On coming before the judge, "I told him," says Ellwood, "that I had that morning received an express out of Sussex, that William Penn's wife (with whom I had an intimate acquaintance and strict friendship, _ab ipsis fere incunabilis_, at least, _a teneris unguiculis_) lay now ill, not without great danger, and that she had expressed her desire that I would come to her as soon as I could." The judge said "he was very sorry for Madam Penn's illness," of whose virtues he spoke very highly, but not more than was her due.

Then he told me, "that, for her sake, he would do what he could to further my visit to her." Escaping from the hands of the law, he visited his friend, who was by this time in a way of recovery, and, on his return, learned that the prosecution had been abandoned.
At about this date his narrative ceases.

We learn, from other sources, that he continued to write and print in defence of his religious views up to the year of his death, which took place in 1713.

One of his productions, a poetical version of the Life of David, may be still met with, in the old Quaker libraries.

On the score of poetical merit, it is about on a level with Michael Drayton's verses on the same subject.