Up early and among my workmen, I ordering my rooms above, which will please me very well. So to my office, and there we sat all the morning, where I begin more and more to grow considerable there. At noon Mr. Coventry and I by his coach to the Exchange together; and in Lumbard-street met Captain Browne of the Rosebush: at which he was cruel angry: and did threaten to go to-day to the Duke at Hampton Court, and get him turned out because he was not sailed. But at the Exchange we resolved of eating a bit together, which we did at the Ship behind the Exchange, and so took boat to Billingsgate, and went down on board the Rosebush at Woolwich, and found all things out of order, but after frightening the officers there, we left them to make more haste, and so on shore to the yard, and did the same to the officers of the yard, that the ship was not dispatched. Here we found Sir W. Batten going about his survey, but so poorly and unlike a survey of the Navy, that I am ashamed of it, and so is Mr. Coventry. We found fault with many things, and among others the measure of some timber now serving in which Mr. Day the assistant told us of, and so by water home again, all the way talking of the office business and other very pleasant discourse, and much proud I am of getting thus far into his books, which I think I am very much in.
So home late, and it being the last day of the month, I did make up my accounts before I went to bed, and found myself worth about 650l., for which the Lord God be praised, and so to bed.
I drank but two glasses of wine this day, and yet it makes my head ake all night, and indisposed me all the next day, of which I am glad. I am now in town only with my man Will and Jane, and because my house is in building, I do lie at Sir W. Pen’s house, he being gone to Ireland. My wife, her maid and boy gone to Brampton. I am very well entered into the business and esteem of the office, and do ply it close, and find benefit by it.
I consider the rosebush cruel
and the rose frightening
as a ship in the Navy.
I am ashamed
of the timber in a book.
I think up a God
and it makes my head
into a well of ice.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 31 July 1662.