But if he hold till it have run its last,

Then may he live out threescore years or past.
Next Youth came up in gorgeous attire

(As that fond age doth most of all desire),
His suit of crimson and his scarf of green,

His pride in 's countenance was quickly seen;
Garland of roses, pinks and gillyflowers

Seemed on 's head to grow bedew'd with showers.
His face as fresh as is Aurora fair,

When blushing she first 'gins to light the air.
No wooden horse, but one of mettle tried,
He seems to fly or swim, and not to ride.
Then prancing on the stage, about he wheels,
But as he went death waited at his heels.
The next came up in a much graver sort,
As one that cared for a good report,

His sword by 's side, and choler in his eyes,
But neither us'd as yet, for he was wise;

Of Autumn's fruits a basket on his arm,

His golden god in 's purse, which was his charm.
And last of all to act upon this stage

Leaning upon his staff came up Old Age,
Under his arm a sheaf of wheat he bore,
An harvest of the best, what needs he more?
In 's other hand a glass ev'n almost run,
Thus writ about: "This out, then am I done."

A LOVE-LETTER TO HER HUSBAND

FROM THE Edition of 1678

Phoebus make haste, the day 's too long, begone,
The silent night 's the fittest time for moan;

But stay this once, unto my suit give ear,
And tell my griefs in either Hemisphere:
(And if the whirling of thy wheels don't drown'd
The woful accents of my doleful sound),

If in thy swift career thou canst make stay,
I crave this boon, this errand by the way:
Commend me to the man more lov'd than life,
Show him the sorrows of his widow'd wife,

My dumpish thoughts, my groans, my brackish tears,
My sobs, my longing hopes, my doubting fears,
And, if he love, how can he there abide ?
My interest's more than all the world beside.
He that can tell the stars or Ocean sand,

Or all the grass that in the meads do stand,
The leaves in th' woods, the hail or drops of rain,
Or in a cornfield number every grain,

Or every mote that in the sunshine hops,
May count my sighs and number all my drops.
Tell him, the countless steps that thou dost trace,
That once a day thy spouse thou mayst embrace;
And when thou canst not treat by loving mouth,
Thy rays afar, salute her from the south.
But for one month I see no day (poor soul)
Like those far situate under the pole,
Which day by day long wait for thy arise,

O how they joy when thou dost light the skies.
O Phoebus, hadst thou but thus long from thine
Restrain'd the beams of thy beloved shine,
At thy return, if so thou couldst or durst,
Behold a Chaos blacker than the first.

Tell him here 's worse than a confused matter,
His little world 's a fathom under water,
Naught but the fervor of his ardent beams.
Hath power to dry the torrent of these streams.
Tell him I would say more, but cannot well,
Opressed minds abruptest tales do tell.
Now post with double speed, mark what I say,
By all our loves conjure him not to stay.

THE AUTHOR TO HER BOOK

Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,

Who after birth didst by my side remain

Till snatched from thence by friends less wise than true

Who thee abroad exposed to public view,

Made thee, in rags, halting, to the press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened, all may judge,
At thy return my blushing was not small,

My rambling brat - in print - should mother call.
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,

Thy visage was so irksome in my sight;

Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.

I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,

And rubbing off a spot still made a flaw.

I stretched thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet.
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,

But naught save homespun cloth i' th' house I find,
In this array 'mongst vulgars mayst thou roam,
In critics' hands beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known.
If for thy father asked, say thou hadst none;
And for thy mother, she, alas, is poor,

Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.

FOR THE RESTORATION OF MY DEAR HUSBAND FROM
A BURNING AGUE, JUNE, 1661

When fears and sorrows me beset,
Then didst thou rid me out;
When heart did faint and spirits quail,
Thou comforts me about.

Thou rais'st him up I feared to lose,
Regav'st me him again;

Distempers thou didst chase away,
With strength didst him sustain.

My thankful heart, with pen record
The goodness of thy God:
Let thy obedience testify

He taught thee by his rod,

And with his staff did thee support,
That thou by both mayst learn,
And 'twixt the good and evil way
At last thou might'st discern.

Praises to him who hath not left
My soul as destitute,

Nor turned his ear away from me,

But granted hath my suit.

EDWARD JOHNSON

[Born at Herne Hill, Kent, England, about 1599; died at Woburn,
Massachusetts, April 23, 1672]

OF THE FIRST PREPARATION OF THE MERCHANT ADVENTURERS IN THE MASSACHUSETTS

FROM THE "WONDER-WORKING PROVIDENCE," London, 1654, CHAP. IX

. . . At the place of their abode they began to build a Town, which is called Salem, after some little space of time having made trial of the sordid spirits of the neighboring Indians, the most bold among them began to gather to divers places, which they began to take up for their own; those that were sent over servants, having itching desires after novelties, found a readier way to make an end of their masters' provisions, than they could find means to get more. They that came over their own men had but little left to feed on, and most began to repent when their strong beer and full cups ran as small as water in a large land, but little corn, and the poor Indians

so far from relieving them, that they were forced to lengthen out their own food with acorns, and that which added to their present distracted thoughts, the ditch between England and their now place of abode was so wide, that they could not leap over with a lope-staff, yet some delighting their eye with the rarity of things present, and feeding their fancies with new discoveries at the Spring's approach, they made shift to rub out the Winter's cold by the fire-side, having fuel enough growing at their doors, turning down many a drop of the bottle, and burning tobacco with all the ease they could, discoursing between one while and another, of the great progress they would make after the Summer's-sun had changed the earths white furr'd gown into a green mantel.

OF THE FIRST PROMOTION OF LEARNING IN NEW ENGLAND AND THE EXTRAORDINARY PROVIDENCES THAT THE LORD WAS PLEASED TO SEND FOR FURTHERING OF THE SAME

FROM BOOK II, CHAP. XIX

Toward the latter end of this summer came over the learned, reverend, and judicious Mr. Henry Dunster, before whose coming the Lord was pleased to provide a patron for erecting a college, as you have formerly heard, his provident hand being now no less powerful in pointing out with his unerring finger a president abundantly fitted, this his servant, and sent him over for to manage the work. And as in all the other passages of this history the Wonderworking Providence of Sion's Saviour hath appeared, so more especially in this work, the fountains of learning being in a great measure stopped in our native country at this time, so that the sweet waters of Shilo's streams must ordinarily pass into the churches through the stinking channel of prelatical pride, beside all the filth that the fountains themselves were daily encumbered withal, insomuch that the Lord turned aside often from them, and refused the breathings of his blessed Spirit among them, which caused Satan (in these latter days of his transformation into an angel of light) to make it a means to persuade people from the use of learning altogether, that so in the next generation they might be destitute of such helps as the