On the death of his _Indian_ wife, and his old Wench. _Start not my_ Muse, _what Paradox is this, That the same cause works both my Woe and Bliss? Here lies my bliss, a more than brutish Wife, By her own Butch’ring hands bereft of life. My Woe lies here, my murder’d Joy, Alas! What_ Wicked hand _durst bring this_ Ill _to pass_? Hells consistory _sate within that brest, Which sent my_ Love _to her Eternal rest. How happy had I been, had the_ Blest Powers, _Enlarg’d her_ Minutes, _and have made them_ Hours. _Turn’d these short hours into long days, that I Might dread_ Deaths _approach, when she should dye. But she is gone past all recal; and we Can only weep and sigh her Elegie. Though we don’t mourn she can no_ Mourners _lack, Each_ Nature _is at her sad death in_ Black, _Methinks they’re hoarse with crying, and their votes (Being sad, and doleful) do befit their_ Coats. _The_ Clouds _dropt tears; the_ Ayry-Quire _(which flies Over our heads) do sing her_ Obsequies. _Shall we be dumb, whilst Birds do use their Art? No let’s in Sorrow bear with them a part, When that y’ve done for_ Mall, _bereft of life, Rejoyce with me, dead, dead’s my wicked_ Wife. _August_ the ninth, steering _Northerly_ forty two Leagues, we found _per observationem_ the Ship to run but thirty seven Leagues, which is five Leagues less by reason of the Current which sets us the _South-wards_ Latitude at 6 Degrees 24 Longitude 36 Degrees 58 _West_ from the _Salthil_. This afternoon we were in the Latitude of the _Changus_, to the _West-wards_ of them, not seeing any sign of danger, the variation is good help if heedfully observ’d, finding about 22 Degrees when you are in 7 or 8 Degrees of _Southerly_ Latitude, a _Northerly_ course will go clear of all danger. The twelfth of this moneth we crost _Æquator_, steering _North, North east_, Latitude 10 Degrees, Seconds 85 Digits _Southerly_ Longitude 36 Degrees 51 digits _West_, the wind at _South_ and by _West_, the variation 19 Degrees, Seconds 35 Digits _West_.