hour, and bought the idle, rogueish book, “L’escholle des filles;” which I have bought in plain binding, avoiding the buying of it better bound, because I resolve, as soon as I have read it, to burn it, that it may not stand in the list of books, nor among them, to disgrace them if it should be found.  Thence home, and busy late at the office, and then home to supper and to bed.  My wife well pleased with my sister’s match, and designing how to be merry at their marriage.  And I am well at ease in my mind to think that that care will be over.  This night calling at the Temple, at the Auditor’s, his man told me that he heard that my account must be brought to the view of the Commissioners of Tangier before it can be passed, which though I know no hurt in it, yet it troubled me lest there should be any or any designed by them who put this into the head of the Auditor, I suppose Auditor Beale, or Creed, because they saw me carrying my account another way than by them.

9th (Lord’s day).  Up, and at my chamber all the morning and the office doing business, and also reading a little of “L’escholle des filles,” which is a mighty lewd book, but yet not amiss for a sober man once to read over to inform himself in the villainy of the world.  At noon home to dinner, where by appointment Mr. Pelting come and with him three friends, Wallington, that sings the good base, and one Rogers, and a gentleman, a young man, his name Tempest, who sings very well indeed, and understands anything in the world at first sight.  After dinner we into our dining-room, and there to singing all the afternoon. (By the way, I must remember that Pegg Pen was brought to bed yesterday of a girl; and, among other things, if I have not already set it down, that hardly ever was remembered such a season for the smallpox as these last two months have been, people being seen all up and down the streets, newly come out after the smallpox.) But though they sang fine things, yet I must confess that I did take no pleasure in it, or very little, because I understood not the words, and with the rests that the words are set, there is no sense nor understanding in them though they be English, which makes me weary of singing in that manner, it being but a worse sort of instrumental musick.  We sang until almost night, and drank mighty good store of wine, and then they parted, and I to my chamber, where I did read through “L’escholle des filles,” a lewd book, but what do no wrong once to read for information sake . . . .  And after I had done it I burned it, that it might not be among my books to my shame, and so at night to supper and to bed.