the office till he can sit safe. After dinner I to the office and there
late, and much troubled to have 100 seamen all the afternoon there,
swearing below and cursing us, and breaking the glasse windows, and swear
they will pull the house down on Tuesday next. I sent word of this to
Court, but nothing will helpe it but money and a rope. Late at night to
Mr. Glanville's there to lie for a night or two, and to bed.

5th (Lord's day). Up, and after being trimmed, by boat to the Cockpitt,
where I heard the Duke of Albemarle's chaplin make a simple sermon: among
other things, reproaching the imperfection of humane learning, he cried:
"All our physicians cannot tell what an ague is, and all our arithmetique
is not able to number the days of a man;" which, God knows, is not the
fault of arithmetique, but that our understandings reach not the thing. To
dinner, where a great deale of silly discourse, but the worst is I hear
that the plague increases much at Lambeth, St. Martin's and Westminster,
and fear it will all over the city. Thence I to the Swan, thinking to
have seen Sarah but she was at church, and so I by water to Deptford, and
there made a visit to Mr. Evelyn, who, among other things, showed me most
excellent painting in little; in distemper, Indian incke, water colours:
graveing; and, above all, the whole secret of mezzo-tinto, and the manner
of it, which is very pretty, and good things done with it. He read to me
very much also of his discourse, he hath been many years and now is about,
about Guardenage; which will be a most noble and pleasant piece. He read
me part of a play or two of his making, very good, but not as he conceits
them, I think, to be. He showed me his Hortus Hyemalis; leaves laid up in
a book of several plants kept dry, which preserve colour, however, and
look very finely, better than any Herball. In fine, a most excellent
person he is, and must be allowed a little for a little conceitedness; but
he may well be so, being a man so much above others. He read me, though
with too much gusto, some little poems of his own, that were not