136 A GARDEN DIARY 
particular passage, which I failed to do, a fact 
hardly to be wondered at, since, as it turned out, 
there was no copy of Zhe Garden of Cyrus 
in the house. I have found it however, at last, 
safely hidden, like a sprig of myrtle, in the tight 
embrace of an ancient notebook. 
“But the quincunx of heaven runs low, and 
tis time to close the first parts of knowledge. 
We are unwilling to spin out our awaking 
thoughts into the phantasms of sleep, which 
often continueth precogitations, making cables, 
and cobwebs, and wildernesses of handsome 
graves. Beside Hippocrates hath spoke so 
little, and the oneirocritical (!) masters have left 
such frigid interpretations from plants, that there 
is little encouragement to dream of Paradise 
itself. Nor will the sweetest delights of gardens 
afford much comfort in sleep; wherein the dull- 
ness of that sense shakes hands with delectable 
odours; and, though in the bed of Cleopatra, 
can hardly with any delight raise up the ghost 
of a rose. 
“Night, which Pagan theology could make 
the daughter of Chaos, affords no advantage to 
the description of order, although no lower than 
that mass can we derive its genealogy. All 
things began in order, so shall they end, and so 
shall they begin again ; according to the Ordainer 
of order, and of the mystical mathematicks of 
the city of heaven. 
