_Forest Hill, Oxon, May 1st, 1643_.
. . . Seventeenth Birthdaye. A Gypsie Woman at the Gate woulde faine
have tolde my Fortune; but _Mother_ chased her away, saying she had
doubtlesse harboured in some of the low Houses in _Oxford_, and mighte
bring us the Plague. Coulde have cried for Vexation; she had promised
to tell me the Colour of my Husband's Eyes; but _Mother_ says she
believes I shall never have one, I am soe sillie. _Father_ gave me a
gold Piece. Dear _Mother_ is chafed, methinks, touching this Debt of
five hundred Pounds, which _Father_ says he knows not how to pay.
Indeed, he sayd, overnighte, his whole personal Estate amounts to but
five hundred Pounds, his Timber and Wood to four hundred more, or
thereabouts; and the Tithes and Messuages of _Whateley_ are no great
Matter, being mortgaged for about as much moore, and he hath lent
Sights of Money to them that won't pay, so 'tis hard to be thus prest.
Poor _Father_! 'twas good of him to give me this gold Piece.
_May 2nd, 1643_.
Cousin _Rose_ married to Master _Roger Agnew_. Present, _Father,
Mother_, and _Brother_ of _Rose_. _Father, Mother, Dick, Bob, Harry_,
and I; Squire _Paice_ and his Daughter _Audrey_; an olde Aunt of Master
_Roger's_, and one of his Cousins, a stiffe-backed Man with large
Eares, and such a long Nose! Cousin _Rose_ looked bewtifulle--pitie so
faire a Girl should marry so olde a Man--'tis thoughte he wants not
manie Years of fifty.
_May 7th, 1643_.
New Misfortunes in the Poultrie Yarde. Poor _Mother's_ Loyalty cannot
stand the Demands for her best Chickens, Ducklings, etc., for the Use
of his Majesty's Officers since the King hath beene in _Oxford_. She
accuseth my _Father_ of having beene wonne over by a few faire Speeches
to be more of a Royalist than his natural Temper inclineth him to;
which, of course, he will not admit.
_May 8th, 1643_.
Whole Day taken up in a Visit to _Rose_, now a Week married, and growne
quite matronlie already. We reached _Sheepscote_ about an Hour before
Noone. A long, broade, strait Walke of green Turf, planted with
Hollyoaks, Sunflowers, etc., and some earlier Flowers alreadie in
Bloom, led up to the rusticall Porch of a truly farm-like House, with
low gable Roofs, a long lattice Window on either Side the Doore, and
three Casements above. Such, and no more, is _Rose's_ House! But she
is happy, for she came running forthe, soe soone as she hearde
_Clover's_ Feet, and helped me from my Saddle all smiling, tho' she had
not expected to see us. We had Curds and Creame; and she wished it
were the Time of Strawberries, for she sayd they had large Beds; and
then my _Father_ and the Boys went forthe to looke for Master _Agnew_.
Then _Rose_ took me up to her Chamber, singing as she went; and the
long, low Room was sweet with Flowers. Sayd I, "_Rose_, to be Mistress
of this pretty Cottage, 'twere hardlie amisse to marry a Man as olde as
Master _Roger_." "Olde!" quoth she, "deare _Moll_, you must not deeme
him olde; why, he is but fortytwo; and am not I twenty-three?" She
lookt soe earneste and hurte, that I coulde not but falle a laughing.
_May 9th, 1643_.
_Mother_ gone to _Sandford_. She hopes to get Uncle _John_ to lend
_Father_ this Money. _Father_ says she may _try_. Tis harde to
discourage her with an ironicalle Smile, when she is doing alle she
can, and more than manie Women woulde, to help _Father_ in his
Difficultie; but suche, she sayth somewhat bitterlie, is the lot of our
Sex. She bade _Father_ mind that she had brought him three thousand
Pounds, and askt what had come of them. Answered; helped to fille the
Mouths of nine healthy Children, and stop the Mouth of an easie
Husband; soe, with a Kiss, made it up. I have the Keys, and am left
Mistresse of alle, to my greate Contentment; but the Children clamour
for Sweetmeats, and _Father_ sayth, "Remember, _Moll_, Discretion is
the better Part of Valour."
After _Mother_ had left, went into the Paddock, to feed the Colts with
Bread; and while they were putting their Noses into _Robin's_ Pockets,
_Dick_ brought out the two Ponies, and set me on one of them, and we
had a mad Scamper through the Meadows and down the Lanes; I leading.
Just at the Turne of _Holford's Close_, came shorte upon a Gentleman
walking under the Hedge, clad in a sober, genteel Suit, and of most
beautifulle Countenance, with Hair like a Woman's, of a lovely pale
brown, long and silky, falling over his Shoulders. I nearlie went over
him, for _Clover's_ hard Forehead knocked agaynst his Chest; but he
stoode it like a Rock; and lookinge firste at me and then at _Dick_, he
smiled and spoke to my Brother, who seemed to know him, and turned
about and walked by us, sometimes stroaking _Clover's_ shaggy Mane. I
felte a little ashamed; for _Dick_ had sett me on the Poney just as I
was, my Gown somewhat too shorte for riding: however, I drewe up my
Feet and let _Clover_ nibble a little Grasse, and then got rounde to
the neare Side, our new Companion stille between us. He offered me
some wild Flowers, and askt me theire Names; and when I tolde them, he
sayd I knew more than he did, though he accounted himselfe a prettie
fayre Botaniste: and we went on thus, talking of the Herbs and Simples
in the Hedges; and I sayd how prettie some of theire Names were, and
that, methought, though Adam had named alle the Animals in Paradise,
perhaps Eve had named alle the Flowers. He lookt earnestlie at me, on
this, and muttered "prettie." Then _Dick_ askt of him News from
_London_, and he spoke, methought, reservedlie; ever and anon turning
his bright, thoughtfulle Eyes on me. At length, we parted at the Turn
of the Lane.
I askt _Dick_ who he was, and he told me he was one Mr. _John Milton_,
the Party to whom _Father_ owed five hundred Pounds. He was the Sonne
of a _Buckinghamshire_ Gentleman, he added, well connected, and very
scholarlike, but affected towards the Parliament. His Grandsire, a
zealous Papiste, formerly lived in _Oxon_, and disinherited the Father
of this Gentleman for abjuring the _Romish_ Faith.
When I found how faire a Gentleman was _Father's_ Creditor, I became
the more interested in deare _Mother's_ Successe.
_May 13th, 1643_.
_Dick_ began to harpe on another Ride to _Sheepscote_ this Morning, and
persuaded _Father_ to let him have the bay Mare, soe he and I started
at aboute Ten o' the Clock. Arrived at Master _Agnew's_ Doore, found
it open, no one in Parlour or Studdy; soe _Dick_ tooke the Horses
rounde, and then we went straite thro' the House, into the Garden
behind, which is on a rising Ground, with pleached Alleys and turfen
Walks, and a Peep of the Church through the Trees. A Lad tolde us his
Mistress was with the Bees, soe we walked towards the Hives; and, from
an Arbour hard by, hearde a Murmur, though not of Bees, issuing. In
this rusticall Bowre, found _Roger Agnew_ reading to _Rose_ and to Mr.
_Milton_. Thereupon ensued manie cheerfulle Salutations, and _Rose_
proposed returning to the House, but Master _Agnew_ sayd it was
pleasanter in the Bowre, where was Room for alle; soe then _Rose_
offered to take me to her Chamber to lay aside my Hoode, and promised
to send a Junkett into the Arbour; whereon Mr. _Agnew_ smiled at Mr.
_Milton_, and sayd somewhat of "neat-handed _Phillis_."
As we went alonge, I tolde _Rose_ I had seene her Guest once before,
and thought him a comely, pleasant Gentleman. She laught, and sayd,
"Pleasant? why, he is one of the greatest Scholars of our Time, and
knows more Languages than you or I ever hearde of." I made Answer,
"That may be, and yet might not ensure his being pleasant, but rather
the contrary, for I cannot reade _Greeke_ and _Latin_, _Rose_, like
you." Quoth _Rose_, "But you can reade _English_, and he hath writ
some of the loveliest _English_ Verses you ever hearde, and hath
brought us a new Composure this Morning, which _Roger_, being his olde
College Friend, was discussing with him, to my greate Pleasure, when
you came. After we have eaten the Junkett, he shall beginne it again."
"By no Means," said I, "for I love Talking more than Reading."
However, it was not soe to be, for _Rose_ woulde not be foyled; and as
it woulde not have been good Manners to decline the Hearinge in
Presence of the Poet, I was constrayned to suppresse a secret Yawne,
and feign Attention, though, Truth to say, it soone wandered; and,
during the last halfe Hour, I sat in a compleat Dreame, tho' not
unpleasant one. _Roger_ having made an End, 'twas diverting to heare
him commending the Piece unto the Author, who as gravely accepted it;
yet, with nothing fullesome about the one, or misproud about the other.
Indeed, there was a sedate Sweetnesse in the Poet's Wordes as well as
Lookes; and shortlie, waiving the Discussion of his owne Composures, he
beganne to talke of those of other Men, as _Shakspeare, Spenser,
Cowley, Ben Jonson_, and of _Tasso_, and _Tasso's_ Friend the Marquis
of _Villa_, whome, it appeared, Mr. _Milton_ had Knowledge of in
_Italy_. Then he askt me, woulde I not willingly have seene the
Country of _Romeo_ and _Juliet_, and prest to know whether I loved
Poetry; but finding me loath to tell, sayd he doubted not I preferred
Romances, and that he had read manie, and loved them dearly too. I
sayd, I loved _Shakspeare's_ Plays better than _Sidney's_ Arcadia; on
which he cried "Righte," and drew nearer to me, and woulde have talked
at greater length; but, knowing from _Rose_ how learned he was, I
feared to shew him I was a sillie Foole; soe, like a sillie Foole, held
my Tongue.
Dinner; Eggs, Bacon, roast Ribs of Lamb, Spinach, Potatoes, savoury
Pie, a _Brentford_ Pudding, and Cheesecakes. What a pretty Housewife
_Rose_ is! _Roger's_ plain Hospitalitie and scholarlie Discourse
appeared to much Advantage. He askt of News from Paris; and Mr.
_Milton_ spoke much of the _Swedish_ Ambassadour, _Dutch_ by Birth; a
Man renowned for his Learning, Magnanimity, and Misfortunes, of whome
he had seene much. He tolde _Rose_ and me how this Mister _Van der
Groote_ had beene unjustlie caste into Prison by his Countrymen; and
how his good Wife had shared his Captivitie, and had tried to get his
Sentence reversed; failing which, she contrived his Escape in a big
Chest, which she pretended to be full of heavie olde Bookes. Mr.
_Milton_ concluded with the Exclamation, "Indeede, there never was such
a Woman;" on which, deare _Roger_, whome I beginne to love, quoth, "Oh
yes, there are manie such,--we have two at Table now." Whereat, Mr.
_Milton_ smiled.
At Leave-taking pressed Mr. _Agnew_ and _Rose_ to come and see us
soone; and _Dick_ askt Mr. _Milton_ to see the Bowling Greene.
Ride Home, delightfulle.
_May 14th, 1643_.
Thought, when I woke this Morning, I had been dreaminge of St. _Paul_
let down the Wall in a Basket; but founde, on more closely examining
the Matter, 'twas _Grotius_ carried down the Ladder in a Chest; and
methought I was his Wife, leaninge from the Window above, and crying to
the Souldiers, "Have a Care, have a Care!" 'Tis certayn I shoulde have
betraied him by an Over-anxietie.
Resolved to give _Father_ a _Sheepscote_ Dinner, but _Margery_ affirmed
the Haunch woulde no longer keepe, so was forced to have it drest,
though meaninge to have kept it for Companie. Little _Kate_, who had
been out alle the Morning, came in with her Lap full of Butter-burs,
the which I was glad to see, as _Mother_ esteemes them a sovereign
Remedie 'gainst the Plague, which is like to be rife in _Oxford_ this
Summer, the Citie being so overcrowded on account of his Majestie.
While laying them out on the Stille-room Floor, in bursts _Robin_ to
say Mr. _Agnew_ and Mr. _Milton_ were with _Father_ at the Bowling
Greene, and woulde dine here. Soe was glad _Margery_ had put down the
Haunch. Twas past One o' the Clock, however, before it coulde be sett
on Table; and I had just run up to pin on my Carnation Knots, when I
hearde them alle come in discoursing merrilie.
At Dinner Mr. _Milton_ askt _Robin_ of his Studdies; and I was in Payne
for the deare Boy, knowing him to be better affected to his out-doore
Recreations than to his Booke; but he answered boldlie he was in
_Ovid_, and I lookt in Mr. _Milton's_ Face to guesse was that goode
Scholarship or no; but he turned it towards my _Father_, and sayd he
was trying an Experiment on two young Nephews of his owne, whether the
reading those Authors that treate of physical Subjects mighte not
advantage them more than the Poets; whereat my _Father_ jested with
him, he being himselfe one of the Fraternitie he seemed to despise.
But he uphelde his Argumente so bravelie, that _Father_ listened in
earneste Silence. Meantime, the Cloth being drawne, and I in Feare of
remaining over long, was avised to withdrawe myself earlie, _Robin_
following, and begging me to goe downe to the Fish-ponds. Afterwards
alle the others joyned us, and we sate on the Steps till the Sun went
down, when, the Horses being broughte round, our Guests tooke Leave
without returning to the House. _Father_ walked thoughtfullie Home
with me, leaning on my Shoulder, and spake little.
_May 15th, 1643_.
After writing the above last Night, in my Chamber, went to Bed and had
a most heavenlie Dreame. Methoughte it was brighte, brighte
Moonlighte, and I was walking with Mr. _Milton_ on a Terrace,--not
_our_ Terrace, but in some outlandish Place; and it had Flights and
Flights of green Marble Steps, descending, I cannot tell how farre,
with Stone Figures and Vases on every one. We went downe and downe
these Steps, till we came to a faire Piece of Water, still in the
Moonlighte; and then, methoughte, he woulde be taking Leave, and sayd
much aboute Absence and Sorrowe, as tho' we had knowne eache other some
Space; and alle that he sayd was delightfulle to heare. Of a suddain
we hearde Cries, as of Distresse, in a Wood that came quite down to the
Water's Edge, and Mr. _Milton_ sayd, "Hearken!" and then, "There is
some one being slaine in the Woode, I must goe to rescue him;" and soe,
drewe his Sword and ran off. Meanwhile, the Cries continued, but I did
not seeme to mind them much; and, looking stedfastlie downe into the
cleare Water, coulde see to an immeasurable Depth, and beheld, oh,
rare! Girls sitting on glistening Rocks, far downe beneathe, combing
and braiding their brighte Hair, and talking and laughing, onlie I
coulde not heare aboute what. And theire Kirtles were like spun Glass,
and theire Bracelets Coral and Pearl; and I thought it the fairest
Sight that Eyes coulde see. But, alle at once, the Cries in the Wood
affrighted them, for they started, looked upwards and alle aboute, and
began swimming thro' the cleare Water so fast, that it became troubled
and thick, and I coulde see them noe more. Then I was aware that the
Voices in the Wood were of _Dick_ and _Harry_, calling for _me_; and I
soughte to answer, "Here!" but my Tongue was heavie. Then I commenced
running towards them, through ever so manie greene Paths, in the Wood;
but still, we coulde never meet; and I began to see grinning Faces,
neither of Man nor Beaste, peeping at me through the Trees; and one and
another of them called me by Name; and in greate Feare and Paine I
awoke!
. . . Strange Things are Dreames. Dear _Mother_ thinks much of them,
and sayth they oft portend coming Events. My _Father_ holdeth the
Opinion that they are rather made up of what hath alreadie come to
passe; but surelie naught like this Dreame of mine hath in anie Part
befallen me hithertoe?
. . . What strange Fable or Masque were they reading that Day at
_Sheepscote_? I mind not.
_May 20th, 1643_.
Too much busied of late to write, though much hath happened which I
woulde fain remember. Dined at _Shotover_ yesterday. Met _Mother_,
who is coming Home in a Day or two; but helde short Speech with me
aside concerning Housewifery. The _Agnews_ there, of course: alsoe Mr.
_Milton_, whom we have seene continuallie, lately; and I know not how
it shoulde be, but he seemeth to like me. _Father_ affects him much,
but _Mother_ loveth him not. She hath seene little of him: perhaps the
less the better. _Ralph Hewlett_, as usuall, forward in his rough
endeavours to please; but, though no Scholar, I have yet Sense enough
to prefer Mr. _Milton's_ Discourse to his. . . . I wish I were fonder
of Studdy; but, since it cannot be, what need to vex? Some are born of
one Mind, some of another. _Rose_ was alwaies for her Booke; and, had
_Rose_ beene no Scholar, Mr. _Agnew_ woulde, may be, never have given
her a second Thoughte: but alle are not of the same Way of thinking.
. . . A few Lines received from _Mother's_ "spoilt Boy," as _Father_
hath called Brother _Bill_, ever since he went a soldiering. Blurred
and mis-spelt as they are, she will prize them. Trulie, we are none of
us grate hands at the Pen; 'tis well I make this my Copie-booke.
. . . Oh, strange Event! Can this be Happinesse? Why, then, am I soe
feared, soe mazed, soe prone to weeping? I woulde that _Mother_ were
here. Lord have Mercie on me a sinfulle, sillie Girl, and guide my
Steps arighte.
. . . It seemes like a Dreame, (I have done noughte but dreame of late,
I think,) my going along the matted Passage, and hearing Voices in my
_Father's_ Chamber, just as my Hand was on the Latch; and my
withdrawing my Hand, and going softlie away, though I never paused at
disturbing him before; and, after I had beene a full Houre in the
Stille Room, turning over ever soe manie Trays full of dried Herbs and
Flower-leaves, hearing him come forthe and call, "_Moll_, deare _Moll_,
where are you?" with I know not what of strange in the Tone of his
Voice; and my running to him hastilie, and his drawing me into his
Chamber, and closing the Doore. Then he takes me round the Waiste, and
remains quite silent awhile; I gazing on him so strangelie! and at
length, he says with a Kind of Sigh, "Thou art indeed but young yet!
scarce seventeen,--and fresh, as Mr. _Milton_ says, as the earlie May;
too tender, forsooth, to leave us yet, sweet Child! But what wilt say,
_Moll_, when I tell thee that a well-esteemed Gentleman, whom as yet
indeed I know too little of, hath craved of me Access to the House as
one that woulde win your Favour?"
Thereupon, such a suddain Faintness of the Spiritts overtooke me, (a
Thing I am noe way subject to,) as that I fell down in a Swound at
_Father's_ Feet; and when I came to myselfe again, my Hands and Feet
seemed full of Prickles, and there was a Humming, as of _Rose's_ Bees,
in mine Ears. _Lettice_ and _Margery_ were tending of me, and _Father_
watching me full of Care; but soe soone as he saw me open mine Eyes, he
bade the Maids stand aside, and sayd, stooping over me, "Enough, dear
_Moll_; we will talk noe more of this at present." "Onlie just tell
me," quoth I, in a Whisper, "who it is." "Guesse," sayd he. "I
cannot," I softlie replied, and, with the Lie, came such a Rush of
Blood to my Cheeks as betraied me. "I am sure you have though," sayd
deare _Father_, gravelie, "and I neede not say it is Mr. _Milton_, of
whome I know little more than you doe, and that is not enough. On the
other Hand, _Roger Agnew_ sayth that he is one of whome we can never
know too much, and there is somewhat about him which inclines me to
believe it." "What will _Mother_ say?" interrupted I. Thereat
_Father's_ Countenance changed; and he hastilie answered, "Whatever she
likes: I have an Answer for her, and a Question too;" and abruptlie
left me, bidding me keepe myselfe quiet.
But can I? Oh, no! _Father_ hath sett a Stone rolling, unwitting of
its Course. It hath prostrated me in the first Instance, and will, I
misdoubt, hurt my _Mother_. _Father_ is bold enow in her Absence, but
when she comes back will leave me to face her Anger alone; or else,
make such a Stir to shew that he is not governed by a Woman, as wille
make Things worse. Meanwhile, how woulde I have them? Am I most
pleased or payned? dismayed or flattered? Indeed, I know not.
. . . I am soe sorry to have swooned. Needed I have done it, merelie
to heare there was one who soughte my Favour? Aye, but one soe wise!
so thoughtfulle! so unlike me!
Bedtime: same Daye.
. . . Who knoweth what a Daye will bring forth? After writing the
above, I sate like one stupid, ruminating on I know not what, except on
the Unlikelihood that one soe wise woulde trouble himselfe to _seeke_
for aught and yet fail to _win_. After abiding a long Space in mine
owne Chamber, alle below seeming still, I began to wonder shoulde we
dine alone or not, and to have a hundred hot and cold Fitts of Hope and
Feare. Thought I, if Mr. _Milton_ comes, assuredlie I cannot goe down;
but yet I must; but yet I will not; but yet the best will be to conduct
myselfe as though nothing had happened; and, as he seems to have left
the House long ago, maybe he hath returned to _Sheepscote_, or even to
_London_. Oh that _London_! Shall I indeede ever see it? and the rare
Shops, and the Play-houses, and _Paul's_, and the _Towre_? But what
and if that ever comes to pass? Must I leave Home? dear _Forest Hill_?
and _Father_ and _Mother_, and the Boys? more especiallie _Robin_? Ah!
but _Father_ will give me a long Time to think of it. He will, and
must.
Then Dinner-time came; and, with Dinner-time, Uncle _Hewlett_ and
_Ralph_, Squire _Paice_ and Mr. _Milton_. We had a huge Sirloin, soe
no Feare of short Commons. I was not ill pleased to see soe manie: it
gave me an Excuse for holding my Peace, but I coulde have wished for
another Woman. However, _Father_ never thinks of that, and _Mother_
will soone be Home. After Dinner the elder Men went to the
Bowling-greene with _Dick_ and _Ralph_; the Boys to the Fish-ponds;
and, or ever I was aware, Mr. _Milton_ was walking with me on the
Terrace. My Dreame came soe forcibly to Mind, that my Heart seemed to
leap into my Mouth; but he kept away from the Fish-ponds, and from
Leave-taking, and from his morning Discourse with my _Father_,--at
least for awhile; but some Way he got round to it, and sayd soe much,
and soe well, that, after alle my _Father's_ bidding me keepe quiete
and take my Time, and mine owne Resolution to think much and long, he
never rested till he had changed the whole Appearance of Things, and
made me promise to be his, wholly and trulie.--And oh! I feare I have
been too quickly wonne!
_May 23d, 1643_.
_May 23d_. At leaste, so sayeth the Calendar; but with me it hath
beene trulie an _April_ Daye, alle Smiles and Teares. And now my
Spiritts are soe perturbed and dismaid, as that I know not whether to
weepe or no, for methinks crying would relieve me. At first waking
this Morning my Mind was elated at the Falsitie of my _Mother's_
Notion, that no Man of Sense woulde think me worth the having; and soe
I got up too proude, I think, and came down too vain, for I had spent
an unusuall Time at the Glasse. My Spiritts, alsoe, were soe unequall,
that the Boys took Notice of it, and it seemed as though I coulde
breathe nowhere but out of Doors; so the Children and I had a rare Game
of Play in the Home-close; but ever and anon I kept looking towards the
Road and listening for Horses' Feet, till _Robin_ sayd, "One would
think the King was coming:" but at last came Mr. _Milton_, quite
another Way, walking through the Fields with huge Strides. _Kate_ saw
him firste, and tolde me; and then sayd, "What makes you look soe pale?"
We sate a good Space under the Hawthorn Hedge on the Brow of the Hill,
listening to the Mower's Scythe, and the Song of Birds, which seemed
enough for him, without talking; and as he spake not, I helde my Peace,
till, with the Sun in my Eyes, I was like to drop asleep; which, as his
own Face was _from_ me, and towards the Landskip, he noted not. I was
just aiming, for Mirthe's Sake, to steale away, when he suddainlie
turned about and fell to speaking of rurall Life, Happinesse, Heaven,
and such like, in a Kind of Rapture; then, with his Elbow half raising
him from the Grass, lay looking at me; then commenced humming or
singing I know not what Strayn, but 'twas of '_begli Occhi_' and
'_Chioma aurata_;' and he kept smiling the while he sang.
After a time we went In-doors; and then came my firste Pang: for
_Father_ founde out how I had pledged myselfe overnighte; and for a
Moment looked soe grave, that my Heart misgave me for having beene soe
hastie. However, it soone passed off; deare _Father's_ Countenance
cleared, and he even seemed merrie at Table; and soon after Dinner alle
the Party dispersed save Mr. _Milton_, who loitered with me on the
Terrace. After a short Silence he exclaimed, "How good is our God to
us in alle his Gifts! For Instance, in this Gift of _Love_, whereby
had he withdrawn from visible Nature a thousand of its glorious
Features and gay Colourings, we shoulde stille possess, _from within_,
the Means of throwing over her clouded Face an entirelie different Hue!
while as it is, what was pleasing before now pleaseth more than ever!
Is it not soe, sweet _Moll_? May I express thy Feelings as well as
mine own, unblamed? or am I too adventurous? You are silent; well,
then, let me believe that we think alike, and that the Emotions of the
few laste Hours have given such an Impulse to alle that is high, and
sweete, and deepe, and pure, and holy in our innermoste Hearts, as that
we seeme now onlie firste to taste the _Life of Life_, and to perceive
how much nearer Earth is to Heaven than we thought! Is it soe? Is it
not soe?" and I was constrayned to say, "Yes," at I scarcelie knew
what; grudginglie too, for I feared having once alreadie sayd "Yes" too
soone. But he saw nought amisse, for he was expecting nought amisse;
soe went on, most like Truth and Love that Lookes could speake or Words
founde: "Oh, I know it, I feel it:--henceforthe there is a Life
reserved for us in which Angels may sympathize. For this most
excellent Gift of Love shall enable us to read together the whole Booke
of Sanctity and Virtue, and emulate eache other in carrying it into
Practice; and as the wise _Magians_ kept theire Eyes steadfastlie fixed
on the Star, and followed it righte on, through rough and smoothe, soe
we, with this bright Beacon, which indeed is set on Fire of Heaven,
shall pass on through the peacefull Studdies, surmounted Adversities,
and victorious Agonies of Life, ever looking steadfastlie up!"
Alle this, and much more, as tedious to heare as to write, did I listen
to, firste with flagging Attention, next with concealed
Wearinesse;--and as Wearinesse, if indulged, never _is_ long concealed,
it soe chanced, by Ill-luck, that Mr. _Milton_, suddainlie turning his
Eyes from Heaven upon poor me, caughte, I can scarcelie expresse how
slighte, an Indication of Discomforte in my Face; and instantlie a
Cloud crossed his owne, though as thin as that through which the Sun
shines while it floats over him. Oh, 'twas not of a Moment! and yet
_in that Moment_ we seemed eache to have seene the other, though but at
a Glance, under new Circumstances:--as though two Persons at a
Masquerade had just removed their Masques and put them on agayn. This
gave me my seconde Pang:--I felt I had given him Payn; and though he
made as though he forgot it directly, and I tooke Payns to make him
forget it, I coulde never be quite sure whether he had.
. . . My Spiritts were soe dashed by this, and by learning his Age to
be soe much more than I had deemed it, (for he is thirty-five! who
coulde have thoughte it?) that I had, thenceforthe, the Aire of being
much more discreete and pensive than belongeth to my Nature; whereby he
was, perhaps, well pleased. As I became more grave he became more gay;
soe that we met eache other, as it were, half-way, and became righte
pleasant. If his Countenance were comely before, it is quite heavenlie
now; and yet I question whether my Love increaseth as rapidlie as my
Feare. Surelie my Folly will prove as distastefull to him, as his
overmuch Wisdom to me. The Dread of it hath alarmed me alreadie. What
has become, even now, of alle my gay Visions of Marriage, and _London_,
and the Play-houses, and the _Touire_? They have faded away thus
earlie, and in their Place comes a Foreboding of I can scarce say what.
I am as if a Child, receiving frome some olde Fairy the Gift of what
seemed a fayre Doll's House, shoulde hastilie open the Doore thereof,
and starte back at beholding nought within but a huge Cavern, deepe,
high, and vaste; in parte glittering with glorious Chrystals, and the
Rest hidden in obscure Darknesse.
_May 24th, 1643_.
Deare _Rose_ came this Morning. I flew forthe to welcome her, and as I
drew near, she lookt upon me with such a Kind of Awe as that I could
not forbeare laughing. Mr. _Milton_ having slept at _Sheepscote_, had
made her privy to our Engagement; for indeede, he and Mr. _Agnew_ are
such Friends, he will keep nothing from him. Thus _Rose_ heares it
before my owne Mother, which shoulde not be. When we had entered my
Chamber, she embraced me once and agayn, and seemed to think soe much
of my uncommon Fortune, that I beganne to think more of it myselfe. To
heare her talke of Mr. _Milton_ one would have supposed her more in
Love with him than I. Like a Bookworm as she is, she fell to praysing
his Composures. "Oh, the leaste I care for in him is his Versing,"
quoth I; and from that Moment a Spiritt of Mischief tooke Possession of
me, to do a thousand heedlesse, ridiculous Things throughoute the Day,
to shew _Rose_ how little I set by the Opinion of soe wise a Man. Once
or twice Mr. _Milton_ lookt earnestlie and questioninglie at me, but I
heeded him not.
. . . Discourse at Table graver and less pleasant, methoughte, than
heretofore. Mr. _Busire_ having dropt in, was avised to ask Mr.
_Milton_ why, having had an university Education, he had not entered
the Church. He replied, drylie enough, because he woulde not subscribe
himselfe _Slave_ to anie Formularies of Men's making. I saw _Father_
bite his Lip; and _Roger Agnew_ mildly observed, he thought him wrong;
for that it was not for an Individual to make Rules for another
Individual, but yet that the generall Voice of the Wise and Good,
removed from the pettie Prejudices of private Feeling, mighte pronounce
authoritativelie wherein an Individual was righte or wrong, and frame
Laws to keepe him in the righte Path. Mr. _Milton_ replyed, that manie
Fallibles could no more make up an Infallible than manie Finites could
make an Infinite. Mr. _Agnew_ rejoyned, that ne'erthelesse, an
Individual who opposed himselfe agaynst the generall Current of the
Wise and Good, was, leaste of alle, likelie to be in the Right; and
that the Limitations of human Intellect which made the Judgment of
manie wise Men liable to Question, certainlie made the Judgment of
_anie_ wise Man, self-dependent, more questionable still. Mr. _Milton_
shortlie replied that there were Particulars in the required Oaths
which made him unable to take them without Perjurie. And soe, an End:
but 'twas worth a World to see _Rose_ looking soe anxiouslie from the
one Speaker to the other, desirous that eache should be victorious; and
I was sorry that it lasted not a little longer.
As _Rose_ and I tooke our Way to the Summer-house, she put her Arm
round me, saying, "How charming is divine Philosophie!" I coulde not
helpe asking if she did not meane how charming was the Philosophie of
one particular Divine? Soe then she discoursed with me of Things more
seemlie for Women than Philosophie or Divinitie either. Onlie, when
Mr. _Agnew_ and Mr. _Milton_ joyned us, she woulde aske them to repeat
one Piece of Poetry after another, beginning with _Carew's_--
"He who loves a rosie Cheeke,
Or a coral Lip admires,--"
And crying at the End of eache, "Is not that lovely? Is not that
divine?" I franklie sayd I liked none of them soe much as some Mr.
_Agnew_ had recited, concluding with--
"Mortals that would, follow me,
Love Virtue: she alone is free."
Whereon Mr. _Milton_ surprised me with a suddain Kiss, to the
immoderate Mirthe of _Rose_, who sayd I coulde not have looked more
discomposed had he pretended he was the Author of those Verses. I
afterwards found he _was_; but I think she laught more than there was
neede.
We have ever been considered a sufficientlie religious Familie: that
is, we goe regularly to Church on Sabbaths and Prayer-dayes, and keepe
alle the Fasts and Festivalles. But Mr. _Milton's_ Devotion hath
attayned a Pitch I can neither imitate nor even comprehende. The
spirituall World seemeth to him not onlie reall, but I may almoste say
visible. For instance, he told _Rose_, it appears, that on _Tuesday_
Nighte, (that is the same Evening I had promised to be his,) as he went
homewards to his Farm-lodging, he fancied the Angels whisperinge in his
Eares, and singing over his Head, and that instead of going to his Bed
like a reasonable Being, he lay down on the Grass, and gazed on the
sweete, pale Moon till she sett, and then on the bright Starres till he
seemed to see them moving in a slowe, solemn Dance, to the Words, "_How
glorious is our God!_" And alle about him, he said, he _knew_, tho' he
coulde not see them, were spirituall Beings repairing the Ravages of
the Day on the Flowers, amonge the Trees, and Grasse, and Hedges; and
he believed 'twas onlie the Filme that originall Sin had spread over
his Eyes, that prevented his seeing them. I am thankful for this same
Filme,--I cannot abide Fairies, and Witches, and Ghosts--ugh! I
shudder even to write of them; and were it onlie of the more harmlesse
Sort, one woulde never have the Comforte of thinkinge to be alone. I
feare Churchyardes and dark Corners of alle Kinds; more especiallie
Spiritts; and there is onlie one I would even wish to see at my
bravest, when deepe Love casteth out Feare; and that is of Sister
_Anne_, whome I never associate with the Worme and Winding-sheete. Oh
no! I think _she_, at leaste, dwells amonge the Starres, having sprung
straite up into Lighte and Blisse the Moment she put off Mortalitie;
and if she, why not others? Are _Adam_ and _Abraham_ alle these Yeares
in the unconscious Tomb? Theire Bodies, but surelie not their
Spiritts? else, why dothe _Christ_ speak of _Lazarus_ lying in
_Abraham's_ Bosom, while the Brothers of _Dives_ are yet riotouslie
living? Yet what becomes of the Daye of generall Judgment, if some be
thus pre-judged? I must aske Mr. _Milton,--_yes, I thinke I can finde
it in my Heart to aske him about this in some solemn, stille Hour, and
perhaps he will sett at Rest manie Doubts and Misgivings that at
sundrie Times trouble me; being soe wise a Man.
_Bedtime_.
. . . Glad to steale away from the noisie Companie in the Supper-roome,
(comprising some of _Father's_ Fellow-magistrates,) I went down with
_Robin_ and _Kate_ to the Fish-ponds; it was scarce Sunset: and there,
while we threw Crumbs to the Fish and watched them come to the Surface,
were followed, or ever we were aware, by Mr. _Milton_, who sate down on
the stone Seat, drew _Robin_ between his Knees, stroked his Haire, and
askt what we were talking about. _Robin_ sayd I had beene telling them
a fairie Story; and Mr. _Milton_ observed that was an infinite
Improvement on the jangling, puzzle-headed Prating of Country Justices,
and wished I woulde tell it agayn. But I was afrayd. But _Robin_ had
no Feares; soe tolde the Tale roundlie; onlie he forgot the End. Soe
he found his Way backe to the Middle, and seemed likelie to make it
last alle Night; onlie Mr. _Milton_ sayd he seemed to have got into the
Labyrinth of _Crete_, and he must for Pitie's Sake give him the Clew.
Soe he finished _Robin's_ Story, and then tolde another, a most lovelie
one, of Ladies, and Princes, and Enchanters, and a brazen Horse, and he
sayd the End of _that_ Tale had been cut off too, by Reason the Writer
had died before he finished it. But _Robin_ cryed, "Oh! finish this
too," and hugged and kist him; soe he did; and methoughte the End was
better than the Beginninge. Then he sayd, "Now, sweet _Moll_, you have
onlie spoken this Hour past, by your Eyes; and we must heare your
pleasant Voice." "An Hour?" cries _Robin_. "Where are alle the red
Clouds gone, then?" quoth Mr. _Milton_, "and what Business hathe the
Moon yonder?" "Then we must go Indoors," quoth I. But they cried
"No," and _Robin_ helde me fast, and Mr. Milton sayd I might know even
by the distant Sounds of ill-governed Merriment that we were winding up
the Week's Accounts of Joy and Care more consistentlie where we were
than we coulde doe in the House. And indeede just then I hearde my
_Father's_ Voice swelling a noisie Chorus; and hoping Mr. _Milton_ did
not distinguish it, I askt him if he loved Musick. He answered, soe
much that it was Miserie for him to hear anie that was not of the
beste. I secretlie resolved he should never heare mine. He added, he
was come of a musicalle Familie, and that his Father not onlie sang
well, but played finely on the Viol and Organ. Then he spake of the
sweet Musick in _Italy_, until I longed to be there; but I tolde him
nothing in its Way ever pleased me more than to heare the Choristers of
_Magdalen_ College usher in _May_ Day by chaunting a Hymn at the Top of
the Church Towre. Discoursing of this and that, we thus sate a good
While ere we returned to the House.
. . . Coming out of Church he woulde shun the common Field, where the
Villagery led up theire Sports, saying, he deemed Quoit-playing and the
like to be unsuitable Recreations on a Daye whereupon the _Lord_ had
restricted us from speakinge our own Words, and thinking our own (that
is, secular) Thoughts: and that he believed the Law of _God_ in this
Particular woulde soone be the Law of the Land, for Parliament woulde
shortlie put down _Sunday_ Sports. I askt, "What, the _King's_
Parliament at _Oxford_?" He answered, "No; _the Country's_ Parliament
at _Westminster_." I sayd, I was sorrie, for manie poore hard-working
Men had no other Holiday. He sayd, another Holiday woulde be given
them; and that whether or no, we must not connive at Evil, which we doe
in permitting an _holy Daye_ to sink into a Holiday. I sayd, but was
it not the _Jewish_ Law, which had made such Restrictions? He sayd,
yes, but that _Christ_ came not to destroy the moral Law, of which
Sabbath-keeping was a Part, and that even its naturall Fitnesse for the
bodily Welfare of Man and Beast was such as no wise Legislator would
abolish or abuse it, even had he no Consideration for our spiritual and
immortal Part: and that 'twas a well-known Fact that Beasts of Burthen,
which had not one Daye of Rest in seven, did lesse Worke in the End.
As for oure Soules, he sayd, they required theire spiritual Meales as
much as our Bodies required theires; and even poore, rusticall Clownes
who coulde not reade, mighte nourish their better Parts by an holie
Pause, and by looking within them, and around them, and above them. I
felt inclined to tell him that long Sermons alwaies seemed to make me
love _God_ less insteade of more, but woulde not, fearing he mighte
take it that I meant _he_ had been giving me one.
_Monday_.
_Mother_ hath returned! The Moment I hearde her Voice I fell to
trembling. At the same Moment I hearde _Robin_ cry, "Oh, _Mother_, I
have broken the greene Beaker!" which betraied Apprehension in another
Quarter. However, she quite mildlie replied, "Ah, I knew the Handle
was loose," and then kist me with soe great Affection that I felt quite
easie. She had beene withhelde by a troublesome Colde from returning
at the appointed Time, and cared not to write. 'Twas just Supper-time,
and there were the Children to kiss and to give theire Bread and Milk,
and _Bill's_ Letter to reade; soe that nothing particular was sayd till
the younger Ones were gone to Bed, and _Father_ and _Mother_ were
taking some Wine and Toast. Then says _Father_, "Well, Wife, have you
got the five hundred Pounds?" "No," she answers, rather carelesslie.
"I tolde you how 'twoulde be," says _Father_; "you mighte as well have
stayed at Home." "Really, Mr. _Powell,"_ says _Mother_, "soe seldom as
I stir from my owne Chimney-corner, you neede not to grudge me, I
think, a few Dayes among our mutuall Relatives." "I shall goe to
Gaol," says _Father_. "Nonsense," says _Mother_; "to Gaol indeed!"
"Well, then, who is to keepe me from it?" says _Father_, laughing. "I
will answer for it, Mr. _Milton_ will wait a little longer for his
Money," says _Mother_, "he is an honourable Man, I suppose." "I wish
he may thinke me one," says _Father_; "and as to a little longer, what
is the goode of waiting for what is as unlikelie to come eventuallie as
now?" "You must answer that for yourselfe," says _Mother_, looking
wearie: "I have done what I can, and can doe no more." "Well, then,
'tis lucky Matters stand as they do," says _Father_. "Mr. _Milton_ has
been much here in your Absence, my Dear, and has taken a Liking to our
_Moll_; soe, believing him, as you say, to be an honourable Man, I have
promised he shall have her." "Nonsense," cries _Mother_, turning red
and then pale. "Never farther from Nonsense," says _Father_, "for 'tis
to be, and by the Ende of the Month too." "You are bantering me, Mr.
_Powell_," says _Mother_. "How can you suppose soe, my Deare?" says
_Father_, "you doe me Injustice." "Why, _Moll_!" cries _Mother_,
turning sharplie towards me, as I sate mute and fearfulle, "what is
alle this, Child? You cannot, you dare not think of wedding this
round-headed Puritan." "Not round-headed," sayd I, trembling; "his
Haire is as long and curled as mine." "Don't bandy Words with me,
Girl," says _Mother_ passionatelie, "see how unfit you are to have a
House of your owne, who cannot be left in Charge of your _Father's_ for
a Fortnighte, without falling into Mischiefe!" "I won't have _Moll_
chidden in that Way," says _Father_, "she has fallen into noe
Mischiefe, and has beene a discreete and dutifull Child." "Then it has
beene alle your doing," says _Mother_, "and you have forced the Child
into this Match." "Noe Forcing whatever," says _Father_, "they like
one another, and I am very glad of it, for it happens to be very
convenient." "Convenient, indeed," repeats _Mother_, and falls a
weeping. Thereon I must needs weepe too, but she says, "Begone to Bed;
there is noe Neede that you shoulde sit by to heare your owne _Father_
confesse what a Fool he has beene."
To my Bedroom I have come, but cannot yet seek my Bed; the more as I
still heare theire Voices in Contention below.
_Tuesday_.
This Morninge's Breakfaste was moste uncomfortable, I feeling like a
checkt Child, scarce minding to looke up or to eat. _Mother_, with
Eyes red and swollen, scarce speaking save to the Children; _Father_
directing his Discourse chieflie to _Dick_, concerning Farm Matters and
the Rangership of _Shotover_, tho' 'twas easie to see his Mind was not
with them. Soe soone as alle had dispersed to theire customed Taskes,
and I was loitering at the Window, _Father_ calls aloud to me from his
Studdy. Thither I go, and find him and _Mother_, she sitting with her
Back to both. "_Moll_," says _Father_, with great Determination, "you
have accepted Mr. _Milton_ to please yourself, you will marry him out
of hand to please me." "Spare me, spare me, Mr. _Powell_," interrupts
_Mother_, "if the Engagement may not be broken off, at the least
precipitate it not with this indecent haste. Postpone it till----"
"Till when?" says _Father_. "Till the Child is olde enough to know her
owne Mind." "That is, to put off an honourable Man on false
Pretences," says _Father_, "she is olde enough to know it alreadie.
Speake, _Moll_, are you of your _Mother's_ Mind to give up Mr. _Milton_
altogether?" I trembled, but sayd, "No." "Then, as his Time is
precious, and he knows not when he may leave his Home agayn, I save you
the Trouble, Child, of naming a Day, for it shall be the _Monday_
before _Whitsuntide_." Thereat _Mother_ gave a Kind of Groan; but as
for me, I had like to have fallen on the Ground, for I had had noe
Thought of suche Haste. "See what you are doing, Mr. _Powell_," says
_Mother_, compassionating me, and raising me up, though somewhat
roughlie; "I prophecie Evil of this Match." "Prophets of Evil are sure
to find Listeners," says _Father_, "but I am not one of them;" and soe
left the Room. Thereon my _Mother_, who alwaies feares him when he has
a Fit of Determination, loosed the Bounds of her Passion, and chid me
so unkindlie, that, humbled and mortified, I was glad to seeke my
Chamber.
. . . Entering the Dining-room, however, I uttered a Shriek on seeing
_Father_ fallen back in his Chair, as though in a Fit, like unto that
which terrified us a Year ago; and _Mother_ hearing me call out, ran
in, loosed his Collar, and soone broughte him to himselfe, tho' not
without much Alarm to alle. He made light of it himselfe, and sayd
'twas merelie a suddain Rush of Blood to the Head, and woulde not be
dissuaded from going out; but _Mother_ was playnly smote at the Heart,
and having lookt after him with some anxietie, exclaimed, "I shall
neither meddle nor make more in this Businesse: your _Father's_ suddain
Seizures shall never be layd at my Doore;" and soe left me, till we met
at Dinner. After the Cloth was drawne, enters Mr. _Milton_, who goes
up to _Mother_, and with Gracefulnesse kisses her Hand; but she
withdrewe it pettishly, and tooke up her Sewing, on the which he lookt
at her wonderingly, and then at me; then at her agayne, as though he
woulde reade her whole Character in her Face; which having seemed to
doe, and to write the same in some private Page of his Heart, he never
troubled her or himself with further Comment, but tooke up Matters just
where he had left them last. Ere we parted we had some private
Conference touching our Marriage, for hastening which he had soe much
to say that I coulde not long contend with him, especiallie as I founde
he had plainlie made out that _Mother_ loved him not.
_Wednesday_.
House full of Companie, leaving noe Time to write nor think. _Mother_
sayth, tho' she cannot forbode an happie Marriage, she will provide for
a merrie Wedding, and hathe growne more than commonlie tender to me,
and given me some Trinkets, a Piece of fine _Holland_ Cloth, and
enoughe of green Sattin for a Gown, that will stand on End with its
owne Richnesse. She hathe me constantlie with her in the Kitchen,
Pastrie, and Store-room, telling me 'tis needfulle I shoulde improve in
Housewiferie, seeing I shall soe soone have a Home of my owne.
But I think _Mother_ knows not, and I am afeard to tell her, that Mr.
_Milton_ hath no House of his owne to carry me to, but onlie Lodgings,
which have well suited his Bachelor State, but may not, 'tis likelie,
beseeme a Lady to live in. He deems so himself, and sayeth we will
look out for an hired House together, at our Leisure. Alle this he
hath sayd to me in an Undertone, in _Mother's_ Presence, she sewing at
the Table and we sitting in the Window; and 'tis difficult to tell how
much she hears, she for will aske no Questions, and make noe Comments,
onlie compresses her Lips, which makes me think she knows.
The Children are in turbulent Spiritts; but _Robin_ hath done nought
but mope and make Moan since he learnt he must soe soone lose me. A
Thought hath struck me,--Mr. _Milton_ educates his Sister's Sons; two
Lads of about _Robin's_ Age. What if he woulde consent to take my
Brother under his Charge? perhaps _Father_ woulde be willing.
_Saturday_.
Last Visitt to _Sheepscote,--_at leaste, as _Mary Powell_; but kind
_Rose_ and _Roger Agnew_ will give us the Use of it for a Week on our
Marriage, and spend the Time with dear _Father_ and _Mother_, who will
neede their Kindnesse. _Rose_ and I walked long aboute the Garden, her
Arm round my Neck; and she was avised to say,
"Cloth of Frieze, be not too bold,
Tho' thou be matcht with Cloth of Gold,--"
And then craved my Pardon for soe unmannerly a Rhyme, which indeede,
methoughte, needed an Excuse, but exprest a Feare that I knew not (what
she called) my high Destiny, and prayed me not to trifle with Mr.
_Milton's_ Feelings nor in his Sighte, as I had done the Daye she dined
at _Forest Hill_. I laught, and sayd, he must take me as he found me:
he was going to marry _Mary Powell_, not the _Wise Widow of Tekoah_.
_Rose_ lookt wistfullie, but I bade her take Heart, for I doubted not
we shoulde content eache the other; and for the Rest, her Advice
shoulde not be forgotten. Thereat, she was pacyfied.
_May 22d, 1643_.
Alle Bustle and Confusion,--slaying of Poultrie, making of Pastrie,
etc. People coming and going, prest to dine and to sup, and refuse,
and then stay, the colde Meats and Wines ever on the Table; and in the
Evening, the Rebecks and Recorders sent for that we may dance in the
Hall. My Spiritts have been most unequall; and this Evening I was
overtaken with a suddain Faintnesse, such as I never but once before
experienced. They would let me dance no more; and I was quite tired
enoughe to be glad to sit aparte with Mr. _Milton_ neare the Doore,
with the Moon shining on us; untill at length he drew me out into the
Garden. He spake of Happinesse and Home, and Hearts knit in Love, and
of heavenlie Espousals, and of Man being the Head of the Woman, and of
our _Lord's_ Marriage with the Church, and of white Robes, and the
Bridegroom coming in Clouds of Glory, and of the Voices of singing Men
and singing Women, and eternall Spring, and eternall Blisse, and much
that I cannot call to Mind, and other-much that I coulde not
comprehende, but which was in mine ears as the Song of Birds, or
Falling of Waters.
_May 23d, 1643_.
_Rose_ hath come, and hath kindlie offered to help pack the Trunks,
(which are to be sent off by the Waggon to _London_,) that I may have
the more Time to devote to Mr. _Milton_. Nay, but he will soon have
all my Time devoted to himself, and I would as lief spend what little
remains in mine accustomed Haunts, after mine accustomed Fashion. I
had purposed a Ride on _Clover_ this Morning, with _Robin_; but the
poor Boy must I trow be disappointed.
----And for what? Oh me! I have hearde such a long Sermon on
Marriage-duty and Service, that I am faine to sit down and weepe. But
no, I must not, for they are waiting for me in the Hall, and the Guests
are come and the Musick is tuning, and my Lookes must not betray
me.--And now farewell, _Journall_; for _Rose_, who first bade me keepe
you (little deeming after what Fashion), will not pack you up, and I
will not close you with a heavie Strayn. _Robin_ is calling me beneath
the Window,--_Father_ is sitting in the Shade, under the old Pear-tree,
seemingly in gay Discourse with Mr. _Milton_. To-morrow the
Village-bells will ring for the Marriage of