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. These are thy Wonders, Lord of Power! Killing and quickening, bringing down to Hell And up to Heaven, in an Hour, Making a Chiming of a passing Bell, We say amiss "this or that is:" Thy Word is alle, if we could spell. Oh that I once past changing were! Fast in thy Paradise, where no Flowers can wither; Manie a Spring I shoot up faire, Offering at Heaven, growing 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_.