_August 18th_ (Lord’s Day).--Up, and being ready, walked up and down to Cree Church, to see it how it is: but I find no alteration there, as they say there was, for my Lord Mayor and Aldermen to come to sermon, as they do every Sunday, as they did formerly to Paul’s.... There dined with me Mr Turner and his daughter Betty. Betty is grown a fine young lady as to carriage and discourse. I and my wife are mightily pleased with her. We had a good haunch of venison, powdered and boiled, and a good dinner and merry.... I walked towards Whitehall, but, being wearied, turned into St Dunstan’s Church, where I heard an able sermon of the minister of the place; and stood by a pretty, modest maid, whom I did labour to take by the hand ...; but she would not, but got further and further from me; and, at last, I could perceive her to take pins out of her pocket to prick me if I should touch her again--which seeing, I did forbear, and was glad I did spy her design. And then I fell to gaze upon another pretty maid, in a pew close to me, and she on me; and I did go about to take her by the hand, which she suffered a little, and then withdrew. So the sermon ended, and the church broke up. * * * * * John Dryden, famous alike for his verse, prose and drama, shows his wit in biting, stinging satire. Equally caustic are his epigrams, save one--the immortal lines on Milton. _ON SHADWELL_ All human things are subject to decay, And, when Fate summons, monarchs must obey. This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, young Was called to empire, and had governed long. In prose and verse was owned, without dispute, Through all the realms of Nonsense absolute. This aged prince, now flourishing in peace, And blest with issue of a large increase, Worn out with business, did at length debate To settle the succession of the state; And pondering which of all his sons was fit To reign, and wage immortal war with Wit, Cried: “’Tis resolved; for Nature pleads that he Should only rule who most resembles me. Shadwell alone my perfect image bears, Mature in dulness from his tender years; Shadwell alone of all my sons is he Who stands confirmed in full stupidity. The rest to some faint meaning make pretence, But Shadwell never deviates into sense. Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, Strike through, and make a lucid interval, But Shadwell’s genuine night admits no ray; His rising fogs prevail upon the day. Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye, And seems designed for thoughtless majesty-- Thoughtless as monarch oaks that shade the plain, And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign.” _ON THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM_