_ '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.
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