Did _Rose_ know the Bitter-sweet she was imparting to me, when she gave me, by Stealth as 'twere, the latelie publisht Volume of my Husband's _English_ Versing? It hath beene my Companion ever since; for I had perused the _Comus_ but by Snatches, under the Disadvantage of crabbed Manuscript. This Morning, to use his owne deare Words:-- I sat me down to watch, upon a Bank, With Ivy canopied, and interwove With flaunting Honeysuckle, and beganne, Wrapt in a pleasing Fit of Melancholic, To meditate. The Text of my Meditation was this, drawne from the same loved Source:-- This I hold firm: Virtue may be assayled, but never hurt, Surprised by unjust Force, but not enthralled: Yea, even that which Mischief meant most Harm, Shall, in the happy Trial, prove most Glory. But who hath such Virtue? have I? hath he? No, we have both gone astray, and done amiss, and wrought sinfullie; but I worst, I first, therefore more neede that I humble myself, and pray for both. There is one, more unhappie, perhaps, than either. The _King_, most misfortunate Gentleman! who knoweth not which Way to turn, nor whom to trust. Last Time I saw him, methought never was there a Face soe full of Woe. _May 6, 1646_. The _King_ hath escaped! He gave Orders overnight at alle the Gates, for three Persons to passe; and, accompanied onlie by Mr. _Ashburnham_, and Mr. _Hurd_, rode forthe at Nightfalle, towards _London_. Sure, he will not throw himselfe into the Hands of Parliament? _Mother_ is affrighted beyond Measure at the near Neighbourhood of _Fairfax's_ Army, and entreats _Father_ to leave alle behind, and flee with us into the City. It may yet be done; and we alle share her Feares. _Saturday Even_. Packing up in greate haste, after a confused Family Council, wherein some fresh Accounts of the Rebels' Advances, broughte in by _Diggory_, made my Father the sooner consent to a stolen Flight into _Oxford_, _Diggory_ being left behind in Charge. Time of Flight, to-morrow after Dark, the _Puritans_ being busie at theire Sermons. The better the Day, the better the Deede.--_Heaven_ make it soe! _Tuesday_. _Oxford_; in most most confined and unpleasant Lodgings; but noe Matter, manie better and richer than ourselves fare worse, and our King hath not where to lay his Head. 'Tis sayd he hath turned his Course towards _Scotland_. There are Souldiers in this House, whose Noise distracts us. Alsoe, a poor Widow Lady, whose Husband hath beene slayn in these Wars. The Children have taken a feverish Complaynt, and require incessant tending. Theire Beds are far from cleane, in too little Space, and ill aired. _May 20, 1646_. The Widow Lady goes about visiting the Sick, and woulde faine have my Companie. The Streets have displeased me, being soe fulle of Men; however, in a close Hoode I have accompanied her sundrie Times. 'Tis a good Soul, and full of pious Works and Alms-deedes. _May 27, 1646_.