nd so drank and parted and home, and
there took up my wife by coach, and to Mrs. Pierce's, there to take her
up, and with them to Dr. Clerke's, by invitation, where we have not
been a great while, nor had any mind to go now, but that the Dr., whom
I love, would have us choose a day. Here was his wife, painted, and her
sister Worshipp, a widow now and mighty pretty in her mourning. Here was
also Mr. Pierce and Mr. Floyd, Secretary to the Lords Commissioners of
Prizes, and Captain Cooke, to dinner, an ill and little mean one, with
foul cloth and dishes, and everything poor. Discoursed most about
plays and the Opera, where, among other vanities, Captain Cooke had
the arrogance to say that he was fain to direct Sir W. Davenant in the
breaking of his verses into such and such lengths, according as would
be fit for musick, and how he used to swear at Davenant, and command him
that way, when W. Davenant would be angry, and find fault with this
or that note--but a vain coxcomb I perceive he is, though he sings and
composes so well. But what I wondered at, Dr. Clerke did say that Sir
W. Davenant is no good judge of a dramatick poem, finding fault with his
choice of Henry the 5th, and others, for the stage, when I do think,
and he confesses, "The Siege of Rhodes" as good as ever was writ. After
dinner Captain Cooke and two of his boys to sing, but it was indeed
both in performance and composition most plainly below what I heard last
night, which I could not have believed. Besides overlooking the words
which he sung, I find them not at all humoured as they ought to be, and
as I believed he had done all he had sett. Though he himself do indeed
sing in a manner as to voice and manner the best I ever heard yet, and
a strange mastery he hath in making of extraordinary surprising closes,
that are mighty pretty, but his bragging that he do understand tones and
sounds as well as any man in the world, and better than Sir W. Davenant
or any body else, I do not like by no means, but was sick of it and of
him for it. He gone, Dr. Clerke fell to reading a new play, newly writ,
of a friend's of his; but, by his discourse and confession afterwards,
it was his own. Some things, but very few, moderately good; but
infinitely far from the conceit, wit, design, and language of very many
plays that I know; so that, but for compliment, I was quite tired with
hearing it. It being done, and commending the play, but against my
judgment, only the prologue m