colored as most of the days certainly were, there were, bright
passages here and there, and one reminiscence was related in later
years, in her poem "In Honour of Du Bartas," the delight of
Puritan maids and mothers;

"My muse unto a Child I may compare,
Who sees the riches of some famous Fair,
He feeds his eyes but understanding lacks,
To comprehend the worth of all those knacks;
The glittering plate and Jewels he admires,
The Hats and Fans, the Plumes and Ladies' tires,
And thousand times his mazed mind doth wish
Some part, at least, of that brave wealth was his;
But seeing empty wishes nought obtain,
At night turns to his Mother's cot again,
And tells her tales (his full heart over glad),
Of all the glorious sights his eyes have had;
But finds too soon his want of Eloquence,
The silly prattler speaks no word of sense;
But seeing utterance fail his great desires,
Sits down in silence, deeply he admires."

It is probably to one of the much exhorted maids that she owed
this glimpse of what was then a rallying ground for the jesters
and merry Andrews, and possibly even a troop of strolling players,
frowned upon by the Puritan as children of Satan, but still
secretly enjoyed by the lighter minded among them. But the burden
of the time pressed more and more heavily. Freedom which had
seemed for a time to have taken firm root, and to promise a better
future for English thought and life, lessened day by day under the