“I think none o’ the three opened our lips before we reached Lambeth, save in y^{e} Reach, Will cried to y^{e} steersman, ‘Look you run us not a ground,’ in a sharper voyce than I e’er heard from him. After passing y^{e} Archbishop’s palace, whereon I gazed full ruefullie, good Bonvisi beganne to mention some rhymes he had founde writ with a diamond on one of his window-panes at Crosby House, and would know were they father’s! and was’t y^{e} chamber father had used to sleep in? I tolde him it was, but knew nought of y^{e} distich, though ’twas like enow to be his. And thence he went on to this and that, how that father’s cheerfulle, funny humour never forsook him, nor his brave heart quelled, instancing his fearless passage through the Traitor’s Gate, asking his neighbours whether _his_ gait was that of a traditor; and, on being sued by the porter for his upper garment, giving him his _cap_, which he sayd was uppermost. And other such quips and passages, which I scarce noted nor smiled at, soe sorry was I of cheer. “At length we stayed rowing: Will lifted me out, kissed me, heartened me up, and, indeede, I was in better heart then, having been quietlie in prayer a good while. After some few forms, we were led through sundrie turns and passages, and, or ever I was aware, I found myselfe quit of my companions, and in father’s arms. “We both cried a little at first; I wonder I wept noe more, but strength was given me in that hour. As soone as I coulde, I lookt him in the face, and he lookt at me, and I was beginning to note his hollow cheeks, when he sayd, ‘Why, Meg, you are getting freckled:’ soe that made us both laugh. He sayd, ‘You should get some freckle-water of the lady that sent me here; depend on it, she hath washes and tinctures in plenty; and after all, Meg, she’ll come to the same end at last, and be as the lady all bone and skin, whoso ghastlie legends used to scare thee soe when thou wert a child. Don’t tell that story to thy children; ’twill hamper ’em with unsavory images of death. Tell them of heavenlie hosts awaiting to carry off good men’s souls in fire-bright chariots, with horses of the sun, to a land where they shall never more be surbated and weary, but walk on cool, springy turf and among myrtle trees, and eat fruits that shall heal while they delight them, and drink the coldest of cold water, fresh from y^{e} river of life, and have space to stretch themselves, and bathe, and leap, and run, and whichever way they look, meet Christ’s eyes smiling on them. Lord, Meg, who would live that could die? One mighte as lief be an angel shut up in a nutshell as bide here. Fancy how gladsome the sweet spirit would be to have the shell cracked! no matter by whom; the king, or king’s mistress. . . Let her dainty foot but set him free, he’d