A strange world, of unspeakable horrors, where the mummified heads of traitors like Henry Ireton stare impaled on spikes above Westminster Hall, and beggars scrabble in unpaved streets for a crust, or a farthing.
And yet at the same time a world of wonders, where the Royal Society can marvel over the legs of a flea under a microscope, and muse on the nature of cells: where Nelly Gwynne shows off her legs on the stage in plays, and Messrs Rochester and Marvell write dirty poems about it.
Where Sam Pepys worries that he will become blind, through his office work in ill-lit rooms, and who uses his new spectacles to ogle the ladies in church when he gets them.
Welcome to 1665. Pull up a chair. The Russells won’t be long.