Part 20

Who died the 14th of the Twelfth Month, 1662.

And thus she introduceth it:

How long shall Grief lie smother’d? ah! how long Shall Sorrow’s signet seal my silent tongue? How long shall sighs me suffocate? and make My lips to quiver and my heart to ache? How long shall I with pain suppress my cries, And seek for holes to wipe my watery eyes? Why may not I, by sorrow thus oppressed, Pour forth my grief into another’s breast? If that be true which once was said by one, That “He mourns truly who doth mourn alone:” {180} Then may I truly say, my grief is true, Since it hath yet been known to very few. Nor is it now mine aim to make it known To those to whom these verses may be shown; But to assuage my sorrow-swollen heart, Which silence caused to taste so deep of smart. This is my end, that so I may prevent The vessel’s bursting by a timely vent.

Quis talia fando Temperet a lacrymis!

Who can forbear, when such things spoke he hears, His grave to water with a flood of tears?

E cho ye woods, resound ye hollow places, L et tears and paleness cover all men’s faces. L et groans, like claps of thunder, pierce the air, W hile I the cause of my just grief declare, O that mine eyes could, like the streams of Nile O ’erflow their watery banks; and thou meanwhile D rink in my trickling tears, oh thirsty ground, S o might’st thou henceforth fruitfuler be found.

L ament, my soul, lament; thy loss is deep, A nd all that Sion love sit down and weep, M ourn, oh ye virgins, and let sorrow be E ach damsel’s dowry, and (alas, for me!) N e’er let my sobs and sighings have an end T ill I again embrace my ascended friend; A nd till I feel the virtue of his life T o consolate me, and repress my grief: I nfuse into my heart the oil of gladness O nce more, and by its strength remove that sadness N ow pressing down my spirit, and restore

F ully that joy I had in him before; O f whom a word I fain would stammer forth, R ather to ease my heart than show his worth:

H is worth, my grief, which words too shallow are I n demonstration fully to declare, S ighs, sobs, my best interpreters now are.

E nvy begone; black Momus quit the place; N e’er more, Zoilus, show thy wrinkled face, D raw near, ye bleeding hearts, whose sorrows are E qual with mine; in him ye had like share. A dd all your losses up, and ye shall see R emainder will be nought but woe is me. E ndeared lambs, ye that have the white stone, D o know full well his name—it is your own.

E ternitized be that right worthy name; D eath hath but kill’d his body, not his fame, W hich in its brightness shall for ever dwell, A nd like a box of ointment sweetly smell. R ighteousness was his robe; bright majesty D ecked his brow; his look was heavenly.

B old was he in his Master’s quarrel, and U ndaunted; faithful to his Lord’s command. R equiting good for ill; directing all R ight in the way that leads out of the fall. O pen and free to ev’ry thirsty lamb; U nspotted, pure, clean, holy, without blame. G lory, light, splendour, lustre, was his crown, H appy his change to him: the loss our own.

Unica post cineres virtus veneranda beatos Efficit.

Virtue alone, which reverence ought to have, Doth make men happy, e’en beyond the grave.

While I had thus been breathing forth my grief, In hopes thereby to get me some relief, I heard, methought, his voice say, “Cease to mourn: I live; and though the veil of flesh once worn Be now stript off, dissolved, and laid aside, My spirit’s with thee, and shall so abide.” This satisfied me; down I shrew my quill, Willing to be resigned to God’s pure will.

Having discharged this duty to the memory of my deceased friend, I went on in my new province, instructing my little pupils in the rudiments of the Latin tongue, to the mutual satisfaction of both their parents and myself. As soon as I had gotten a little money in my pocket, which as a premium without compact I received from them, I took the first opportunity to return to my friend William Penington the money which he had so kindly furnished me with in my need, at the time of my imprisonment in Bridewell, with a due acknowledgment of my obligation to him for it. He was not at all forward to receive it, so that I was fain to press it upon him.

While thus I remained in this family various suspicions arose in the minds of some concerning me with respect to Mary Penington’s fair daughter Guli; for she having now arrived at a marriageable age, and being in all respects a very desirable woman—whether regard was had to her outward person, which wanted nothing to render her completely comely; or to the endowments of her mind, which were every way extraordinary and highly obliging; or to her outward fortune, which was fair, and which with some hath not the last nor the least place in consideration—she was openly and secretly sought and solicited by many, and some of them almost of every rank and condition, good and bad, rich and poor, friend and foe. To whom, in their respective turns, till he at length came for whom she was reserved, she carried herself with so much evenness of temper, such courteous freedom, guarded with the strictest modesty, that as it gave encouragement or ground of hopes to none, so neither did it administer any matter of offence or just cause of complaint to any.

But such as were thus either engaged for themselves or desirous to make themselves advocates for others, could not, I observed, but look upon me with an eye of jealousy and fear, that I would improve the opportunities I had by frequent and familiar conversation with her, to my own advantage, in working myself into her good opinion and favour, to the ruin of their pretences.

According therefore to the several kinds and degrees of their fears of me, they suggested to her parents their ill surmises against me.

Some stuck not to question the sincerity of my intentions in coming at first among the Quakers, urging with a why may it not be so, that the desire and hopes of obtaining by that means so fair a fortune might be the prime and chief inducement to me to thrust myself amongst that people? But this surmise could find no place with those worthy friends of mine, her father-in-law and her mother, who, besides the clear sense and sound judgment they had in themselves, knew very well upon what terms I came among them, how strait and hard the passage was to me, how contrary to all worldly interest, which lay fair another way, how much I had suffered from my father for it, and how regardless I had been of attempting or seeking anything of that nature in these three or four years that I had been amongst them.

Some others, measuring me by the propensity of their own inclinations, concluded I would steal her, run away with her, and marry her; which they thought I might be the more easily induced to do, from the advantageous opportunities I frequently had of riding and walking abroad with her, by night as well as by day, without any other company than her maid. For so great indeed was the confidence that her mother had in me, that she thought her daughter safe if I was with her, even from the plots and designs that others had upon her; and so honourable were the thoughts she entertained concerning me, as would not suffer her to admit a suspicion that I could be capable of so much baseness as to betray the trust she with so great freedom reposed in me.

I was not ignorant of the various fears which filled the jealous heads of some concerning me, neither was I so stupid nor so divested of all humanity as not to be sensible of the real and innate worth and virtue which adorned that excellent dame, and attracted the eyes and hearts of so many with the greatest importunity to seek and solicit her. But the force of truth and sense of honour suppressed whatever would have risen beyond the bounds of fair and virtuous friendship; for I easily foresaw that if I should have attempted anything in a dishonourable way by force or fraud upon her, I should have thereby brought a wound upon my own soul, a foul scandal upon my religious profession, and an infamous stain upon mine honour; either of which was far more dear unto me than my life. Wherefore, having observed how some others had befooled themselves by misconstruing her common kindness, expressed in an innocent, open, free, and familiar conversation, springing from the abundant affability, courtesy, and sweetness of her natural temper, to be the effect of a singular regard and peculiar affection to them, I resolved to shun the rock on which I had seen so many run and split; and remembering that saying of the poet,

Felix quem faciunt aliena pericula cautum,

Happy’s he Whom others’ dangers wary make to be,

I governed myself in a free yet respectful carriage towards her, that I thereby both preserved a fair reputation with my friends and enjoyed as much of her favour and kindness in a virtuous and firm friendship as was fit for her to show or for me to seek.

Thus leading a quiet and contented life, I had leisure sometimes to write a copy of verses on one occasion or another, as the poetic vein naturally opened, without taking pains to polish them. Such was this which follows, occasioned by the sudden death of some lusty people in their full strength:

EST VITA CADUCA.

As is the fragrant flower in the field, Which in the spring a pleasant smell doth yield, And lovely sight, but soon is withered; So’s Man: to-day alive, to-morrow dead. And as the silver dew-bespangled grass, Which in the morn bedecks its mother’s face, But ere the scorching summer’s passed looks brown, Or by the scythe is suddenly cut down. Just such is Man, who vaunts himself to-day, Decking himself in all his best array; But in the midst of all his bravery Death rounds him in the ear, “Friend, thou must die.” Or like a shadow in a sunny day, Which in a moment vanishes away; Or like a smile or spark,—such is the span Of life allowed this microcosm, Man. Cease then vain man to boast; for this is true, Thy brightest glory’s as the morning dew, Which disappears when first the rising sun Displays his beams above the horizon.