'Mr. Pierce did also tell me as a great truth, as being told it by Mr. Cowley (Abraham Cowley the poet), and who was by and heard it, that _Tom Killigrew_ should publickly tel the King that his matters were coming into a very ill state; but that yet there was a way to help all. Says he, "There is a good, honest, able man that I could name, that if your Majesty would employ, and command to see all things well executed, all things would soon be mended; and this is one Charles Stuart, who now spends his time in employing his lips about the Court, and hath no other employment; but if you would give him this employment, he were the fittest man in the world to perform it."' On another occasion, when even Charles reproached the 'chartered libertine' with his many 'idle words,' Killigrew did not shrink from retorting, with special significance, on the King, that, after all, '_idle promises_ and _idle patents_' were even worse. But something should be said of the domestic affairs of the subject of these observations. He lived, I believe, near that part of the old Court of Whitehall where Scotland Yard now stands; and, whilst there, married his first wife, Cecilia, daughter of Sir James Croft--a maid of honour to Henrietta Maria, and a lady whose portrait by Vandyck is in her present Majesty's collection. The weather was rude and boisterous on the wedding-day, which gave rise to the following lines by Thomas Carew: 'Such should this day be; so the sun should hide His bashfull face, and let the conquering bride Without a rivall shine, whilst he forbeares To mingle his unequall beames with hers; Or if sometime he glance his squinting eye Betweene the parting clouds, 'tis but to spye, Not emulate her glories; so comes drest In vayles, but as a masquer to the feast.' I fear their wedded life must have been stormy throughout; the very first thing we hear of their courtship is a dispute in which they became engaged; and by-and-by we hear of Madam Killigrew's 'Case,' which sets forth that she brought her husband a fortune of £10,000, which Tom, writing from the Hague in 1654[83] (the year in which his wife died of small-pox), solemnly promised not to waste or otherwise dispose of. Two houses in Scotland Yard were built with the money, or part of it. Francis Quarles thus bemoaned the hapless lady's fate: 'Sighes at the contemporary deaths of those incomparable Sisters--the Countesse of Cleaveland and Mistrisse Cicily Killegreue.' (They appear to have been buried in the same tomb, and to have died within twice two days of each other.) The little poem ends thus: 'My pen, Thou hast transgrest; Archangels, and not Men Should sing the story of their Rest: But we have done, we leave them to the trust Of heaven's eternall Towre, and kisse their sacred Dust.'