assayled, but never hurt,
Surprised by unjust Force, but not enthralled:
Yea, even that which Mischief meant most Harm,
Shall, in the happy Trial, prove most Glory.
But who hath such Virtue? have I? hath he? No, we have both gone astray, and done amiss, and wrought sinfullie; but I worst, I first, therefore more neede that I humble myself, and pray for both.
There is one, more unhappie, perhaps, than either. The King, most misfortunate Gentleman! who knoweth not which Way to turn, nor whom to trust. Last Time I saw him, methought never was there a Face soe full of Woe.
May 6, 1646.
The King hath escaped! He gave Orders overnight at alle the Gates, for three Persons to passe; and, accompanied onlie by Mr. Ashburnham, and Mr. Hurd, rode forthe at Nightfalle, towards London. Sure, he will not throw himselfe into the Hands of Parliament?
Mother is affrighted beyond Measure at the near Neighbourhood of Fairfax's Army, and entreats Father to leave alle behind, and flee with us into the City. It may yet be done; and we alle share her Feares.
Saturday Even.
Packing up in greate haste, after a confused Family Council, wherein some fresh Accounts of the Rebels' Advances, broughte in by Diggory, made my Father the sooner consent to a stolen Flight into Oxford, Diggory being left behind in Charge. Time of Flight, to-morrow after Dark, the Puritans being busie at theire Sermons. The better the Day, the better the Deede.—Heaven make it soe!