Sir Thomas Ouerburie his wife with new elegies vpon his (now knowne) vntimely death : whereunto are annexed, new newes and characters / written by himselfe and other learned gentlemen.

Characters, OR Wittie descriptions of the pro|perties of sundry Persons.

A good Woman.

A Good Woman is a com|fort, like a man. Shee lacks of him nothing but heat. Thence is her sweetnes of disposition, which meets his stout|nes more pleasingly; so wooll meets yron easier then yron, and turnes resi|sting

into embracing. Her greatest lear|ning is religion, and her thoughts are on her owne Sexe, or on men, without ca|sting the difference. Dishonestie neuer comes neerer than her eares, and then wonder stops it out, and saues vertue the labour. Shee leaues then eat youth, tel|ling his lushious tales, and puts back the Seruingmans putting forward with a frowne: yet her kindnes is free enough to be seene; for it hath no guilt about it: and her mirth is cleare, that you may looke through it, into vertue, but not be|yond. She hath not behauiour at a cer|taine, but makes it to her occasion. Shee hath so much knowledge as to loue it, and if she haue it not at home, shee will fetch it; for this sometimes in a plea|sant discontent she dares chide her Sexe, though she vse it neuer the worse. She is much within, and frames outward things to her minde, not her minde to them. She weares good clothes, but ne|uer better; for she findes no degree be|yond Decencie. Shee hath a content of

her owne, and so seeks not an husband, but findes him. She is indeed most, but not much to description, for she is direct and one, and hath not the varietie of ill. Now shee is giuen fresh and aliue to a husband, and shee doth nothing more then loue him, for she takes him to that purpose. So his good becomes the bu|sinesse of her actions, and shee doth her selfe kindnesse vpon him. After his, her chiefest vertue is a good husband. For Shee is Hee.

A very Woman.

A Very Woman, is a dow-bakt man, or a Shee ment well towards man, but fell two bowes short, strength and vnderstanding. Her vertue is the hedge, Modestie, that keeps a man from climing ouer into her faults. Shee sim|pers as if she had no teeth, but lips, and she diuides her eyes and keeps halfe for

her selfe, and giues the other to her near Youth. Being set downe shee casts her face into a platforme, which dureth the meale, & is taken away with the voider. Her draught reacheth to good man|ners, not to thirst, and it is a part of their mysterie not to professe hunger; but Na|ture takes her in priuate and stretcheth her vpon meat. Shee is Marigeable and Fourteene at once; and after she doth not liue but tarrie. Shee reads ouer her face euery morning, and sometimes blots out pale, and writes red. She thinks she is faire, though many times her opinion goes alone, and she loues her glasse, and the knight of the Sunne for lying. Shee is hid away all but her face, and that's hang'd about with toyes and deuices, like the signe of a Tauerne, to draw Strangers. If shee shew more shee pre|uents desire, and by too free giuing, leaues no Gift. Shee may escape from the Seruing-man, but not from the Chamber-maide. Shee commits with her eares for certaine: after that shee

may goe for a Maide, but she hath been lien with in her vnderstanding. Her Phi|losophie, is a seeming neglect of those, that be too good for her. Shee's a yon|ger brother for her portion, but not for her portion of wit, that comes from her in a treble, which is still too big for it; yet hir Vanitie seldom matcheth hir, with one of her owne degree, for then she wil beget another creature a begger: and commonly, if shee marrie better, shee marries worse. Shee gets much by the simplicitie of her Sutor, and for a iest, laughes at him without one. Thus she dresses a Husband for her selfe, and after takes him for his patience, and the land adioyning, yee may see it, in a Seruing|mans fresh Naperie, and his Leg steps into an vnknowne stocking. I need not speake of his Garters, the tassell shewes it selfe. If she loue, she loues not the Man, but the beast of him. Shee is Salomons cruel creature, and a mans walking-consumption: euery caudle shee giues him, is a purge. Her chiefe commenda|tion

is, shee brings a man to repen|tance.

Her next part.

Her lightnesse gets her to swimme at top of the table, where her wrie little finger bewraies caruing; her neighbors at the latter end know they are welcom, and for that purpose shee quencheth her thirst. She trauels to and among, and so becomes a woman of good entertain|ment, for all the follie in the countrie, comes in cleane Linnen to visit her: she breakes to them her griefe in Sugar cakes, and receiues from their mouthes in exchange, many stories that conclude to no purpose. Her eldest Sonne is like her howsoeuer, and that dispraiseth him best: her vtmost drift is to turne him Foole, which commonly she obtaines at the yeeres of discretion, Shee takes a iourney sometimes to her Neeces house, but neuer thinks beyond London. Her Deuotion is good clothes, they carrie her to Church, expresse their stuffe and fa|shion,

and are silent, if she be more de|uout, shee lifts vp a certaine number of eyes, in stead of prayers, and takes the Sermon, and measures out a nap by it, iust as long. She sends Religion afore to Sixtie, where shee neuer ouertakes it, or driues it before her againe. Her most necessarie instruments, are a waiting Gen|tlewoman, and a Chamber-maide; shee weares her Gentlewoman still, but most often leaues the other in her Chamber-window. She hath a little Kennel in her lap, and she smells the sweeter for it. The vtmost reach of her Prouidence, is the fatnesse of a Capon, and her greatest enuie, is the next Gentlewomans better gown. Her most commendable skill, is to make her Husbands fustian beare her Veluer. This she doth many times ouer, and then is deliuered to old Age, and a Chaire, where euery bodie leaues her.

A Dissembler,

IS an essence needing a double defini|tion, for hee is not that hee appeares. Vnto the eye he is pleasing, vnto the eare not harsh, but vnto the vnderstan|ding intricate, and full of windings: he is the prima materia, & his intents giue him forme: he dieth his meanes and his mea|ning into two colours, he baites craft with humilitie, and his countenance is the picture of the present disposition. He winnes not by batterie, but vndermi|ning, and his racke is soothing. Hee allures, is not allur'd by his affections, for they are the brokers of his obseruation. He knowes passion onely by sufferance, and resisteth by obeying. He makes his time an accomptant to his memorie, and of the humors of men weaues a net for occasion: the Inquisitor must looke through his iudgment, for to the eye on|ly he is no•• visible.

A Courtier,

TO all mens thinking is a man, and to most men the finest: all things else are defined by the vnderstan|ding, but this by the senses; but his surest marke is, that hee is to be found onely about Princes. Hee smells; and putteth away much of his iudgment about the scituation of his clothes. He knowes no man that is not generally knowne. His wit, like the Marigold, openeth with the Sunne, and therefore he riseth not before ten of the clocke. He puts more confi|dence in his words than meaning, and more in his pronuntiation than his words. Occasion is his Cupid, and he hath but one receipt of making loue. He fol|lowes nothing but inconstancie, admires nothing but beautie, honours nothing but fortune. Loues nothing. The suste|nance of his discourse is Newes, and his censure like a shot depēds vpō the char|ging.

He is not, if he be out of Court, but fish-like breathes destruction, if out of his owne element. Neither his moti|on, or aspect are regular, but he moues by the vpper Spheres, and is the reflecti|on of higher substances.

If you finde him not heere, you shall in Paules, with a picke-tooth in his Hat, a cape cloke, and a long stocking.

A Golden Asse,

IS a young thing, whose Father went to the Diuell; he is followed like a salt bitch, and limb'd by him that gets vp first; his disposition is cut, and knaues rent him like Tenter-hookes: he is as blinde as his mother, and swallowes flat|terers for friends. He is high in his owne imagination; but that imagination, as a stone, that is raised by violence, descends naturally: when he goes, he lookes who lookes: if he findes not good store of

vailers, he comes home stiffe and seer, vntill he be new oyled and watered by his husbandmen. Wheresoeuer be eates he hath an officer, to warne men not to talke out of his element, and his owne is exceeding sensible, because it is sensuall; but he cannot exchange a peece of rea|son, though he can a peece of gold. He is naught pluckt, for his feathers are his beauty, and more then his beautie, they are his discretion, his countenance, his All. He is now at an end, for hee hath had the Wolfe of vaine-glorie, which he fed, vntill himselfe became the food.

A Flatterer,

IS the shadow of a Foole. Hee is a good wood-man, for he singleth out none but the wealthy. His carriage is euer of the colour of his patient; and for his sake he will halt or weare a wry necke. He dispraiseth nothing but pouerty,

and small drinke, and praiseth his grace of making water. Hee selleth himselfe, with reckoning his great Friends, and teacheth the present, how to winne his praise by reciting the others gifts: hee is ready for all imploiments, but especi|ally before Dinner, for his courage and his stomacke go together. Hee will play any vpon his countenance, and where he cannot be admitted for a counseller, he will serue as a foole. Hee frequents the court of wards and ordinaries, and fits these guests of Togae virilis, with wiues or whoores. He entreth young men into acquaintance and debt books. In a word, he is the impression of the last terme, and will be so, vntill the com|ming of a new terme or termer.

An ignorant Glorie-hunter,

IS an insectum animal; for he is the mag|got of opinion, his behauiour is ano|thing from himselfe, and is glewed, and

but set on. He entertaines men with re|petitions, and returnes them their owne words. He is ignorant of nothing, no not of those things, where ignorance is the lesser shame. He gets the names of good wits, and vtters them for his com|panions. He confesseth vices that he is guiltlesse of, if they be in fashion; and dares not salute a man in old cloths, or out of fashion. There is not a publicke assembly without him, and he will take any paines for an acquaintance there. In any shew he will be one, though he be but a whistler, or a torch bearer; and beares downe strangers with the story of his actions. He handles nothing that is not rare, and defends his wardrobe, diet, and all customes, with entitling their beginnings from Princes, great Souldiers and strange Nations. He dares speake more then he vnderstands, and aduentures his words without the re|liefe of any seconds. Hee relates battels and skirmishes, as from an eye witnesse, when his eies theeuishly beguiled a bal|lad

of them. In a word, to make sure of admiration, he will not let himselfe vn|derstand himselfe, but hopes, fame and opinion will bee the Readers of his Riddles.

A Timist,

IS a noune adiectiue of the present tense. He hath no more of a conscience then Feare, and his religion is not his but the Princes. Hee reuerenceth a Courtiers Seruants seruant. Is first his own Slaue, and then whosoeuer looketh big; when he giues he curseth, and when hee fells he worships. He reades the statutes in his chamber, and weares the Bible in the streetes: he neuer praiseth any but be|fore themselues or friends: and mislikes no great mans actions during his life. His new yeares gifts are ready at Alha|lomas, and the sute he meant to mediate before them. He pleaseth the children of

great men, and promiseth to adopt them; and his curtesie extends it selfe e|uen to the stable. Hee straines to talke wisely, and his modesty would serue a Bride. He is grauity from the head to the foote; but not from the head to the heart; you may finde what place he af|fecteth, for he creepes as neere it as may be, and as passionately courts it; if at any time his hopes are effected, he swel|leth with them; and they burst out too good for the vessell. In a word, he dan|ceth to the tune of fortune, and studies for nothing but to keepe time.

An Amorist,

IS a certaine blasted or planet-stroken, and is the dog that leades blinde Cu|pid; when he is at the best, his fashion exceedes the worth of his weight. He is neuer without verses, and muske con|fects; and sighs to the hazard of his but|tons;

his eyes are all white, either to weare the liuery of his Mistris complexi|on, or to keepe Cupid from hitting the blacke. Hee fights with passion, and looseth much of his blood hy his weapon; dreames, thence his palenes. His armes are carefuly vsed, as it their best vse were nothing but embracements. He is vntrust, vnbuttoned, and vngartered, not out of carelesnesse, but care; his far|thest end being but going to bed. Some|times he wraps his petition in neatnesse, but is goeth not alone; for then he makes some other qualitie moralize his affecti|on, and his trimnesse is the grace of that grace. Hir fauour lifts him vp, as the Sun moisture; when she disfauours, vnable to hold that happinesse, it falls downe in teares; his fingers are his Orators, and hee expresseth much of himselfe vpon some instrument. He answeres not, or not to the purpose; and no maruell, for he is not at home. He scotcheth time with dancing with his Mistris, taking vp of her gloue, and wearing her feather;

hee is confinde to her colour, and dares not passe out of the circuit of her memo|ry. His imagination is a foole, and it go|eth in a pide-coat of red and white; short|ly, he is translated out of a man into fol|ly; his imagination is the glasse of lust, and himselfe the traitour to his owne discretion.

An Affectate Traueller

IS a speaking fashion; hee hath taken paynes to be ridiculous; and hath seen more then he hath perceiued. His at|tire speakes French or Italian, and his gate cryes, Behold me. Hee censures all things by countenances, and shrugs, and speaks his owne language with shame and lis|ping: he will choake rather then confesse Beere good drinke: and his pick-tooth is a maine part of his behauiour. Hee chu|seth rather to be counted a Spie, then not a Politician: and maintaines his reputati|on

by naming greatmen familiarly. He chuseth rather to tell lies, then not won|ders, and talkes with men singly: his dis|course sonnds big, but meanes nothing: & his Boy is bound to admire him how|soeuer. He comes still from great Per|sonages, but goes with meane. He takes occasion to shew Iewels giuen him in re|gard of his vertue, that were bought in S. Martins: and not long after, hauing with a Mountebanks method, pronounced them woorth thousands, enpawneth them for a few shillings. Vpon festiuall dayes he goes to Court, and salutes with|out resaluting: at night in an Ordinary he canvasseth the businesse in hand, and seems as conuersant with all intents and plots, as if he begot them. His extraor|dinary account of men is, first to tell them the ends of all matters of consequence, and then to borrow money of them; hee offereth courtefies, to shew them, rather then himselfe humble. Hee disdaines all things aboue his reach, and preferreth all Countries before his owne. Hee im|puteth

his wants and pouerty to the ig|norance of the time, not his owne vnwor|thinesse: and concludes his discourse with halfe a period, or a word, and leaues the rest to imagination. In a word, his religion is fashion, and both bodie and soule are gouerned by fame, hee loues most voices aboue truth.

A Wise man

IS the truth of the true definition of man, that is, a reasonable creature. His disposition alters, alters not. Hee hides himselfe with the attire of the vul|gar; and in indifferent things is content to be gouerned by them. He lookes ac|cording to nature, so goes his behauiour. His minde enioyes a continuall smooth|nesse: so commeth it, that his considera|tion is alwaies at home. He endures the faults of all men silently, except his friends, and to them he is the mirrour of

their actions; by this meanes his peace commeth not from fortune, but himselfe. He is cunning in men, not to surprize but keepe his owne, and bears off their ill af|fected hurnours, no otherwise then if they were flies. Hee chuseth not friends by the subsidy-booke, and is not luxurious after acquaintance. He maintaines the strength of his body, not by delica|cies, but temperance; and his minde by giuing it preheminence ouer his bodie. Hee vnderstands things not by their forme, but qualities; and his compari|sons intend not to excuse, but to prouoke him higher. He is not subiect to casual|ties, for Fortune hath nothing to do with the minde, except those drowned in the body: but he hath diuided his soule, from the case of his soule, whose weakenesse hee assists no otherwise then commisera|tiuely, not that it is his, but that it is. He is thus, and will bee thus: and liues sub|iect neither to Time nor his frailties; the feruant of vertue, and by vertue, the friend of the highest.

A Noble Spirit

HAth surueyed and fortified his di|sposition, and conuerts all occur|rents into experience, betweene which experience and his reason, there is marriage; the issue are his actions. He circuits his intents, and seeth the end be|fore he shoot. Men are the instruments of his Art, and there is no man without his vse: occasion incites him, none en|ticeth him; and he mooues by affection, not for affection; he loues glory, scornes shame, and gouerneth and obeyeth with one countenance; for it comes from one consideration. Hee cals not the varietie of the world chances, for his meditation hath trauelled ouer them; and his eye mounted vpon his vnderstanding, seeth them as things vnderneath. Hee couers not his body with delicacies, nor excuseth these delicacies by his body, but teacheth it, since it is not able to defend its owne

imbecillity, to shew or suffer. Hee licen|ceth not his weakenesse, to weare Fate, but knowing reason to bee no idle gift of Nature, hee is the Sreeres-man of his owne destiny. Truth is his Goddesse, and he takes paines to get her, not to look like her. He knowes the condition of the world, that he must act one thing like a|nother, and then another. To these hee carries his desires, & not his desires him; and stickes not fast by the way (for that contentment is repentance) but know|ing the circle of all courses, of all intents, of all things, to haue but one center or period, without all distraction, he hasteth thither and ends there, as his true and na|turall element. He doth not contemne Fortune, but not confesse her. Hee is no Gamester of the world (which only com|plaine and praise her) but being onely sensible of the honesty of actions, con|temnes a particular profit as the excre|ment or scum. Vnto the society of men he is a Sunne, whose cleerenesse directs their steps in a regular motion: when he

is more particular, hee is the wise mans friend, the example of the indifferent, the medicine of the vicious. Thus time go|eth not from him, but with him: and he feeles age more by the strength of his soule, than the weakenesse of his body: thus feeles he no paine, but esteemes all such things as friends, that desire to file off his fetters, and help him out of prison.

An Olde Man

IS a thing that hath beene a man in his dayes. Olde men are to bee knowen blind-folded: for their talke is as terri|ble as their resemblance. They praise their own times as vehemently, as if they would sell them. They become wrinck|led with frowning and facing youth; they admire their old customes, euen to the eating of red herring, and going wet|shod. They call the thumbe vnder the girdle, Grauity; and because they can

hardly smell at all, their Posies are vnder their girdles. They count it an Ornament of speech, to close the period with a cough; and it is venerable, they say, to spend time in wiping their driueled beards. Their discourse is vnanswerable, by reason of their obstinacy: their speech is much, though little to the purpose. Trueths and lies passe with an equall af|firmation, for their memories seuerall is wonne into one receptacle, and so they come out with one sense. They teach their seruants their duties with as much scorne and tyranny, as some people teach their dogs to fetch. Their enuy is one of their diseases. They put off and on their clothes, with that certainty, as if they knew, their heads would not direct them, and therefore Custome should. They take a pride in halting and going stiffely, and therefore their staues are carued and tipped: they trust their attire with much of their grauity; and they dare not goe without a gowne in Summer. Their hats are brushed to draw mens eyes off from

their faces; but of all, their Pomandars are worne to most purpose, for their pu|trified breath ought not to want either a smell to defend, or a dog to excuse.

A Countrey Gentleman

IS a thing, out of whose corruption the generation of a Iustice of peace is pro|duced. Hee speakes statutes and husbandry well enough, to make his neigh|bours thinke him a wise man; hee is well skilled in Arithmeticke or rates: and hath eloquence enough to saue his two pence. His conuersation amongst his Tenants is desperate; but amongst his equals full of doubt. His trauell is seldome farther then the next market towne, and his inquisi|tion is about the price of Corne: when he trauelleth, he will goe ten mile out of the way to a Couzens house of his to saue charges; and rewards the Seruants by taking them by the hand when hee de|parts.

Nothing vnder a Sub-poena can draw him to London: and when hee is there, he stickes fast vpon euery obiect, casts his eyes away vpon gazing, and be|comes the prey of euery Cut-purse. When hee comes home, those wonders serue him for his Holy-day talke. If hee goe to Court, it is in yellow stockings; and if it be in Winter, in a slight taffetie cloake, and pumps and pantofles. He is chaind, that wooes the vsher for his comming into the presence, where hee becoms troublesome with the ill mana|ging of his Rapier, and the wearing of his girdle of one fashion, and the hangers of another; by this time he hath learned to kisse his hand, and make a Leg both together, and the names of Lords and Counsellours; hee hath thus much to|ward entertainment and courtesie, but of the last hee makes more vse; for by the recitall of my Lord, hee coniures his poor country-men. But this is not his ele|ment, he must home againe, being like a Dor, that ends his flight in a dunghill.

A Fine Gentle-man

IS the Cynamon tree, whose barke is more worth then his body. Hee hath read the Booke of good manners, and by this time each of his limbs may read it. He alloweth of no iudge, but the eye; painting, boulstring, and bomba|sting are his Oratours: by these also hee prooues his industry: for hee hath pur|chased legs, haire, beautie, and straight|nesse, more then nature left him. He vnlockes maiden-heads with his language, and speakes Euphues, not so gracefully as heartily. His discourse makes not his be|hauiour, but hee buies it at Court, as Countrey men their cloathes in Birchin|lane. Hee is somewhat like the Salaman|der, and liues in the flame of loue, which paines he expresseth comically: and no|thing grieues him so much, as the want of a Poet to make an issue in his loue; yet he sighs sweetly, and speakes lamentably:

for his breath is perfumed, and his words are winde. He is best in season at Christmas; for the Boares head and Reueller come together; his hopes are laden in his quality: & left Fidlers should take him vnprouided, hee weares pumps in his pocket: and lest hee should take Fidlers vnprouided, he whistles his owne Galliard. He is a Calender of ten yeeres, and marriage rusts him. Afterwards he mainetaines himselfe an implement of houshold by caruing and vshering. For all this, he is iudiciall onely in Taylours and Barbers, but his opinion is euer rea|dy, and euer idle. If you will know more of his acts, the Brokers shoppe is the wit|nesse of his valour, where lies wounded, dead, rent, and out of fashion, many a spruce Sute, ouerthrowen by his fanta|sticknesse.

An Elder Brother

IS a creature borne to the best aduan|tage of things without him, that hath the start at the beginning, but loyters it away before the ending. Hee lookes like his Land, as heauily, and durtily, as stubbornly. He dares doe any thing but fight; and feares nothing but his fathers life and minority. The first thing hee makes known is his estate; and the Load|stone that drawes him is the vpper end of the Table. Hee wooeth by a particular, and his strongest argument is the ioyn|ture. His obseruation is all about the fa|shion, and hee commends Partlets for a rare deuise. He speakes no language, but smels of dogs or hawkes; and his ambiti|on flies Iustice-height. He loues to bee commended, and hee will goe into the Kitchin, but heele haue it. He loues glo|ry, but is so lazie, as hee is content with flattery. Hee speakes most of the prece|dency

of age, and protests fortune the greatest vertue. He summoneth the old seruants, and tels what strange acts he wil doe when he raignes. He verily beleeues house-keepers the best common-wealths men; and therefore studies baking, brew|ing, greasing, and such, as the limmes of goodnesse. He iudgeth it no small signe of wisdome to talke much; his tongue therefore goes continually his errand, but neuer speeds. If his vnderstanding were not honester then his will, no man should keepe good conceit by him; for hee thinkes it no theft, to fell all he can to o|pinion. His pedigree & his fathers seale|ring, are the stilts of his crazed dispositi|on. He had rather keepe company with the dregs of men, then not to be the best man. His insinuation is the inuiting of men to his house; and he thinks it a great modesty to comprehend his cheere vn|der a peece of Mutton and a Rubet: if he by this time be not knowen, he will goe home againe: for he can no more abide to haue himself concealed, then his land;

yet he is as you see good for nothing, ex|cept to make a stallion to maintaine the race.

A Braggadochio Welchman

IS the Oyster, that the Pearle is in, for a man may be pickt out of him. He hath the abilities of the minde in Potentia, and actu nothing but boldnesse. His clo|thes are in fashion before his body; and he accounts boldnesse the chiefest ver|tue. Aboue all men he loues an Herrald, and speakes pedigrees naturally. He ac|counts none well descended, that call him not Couzen; and preferres Owen Glendower before any of the nine Wor|thies. The first note of his familiarity is the confession of his valour; and so hee preuents quarrels. He vouchech Welch, a pure and vnconquered language, and courts Ladies with the story of their Chronicle. To conclude, he is precious

in his owne conceit, and vpon S. Dauies day without comparison.

A Pedant

HE treads in a rule, and one hand scannes verses, and the other holds his Scepter. He dares not think a thought that the nominatiue case gouerns not the Verbe; and hee neuer had mea|ning in his life, for he trauelled onely for words. His ambition is Criticisme, and his example Tully. Hee values phrases, and elects them by the sound, and the eight parts of speech are his Seruants. To be briefe, he is a Hetoroclite, for he wants the plurall number, hauing onely the sin|gle quality of words.

A Seruing-man

IS a creature, which though hee bee not drunke, yet is not his owne man. Hee tels without asking who ownes him, by the superscription of his Liuery. His life is, for ease and leisure, much about Gentleman-like. His wealth enough to suffice Nature, and sufficient to make him happy, if he were sure of it; for he hath little, and wants nothing, hee va|lues himselfe higher or lower, as his Master is. Hee hates or loues the Men, as his Master doth the Master. Hee is commonly proud of his Masters horses, or his Christmas; he sleeps when he is sleepy, is of his religion, only the clock of his stomack is set to go an houre after his. He seldome breakes his owne clo|thes. He neuer drinkes but double, for hee must bee pledg'd; nor commonly without some short sentence nothing to the purpose: and seldome abstaines till

hee come to a thirst. His discretion is to be carefull for his Masters credit, & his sufficiency to marshall dishes at a Table, and to carue well. His neat|nesse consists much in his haire and out|ward linnen. His courting language, visible bawdy iests; and against his matter faile, he is alway ready furni|shed with a song. His inheritance is the Chamber-mayd, but often purcha|seth his Masters daughter, by reason of opportunity, or for want of a better: he alwaies cuckolds himselfe, and neuer marries but his owne widdow. His Master being appeased, hee becomes a Retainer, and entailes himselfe and his posterity vpon his heire-males for euer.

An Host

IS the kernell of a Signe: or the Signe is the shell, & mine Host is the Snaile.

He consists of double-beere and follow|ship, and his vices are the bawds of his thirst. Hee enterraines humbly, and giues his Guests power, as well of himselfe as house. He answers all mens ex|pections to his power, saue in the rec|koning: and hath gotten the tricke of greatnesse, to lay all mislikes vpon his seruants. His wife is the Cummin-seed of his Doue-house; and to bee a good Guest, is a warrant for her liberty. He traffiques for Guests by mens friends, friends-friend, and is sensible onely of his purse. In a word, hee is none of his owne: for hee neither eats, drinkes, or thinkes, but at other mens charges and appoyntments.

An Ostler

IS a thing that scrubbeth vireasonably his horse, reasonably himselfe. He con|sists of Trauellers, though he bee none

himselfe. His highest ambition is to be Host, and the inuention of his signe is his greatest wit: for the expressing whereof he sends away the Painters for want of vnderstanding. Hee hath cer|taine charmes for a horse mouth, that he should not eat his hay: and behinde your backe, hee will cozen your horse to his face. His curry-combe is one of his best parts, for hee expresseth much by the gingling: and his mane-combe is a spinners card turn'd out of seruice. He puffes and blowes ouer your horse, to the hazard of a double Iugge: and leaues much of the dressing to the pro|uerb of Muli mutuo scabient, One horse rubs another. Hee comes to him that cals lowdest, not first; hee takes a bro|ken head patiently, but the knaue hee feeles not. His vtmost honesty is good fellowship, and he speakes Notherne, what country man soeuer. He hath a pension of Ale from the next smith and Sadler for intelligence. He loues to see you ride, & holds your stirrop in expectation.

A good Wife

IS a mans best mooueable, a scien in|corporate with the stocke, bringing sweetfruit; one that to her husband is more then a friend, lesse then trou|ble: an equall with him in the yoake. Calamities and troubles shee shares alike, nothing pleaseth her that doth not him. Shee is relatiue in all; and hee without her, but halfe himselfe. She is his absent hands, eies, eares, and mouth: his present and absent All. She frames her nature vnto his howsoeuer: the Hiacinth followes not the Sunne more willingly. Stubbornenesse and obsti|nacy, are hearbes that grow not in her garden. She leaues tatling, to the gos|sips of the towne, and is more seen then heard: Her houshold is her charge, her care to that, makes her seldome non re|sident. Her pride is but to be cleanly, & her thrift not to be prodigal. By her dis|cretion

she hath children, notwantons; a Husband without her, is a miserie in mans apparell: none but shee hath an aged husband, to whom she is both a staffe and a chaire. To conclude, shee is both wise and religious, which makes her all this.

A Melancholie man

IS a straier from the droue: one that nature made sociable, because shee made him man, and a crazed disposi|tion hath altered. Impleasing to all, as all to him; stragling thoughts are his content, they make him dreame wa|king, there's his pleasure. His imagi|nation is neuer idle, it keeps his minde in a continu all motion, as the poise the clocke: he windes vp his thoughts of|ten, and as often vnwindes them; Pe|nelopes webbe thriues faster. Hel'e sel|dome be found without the shade of

some groue, in whose bottom a riuer dwells. He carries a cloud in his face, neuer faire weather: his outside is fra|med to his inside, in that he keepes a Decorum, both vnseemly. Speake to him, he heares with his eyes, eares fol|low his mind, and that's not at leasure. Hee thinks businesse, but neuer does any: he is all contemplation, no actiō. He hewes and fashions his thoughts, as if he meant them to some purpose, but they proue vnprofitable, as a piece of wrought timber to no vse. His Spi|rits and the Sunne are enemies; the Sunne bright and warme, his humor blacke and cold: varietie of foolish apparitions people his head, they suffer him not to breath, according to the necessities of nature; which makes him sup vp a draught of as much aire at once, as would serue at thrice. Hee denies nature her due in sleepe, and ouer-paies her with watchfulnesse: nothing pleaseth him long, but that which pleaseth his owne fantasies:

they are the consuming euills, and euill consumptions, that consume him aliue. Lastly, he is a man only in shew, but comes short of the better part; a whole reasonable soule, which is mans chiefe preheminence, and sole marke from creatures sensible.

A Sailor

IS a pitcht peece of reason calkt and tackled, and onely studied to dispute with tempests. He is part of his owne Prouision, for he liues euerpickled. A fore-winde is the substance of his Creed; and fresh water the burden of his prayers. He is naturally ambitious, for he is euer climing: out of which as naturally he feares; for hee is euer fly|ing: time and he are euery where, euer contending who shall ariue first: hee is well winded, for he tires the day, and out-runne darknesse. His life is like a Hawkes, the best part mewed; and if

he liue till three coates, is a Master. He sees Gods wonders in the deep: but so as rather they appeare his play-fel|lowes, then stirrers of his zeale: nothing but hunger and hard rockes can con|uert him, and then but his vpper deck neither; for his hold neither feares nor hopes. His sleeps are but repreeuals of his dangers, and when he awakes, tis but next stage to dying. His wisdome is the coldest part about him, for it euer points to the North: and it lyes lowest, which makes his valor euerie tide ore|flow it. In a storme tis disputable, whe|ther the noise be more his, or the Ele|ments, and which will first leaue scol|ding; on which side of the ship he may be saued best, whether his faith bee starre-bord faith, or lar-bord: or the helme at that time not all his hope of heauen: his keel is the Embleme of his conscience, till it be split hee neuer re|pents, then no farther then the land allowes him, and his language is a new confusion: and all his thoughts new

nations: his bodie and his ship are both one burthen, nor is it known who stowes most wine, or rowles most, only the ship is guided, he has no sterne: a barnacle and hee are bred together both of one nature, and tis fear'd one reason: vpon any but a woodden horse hee cannot ride, and if the winde blow against him he dare not: hee swarues vp to his seat as to a saile yarde, and cannot sit vnlesse he beare a flag staffe: if euer he be broken to the saddle, tis but a voyage still, for hee mistakes the bridle for a bowlin, and is euer turning his horse taile: he can pray, but tis by rote, not faith, and when he would hee dares not, for his brackish beleefe hath made that ominous. A rocke or a quick sand plucke him before hee be ripe, else he is gathered to his friends at Wapping.

A Souldier

IS the husband-man of valour, his sword is his plough, which honor and aqua-vitae, two fiery mettald iades, are euer drawing. A younger brother best becomes Armes; an elder, the thanks for them; euery heat makes him a har|uest: and discontents abroad are his Sowers: he is actiuely his Princes, but passiuely his angers seruant. Hee is of|ten a desirer of learning, which once arriued at, proues his strongest armour: he is a louer at all points; and a true defender of the faith of women: more wealth then makes him seeme a hand|some foe, lightly he couets not, lesse is below him: he neuer truely wants, but in much hauing, for then his ease and letcherie afflict him: the word Peace, though in prayer, makes him start, and God he best considers by his power: hunger and cold ranke in the same file

with him, and hold him to a man: hi^s honour else, and the desire of doing things beyond him, would blow him greater then the sonnes of Anack. His religion is, commonly, as his cause is (doubtfull) and that the best devotion keeps best quarter: he seldom sees gray haires, some none at all, for where the sword failes, there the flesh giues fire: in charitie, he goes beyond the Clergy, for hee loues his greatest enemie best, much drinking. He seemes a full Stu|dent, for he is a great desirer of contro|uersies, he argues sharply, and carries his conclusion in his scabbard; in the first resining of mankind this was the gold, his actions are his ammell. His alay (for else you cannot worke him perfectly) continuall duties, heauie and wearie marches, lodgings as full of neede as cold diseases. No time to ar|gue, but to execute. Line him with these, and linke him to his squadrons, and he appeares a most rich chaine for Princes.

A Taylor

IS a creature made vp of shreds, that were pared off from Adam, when he was rough cast. The end of his Being differeth from that of others, and is not to serue God, but to couer sinne. Other mens pride is his best Patron, and their negligence, a maine passage to his profit. Hee is a thing of more then ordinary iudgement: For by ver|tue of that, he buieth land, buildeth houses and raiseth the lowe set roofe of his crosse legged Fortune. His acti|ons are strong incounters, and for their notoriousnesse alwaies vpon Record. It is neither Amadic de Gaule, nor the Knight of the Sunne, that is able to re|sist them. A tenne groates fee setteth them on foote, and a brace of Officers bringeth them to execution. He han|dleth the Spanish Pike, to the hazard of many poore Egyptian vermins; and

in shew of his valour, scorneth a grea|ter Gantlet, then will couer the toppe of his middle-finger. Of all weapons he most affecteth the long Bill, and this he will manage to the great preiudice of a Customers estate. His spirit not|withstanding is not so much as to make you thinke him man; like a true mongrell, he neither bites nor barkes, but when your backe is towards him. His heart is a lumpe of congealed snow: Prometheus was a sleepe while it was making. He differeth altogether from God; for with him the best pee|ces are still marked out for damnati|on, and without hope of recouery shal be cast downe into hell. Hee is partly an Alchimist; for hee extracteth his owne apparell out of other mens clothes; and when occasion serueth, making a Brokers shop his Alembike, can turne your silkes into gold, and hauing furnished his necessities, after a moneth or two, if he be vrg'd vnto it, reduce them againe to their proper

substance. Hee is in part likewise an Arithmetician, cunning enough in Multiplication and addition, but can|not abide substraction: Summa totalis, is the Language of his Canaan; & vs{que} ad vltimum quadrantem, the period of all his Charitie. For any skill in Geome|trie, I dare not commend him; For he could neuer yet finde out the dimensi|ons of his owne conscience: Notwith|standing he hath many bottoms, it seemeth this is alwaies bottomlesse. He is double yarded, and yet his fe|mall complaineth of want of measure. And so, with a Libera nos à malo; I leaue you promising to amend whatsoeuer is a misse, at his next setting.

A Puritane

IS a diseas'd peece of Apocripha: binde him to the Bible, and hee corrupts the whole text: Ignorance, and fat feed,

are his Founders; his Nurses, Railing, Rabbies, and round breeches: his life is but a borrowed blast of winde; For betweene two religions, as betweene two doores, he is euer whistling. Tru|ly whose childe he is, is yet vnknown; For willingly his faith allowes no Fa|ther: onely thus farre his pedegree is found, Bragger and he flourisht about a time first; his fierie zeale keepes him continuall costiue, which withers him into his owne translation, and till hee eate a Schooleman, he is hidebound; hee euer praies against Non Residents, but is himselfe the greatest disconti|nuer, for hee neuer keepes neere his text: any thing that the Law allowes, but Marriage, and March-beere, hee murmures at; what it disallowes, and holdes dangerous, makes him a disci|pline. Where the gate standes open, he is euer seeking a stile: and where his Learning ought to climbe, he creepes through; giue him aduice, you runne into Traditions, and vrge a modest

course, he cries out Councels. His grea|test care is, to contemne obedience, his last care to serue God, handsomely and clenly; Hee is now become so crosse a kinde of teaching, that should the Church enioyne cleane shirts, he were lowsie: more sense then single praiers is not his; nor more in those, then still the same petitions: from which hee either feares a learned Faith, or doubts God vnderstands not at first hearing. Shew him a Ring, he runs backe like a Beare; and hates square dealing as al|lied to caps, a paire of Organs blow him out o'th Parish, and are the only glister pipes to coole him. Where the meate is best, there he confutes most, for his arguing is but the efficacy of his eating: good bits hee holds breedes good positions, and the Pope he best concludes against, in Plum-broth. He is often drunk, but not as we are, tem|porally, nor can his sleepe then cure him, for the fumes of his ambition make his very soule reele, and that

small Beere that should alay him (si|lence) keepes him more surfeited, and makes his heate breake out in priuate houses: women and Lawyers are his best Disciples, the one next fruit, longs for forbidden Doctrine, the other to maintain forbidden titles, both which he sowes amongst them. Honest hee dare not be, for that loues order: yet if he can be brought to Ceremonie, & made but master of it, he is conuerted.

A Whoore

IS a hie way to the Diuell, hee that lookes vpon her with desire, begins his voiage: he that staies to talke with her, mends his pace, and who enioies her is at his iourneis end: Her body is the tilted Lees of pleasure, dasht ouer with a little decking to hold colour: tast her, she's dead, and fals vpon the pallate; the sins of other women shew

in Landscip, far off and full of shadow; hers in Statue, neere hand, and bigger in the life: she prickes betimes, for her stocke is a white thorne, which cut & grafted on, she growes a Medler: Her trade is opposite to any other, for she sets vp without credit, and too much custome breakes her; The mony that she gets is like a traitors, giuen only to corrupt her, and what she gets, serues but to pay diseases. She is euer moo'rd in sinne, and euer mending, and after thirty, she is the Chirurgians creature; shame and Repentance are two stran|gers to her, and only in an hospitall ac|quainted: she liues a Reprobate, like Caine, still branded, finding no habi|tation but her feares, and flies the face of Iustice like a Fellon. The first yeare of her trade she is an Eyesse scratches and cries to draw on more, affection: the second Soare: the third a Ramage whoore: the fourth and fifth, she's an intermewer, preies for her selfe, and ruffles all she reaches; from thence to

tenne shee beares the name of white whoore, for then her bloud forsakes her with salt Rheumes, and now shee has mewd three coates; Now shee growes weary and diseas'd together, fauours her wing, checkes little, but lies for it, bathes for her health, & scoures to keepe her coole, yet still she takes in stones, she fires her selfe else: the next remoue is Haggard, stil more cunning; and if my art deceiue mee not, more crazie. All cares and cures are doubled now vpon her, and line her perch, or now she mews her pounces, at all these yeares shee flies at fooles and kils too: the next is Bussard Bawde, and there I leaue her.

A very Whoore

IS a woman. She enquires out all the great meetings, which are medi|cines for her itching. She kisseth open

mouth'd, and spits in the palmes of her hands to make them moist. Her eies are like free-booters liuing vpon the spoile of stragglers; and she baites her desires with a million of postitute countenances, and entisements; In the light she listneth to Parlies: but in the darke she vnderstands signes best. She will sell her smocke for Cuffes, and so her shoes be fine, she cares not though her stockings want feet. Hers modesty is curiositie, and her smell is one of her best ornaments. She passeth not a span breadth. And to haue done, she is the Cooke and the meate dressing, her selfe all day, to bee tasted with the better appetite at night.

A meere Common Lawyer

IS the best shadow to make a discreet one shew the fairer. He is a Materia prima informed by reports, actuated

by Statutes, and hath his Motion by the fauourable Intelligence of the Court. His Law is alwaies furnisht with a Commission to arraigne his Conscience: but vpon iudgement gi|uen he vsually sets it at large. He thinks no language worth knowing but his Barragoüin. Onely for that point hee hath been a long time at warres with Priscian for a Northerne Prouince. He imagines that by superexcellencie his profession only is learning, and that its a prophanation of the temple to his Themis dedicated, if any of the liberall Arts be there admitted to offer strange incense to Her. For indeed he is all for money. Seuen or eight yeares squires him out, some of his Nation lesse stan|ding: and euer since the Night of his Call, he forgot much what he was at dinner. The next morning his man (in Actu or potentia) enioies his picka|dels. His Landresse is then shrewdly troubled in fitting him a Ruffe; His perpetuall badge. His loue letters of

the last yeare of his Gentlemanship are stuft with Discontinuances, Remitters, and Vncore prists: but now being ena|bled to speake in proper person, hee talkes of a French hood, insteede of a Iointure, wages his law, and ioines issue. Then he begins to sticke his let|ters in his ground Chamber window; that so the superscription may make his Squire-ship transparent. His He|raldry giues him place before the Mi|nister, because the Law was before the Gospell. Next termne hee walkes his hoopsleeue gowne to the Hall; there it proclaimes him. He feedes fat in the Reading, and till it chances to his turn, dislikes no house order so much, as that the month is so contracted to a fortnight, Mongst his countrey neigh|bours, he arrogates asmuch honor for being Reader of an Inne of Chance|ry, as if it had been of his owne house. For they, poore soules, take Law and Conscience, Court and Chancery for all one. He learnd to frame his Cases

from putting Riddles and imitating Merlins Prophesies, and so set all the Crosse row together by the eares. Yet his whole Law is not able to decide Lucians one olde controuersie twixt Tau and Sigma. Hee accounts no man of his Cap and coate idle, but who trots not the Circuit. Hee affects no life or qualitie for it selfe, but for gaine; and that at least, to the stating him in a Iustice of peaceship, which is the first quickning soule superadded to the ele|mentary and inanimate forme of his new Title. His termes are his wiues vacations. Yet shee then may vsurpe diuers Court-daies, and hath her Re+turnes in Mensem, for writs of entry; often shorter. His vacations are her Termers. But in Assise time (the cir|cuit being long) he may haue a triall at home against him by Nisi Prius. No way to heauen, he thinkes, so wife, as through West-minster Hall; and his Clarkes commonly through it visit both heauen and hell. Yet then he oft

forgets his iourneis end, although he looke on the Starre-Chamber. Neither is hee wholie destitute of the Arts. Grammer he hath, enough to make ter|minations of those words which his authoritie hath endenizon'd. Rhetorike some; but so little, that its thought a concealement. Logike enough to wran|gle. Arithmetike enough for the Ordi|nals of his yecre-bookes, and number|rolls: but he goes not to Multiplication; there's a Statute against it. So much Geometrie, that hee can aduice in a Pe|rambulatione facienda; or a Rationalibus diuisis. In Astronomie and Astrologie he is so far seene, that by the Dominicall latter, he knowes the Holy-dayes, and finds by Calculation that Michaelmas Terme will be long and dirty. Marry, he knowes so much in Musique, that he affects onely the most and cunningest Discords; rarely a perfect Concord, espe|cially song, except in fine. His skill in Perspectiue endeauours much to de|ceiue the eye of the Lawe, and giues

many false colours. He is specially pra|ctised in Necromancie, (such a kinde as is out of the Statute of Primo) by raising many dead Questions. What sufficien|cy he hath in Criticisme, the fowle Co|pies of his Speciall Pleas will tell you.

Many of the same coat, which are much to bee honoured, partake of di|uers of his indifferent qualities, but so, that Discretion, Vertue, and sometimes other good learning, concurring and di|stinguishing Ornaments to them, make them as a foyle, to set their worth on.

A Meere Scholler.

A Meere Sholler is an intelligible Asse: Or a silly fellow in blacke, that speakes Sentences more familiar|ly then Sense. The Antiquity of his Vniuersity is his Creed, and the excel|lency of his Colledge (though but for a match at Foot-ball) an Article of his

faith: he speakes Latine better then his Mother-tongue; and is a stranger in no part of the World, but his owne Coun|trey: he do's vsually tell great stories of himself to small purpose, for they are cō|monly ridiculous, be they true or false: his Ambition is, that hee either is, or shall be a Graduate: but if euer he get a Fellowship, hee ha's then no fellow. Inspite of all Logick he dare sweare and mainetaine it, that a Cuckold and a Towns-man are Termini Conuertibiles, though his Mothers husband bee an Alderman: he was neuer begotten (as it seemes) without much wrangling; for his whole life is spent in Pro & Con|trae his tongue goes alwaies before his wit, like a Gentleman-vsher, but some|what faster. That he is a compleat Gal|lant in all points, Cap a pea; witnesse his horsemanship, and the wearing of his weapons: hee is commonly long-win|ded, able to speake more with ease, then any man can endure to heare with pa|tience. Vniuersity iests are his vniuersall

discourse, and his newes the demeanor of the Proctors: his Phrase, the apparell of his mind, is made vp of diuers shreds like a Cushion, and when it goes plai|nest't hath a Rash outside, and Fustian linings. The currant of his speech is clos'd with an Ergô; and what euer be the question, the trueth is on his side. Tis a wrong to his reputation to bee ig|norant of any thing; and yet he knowes not that hee knowes nothing: hee giues directions for husbandry from Virgils Georgicks; for Cattell from his Bucolicks; for Warlike Stratagems, from his AEneides, or Caesars Commentaries: hee orders all things by the Booke, is skilfull in all trades, and thriues in none: he is led more by his eares then his vn|derstanding, taking the sound of words for their true sense: and do's therefore confidently beleeue, that Erra Pater was the Father of hereticks, Rodolphus Agricola, a substantiall Farmer; and will not sticke to auerre, that Systema's Logicke doth excell Keckermans: his ill

lucke is not so much in being a foole, as in being put to such paines to expresse it to the world: for what in others is natu|rall, in him (with much adoe) is artifi|ciall: his pouerty is his happinesse, for it makes some men beleeue, that hee is none of fortunes fauorites. That lear|ning which hee hath, was in Non-age put in backeward like a Glister, and 'tis now like Ware mislayd in a Pedlers packe; a ha's it, but knowes not where it is. In a word, hee is the Index of a man, and the Title-page of a Scholler, or a Puritane in morality, much in pro|fession, nothing in practise.

A Tinker

IS a mooueable: for hee hath no abi|ding place; by his motion he gathers heat, thence his chollericke nature. He seemes to bee very deuout, for his life is a continuall Pilgrimage, and

sometimes in humility goes barefoot, therein making necessity a vertue. His house is as ancient as Tubal-Caines, and so is a runnagate by antiquity: yet hee prooues himselfe a Gallant, for he car|ries all his wealth vpon his backe; or a Philosopher, for hee beares all his sub|stance about him. From his Art was Musicke first inuented, and therefore is hee alwayes furnisht with a song: to which his hammer keeping tune, prooues that he was the first founder of the Kettle-drumme. Note that where the best Ale is, there stands his musicke most vpon crotchets. The companion of his trauels is some soule sunne-burnt Queane, that since the terrible Statute recanted Gypsisme, and is turned Ped|leresse. So marches he all ouer England with his bag and baggage. His conuer|sation is vnreprooueable; for he is euer mending. He ob••erues truely the Sta|tutes, and therefore he had rather steale then begge, in which he is vnremooue|ably constant in spight of whips or im|prisonment:

and so strong an enemy to idlenesse, that in mending one hole, he had rather make three then want work; and when hee hath done, hee throwes the Wallet of his faults behinde him. Hee embraceth naturally ancient cu|stomes, conuersing in open fields, and lowly Cottages. If hee visit Cities or Townes, tis but to deale vpon the im|perfections of our weaker vessels. His tongue is very voluble, which with Canting prooues him a Linguist. Hee is entertain'd in euery place, but en|ters no further then the doore, to auoid suspicion. Some would take him to be a Coward; but beleeue it, hee is a Lad of mettle, his valour is commonly three or fower yards long, fastned to a pike in the end for flying off. Hee is very pro|uident, for he will fight but with one at once, and then also hee had rather sub|mit then bee counted obstinate. To conclude, if he scape Tiburne and Ban|bury, he dies a begger.

An Apparatour

IS a Chick of the Egge Abuse, hatcht by the warmth of authority: he is a bird of rapine, and beginnes to prey, and feather together. He croakes like a Rauen against the death of rich men, and so gets a Legacy vnbequeat'd: his happinesse is in the multitude of chil|dren, for their increase is his wealth; and to that end, hee himselfe yeerely addes one. He is a cunning hunter, vn|couping his intelligencing hounds, vn|der hedges, in thickets, and corn-fields, who follow the chase to City-Suburbs, where often his game is at couert: his quiuer hangs by his side, stuft with sil|uer arrowes, which hee shoots against Church-gates, and priuate mens dores, to the hazard of their purses and cre|dit. There went but a paire of sheeres, betweene him and the Pursiuant of Hell, for they both delight in sin, grow

richer by it, and are by iustice appoin|ted to punish it: onely the Diuell is more cunning, for hee pickes a Liuing out of others gaines. His liuing lieth in his eyes, which (like spirits) hee sends through chinckes, and key-holes, to suruey the places of darkenesse; for which purpose, he studieth the opticks, but can discouer no colour but blacke, for the pure white of chastity dazleth his eyes. He is a Catholike, for hee is euery where; and with a Politicke, for he transformes himselfe into all shapes. He trauels on foot to auoid idlenesse, and loues the Church entirely, because it is the place of his edification. He ac|counts not all sinnes mortall; for forni|cation with him is a veniall sinne, and to take bribes a matter of charity: hee is collector for burnings, and losses ar Sea, and in casting account, can readi|ly subtract the lesser from the greater summe. Thus liues he in a golden age, till death by a processe, summons him to appeare.

An Almanacke-maker

IS the worst part of an Astronomer: a creature compact of figures, cha|racters, and cyphers: out of which he scores the fortune of a yeere, not so profitably, as doubtfully. He is tenant by custome to the Planets, of whom he holds the 12. Houses by lease parol: to them he payes yeerely rent, his study, and time; yet lets them out again (with all his heart) for 40.s. per annum. His life is meerely contemplatiue: for his practise, tis woorth nothing, at least not worthy of credit; & (if by chance) he purchase any, hee loseth it againe at the yeeres end, for time brings truth to light. Ptolomy and Ticho-Barche are his Patrons, whose volumes he vnderstands not, but admires; and the rather be|cause they are Strangers, and so easier to bee credited, then controul'd. His life is vpright, for he is alwaies looking

vpward; yet dares beleeue nothing a|boue Primium mobile, for tis out of the reach of his Iacobs Staffe. His charity extends no further then to Mounte|banks and Sow-gelders, to whom hee bequeathes the seasons of the yeere, to kill or torture by. The verses in his Booke haue a worse pace then euer had Rochester Hackney: for his Prose, 'tis dappled with Inke-borne tearmes, and may serue for an Almanacke: but for his iudging at the vncertainty of wea|ther, any old Shepheard shall make a Dunce of him. He would bee thought the Diuels Intelligencer for stoln goods: if euer he steale out of that quality, as a flie turnes to a Maggot, so the corrup|tion of the cunning-man is the genera|tion of an Empiricke: his workes flye soorth in small volumes yet not all, for many ride post to Chaundlers and To|bacco shops in Folio. To be briefe, he fals three degrees short of his promises; yet is hee the Key to vnlocke Termes, and Law-dayes, a dumbe Mercury to

point out high-wayes, and a Bayliffe of all Marts and Faires in England. The rest of him you shall know next yeere; for what hee will be then, hee himselfe knowes not.

An Hypocrite

IS a gilded Pill, compos'd of two ver|tuous ingredients, Naturall dishone|sty, and Artificiall dissimulation. Sim|ple Fruit, Plant or Drug, he is none, but a deformed mixture, bred betwixt E|uill Nature and false Art, by a monstrous generation; and may well bee put into the reckoning of those creatures that God neuer made. In Church or com|mon-wealth, (For in both these this Mon|grell-weed will shoote) it is hard to say whether he be Physicke or a Disease: for he is both, in diures respects.

As he is gilt with an out side of See|ming purity, or as he offreth himselfe to

you to be taken downe in a cup or taste of Golden zeale and Simplicity, you may call him physicke. Nay, and neuer let potion giue Patient good stoole, if being truely tasted and rellisht, hee be not as loathsome to the stomacke of any ho|nest man.

He is also Physicke, in being as com|modious for vse, as he is odious in taste, if the Body of the company into which he is taken, can make true vse of him. For the malice of his nature makes him so Informer-like-dangerous, in taking ad|uantage, of any thing done or sayde: yea, euen to the ruine of his makers, if hee may haue Benefit; that such a crea|ture in a society makes men as carefull of their speeches and actions, as the sight of a known Cut-purse in a throng, makes them watchfull ouer their pur|ses and pockets: he is also in this respect profitable Physicke, that his conuersa|tion beeing once truely tasted and dis|couered, the hatefull foulnesse of it will make those that are not fully like him,

to purge all such Diseases as are ranke in him, out of their owne liues; as the sight of some Citizens on horse-backe, makes a iudicious man amend his own faults in horsemanship. If none of these vses can bee made of him, let him not long offend the stomacke of your com|pany; your best way is to spue him out. That he is a Disease in the body where hee liueth, were as strange a thing to doubt, as whether there bee knauery in Horse-coursers. For, if amongst Sheep, the rot; amongst Dogs, the mange; a|mongst Horses, the glaunders; amongst Men and Women, the Northerne itch, and the French Ache bee diseases; an Hypocrite cannot but be the like in all States and Societies that breede him. If he be a Cleargy Hypocrite, then all manner of vice is for the most part so proper to him, as hee will grudge any man the practise of it but himselfe; like that graue Burgesse, who being desired to lend his cloathes to represent a part in a Comedy, answered; No, by his

leaue, he would haue no body play the foole in his cloathes but himselfe. Hence are his so austere reprehensions of drinking healths, lasciuious talke, vsury and vn|conscionable dealing; when as himselfe hating the profane mixture of malt & water, will by his good will let nothing come within him, but the purity of the Grape, when he can get it of anothers cost: But this must not bee done nei|ther, without a preface of seeming lothnesse, turning vp the eyes, mouing the head, laying hand on the brest, and protesting that he would not doe it, but to strengthen his body, being euen con|sumed with dissembled zeale, and te|dious and thankelesse babling to God and his Auditors, And for the other vi|ces, doe but venture the making your selfe priuate with him, or trusting of him, & if you come off without a sauor of the aire which his soule is infected with, you hane great fortune. The far|dle of all this ware that is in him, you shall commonly see carried vpon the

backe of these two beasts, that liue within him, Ignorance and imperious|nesse: and they may well serue to cary other vices, for of themselues they are insuppportable. His Igno|rance acquites him of all science, hu|mane or diuine, and of all Language, but his mothers; holding nothing pure, holy, or sincere, but the senselesse col|lections of his owne crazed braine, the zealous fumes of his inflamed spirit, and the endlesse labors of his eternall tong; the motions wherof, when matter and words faile, (as they often doe) inust be patched vppe, to accomplish his foure houres in a day at the least, with long and seruent hummes. Any thing else, either for language or matter hee can|not abide, but thus censureth: Latine, the language of the Beast; Greeke, the tongue wherin the Heathen Poets wrote their fictions; Hebrue the speech of the Iewes, that crucified Christ: Controuer|sies doe not edifie, Logique and Phyloso|phy, are the subtilties of Sathan, to de|ceiue

the Simple, Humane stories pre|fane, and not sauouring of the Spirit; In a word, all decent and sensible forme of Speech and perswasion (though in his owne tongue) vaine Ostentation. And all this, is the bur|then of his Ignorance: sauing that some|times Idlenesse will put in also, to beare a part of the baggage.

His other Beast Imperiousnesse, is yet more proudly loaden, it carrieth a burthen, that no cords of Authoritie, Spirituall, nor Temporall should binde, if it might haue the full swinge: No Pilate, no Prince should command him: Nay, he will command them, and at his pleasure censure them, if they will not suffer their eares to bee fettered with the long chaines of his tedious collations, their purses to be emptied with the inundations of his vnsatiable humor, and their iudgements to bee blinded with the muffler of his zealous Ignorance. For this doth he familiarly insult ouer his Maintainer that breedes

him, his Patrone that feedes him, and in time ouer all them that will suffer him to set a foote within their doores, or put a finger in their purses. All this, and much more is in him, that abhor|ring Degrees and Vniuer sities, as reliques of Superstition, hath leapt from a Shop|bord, or a Cloke-bag, to a Deske, or Pulpit, and that like a Sea god in a Pa|geant, hath the roten laths of his culpa|ble life, and palpable ignorance, co|uered ouer with the painted cloth of a pure gown, and a night-cap; and with a false Trumpet of Fained-zeale, draw|eth after him some poore Nymphes and Madmen, that delight more to resort to darke Caues and secret places, then to open and publike assemblies. The Lay-Hypocrite, is to the other a Champi|on, Disciple and Subiect; and will not ac|knowledge the Tithe of the Subiection, to any Miter, no, not to any Scepter, that he will do to the hooke & crooke of his zeale-blinde Shepheard. No Ie|suites demand more blinde and abso|lute

obedience from their vassals; no Magistrates of the Canting societie, more flauish subiection from the members of that trauelling state, then the Clerke Hypocrites expect from these lay Pupils. Nay, they must not onely be obeyed, fedde, and defended, but admired too: and that their Lay fol|lowers do as sincerely, as a shirtlesse fellow with a Cudgell vnder his arme doth a face-wringing Ballet-singer; a Water-bearer on the floore of a Play|house, a wide-mouth'de Poet, that speakes nothing but bladders & bum|bast. Otherwise, for life and professi|on, nature and Art, inward and out|word, they agree in all, like Canters and Gypsies: they are all zeale, no knowledge; All puritie, no humanitie; all simpli|citie, no honestie: and if you neuer trust them they will neuer deceiue you.

A Maquerela, in plain English, a Bawd

IS an old Char-cole, that hath beene burnt her selfe, and therefore is able to kindle a whole green Coppice. The burden of her song is like that of Fryer Bacons Head; Time is, Time was, and Time is past: in repeating which, she makes a wicked brazen face, & weepes in the Cuppe, to alay the heate of her Aqua-vitae. Her teeth are falne out; mary her Nose, and chin, intend very shortly to be friends, and meete about it. Her yeeres are sixty and odde: that she accounts her best time of trading; for a Bawde is like a Medlar, shee's not ripe, till the be rotten. Her enuie is like that of the Diuell; To haue all faire women like her; and because it is impossible they should catch it being so young, she hurries them to it by diseases. Her Parke is a villanous bar|ren ground; and all the Deere in it are

Rascall: yet poore Cottagers in the Countrey (that know her but by heare say) thinke well of her; for what she incloses to day, she makes Common to morrow. Her goods and her selfe are all remou'd in one sort, onely shee makes bold to take the vpper hand of them, and to be Carted before them; the thought of which, makes her thee cannot endure a posset, because it puts her in minde of a Bason. She sits con|tinually at a rackt Rent; especially, if her Landlord beare office in the Parish: for her moueables in the house; (be|sides her quicke cattell) they are not worth an Inuentory, onely her beds are most commonly in print: shee can ea|sily turne a sempstresse, into a waiting gentle woman, but her Warde-robe is most infectious, for it brings them to the Falling-sicknesse: she hath only this one shew of Temperance, that let a Gen|tleman send for tenne pottles of wine in her house, hee shall haue but tenne quarts; and if he want it that way, let

him pay for't, and take it out in stewde prunes. The Iustices Clarke standes many times her very good friend: and workes her peace with the Iustice of Quorum. Nothing ioies her so much as the comming ouer of Strangers, nor daunts her so much as the approach of Shroue-tuesday. In fine, not to foule more paper with so foule a subiect, hee that hath past vnder her, hath past the Equinoctiall; He that hath scap't her, hath scap't worse then the Calenture.

A Chamber-Maide,

SHe is her Mistresses she Secretarie, and keepes the box of her teeth, her haire, and her painting, very priuate. Her industrie is vp-stares, and downe|staires like a drawer: and by her drie hand you may know she is a sore star|cher. If she lie at her Masters beds feete she is quit of the Greene-sicknesse fore e|uer;

For shee hath terrible dreames when she is awake, as if she were trou|bled with the night Mare. She hath a good liking to dwellith Countrey, but she holds London, the goodliest Forrest in England, to shelter a great Bellie. She reades Greenes workes ouer and ouer, but is so carried away with the Myrrour of Knighthood, she is many times resolud to run out of her selfe, and become a Lady Errant. If she catch a clap, shee diuides it so equally between the Ma|ster and the Seruingman, as if she had cut out the getting of it by a Threed: onely the knaue Sumner makes her bowle booty, and ouer-reach the Ma|ster. The pedant of the house, though he promise her Marriage, cannot grow further inward with her, she hath paide for her credulitie often, & now growes wearie. She likes the forme of our marriage very well, in that a woman is not tied to answere to any Articles concerning question of her virginitie: Her minde, her body, and Clothes,

are parcels loosely tackt together, and for want of good vtterance, she perpe|tually laughes out her meaning. Her Mistris and shee helpe to make away Time, to the idlest purpose that can be, either for loue or money. In briefe, these Chambermaides are like Lotteries: you may draw twenty, ere one worth any thing.

A Precisian.

TO speake no otherwise of this varnisht Rottennesse then in truth and verity he is, I must define him to be a demure Creature, full of orall Sanctitie, and mentall impietie; a faire obiect to the eye, but starke nought for the vnderstanding: or else a vio|lent thing, much giuen to contradicti|on. He will be sure to be in oppositi|on with the Papist, though it be some|times accompanied with an absurdity;

like the Ilanders neere adioyning vnto China, who salute by putting off their shooes, because the men of China do it by their hats. If at any time he fast, it is vpon Sunday, and he is sure to feast vpon Friday. He can better afford you tenne lies, then one oath, and dare commit any sinne gilded with a pre|tence of sanctitie. He will not sticke to commit fornieation or Adulterie, so it be done in the feare of God, and for the propagation of the godly; and can finde in his hart to lie with any whore, saue the whore of Babylon. To steale he holds it lawfull, so it bee from the wicked and AEgyptians. He had rather see Antichrist, then a picture in the Church window: and chuseth sooner to be halfe hanged, then see a legge at the name of IESVS, or one stand at the Creede. He conceiues his praier in the kitchin, rather then in the Church, and is of so good discourse, that hee dares challenge the Almighty, to talke with him ex tempore. He thinkes euery

Organist is in the state of damnation, and had rather heare one of Robert Wisdoms psalmes, then the best Hymne a Cherubin can sing. He will not breake winde without an Apologie, or asking forgiuenesse, nor kisse a Gentlewoman for feare of lusting after her. He hath nicknamde all the Prophets and Apo|stles with his Sonnes, and begers no|thing but Vertues for Daughters. Fi|nally, he is so sure of his saluation, that he will not change places in heauen, with the Virgin Marie, without boote.

An Innes of Court man.

HE is distinguished from a Schol|ler by a paire of silke stockings, and a Beauer Hat, which makes him contemne a Scholler as much as a Scholler doth a Scholemaster. By that he hath heard one mooting, and seen two plaies, he thinkes as basely of the

Vniuersity, as a young Sophister doth of the Grammer-schoole. He talkes of the Vniuersity, with that state, as if he were her Chancellour; finds fault with al|terations, and the fall of Discipline, with an It was not so when I was a Stu|dent; although that was within this halfe yeare. He will talke ends of La|tine, though it be false, with as great confidence, as euer Cicero could pronounce an Oration, though his best authors for't, be Tauerns & Ordinaries. He is as farre behinde a Courtier in his fashion, as a scholler is behinde him: and the best grace in his behauiour, is to forget his acquaintance.

Hee laughes at euery man whose Band sits not well, or that hath not a faire shoo-ty, and he is ashamed to be seene in any mans company that weares not his clothes well. His very essence he placeth in his outside, and his chiefest prayer is, that his reuenues may hold out for Taffata cloakes in the Summer, and veluet in the winter.

For his recreation, hee had rather go to a Citizens Wife, then a Bawdy|house, only to saue charges: and hee holds Fee-taile to bee absolutely the best Tenure. To his acquaintance hee offers two quarts of wine, for one hee giues. You shall neuer see him me|lancholie, but when he wants a newe Suite, or feares a Seriant: At which times only, he betakes himselfe to Ploy|don. By that hee hath read Littleton, he can call Solon, Licurgus, and Iusti|nian, fooles, and dares compare his Law to a Lord Chiefe-iustices.

A meere Fellow of an House.

HE is one whose Hopes common|ly exceed his Fortunes, & whose minde soares aboue his purse. If hee hath read Tacitus, Guicchardine, or Gallo|Belgicus, hee contemnes the late Lord|Treasurer, for all the State-policie hee

had; and laughes to think what a foole he could make of Salomon, if hee were now aliue. Hee neuer weares new cloathes, but against a commencement or a good time, and is commonly a de|gree behinde the fashion. Hee hath sworne to see London once a yeare, though all his busines be to see a play, walke a turne in Paules, and obserue the fashion. He thinkes it a discredit to bee out of debt, which hee neuer likely cleeres, without resignation money. He will not leaue his part hee hath in the priuiledge ouer yong Gen|tlemen, in going bare to him, for the Empire of Germany; He praies as hear|tily for a Sealing, as a Cormorant doth for a deare yeare: yet commonly hee spends that reuenue before he receiues it.

At meales, he sits in as great state o|uer his Penny-Commons, as euer Vitellius did at his greatest Banquet: and takes great delight in comparing his fare to my Lord Mayors.

If he be a leader of a Faction, hee thinkes himselfe greater then euer Cae|sar was, or the Turke at this day is. And he had rather loose an Inheritance then an Office, when hee stands for it.

If he be to trauell, hee is longer fur|nishing himselfe for a siue miles iour|ney, then a ship is rigging for a seuen yeares voyage. Hee is neuer more troubled, then when he is to maintain talke with a Gentle-woman: wherein he commits more absurdities, then a clowne in eating of an egge.

Hee thinkes himselfe as fine when he is in a cleane Band, and a new paire of shooes, as any Courtier doth, when he is first in a New-fashion.

Lastly, hee is one that respects no man in the Vniuersitie, and is respected by no man out of it.

A worthy Commander in the Warres.

IS one that accounts learning the nourishment of military vertue, and layes that as his first foundation. He neuer bloudies his sword but in hear of battell; and had rather saue one of his owne Souldiers, then kill ten of his e|nemies. He accounts it an idle, vaine|glorious, and suspected bounty, to bee full of good words; his rewarding ther|fore of the deseruer arriues so timely, that his liberality can neuer bee sayd to be gouty handed. He holds it next his Creed, that no Coward can be an ho|nest man, and dare die in't. Hee doth not think his body yeelds a more sprea|ding shadowe after a victory then be|fore; and when he lookes vpon his ene|myes dead body, tis with a kinde of no|ble heauinesse, not insultation; hee is so honourably mercifull to women in

surprisall, that onely, that makes him an excellent Courtier. He knowes the hazards of battels, not the pompe of Ceremonies, are Souldiers best Thea|ters, and striues to gain reputation not by the multitude, but by the greatnes of his actions. Hee is the first in giuing the charge, and the last in retiring his foot. Equall toile he endures with the Common Souldier, from his example they all take fire as one Torch lights many. He vnderstands in warre, there is no meane to erre twice; the first, and least fault beeing sufficient to ruine an Army: faults therefore he pardons none, they that are presidents of disorder or mutiny, repaire it by being examples of his Iustice. Besiege him neuer so strict|ly, so long as the aire is not cut from him, his heart faints not. He hath lear|ned aswell to make vse of a victory as to get it, and in pursuing his enemy like a whirlewinde carries all afore him; be|ing assured if euer a man will benefit himselfe vpon his foe, then is the time,

when they haue lost force, wisedome, courage and reputation. The good|nesse of his cause is the speciall motiue to his valour; neuer is hee knowen to slight the weakest enemy that comes arm'd against him in the hand of Iustice. Hasty and ouermuch heat he accounts the Step-dame to all great actions, that wil not suffer them to thriue; if he cānot ouercome his enemy by force, he does it by Time. If euer hee shake hands with warre, hee can die more calmely then most Courtiers, for his continuall dan|gers haue beene as it were so many me|ditations of death; hee thinkes not out of his owne calling, when he accounts life a continuall warfare, and his pray|ers then best become him when armed Cap a pea. He vtters them like the great Hebrew Generall, on horsebacke. Hee casts a smiling cōtempt vpon Calumnie, it meets him as if Glasse should encoun|ter Adamant. He thinkes warre is ne|uer to be giuen ore, but on one of these three conditions: an assured peace, ab|solute

victory, or an honest death. Last|ly, when peace folds him vp, his filuer head should leane neere the golden Scepter, and die in his Princes bosome.

A vaine-glorious Coward in Command,

IS one that hath bought his place, or come to it by some Noble-mans let|rer, hee loues a life dead payes, yet wishes they may rather happen in his Company by the scuruy, then by a bat|tell. View him at a muster, and he goes with such noise, as if his body were the wheelebarrow that carried his iudge|ment rumbling to drill his Souldiers. No man can worse define betweene Pride and noble Courtesie: hee that sa|lutes him not as farre a Pistol carries le|uell, giues him the disgust or affront, chuse you whether. He traines by the

booke, and reckons so many postures of the Pike and Musket, as if hee were counting at Noddy. When hee comes at first vpon a Camisado, he lookes like the foure windes in painting, as if hee would blow away the enemy; but at the very first onset suffers feare & trem|bling to dresse themselues in his face apparantly. He scorns any man should take place before him: yet at the en|tring of a breach, he hath been so hum|ble minded, as to let his Lieutenant lead his Troopes for him. He is so sure armed for taking hurt, that he seldome does any: and while hee is putting on his Armes, he is thinking what summe hee can make to satisfie his ransome. He will rail openly against all the great Commanders of the aduerse party, yet in his owne conscience allowes them for better men: such is the nature of his feare, that contrary 〈◊〉〈◊〉 all other filthy qualities, it make him thinkes better of another man then himselfe. The first part of him that is set a running, is his

Eye-sight: when that is once struck with terrour, all the Costiue Physicke in the world cannot stay him; if euer he doe any thing beyond his owne heart, tis for a Knighthood, and he is the first kneeles for't without bidding.

A Pyrate,

TRuely defined, is a bold Traitour, for he fortifies a castle against the King. Giue him Sea-roome in neuer so small a vessel; and like a witch in a sieue, you would think he were go|ing to make merry with the Diuell. Of all callings his is the most desperate, for he will not leaue off his theeuing thogh he be in a narrow prison, and looke eue|ry day (by tempest or fight) for execu|tion. He is one plague the Diuell hath added, to make the Sea more terrible then a storme; and his heart is so hard|ned in that rugged element, that hee

cannot repent, though hee view his graue (before him) continually open: he hath so little his own, that the house he sleepes in is stolne; all the necessities of life hee filches, but one: hee cannot steale a sound sleepe, for his troubled conscience: He is very gentle to those vnder him, yet his rule is the horriblest tyranny in the world: for hee giues li|cence to all rape, murder, and cruelty in his owne example: what hee gets, is small vse to him, onlie liues by it, (som|what the longer) to do a little more ser|uice to his belly; for hee throwes away his treasure vpon the shore in riot, as if he cast it into the Sea. Hee is a cruell Hawke that flies at all but his own kind: and as a Whale neuer comes a shore, but when she is wounded; so hee, very sel|dome, but for his necessities. He is the Marchants booke, that serues onely to reckon vp his losses; a perpetuall plague to noble traffique, the Hurican of the Sea, & the Earth-quake of the Exchange. Yet for all this giue him but his pardon,

and forgiue him restitution, hee may liue to know the inside of a Church, and die on this side Wapping.

An ordinarie Fencer

IS a fellow, that beside shauing of Cudgels, hath a good insight into the world, for he hath long been bea|ten to it. Flesh and bloud hee is like other men; but surely Nature meant him Stock-fish: his and a Dancing|schoole are inseparable adiuncts; and are bound, though both stinke of sweat most abominably, neither shall com|plaine of annoiance: three large ba|uins set vp his trade, wich a bench; which (in the vacation of the after|noone) hee vses for his day bed; for a sirkin to pisse in, hee shall be allowed that, by those make Allom: when hee comes on the Stage, at his Prize, hee makes a leg seuen seuerall waies, and

scrambles for money, as if he had been borne at the Bathe in Somerset-shire: at his challenge hee shewes his mettall; for contrarie to all rules of Physicke, he dare bleed, though it be in the dog|daies: hee teaches Diuelish play in's Schoole, but when he fights himselfe, he doth it in the feare of a good Chri|stian. He compounds quarrels among his Schollers, and when hee hath brought the busines to a good vpshot, he makes the reckoning. His wounds are seldom aboue skin deep; for an in|ward bruse, Lambe-stones and sweet|breads are his only Sperma Ceti, which he eats at night, next his heart fasting: strange Schoole-masters they are, that euery day set a man as farre backward as he went forward; and throwing him into a strange posture, teach him to thresh satisfaction out of iniurie. One signe of a good nature is, that hee is still open breasted to his friends, for his foile, and his doubler, weare not aboue two buttons: and resolute he is, for he

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so much scornes to take blowes, that he neuer weares Cuffes: and he liues bet|ter contented with a little, then other men; for if he haue two eyes in's head, he thinks Nature hath ouerdone him. The Lord Maiors triumph makes him a man, for that's his best time to flou|rish. Lastly, these Fencers are such things, that care not if all the world were ignorant of more Letters then on|ly to read their Patent.

A Puny-clarke.

HE is tane from Grammar-schoole halfe codled, and can hardly shake off his dreames of bree|ching in a twelue-month. He is a Far|mers sonne, and his Fathers vtmost am|bition is to make him an Atturney. He doth itch towards a Poet, and greeses his breeches extreamely with feeding without a napkin. He studies false dice

to cheat Costermongers, and is most chargeable to the butler of some Inne of Chancerie, for pissing in their greene pots. He eats Ginger bread at a Play|house; and is so saucie, that he venters fairely for a broken pate at the banque|ting house, and hath it. He would ne|uer come to haue any wit, but for a long vacation, for that makes him be|thinke him how he shall shift another day. He prayes hotly against fasting; and so he may sup wel on friday nights, he cares not though his Master be a Pu|ritan. He practises to make the words in his Declaration spread, as a Sewer doth the dishes at a Niggards table; a Clarke of a swooping Dash, is as com|mendable as a Flanders horse of a large taile. Though you be neuer so much delaid, you must not call his master knaue; that makes him goe beyond himselfe and write a challenge in Court hand; for it may be his owne another day. These are some certaine of his liberall faculties: but in the

Terme time, his Clog is a Buckrom bag. Lastly, which is great pittie, hee neuer comes to his full growth, with bearing on his shoulder the sinfull burden of his Master at seuerall Courts in West|minster.

A Foote-man,

LEt him be neuer so well made, yet his Legs are not matches, for hee is still setting the best foot forward. He will neuer be a staid man, for he has had a running head of his owne, euer since his childhood. His mother (which, out of question, was a light heel'd wench) knew it, yet let him run his race, thinking age would reclaime him from his wilde courses. He is very long winded; and, without doubt, but that he hates naturally to serue on hors|backe, hee had proued an excellent trumpet. He has one happinesse aboue

all the rest of the Seruingmen, for when he most ouer-reaches his Master, hee's best thought of. He liues more by his owne heat then the warmth of clothes; and the waiting-woman hath the grea|test fancie to him when hee is in his close trouses. Gardes he weares none; which makes him liue more vpright then any grosse gartered Gentleman|vsher. Tis impossible to draw his pi|cture to the life, cause a man must take it as he's running, only this; Horses are vsually let bloud on S. Steuens day: on S. Patrickes he takes rest, and is drencht for all the yeere after.

A noble and retir'd House|keeper,

IS one whose bountie is limited by reason, not astentation: and to make it last, he deales it discreetly, as wee sowe the furrow, not by the sacke, but

by the handfull. His word and his mea|ning neuer shake hands and part, but alway goe together. Hee can suruay good, and loue it, and loues to doe it himselfe, for it owne sake, not for thankes. Hee knowes there is no such miferie as to out-liue good name; not no such follie as to put it in practise. His minde is so secure, that thunder rockes him asleepe, which breakes other mens flumbers. Nobilitie lightens in his eies; and in his face and gesture is paintted, The God of Hospitalitie. His great hou|fes beare in their front more durance, then state; vnlesse this adde the grea|ter state to them, that they promise to outlast much of our new phantasticall building. His heart neuer growes old, no more then his memorie: whether at his booke, or on horsebacke, he passeth his time in such noble exercise, a man cannot say, any time is lost by him: nor hath he only yeeres, to approue he hath liued till hee be old, but vertues. His thoughts haue a high aime, though

their dwelling be in the Vale of an hum|ble heart; whence, as by an Engine (that raises water to fall, that it may rise the higher) hee is heightned in his humilitie. The Adamant serues not for all Seas, but his doth; for he hath, as it were, put a gird about the whole world, and sounded all her quick-sands. He hath this hand ouer Fortune, that her iniuries, how violent or sudden so|euer, they do not daunt him; for whe|ther his time call him to liue or die, he can do both nobly: if to fall, his descent is breast to breast with vertue; and euen then, like the Sunne neere his Set, hee shewes vnto the world his clearest countenance.

An Intruder into fauour

IS one that builds his reputation on others infamy: for slaunder is most commonly his morning praier. His passions are guided by Pride, and followed by Iniustice. An inflexible an|ger against some poore sutor, he falsly calles a Couragious constancy, and thinks the best part of grauitie to consist in a ruffled forehead. He is the most sla|uishly submisse, though enuious to those are in better place then himselfe; and knowes the Art of w•••••••••••• well, that (for shrowding dishonestie vnder a faire pretext) he seemes to preserue mud in Chrystall. Like a man of a kinde nature, he is first good to him|selfe; in the next file, to his French Tailor, that giues him all his perfecti|on: for indeed, like an Estridge, or Birde of Paradise, his feathers are more worth then his body. If euer hee doe

good deede (which is very seldome) his owne mouth is the Chronicle of it, least it should die forgotten. His whole bodie goes all vpon screwes, and his face is the vice that moues them. If his Patron be giuen to musicke, hee opens his chops, and sings, or with a wrie necke falles to tuning his instrument: if that faile hee takes the height of his Lord with a Hawking pole. Hee fol|lowes the mans fortune, not the man: seeking thereby to increase his owne. He pretends, he is most vndeseruedly enuied, and cries out, remembring the game, Chesse, that a Pawne before a King is most plaide on. Debts he owes none, but shrewd turnes, and those he paies ere he besued. He is a flattering Glasse to conceale age, and wrinkles. He is Mountaines Monkie, that climbing a tree, and skipping from bough to bough, giues you backe his face; but comne once to the top, he holdes his nose vp into the winde, and shewes you his taile: yet all this gay glitter

shewes on him, as if the Sunne shone in a puddle; for he is a small wine that will not last, and when he is falling, he goes of himselfe faster then misery can driue him.

A faire and happy Milke-mayd,

IS a Countrey Wench, that is so far from making her selfe beautifull by Art, that one looke of hers is able to put all face Phisick out of countenance, She knowes a faire looke is but a dumbe Orator to commend vertue, therefore mindes it not. All her excellencies stand in her so silently, as if they had stolne vpon her without her know|ledge. The lining of her apparel (which is her selfe) is far better then outsides of Tissew: for though she be not arraied in the spoile of the Silke-worme, she is deckt in innocence, a far better wearing. She doth not, with lying long a bed,

spoile both her complexion and Conditi|ons; nature hath taught her too Immo|derate sleepe is rust to the soule: shee rises therefore with Chaunticleare, her Dames Cocke, and at night makes the Lambe her Courfew. In milking a Cow, and strayning the Teates through her fingers, it seemes that so sweet a Milke|presse makes the Milke the whiter, or sweeter; for neuer came Almond Gloue or Aromatique Oyntment on her Palme to taint it. The golden eares of corne fall and kisse her feete when she reapes them, as if they wisht to be bound and led prisoners by the same hand fell'd them. Her breath is her owne, which sents all the yeere long of Iune, like a new made Hay-cocke. She makes her hand hard with labour, and her heart soft with pittie: and when winter eue|nings fall early (sitting at her merry wheele) shee sings a defiance to the giddy wheele of Fortune. She doth all things with so sweete a grace, it seemes ignorance will not suffer her to doe ill,

being her minde is to doe well. Shee bestowes her yeares wages at next faire; and in choosing her Garments, counts no brauery i'th' world like de|cencie. The Garden and Bee-hiue are all her Phisicke and Chyrurgery, and she liues the longer for't. Shee dare goe alone, and vnfold sheep i'th' night, & feares no manner of ill, because shee meanes none: yet to say truth, shee is neuer alone, for shee is still accompa|nied with old songs, honest thoughts, and prayers, but short ones; yet they haue their efficacy, in that they are not pauled with insuing idle cogitations. Lastly, her dreames are so chaste, that she dare tell them: onely a Frydaies dreame is all her superstition: that shee conceales for feare of anger. Thus liues she, and all her care is, shee may dye in the Spring time, to haue store of flowers stuck vpon her winding sheet.

An Arrant Horse-courser

HAth the tricke to blow vp Horse|flesh, as a Butcher doth Veale, which shall wash out againe in twice riding twixt Waltham & London. The Trade of Spurre-making had de|cayed long since, but for this vngodly tyre-man. He is curst all ouer the foure ancient High-wayes of England; none but the blind men that sel switches i'th' Road are beholding to him. His Sta|ble is fill'd with so many Diseases, one would thinke most part about Smith|field were an Hospitall for Horses, or a slaughter-house for the common hunt. Let him furnish you with a Hackney, 'tis as much as if the Kings Warrant ouer-tooke you within ten miles to stay your iourney. And though a man can|not say, he cozens you directly; yet a|ny Ostler within ten miles, should hee

be brought vpon his Booke-oath, will affirme hee hath layd a bait for you. Resolue when you first stretch your selfe in the stirrops, you are put as it were vpon some Vsurer, that will neuer beare with you past his day. He were good to make one that had the Collick alight often, and (if example will cause him) make vrine; let him onely for that say, Gr'amercy Horse. For his sale of hor|ses, he hath false couers for all manner of Diseases, onely comes short of one thing (which hee despaires not vtterly to bring to perfection) to make a Horse goe on a wodden legge and two crut|ches. For powding his eares with Quicksiluer, and giuing him supposito|ries of liue Eeles he's expert. All the while you are a cheapning he fears you will not bite; but he laughs in his sleeue when hee hath cozened you in earnest. French men are his best Chapmen, he keepes amblers for them on purpose, and knowes he can deceiue them very easily. He is so constant to his Trade,

that while he is awake, he tires any man he talkes with, and when hee's asleepe he dreams very fearefully of the pauing of Smithfield, for hee knowes it would founder his occupation.

A Roaring Boy

HIs life is a meere counterfet Pa|tent: which neuerthelesse, makes many a Countrey Iustice trem|ble. Don Quixotes water Milles are still Scotch Bagpipes to him. Hee sendes Challenges by word of mouth: for hee protests (as hee is a Gentleman and a brother of the Sword) hee can neither write nor read. He hath runne throgh diuers parcels of Land and great hou|ses, beside both the Counters. If anie priuate Quarrell happen among our great Conrtiers, he proclaimes the bu|sinesse, thats the word, the businesse; as if all the vnited forces of the Romish-Ca|tholickes

were making vp for Germany. Hee cheats young Guls that are newly come to Towne; and when the Keeper of the Ordinarie blames him for it, hee answers him in his own Professiō, that a Woodcocke must bee pluckt ere he be drest. Hee is a Superuisor to Brothels, & in them is a more vnlawfull reformer of vice, then Prentises on Shroue-tues|day. He loues his Friend, as a Coun|seller at Law loues the veluet Breeches he was first made Barrester in, hee'll be sure to weare him thread-bare ere hee forsake him. He sleepes with a Tobac|co-pipe in's mouth; and his first prayer i'th' morning is, hee may remember whom he fell our with ouer night. Sol|dier hee is none for hee cannot distin|guish 'tweene Onion seede and Gunpow|dir: if hee haue worne it in his hollow tooth for the Tooth-ach, and so come to the knowledge of it, that's all. The Tenure by which he holds his meanes, is an estate at Will; and that's borrow|ing Land-lords haue but but foure

Quarter-dayes; but he three hundred and odde. Hee keepes very good Com|pany; yet is a man of no reckaning: and when he goes not drunke to bed, hee is very sick next morning, He common|ly dies like Anacreon, with a Grape in's throat; or Hercules, with fire in's mar|row. And I haue heard of some (that haue scap't hanging) begg'd for Ana|tomies, onely to deterre men from ta|king Tobacco.

Adrunken Dutch-man resident in England

IS but Quarter Master with his Wife. Hee stinkes of Butter, asif hee were noynted all ouer for the Itch. Let him come ouer neuer so leane, and plant him but one Moneth neere the Brew-houses in S.Catherines, and hee'll bee puft vp to your hand like a bloate Herring, Of all places of pleasure, he

loues a Common Garden, and (with the Swine of the Parish) had neede be ringed for rooting. Next to these hee affects Lotteries naturally; and be|queathes the best prize in his Will a|fore-hand; when his hopes fall, hee's blanke. They swarme in great Tene|ments like flies: sixe House-holds will liue in a Garret. Hee was wont (onely to make vs fooles) to buy the Foxe skin for three pence, and sell the taile for a shilling. Now his new Trade of brew|ing Strong-waters makes a number of mud men. He loues a Welch-man ex|treamly for his Diet and Orthography; that is, for pluralitie of consonants and cheese. Like a Horse, hee's onely gui|ded by the mouth: when hee's drunke, you may thrust your hand into him like an Eele skinne, and strip him his in|slde outwards. Hee hoordes vp faire gold, and pretends 'tis to seethe in his Wiues broth for a consumption, and loues the memory of King; Henry the 8. most especially for his old Soueraigns.

He saies wee are vnwise to lament the decay of Timber in England: for all manner of buildings or Fortification whatsoeuer, hee desires no other thing in the world, then Barrels and Hop|poles. To conclude, the onely two plagues he trembles at, is small Beere, and the Spanish Inquisition,

A Phantastique. An Improuident young Gallant.

THere is a confederacy betweene him and his Clothes, to be made a puppy: view him well, & you'll say his Gentry sits as ill vpon him, as if he had boght it with his pēny. He hath more places to send money to, then the Diuell hath to send his Spirits: and to furnish each Mistresse, would make him runne beside his wits, if hee had any to lose. Hee accounts bashfulnesse the

wicked'st thing in the world; and ther|fore studies Impudence. If all men were of his mind, al honesty would be out of fashion: he withers his Cloathes on the Stage, as a Sale-man is forc't to do his sutes in Birchin-lane; & when the Play is done, if you marke his rising, tis with a kinde of walking Epilogue betweene the two candles, to knowe if his Suite may passe for currant: he studies by the discretion of his Barber, to frizle like a Baboone: three such would keep three the nimblest Barbers i'th' towne, from euer hauing leasure to weare net-Gar|ters: for whē they haue to do with him they haue many Irons i'th'fire. He is tra|uelled, but to little purpose; onlie went ouer for a squirt, and came back againe yet neure the more mended in his con|ditions, cause he carried himselfe along with him: a Scholler he pretends him|selfe, and faies he hath sweat for it: but the truth is, he knowes Cornelius, farre better then Tacitus: his ordinary sports

are Cock-fights; but the most frequent, horse races, from whence hee comes home drie foundred. Thus when his purse hath cast her calfe, he goes down into the Country, where he is brought to milk and white cheese like the Swit|zers.

A Button-maker of Amsterdam,

IS one that is fled ouer from his Con|science; and left his wife and children vpon the Parish. For his knowledge, he is meerely a Horne-booke without a Christ-crosse afore it, and his zeale con|sists much in hanging his Bible in a Dutch button: hee cozens men in the purity of his cloathes: and twas his only ioy when hee was on this side, to bee in Prison: hee cries out, tis impossible for any man to be damn'd, that liues in his Religion, and his equiuocation is

true: so long as a man liues in't, he can|not; but if he die in't, there's the questi|on. Of all Feasts in the yeere, hee ac|counts S. Georges Feast the prophanest, because of St. Georges Crosse, yet som|times he doth sacrifice to his own belly; prouided, that heeput off the Wake of his owne natiuitie, or wedding, till Good Friday. If there bee a great feast in the Towne, though most of the wicked (as he cals them) be there, he will bee sure to be a guest, and to out-eat sixe of the fattest Burgers: he thinkes, though he may not pray with a Iew, hee may eat with a Iew: he winkes when he prayes, and thinkes he knowes the way so now to heauen, that he can finde it blinde|fold. Latine he accounts, the language of the Beast with seuen heads; & when he speakes of his owne Countrie, cries, he is fled out of Babel. Lastly, his deuo|tion is Obstinacy, the onely solace of his heart, Contradiction, and his maine end Hypocrisie.

A Distaster of the Time

IS a Winter Grashopper al the yeer long that lookes back vpon Haruest, with a leane paire of cheekes, neuer sets for|ward to meete it: his malice suckes vp the greatest part of his own venome, & therewith impoisoneth himselfe: and this sickenesse rises rather of Selfe-opini|on, or ouer-great expectation; so in the conceit of his owne ouer-worthinesse, like a Coistrell, he striues to fill himselfe with winde, and flyes against it. Any mans aduancement is the most capitall offence that can bee to his malice: yet this enuy, like Phalaris Bull, makes that a torment, first for himselfe, hee prepa|red for others: hee is a Day-bed for the Diuell to slumber on; his bloud is of a yellowish colour: like those that haue bin bitten by Vipers: & his gaule flowes as thick in him as oyle, in a poyson'd sto|macke.

He infects all societie, as thun|der sowres wine: war or peace, dearth or plenty, make him equaly disconten|ted. And where he findes no cause to taxe the State, hee descends to raile a|gainst the rate of salt butter. His wishes are whirlewindes; which breath'd forth, returne into himselfe, and make him a most giddy & tottering vessell. When he is awake, and goes abroad, he doth but walke in his sleepe, for his visitati|on is directed to none: his businesse is nothing. He is often dumbe-madde, and goes fetter'd in his owne entrailes. Religion is commonly his pretence of discontent, though he can be of all re|ligions; therefore truly of none. Thus by vnnaturallising himselfe, some would thinke him a very dangerous fellow to the State, but he is not great|ly to be fear'd: for this deiection of his, is onely like a rogue that goes on his knees and elbowes in the mire, to fur|ther his begging.

A meere Fellow of a House

EXamines all mens carriage but his owne; and is so kinde natured to himselfe, he findes fault with all mens but his owne. He weares his apparell much after the fashion; his meanes will not suffer him come to nigh: they afford him Mock-veluet or Satinisco; but not without the Colledges next leases acquaintance: his inside is of the selfe same fashion, not rich: but as it reflects from the glasse of selfe-liking, there Croesus is Irus to him. He is a Pedant in shew, though his title be Tutor; and his Pupils, in broader phrase, are Schole|boyes. On these he spends the false gal|lop of his tongue; and with senselesse discourse towes them along, not out of ignorance. He shewes them the rinde, conceales the sappe: by this meanes he keepes them the longer, himselfe the better. He hath learn't to cough, and

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spit, and blow his nose at euery period, to recouer his memorie: and studies chiefely to set his eyes and beard to a new forme of learning. His Religion lyes in waite for the inclination of his Patron; neither ebbes nor flowes, but iust standing water, betweene prote|stant and Puritane. His dreames are of pluralitie of Benefices and non-resi|dency; and when he rises, acts a long Grace to his looking glasse. Against hee comes to bee some great mans Chaplaine, he hath a habite of bold|nesse, though a very Coward. Hee speakes Swords, Fights, Ergo's: his pase on foote is a measure; on horse|backe, a gallop: for his legs are his owne, though horse and spurres are borrowed. He hath lesse vse then pos|session of Bookes. He is not so proud, but he will call the meanest Author by his name; nor so vnskill'd in the He|raldrie of a Studie, but he knowes each mans place. So ends that fellowship, and begins an other.

A meere Petifogger

IS one of Sampsons Foxes: He sets men together by the eares, more shame|fully then Pillories; and in a long Vaca|tion his sport is to go a Fishing with the Penall Statutes. He cannot erre before Iudgement, and then you see it, onely Writs of error are the Tariers that keepe his Client vndoing somewhat the lon|ger. He is a Vestrie man in his Parish, and easily sets his neighbours at vari|ance with the Vickar, when his wicked counsell on both sides is like weapons put into mens hands by a Fencer, whereby they get blowes, he money. His honesty and learning bring him to Vnder-Shrif-Ship; which hauing thrise runne through, hee do's not feare the Lieutenant a'th' Shire: nay more, hee feares not God. Cowardise holds him a good Common-wealthes-man; his pen is the plough, and parchment the

Soyle, whence he reapes both Coyne and Curses. He is an Earthquake, that willingly will let no ground lie in quiet. Broken titles make him whole; to haue halfe in the Countie breake their Bonds, were the onely libertie of conscience: He would wish (though he be a Brownist) no neighbour of his should pay his tithes duly, if such Sutes held continuall Plea at Westminster. He cannot away with the reuerend Ser|uice in our Church, because it ends with The peace of God. He loues blowes extreamely, and hath his Chyrurgions bill of all rates, from head to foote, to incense the fury: he would not giue a|way his yeerely beatings for a good peece of money. He makes his Will in forme of a Law-case, full of quiddits, that his Friends after his death (if for nothing else) yet, for the vexation of Law, may haue cause to remember him. And if hee thought the Ghosts of men did walke againe (as they re|port in time of Popery) sure he would

hide some single mony in Westminster|Hall, that his spirit might haunt there. Only with this, I will pitch him o're the Barre, and leaue him; That his fin|gers itch after a Bribe, euer since his first practising of Court-hand.

An Ingrosser of Corne.

THere is no Vermine in the Land like him; hee slanders both Hea|uen and Earth with pretended Dearths, when there's no cause of scar|sitie. His whording in a deare yeere, is like Erisicthons Bowels, in Ouid: Quod|que vrbibus esse, quod{que} satis poterat po|pulo, non sufficit vni. He prayes daily for more inclosures, and knowes no rea|son in his Religion, why wee should call our fore-fathers daies, The time of ig|norance, but onely because they sold VVheat for twelue pence a bushell. He wishes that Danske were at the Moloc|cos;

and had rather be certaine of some forraine inuasion, then of the setting vp of the Stilyard. When his Barnes and Garners are ful(if it be a time of dearth) he will buy halfe a bushell i'th' Market to serue his Household: and winnowes his Corne in the night, lest, as the chaffe throwne vpon the water, shew'd plenty in AEgypt; so his (caried by the winde) should proclaime his abundance. No painting pleases him so wel, as Pharaohs dreame of the seauen leane Kine, that ate vp the fat ones; that hee has in his Parlour, which he will describe to you like a motion, and his comment ends with a smothered prayer for the like scarsitie. Hee cannot away with To|bacco; for hee is perswaded (and not much amisse) that tis a sparer of Bread|corne which he could finde in's heart to transport without Licence: but weighing the penaltie, hee growes mealy-mouth'd, and dares not. Sweet smells he cannot abide; wishes that the pure ayre were generally corrupted:

nay, that the Spring had lost her fra|grancie for euer, or wee our superfluous sense of Smelling (as he tearmes it) that his corne might not bee found mustie. The Poore he accounts the Iustices in|telligencers, and cannot abide them: he complaines of our negligence of dis|couering new parts of the VVorld, only to rid them from our Clymate. His Sonne, by a certaine kinde of instinct, he bindes Prentise to a Taylor, who all the terme of his Indenture hath a deare yeere in's bellie, and rauins bread ex|treamly: when he comes to be a Free|man (if it be a Dearth) he marries him to a Bakers daughter.

A Diuellish Usurer

IS sowed as Cummin or Hemp-seede, with curses; and he thinks he thriues the better. Hee is better read in the Penall Statutes, then the Bible; and his euill Angell perswades him, hee shall

sooner be saued by them. He can be no mans friend; for all men hee hath most interest in, hee vndo's: and a dou|ble dealer hee is certainely; for by his good will he euer takes the forfeit. He puts his money to the vnnaturall Act of generation; and his Scriuener is the superuisor Bawd to't. Good Deeds he loues none, but Seal'd and Deliuered; nor doth he wish any thing to thriue in the Countrey, but Bee-hiues; for they make him waxe rich. He hates all but Law-Latine; yet thinks hee might be drawne to loue a Scholler, could he re|duce the yeere to a shorter compasse, that his vse-money might come in the faster: he seems to be the son of a Iailor, for all his estate is most heauic & cruell bonds. He doth not giue, but fell daies of Payment; and those at the rate of a mans vndoing: he doth only feare, the day of Iudgment should fall sooner, then the payment of some great sum of money due to him: hee remoues his lodging when a Subsidie comes; and if

he be found out, and pay it, hee grum|bles Treason; but tis in such a deformed silence, as VVitches raise their Spirits in. Grauitie hee pretends in all things, but in his priuate Whore; for hee will not in a hundreth pound take one light sixe-pence; and it seemes hee was at Tilburie Campe, for you must not tell him of a Spaniard. He is a man of no conscience; for (like the lakes-farmer that swounded with going into Buck|lersburie) hee falls into a cold sweat, if hee but looke into the Chauncerie: thinks in his Religion, wee are in the right for euery thing, if that were abo|lisht: hee hides his money, as if hee thought to finde it againe at last day, and then begin's old trade with it. His clothes plead prescription; and whe|ther they or his bodie are more rotten, is a question: yet should hee liue to be hangd in them, this good they would doe him, The very Hangman would pittie his case. The Table hee keeps is able to starue twentie tall men; his ser|vants

haue not their liuing, but their dying from him, and that's of Hunger. A spare Dyet he commends in all men, but himselfe: he comes to Cathedralls onely for loue of the singing Boyes, be|cause they looke hungry. He likes our Religion best, because tis best cheape; yet would faine allow of Purgatorie, 'cause 'twas of his Trade, and brought in so much money: his heart goes with the same snaphance his purse doth, tis seldome open to any man: friendship hee accounts but a word without any signification; nay, he loues all the world so little, that, and it were possible, hee would make himselfe his owne Execu|tor: for certaine, hee is made Admini|strator to his own good name, while he is in perfect memorie, for that dyes long afore him; but he is so farre from being at the charge of a Funerall for it, that hee lets it stinke aboue ground. In conclusion, for Neighbourhood, you were better dwell by a contentious Lawyer. And for his death, tis rather

Surfet, the Pox, or Despaire; for seldom such as hee dye of Gods making, as ho|nest men should doe.

A Water-Man

IS one that hath learnt to speake well of himselfe; for alwaies hee names himselfe, The first man. If he had betane himselfe to some richer Trade, hee could not haue chos'd but done well: for in this (though it be a meane one) he is still plying it, and putting himselfe forward. He is euermore telling strange newes; most commonly lyes. If he be a Sculler, aske him if hee be maried, hee'l equiuocate and sweare hee's a sin|gle man. Little trust is to be giuen to him, for he thinks that day he does best when he fetches most men ouer. His daily labour teaches him the Arte of dissembling; for like a fellow that rides to the Pillorie, he goes not that way he

lookes: hee keepes such a bawling at Westminster, that if the Lawyers were not acquainted with it, an order would be tane with him. When he is vpon the water, he is Fare-companie: when hee comes ashore, hee mutinies; and con|trarie to all other trades, is most surely to Gentlemen, when they tender pay|ment. The Play-houses only keep him sober; and as it doth many other Gal|lants, makes him an afternoones man. London Bridge is the most terriblest eye-sore to him that can be. And to conclude, nothing but a great Presse, makes him flye from the Riuer; nor any thing; but a great Frost, can teach him any good man|ners.

A Reuerend Iudge

IS one that desires to haue his great|nes, onely measur'd by his goodnesse: his care is to appeare such to the peo|ple, as he would haue them be; and to be himselfe such as hee appeares; for vertue cannot seeme one thing, and be another: hee knowes that the hill of greatnesse yeelds a most delighifull prospect, but with all that it is most sub|iect to lightning, and thunder: and that the people, as in ancient Tragedies, sit and censure the actions of those are in authoritie: he squares his owne there|fore, that they may farre bee aboue their pittie: he wishes fewer Lawes, so they were better obseru'd: and for those are Mulctuarie, he vnderstands their institution not to be like briers or springes, to catch euery thing they lay hold of; but like Sea-marks (on our dangerous Goodwin) to auoid the ship|wracke

of ignorant passengers: hee hates to wrong any man; neither hope, nor despaire of preferment can draw him to such an exigent: he thinks him|selfe then most honorably seated, when he giues mercie the vpper hand: hee rather striues to purchase good name then land; and of all rich stuffes for|bidden by the Statute, loaths to haue his followers weare their clothes cut out of bribes and extortions. If his Prince call him to higher place, there he deliuers his minde plainly, and free|ly; knowing for truth, there is no place wherein dissembling ought to haue lesse credit, then in a Princes Councel. Thus honour keeps peace with him to the graue, and doth not(as with many) there forsake him, and goe backe with the Heralds: but fairely sits ore him, and broods out of his memorie, many right excellent Common-wealths men.

A vertuous Widdow

IS the Palme-tree, that thriues not af|ter the supplanting of her husband. For her Childrens sake she first mar|ries, for shee married that shee might haue children, and for their sakes shee marries no more. She is like the purest gold, onely imploide for Princes med|dals, shee neurer receiues but one mans impression; the large iointure moues her not, titles of honor cannot sway hir. To change her name, were (she thinks) to commit a sinne should make her asham'd of her husbands calling; shee thinks she hath traueld all the world in one man; the rest of her time therfore she directs to heauen. Her maine su|perstition is, shee thinks her husbands ghost would walke, should she not per|forme his VVill: she would doe it, were there no Prerogatiue Court. She giues much to pious vses, without any hope

to merit by them: and as one Diamond fashions another; so is she wrought in|to works of Charitie, with the dust or ashes of her husband. She liues to see her selfe full of time; being so necessa|rie for earth, God calls her not to hea|uen, till shee be very aged: and euen then, though her naturall strength faile her, she stands like an ancient Piramid; which the lesse it growes to mans eye, the neerer it reaches to heauen: this latter Chastitie of Hers, is more graue and reuerend, then that ere shee was married; for in it is neither hope, nor longing, nor feare, nor iealousie. Shee ought to be a mirrour for our yongest Dames, to dresse themselues by, when she is fullest of wrinkles. No calamitie can now come neere her, for in suffe|ring the losse of her husband, shee ac|counts all the rest trifles: she hath laid his dead bodie in the worthiest monu|ment that can be: Shee hath buried it in her owne heart. To conclude, she is a Relique, that without any supersti|tion

in the world; though she will not be kist, yet may be reuerenc't.

An ordinary Widdow

IS like the Heralds Hearse-cloath; she serues to many funerals, with a very little altering the colour. The end of her Husband begins in teares; and the end of her teares beginnes in a Hus|band. She vses to Cunning women to know how many Husbands shee shall haue, and neuer marries without the consent of sixe midwiues. Her chiefest pride is in the multitude of her Sui|tors; and by them she gaines: for one serues to draw on another, and with one at last she shootes out another, as Boies doe Pellets in Elderne Gunnes. She commends to them a single life, as Horsecourses doe their Iades, to put them away. Her fancy is to one of the biggest of the Guard, but Knighthood

makes her draw in a weaker Bow. Her seruants, or kinsfolke, are the Trum|perers that summon any to this com|bat: by them she gaines much credit, but looseth it againe in the old Pro|uerbe: Fama est mendax. If she liue to be thrise married, she seldome failes to cozen her second Husbands Credi|tors. A Church man shee dare not venture vpon; for she hath heard wid|dowes complaine of dilapidations: nor a Soldier, though he haue Candle|rents in the City, for his estate may be subiect to fire: very seldome a Lawier, without he shew his exceeding great practise, & can make her case the bet|ter: but a Knight with the old rent may do much, for a great comming in, is all in all with a Widdow: euer prouided, that most part of her Plate and Iewels (before the wedding) lie concealde with her Scriuener. Thus like a too ripe Apple, shee falles of her selfe: but he that hath her, is Lord but of a filthy purchase, for the title is

crackt. Lastly, while she is a Widdow, obserue euer, shee is no Morning wo|man the euening a good fire and sack may make her listen to a Husband: and if euer she be made sure, tis vpon a full stomacke to bedward.

A Quacksaluer

IS a Mountebanke of a larger bill then a Taylor; if hee can but come by names enow of Diseases, to stuffe it with, tis all the skill hee studies for. He tooke his first being from a Cun|ning woman, and stole this blacke Art from her, while he made her Seacoale fire. All the diseases euer sin brought vpon man, doth he pretend to be Cu|rer of; when the truth is, his maine cunning, is Corne-cutting. A great plague makes him; what with railing against such, as leaue their cures for feare of infection, and in friendly brea|king

Cakebread, with the Fish-wiues at Funerals, he vtters a most abomina|ble deale of musty Carduus-water, & the Conduits crie out, All the learned Doctors may cast their Caps at him. He parts stakes with some Apotheca|ry, in the Suburbes, at whose house he lies: and though hee be neuer so fami|liar with his wife; the Apothecary dare not (for the richest Horne in his shop) displease him. All the Mid-wiues in the towne are his intelligencers; but nurses and young Marchants Wines (that would fain conceiue with childe) these are his Idolaters. Hee is a more vniust Bone-setter, then a Dice-ma|ker; hath put out more eyes then the small Pox; made more deafe then the Cataracts of Nilus; lamed more then the Gout; shrunke more sinewes, then one that makes Bow-stringes; and kild more idly, then Tobacco. A Magi|strate that had any way so noble a spi|rit, as but to loue a good horse well, would not suffer him to bee a Farrier.

His discourse is vomit; and his igno|rance, the strongest purgation in the world: to one that would be speedily cured, he hath more delaies, and dou|bles, then a Hare, or a Law suite: hee seekes to set vs at variance with nature, and rather then hee shall want diseases he'le beget them. His especiall practise (as I said afore) is vpon women; la|bours to make their mindes sicke, ere their bodies feele it, and then there's worke for the Dog-leach. Hee pre|tends the cure of mad-men; and sure he gets most by them, for no man in his perfect witte would meddle with him. Lastly, he is such a Iuggler with Vrinals, so dangerously vnskilfull, that if euer the Citie will haue recourse to him for diseases that neede purgation, let them imploy him in scouring Moore-ditch.

A Canting Rogue.

TIs not vnlikely but hee was begot by some intelligencer vnder a hedge; for his minde is wholy giuen to trauell. He is not troubled with ma|king of Iointures: he can diuorce him|selfe without the see of a Proctor, nor feares he the crueltie of ouerseers of his Will. Hee leaues his children all the world to Cant in, and all the people to their fathers. His Language is a Constant tongue; the Northerne speech differs from the south, VVelch from the Cornish: but Canting is ge|nerall, nor euer could be altered by conquest of the Saxon, Dane, or Norman. He wil not beg out of his limit though hee starue; nor breake his oath if hee sweare by his Salomon, though you hang him: and hee payes his custome as truely to his Graund Rogue, astri|bute is payd to the great Turke. The

March Sunne breedes agues in others, but hee adores it like the Indians; for then beginnes his progresse after a hard winter. Ostlers cannot endure him, for he is of the infantry, and serues best on foote. Hee offends not the Statute a|gainst the excesse of apparell, for hee will goe naked, and counts it a volun|tary pennance. Forty of them lie in a Barne together, yet are neuer sued vp|on the statute of Inmates. If hee were learned, no man could make a better description of England; for hee hath traueld it ouer and ouer. Lastly, hee bragges, that his great houses are repair'd to his hands; when Chur|ches go to ruine: and those are prisons.

A French Cooke

HE learnt his trade in a Towne of Garrison neere famish't, where he practised to make a little goe farre; some deriue it from more anti|quity, and say Adam (when hee pickt fallets) was of his occupation. He doth not feed the belly, but the Palate: and though his command lie in the kitchin (which is but an inferiour place) yet shall you finde him a very saucy com|panion. Euer since the warres in Na|ples, hee hath so minc't (the ancient and bountifull allowance) as if his na|tion should keep a perpetuall diet. The Seruingmen call him the last relique of Popery, that makes men fast against their Conscience. He can be truly said to be no mans fellow but his Masters: for the rest of his seruants are starued by him. Hee is the prime cause why

Noblemen build their Houses so great, for the smalnesse of the Kitchin, makes the house the bigger: and the Lord calles him his Alchymist that can ex|tract gold out of hearbs, rootes, mush|roomes or anything: that which hee dresses wee may rather call a drinking, then a meale: yet is hee so full of varie|ty, that he brags, and truely, that hee giues you but a taste of what hee can do: he dare not for his life come among the Butchers; for sure they would quar|ter and bake him after the English fashion; hee's such an enemy to Beefe and Mutton. To conclude, hee were onely fit to make a funerall feast, where men should eat their victuals in mour|ning.

A Sexton

IS an ill willer to humane nature. Of all Prouerbs, hee cannot endure to heare that which sayes, Wee ought to liue by the quicke, not by the dead. He could willingly all his life time bee confinde to the Church-yard; at least within fiue foote on't: for at euery Church stile, commonly there's an Ale|house; Where let him bee found neuer so idle pated, hee is still a graue drun|kard. Hee breakes his fast heartiliest while he is making a graue, and sayes the opening of the ground makes him hungry. Though one would take him to be a slouen, yet hee loues cleane lin|nen extreamely, and for that reason takes an order that fine holland sheers bee not made wormes meate. Like a nation cald the Cusani, he weeps when any are borne, and laughes when they die: the reason; hee gets by Burials

not Christnings: he will hold argu|ment in a Tauerne ouer Sacke, till the Diall and himselfe bee both at a stadd: he neuer obserues any time but Sermon time, and there he sleepes by the hour|glasse. The rope-maker payes him a pension, and hee paies tribute to the Physitian; for the Physitian makes work for the Sexton; as the Rope-maker for the Hang-man. Lastly, he wishes the Dogge dayes would last all yeere long: and a great plague is his yeere of lubile.

A Iesuite

IS a larger Spoone for a Traytour to feed with the Diuell, then any other Order: vnclaspse him, and hee's a gray Wolfe, with a golden Starre in the fore-head: so superstitiously hee followes the Pope, that hee forsakes Christ, in not giuing Caesar his due. His vowes seeme heauenly; but in medling

with State-businesse, he seems to mixe heauen and earth together. His best Elements, are Confession & Pennance: by the first, he findes out mens inclina|tions; and by the latter, heapes wealth to his Seminary. He sprang from Igna|natius Loiola, a Spanish Souldier; and though hee were found out long since the inuention of the Canon, 'tis thoght he hath not done lesse mischiefe. Hee is a false Key to open Princes Cabinets, and pry into their Counsels; and where the Popes excommunication thunders, hee holds it no more sinne the decrow|ning of Kings, then our Puritanes doe the suppression of Bishops. His order is full of all irregularity and disobedi|ence; ambitious aboue all measure; for of late dayes, in Portugall and the In|dies, he reiected the name of Iesuit, and would bee called Disciple. In Rome, and other countries that giue him free|dome, hee weares a Maske vppon his heart; in England he shifts it, and puts it vpon his face. No place in our Cli|mate

hides him so securely as a Ladies Chamber; the modesty of the Purse|uant hath onely forborne the bed, and so mist him. There is no Disease in Christendome, that may so properly be call'd The Kings Euill. To conclude, would you know him beyond Sea? In his Seminary, hee's a Foxe; but in the Inquisition, a Lyon Rampant.

An excellent Actor.

VVHatsoeuer is commendable in the graue Orator, is most exquisitly perfect in him; for by a full and significant action of body, he charmes our attention: sit in a full Theater, and you will thinke you see so many lines drawen from the circum|ference of so many eares, whiles the Actor is the Center. He doth not striue to make nature monstrous, she is often seene in the same Scaene with him, but

neither on Stilts nor Crutches; and for his voice tis not lower then the promp|ter, nor lowder then the Foile and Tar|ger. By his action hee fortifies morall precepts with example; for what wee see him personate, wee thinke truely done before vs: a man of a deep thoght might apprehend, the Ghosts of our ancient Heroes walk't againe, and take him(at feueral times)for many of them. He is much affected to painting, and tis a question whether that make him an excellent Player, or his playing an exquisite Painter. Hee addes grace to the Poets labours: for what in the Poet is but ditty, in him is both ditty and musicke. He entertaines vs in the best leasure of our life, that is betweene meales, the most vnfit time, either for study or bodily exercise: the flight of Hawkes, and chase of wilde beasts, ei|ther of them are delights noble: but some thinke this sport of men the wor|thier, despight all calumny. All men haue beene of his occupation: and in|deed,

what hee doth fainedly, that doe others essentially: this day one playes a Monarch, the next a priuate person. Heere one Acts a Tyrant, on the morrow an Exile: A Parasite this man too night, tomorrow a Precisian, and so of diuers others. I obserue, of all men liuing, a woorthy Actor in one kinde is the strongest motiue of affect|ion on that can be: for when hee dies, wee cannot be perswaded any man can doe his parts like him. But to conclude, I value a worthy Actor by the corrupti|on on of some few of the quality, as I wold doe gold in the oare; I should not minde the drosse, but the purity of the mettall.

A Franklin.

HIs outside is an ancient Yeoman of England, though his inside may giue armes (with the best Gentleman) and ne're fee the Herald. There is no truer seruaht in the house then himselfe. Though he be Master, he saies not to his seruants, goe to field, but let vs goe; and with his owne eye, doth both fatten his flocke, and set for|ward all manner of husbandrie. He is taught by nature to be contented with a little; his owne fold yeelds him both food and raiment: hee is pleasd with any nourishment God sends, whilest curious gluttonie ransacks, as it were, Noahs Arke for food, onely to feed the riot of one meale. He is nere knowne to goe to Law; vnderstanding, to be Law-bound among men, is like to bee hide-bound among his beasts; they thriue not vnder it: and that such men

sleep as vnquietly, as if their pillowes were stuft with Lawyers pen-knifes. When hee builds, no poore Tenants cottage hinders his prospect, they are indeed his Almes-houses, though there be painted on them no such superscrip|tion. Hee neuer fits vplate but when he hunts the Badger, the vowed foe of his Lambes: nor vses he any crueltie, but when he hunts the Hare, nor sub|tiltie but when he setteth snares for the Snite, or pit-falls for the Black-bird; nor oppression, but when in the month of Iuly, hee goes to the next riuer, and sheares his sheep. Hee allowes of ho|nest pastime, and thinks not the bones of the dead any thing bruifed, or the worse for it, though the Countrey Las|ses dance in the Church-yard after Euen-song. Rocke Monday, and the Wake in Summer, shrouings, the wakefull ketches on Christmas Eue, the Hoky, or Seed-cake, these he yeerly keeps, yet holds them no reliques of Po|perie. He is not so inquisitiue after

newes deriued from the priuie closet, when the finding an eiery of Hawkes in his owne ground, or the foaling of a Colt come of a good straine, are ty|dings more pleasant, more profitable. He is Lord paramount within himselfe, though hee hold by neuer so meane a Tenure; and dies the more conten|tedly (though he leaue his heire yong) in regard he leaues him not liable to a couetous Guardian. Lastly, to end him; hee cares not when his end comes; hee needs not feare his Audit, for his Quietus is in heauen.

A Rimer

IS a fellow whose face is hatcht all ouer with impudence, and should he be hang'd or pilloried tis armed for it. Hee is a Iuggler with words, yet practises the Art of most vncleanly

conueyance. He doth boggle very of|ten; and because himselfe winkes at it, thinks tis not perceiued: the maine thing that euer he did, was the tune he sang to. There is nothing in the earth so pittifull, no not an Ape-carrier, he is not worth thinking of, and there+fore I must leaue him as na|ture left him, a Dung|hil not well aid to|gether.