The wild wind is abroad, and, methinketh, nothing else. Sure, how it rages through our empty courts! In such a season, men, beasts, and fowls cower beneath ye shelter of their rocking walls, yet almost fear to trust them. Lord, I know that thou canst give the tempest double force, but do not, I beseech thee! Oh! have mercy on the frail dwelling and the ship at sea.
Dear little Bill hath ta'en a feverish attack. I watch beside him while his nurse sleeps. Earlie in the night his mind wandered, and he told me of a pretty ring-streaked poney noe bigger than a bee, that had golden housings and barley-sugar eyes; then dozed, but ever and anon kept starting up, crying "Mammy, dear!" and softlie murmured "Oh" when he saw I was by. At length I gave him my forefinger to hold, which kept him ware of my presence without speaking, but presentlie he stares hard toward ye foot of the bed, and says fearfullie, "Mother, why hangs yon hatchet in the air, with its sharp edge turned toward us?" I rise, move the lamp, and say, "Do you see it now?" He sayth, "No, not now," and closes his eyes. After a good space, during the which I hoped he slept, he says in quite an altered tone, most like unto soft, sweet music, "There's a pretty little cherub there now, alle head and noe body, with two little wings aneath his chin; but, for alle he's soe pretty, he is just like dear Gaffer, and seems to know me ... and he'll have a body agayn, too, I believe, by and by ... Mother, mother, tell Hobbinol there's such a gentle lamb in heaven!" And soe, slept.
He's gone, my pretty ...! slipt through my fingers like a bird! upfled to his own native skies, and yet whenas I think on him, I can not choose but weepe.... Such a guileless little lamb!... My Billy-bird! his mother's owne heart. They are alle wondrous kind to' me....
How strange that a little child shoulde be permitted to suffer soe much payn, when of such is the kingdom of heaven! But 'tis onlie transient, whereas a mother makes it permanent, by thinking it over and over agayn. One lesson it taughte us betimes, that a naturall death is not, necessarilie, the most easie. We must alle die.... As poor Patteson was used to say, "The greatest king that ever was made, must bed at last with shovel and spade," ... and I'd sooner have my Billy's baby deathbed than King Harry's, or Nan Boleyn's either, however manie years they may yet carry matters with a high hand. Oh, you ministers of evill, whoever you be, visible or invisible, you shall not build a wall between my God and me.... I've something within me, grows stronger and stronger, as times grow more and more evill; some woulde call it resolution, but methinketh 'tis faith.
Meantime, father's foes ... alack that anie can shew 'emselves such! are aiming by fayr seemings of friendlie conference, to draw from him admissions they can come at after noe other fashion. The new Solicitor General hath gone to ye Tower to deprive him of ye few books I have taken him from time to time.... Ah, Master Rich, you must deprive him of his brains afore you can rob him of their contents!... and, while having 'em packt up, he falls into easie dialogue with him, as thus ... "Why now, sure, Mr. More, were there an act of parliament made that all ye realm shoulde take me for king, you woulde take me for such with the rest."
"Aye, that would I, sir," returns father.
"Forsooth, then," pursues Rich, "we'll suppose another act that should make me the Pope. Would you not take me for Pope?"
"Or suppose another case, Mr. Rich," returns father, "that another act shoulde pass, that God shoulde not be God, would you say well and good?"