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SHe torments her self and others, by put∣ting every thing on the Rack of doubt, and wresting all unto suspicion; mean time she makes them rather confess what she'd have them, then what is true indeed. As all things seem yellow to those infected with the Iaun∣dies, so all things seem of the colour of her
suspicions. She affixes an ill sense still unto your words, and an ill meaning to all your actions, and like French Poast Horses, goes on with her suspicions, who when they stumble once, never leave till they be down. Like Snow-balls; she revolves slight offences in her minde, till sh' as made mighty injuries of them at last, and her Surmizes are alwayes wiser then the Truth, when both for her own sake and theirs, her friends could wish they were but as wise at least. She explicates others words and acti∣ons, as Hereticks do Scripture, in the dark and mystick sense, when the literal is obvious and clear enough; and there's as little hopes of converting t'one as t'other from their errone∣ous opinions. So whilst her minde is just like the Winters Sun, that exhales more vapours then it can dissipate agen; she both loses her self in the mists she makes, and loses her Friends, by mistaking them for her Enemies.