Dear Sir, I greet you from Petersfield, where I wait a fresh horse, having this morning bid farewell to that jewel of the coast Portsmouth, though I shall for a time carry the lice of the Three Fauns in my scalp, in my belly a distemper from that inn’s rancid bacon, and putrid beer. The lice shall die, truly, and the stomach settle, but the Memories of that place shall be with me until such time as time shall be no more.

I took the liberty of yesterday calling on my lord Goring. He was among the fortifications, where the masonry work had ceased; instead, a singularly fat Sergeant was bellowing the Manual of Arms to as criminally-aspected a gang of masterless ruffians as ever damned God in England. My lord professed first to not recognize me; then said, “I have not thy damned money, wretched brat of a usuror’s whore.” On assurances I was not, indeed, the agent of one to whom my lord has for some time owned £400 at 12 percent, he invited me to his chambers.

These were much as described in my previous, though the strumpet  was risen and eating eggs as she studied some etchings in the volume of Lovelace. My lord, after refreshing himself with wine (which I refused), explained that should I misrepresent him in my Story he would quite certainly “sheathe my blade in thy damned Anabaptist gut.” I informed my lord that as the name of my Muse is Accuracy, he should be Confident that I will describe him exactly as discovered. “Swear then, brat.” I told my lord that I do not swear oaths, believing them impious and smacking of Popery. “Damned Brownist cub, I should sheathe my sword in thy gut now, and rid this kingdom of one of the schismatics that’s so f——-d it.” But then, my lord, I said, who would tell of your valiant defense of this strong place for your King? “Your heretical tongue speaks the truth, ignorant brat.”

My lord paused here, and fell into a nap. The strumpet looked up from her studies, and said, in a loud voice over my lord’s snores, that he was a most handsome man, and the wound he received at Breda made him limp “in a most soldierlike fashion.” She then asked I not mention to her father the Innkeeper I saw her here, “or my lord will certainly sheathe his sword in your gut, after first removing your nethers, because he shall not see me so dishonored."

At which point my lord awoke. Refreshing himself with another cup of wine, and helping himself to some of the eggs yet on his lady’s plate, he said that Portsmouth was the southern anchor of the King’s grand design. That his majesty planned not to “sit in York and wait for that damned cuckold Essex to snatch him there and deliver him to the schismatics in the Parliament,” but would advance on Nottingham, gathering an army from those that will inevitably flock to the banner of their rightful King. And as this occurs, the well-affected of Hampshire, Kent, etc will aggregate in Portsmouth, amid the fortifications. And so, as the armies of the King march south, those of my lord Goring will carry their banners north, and Essex will be trapped between a Scilla and Charbydis, and  “crush, damn you, crush, every last damned atheistical apprentice pup among them.”

I observed that those drilling in the square were less than fearsome, unless of course met in some lonely place, on a pitch-black night. “It’s those that make the best soldiers, damned ignorant apprentice. If there’s men of honor and quality leading 'em, and the promise of loot and c—-t before 'em, they’ll do miracles.”

My lord fell asleep again, at which point, deciding there was little be gained by waiting for him to wake again, I bid my lady farewell and asked she communicate same to my lord.

I do not share my lord's confidence, at least in the ability of his army to essay forth and deliver the promised drubbing. Five warships commanded by Warwick sailed into the harbor today, while the Trained-Bands of Hampshire and Sussex are said to be approaching from the landward. I sought to obtain my lord's thoughts on these matters, but could not gain entrance to his chambers.

I hope to be in Northampton by the 17th with News to follow.

I am sir, thy humble servant,

William Firth, Apprentice

To: Mr Sydney Holyfen, Beacon Manor, Ivinghoe, Bucks

From: Wm Firth, en route Northampton via London