rowing 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