I could relate many such stories of his performances; as also what he wrote in a book left behind him, viz. ’This I made the devil write with his own hand in Lambeth Fields 1596, in June or July, as I now remember.’  He professed to his wife there would be much trouble about Carr and the Countess of Essex, who frequently resorted unto him, and from whose company he would sometimes lock himself in his study a whole day.  Now we come to his death, which happened as follows:  the Sunday night before he died, his wife and he being at supper in their garden-house, she being pleasant, told him, that she had been informed he could resolve, whether man or wife should die first; ’Whether shall I’ (quoth she) ‘bury you or no?’ ‘Oh Trunco,’ for so he called her, ‘thou wilt bury me, but thou wilt much repent it.’  ’Yea, but how long first?’ ‘I shall die,’ said he, ‘ere Thursday night.’  Monday came, all was well.  Tuesday came, he not sick.  Wednesday came, and still he was well; with which his impertinent wife did much twit him in his teeth.  Thursday came, and dinner was ended, he very well:  he went down to the water-side, and took a pair of oars to go to some buildings he was in hand with in Puddle-dock.  Being in the middle of the Thames, he presently fell down, only saying, ‘An impost, an impost,’ and so died.  A most sad storm of wind immediately following.  He died worth one thousand two hundred pounds, and left only one son called Clement.  All his rarities, secret manuscripts, of what quality soever, Dr. Napper of Lindford in Buckinghamshire had, who had been a long time his scholar; and of whom Forman was used to say he would be a dunce:  yet in continuance of time he proved a singular astrologer and physician.  Sir Richard now living, I believe, has all those rarities in possession, which were Forman’s, being kinsman and heir unto Dr. Napper. (His son Thomas Napper, Esq.; most generously gave most of these manuscripts to Elias Ashmole, Esq.;) I hope you will pardon this digression.

After my mistress was dead, I lived most comfortably, my master having a great affection for me.

The year 1625 now comes on, and the plague exceeding violent, I will relate what I observed the spring before it broke forth.  Against our corner house every night there would come down, about five or six of the clock, sometime one hundred or more boys, some playing, others as if in serious discourse, and just as it grew dark would all be gone home; many succeeding years there was no such, or any concourse, usually no more than four or five in a company:  In the spring of 1625, the boys and youths of several parishes in like number appeared again, which I beholding, called Thomas Sanders, my landlord, and told him, that the youth and young boys of several parishes did in that nature assemble and play, in the beginning of the year 1625.  ‘God bless us,’ quoth I, ’from a plague this year;’ but then there succeeded one, and the greatest that ever was