Having marked that Mr. _Agnew_ and _Rose_ affected not Companie on this Day, spent it chieflie by myself, except at Church and Meal-times; partlie in my Chamber, partlie in the Garden Bowre by the Beehives. Made manie Resolutions, which, in Church, I converted into Prayers and Promises. Hence, my holy Peace.
_Rose_ proposed, this Morning, we shoulde resume our Studdies. Felt loath to comply, but did soe neverthelesse, and afterwards we walked manie Miles, to visit some poor Folk. This Evening, Mr. _Agnew_ read us the Prologue to the _Canterbury Tales_. How lifelike are the Portraitures! I mind me that Mr. _Milton_ shewed me the _Talbot_ Inn, that Day we crost the River with Mr. _Marvell_.
How heartilie do I wish I had never read that same Letter!--or rather, that it had never beene written. Thus it is, even with our Wishes. We think ourselves reasonable in wishing some small Thing were otherwise, which it were quite as impossible to alter as some great Thing. Neverthelesse I cannot help fretting over the Remembrance of that Part wherein he spake such bitter Things of my "most ungoverned Passion for Revellings and Junketings." Sure, he would not call my Life too merrie now, could he see me lying wakefulle on my Bed, could he see me preventing the Morning Watch, could he see me at my Prayers, at my Books, at my Needle. . . . He shall find he hath judged too hardlie of poor _Moll_, even yet.
Took a cold Dinner in a Basket with us to-day, and ate our rusticall Repast on the Skirt of a Wood, where we could see the Squirrels at theire Gambols. Mr. _Agnew_ lay on the Grasse, and _Rose_ took out her Knitting, whereat he laught, and sayd she was like the _Dutch_ Women, that must knit, whether mourning or feasting, and even on the Sabbath. Having laught her out of her Work, he drew forth Mr. _George Herbert's_ Poems, and read us a Strayn which pleased _Rose_ and me soe much, that I shall copy it herein, to have always by me.
How fresh, oh Lord: how sweet and clean Are thy Returns! e'en as the Flowers in Spring, To which, beside theire owne Demesne, The late pent Frosts Tributes of Pleasure bring. Grief melts away like Snow in May, As if there were noe such cold Thing.
Who would have thought my shrivelled Heart Woulde have recovered greenness? it was gone Quite Underground, as Flowers depart To see their Mother-root, when they have blown, Where they together, alle the hard Weather, Dead to the World, keep House alone.