my neat and pretty book, when i thy small lines see,

they seem for any use to be unfit for me:

my writing, all misshaped, uneven as my mind,

within this narrow space can hardly be confined.

yet i will strive to make my hand less awkward look;

i would not willingly disgrace thee, my neat book!

the finest pens i’ll use, and wondrous pains i’ll take,

and i these perfect lines my monitors will make.

and every day i will set down in order due

how that day wasted is; and should there be a few

at the year’s end that show more goodly to the sight,

if haply here i find some days not wasted quite,

if a small portion of them i have pass’d aright,

then shall i think the year not wholly was misspent,

and that my diary has been by some good angel sent.