A worthy Commander in the Warres
It one that accounts learning the nourishment of a militarie vertue, and lais that as his first foundation. He never bloudies his sword but in heate of battaile; and had rather save one of his owne Souldiers, than kill tenne of his enemies. He accounts it an idle, vaine-glorious, & suspected bounty, to be ful of good words; his rewarding therefore of the deserver arrives so timely, that his liberalitie can never bee said to bee gouty-handed. He holds it next his Creed, that no coward can be an honest man, and dare die in’t. He doth not thinke his body yeeldes a more spreading shadow after a victory than before; and when he looked upon his enemies dead bodie, tis with a kind of noble heavinesse, 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 theaters, and strives to gaine reputation not by the multitude, but by the greatnesse of his actions. He is the first in giving the charge, and the last in retiring his foot. Equall toile hee indures with the Common Souldier, from his example they all take fier as one Torch lights many. Hee understands in warre, there is no meane to erre twice; the first, and least fault beeing sufficient to ruine an Army: faults therefore hee pardons none, they that are predents of disorder or mutiny, repaire it by being examples of his Justice. Besiege him never so strictly, so long as the aire is not cut from him, his heart faints not. He hath learn’d as well to make use of a victory as to get it, and in pursuing his enemie like a whirlewind carries all afore him; being assured if ever a man will benefit himselfe upon his foe, then is the time when they have lost force, wisdome, courage, and reputation. The goodnesse of his cause is the speciall motive to his valour; never is he known to slight the weakest enemy that comes arm’d against him in the hand of Justice. Hastie and overmuch heate hee accounts the Step-dame to all great actions, that will not suffer them to thrive; if hee cannot oversome his enemy by force, he does it by Time. If ever he shake hands with warre, hee can die more calmely than most Courtiers, for his continuall dangers have beene as it were so many meditations of death; he thinkes not out of his owne calling, when hee accounts life a continuall warfarre, and his praiers then best become him when armed Cap a pea. He utters them like the great Hebrew Generall, on horsebacke. Hee castes a smiling contempt upon Calumny, it meetes him as if Glasse should encounter Adamant. He thinkes warre is never to be given ore, but on one of these three conditions: an assured peace, absolute victorie, or an honest death. Lastly, when peace folds him up, his silver 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 Letter, he loves a life dead paies, yet wishes they may rather happen in his Company by the scurvy, than by a battel. View him at a muster, and he goes with such noise, as if his body were the wheelebarrow that carried his judgement rumbling to drill his Souldiers. No man can worse define between Pride and noble Courtesie: he that salutes him not as farre off as a Pistoll carries levell, gives him the disgust or affront, choose you whether. He trains by the book, and reckons so many postures of the Pike, and Musket, as if hee were counting at Noddy. When hee comes at first upon a Camisado, he lookes like the foure windes in painting, as if hee would blow away the enemy; but at the verie first onset suffers feare and trembling to dresse themselves in his face apparantly. He scornes any man should take place before him: yet at entring of a breach, hee hath beene so humble-minded, as to let his Lieutenant lead his Troopes for him. Hee is so sure armed for taking hurt, that he seldome does any: and while he is putting on his Armes, hee is thinking what summe hee can make to satisfie his ransome. Hee will raile openly against all the great Commanders of the adverse party, yet in his owne conscience allowes them for better men: such is the nature of his feare, that contrarie to all other filthy qualities, it makes him thinke better of another man than himselfe. The first part of him that is set a-running, is his eye-sight: when that is once strucke with terror, all the Costive Physicke in the world cannot stay him; if ever he doe any thing beyond his owne heart, tis for a Knighthood, and he is the first kneels for’t without bidding.
A Pirate
Truely defined, is a bould Traitor, for hee fortifies a Castle against the King. Give him Sea-roome in never so small a vessell; and like a witch in a sive, you would thinke he were going to make merry with the Devill. Of all callings his is the most desperate, for he will not leave off his theeving though he be in a narrow prison, and looke every day (by tempest or fight) for execution. He is one pleague the Divell hath added, to make the Sea more terrible then a storme; and his heart is so hardned in that rugged element, that hee cannot repent, though he view his grave (before him) continually open: hee hath so little his owne that the house hee sleepes in is stolne; all the necessities of life hee filches, but one; he cannot steale a sound sleepe, for his troubled Conscience: Hee is very gentle to those under him, yet his rule is horriblest the tyranny in the world; for he gives licence to all rape, murder, and cruelty in his owne example: what he gets, is smal use to him, onlie lives by it, (somewhat the longer) to doe a little more service to his belly; for hee throwes away his treasure upon the shore in riot, as if he cast it into the Sea. He is a cruell Hawke that flies at all but his owne kind: and as a Whale never comes a-shore, but when she is wounded; so he, very seldome, but for his necessities. He is the Marchants book, that serves only to reckon up his losses; a perpetuall plague to noble trafique, the Hurican of the Sea, and the earthquake of the Exchange. Yet for al this give him but his pardon, and forgive him restitution, he may live to know the inside of a Church, and die on this side Wapping.
An ordinary Fencer
Is a fellow, that beside shaving of Cudgels hath a good insight into the world, for he hath long been beaten to it. Flesh and bloud he is, like other men; but surely Nature meant him Stock-fish: his and a Dancing-schoole are inseperable adjuncts; and are bound, though both stinke of sweat most abominably, neither shall complaine of annoiance: three large bavins set up his trade, with a bench; which (in the vacation of the afternoone) he uses for his day bed; for a firkin to pisse in, he shall be allowed that, by those make Allom: when he comes on the Stage, at his Prize, he makes a leg seven severall waies, and scrambles for mony, as if he had beene borne at the Bath in Somerset-shire: at his challenge he shewes his mettle; for contrary to all rules of Physick, he dare bleed, though it be in the dog-daies: he teaches Divelish play in’s Schoole, but when he fights himself, he doth it in the feare of a good Christian. Hee Compounds quarrels among his Scholers: and when hee hath brought the businesse to a good up-shot, he makes the reckoning. His wounds are sledome above skin-deepe: for an inward bruse, Lambe-stones and sweetbreads are his only Sperma Ceti, which he eats at night, next his heart fasting: strange Schoolemasters they are, that every day set a man as far backward as he went forward; and throwing him into a strange posture, teach him to thresh satisfaction out of injurie. One signe of a good nature is, that hee is still open-breasted to his friends; for his foile, and his doublet, weare not above two buttons: and resolute he is, for he so much scornes to take blowes, that he never weares Cuffes, and he lives better contented with a little, then other men; for if he have two eyes in’s head, hee thinks Nature hath overdone him. The Lord Maiors triumph makes him a man, for that’s his best time to flourish. Lastly, these Fencers are such things, that care not if all the world were ignorant of more Letters than onely to read their Patent.
A Puny-clarke
He is tane from Grammar-schoole halfe codled, and can hardly shake off his dreames of breeching in a twelvemonth. Hee is a Farmers sonne, and his Fathers utmost ambition is to make him an Atturney. He doth itch towards a Poet, and greases his breches extreamly with feeding without a napkin. He studies false dice to cheate Costermongers, & is most chargeable to the butler of some Inne of Chancery, for pissing in their Greene-pots. Hee eates Ginger-bread at a Play-house; and is so saucy, that he venters fairely, for a broken pate, at the banketing house, and hath it. He would never come to have any wit, but for a long vacation, for that makes him bethinke him how hee shall shift another day. He praies hotely against fasting: and so hee may sup well on Friday nights, he cares not though his mster be a Puritan. 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 a commendable as a Flanders horse of large taile. Though you be never so much delai’d, you may not call his master knave: that makes him go beyond himselfe and wright a challenge in Court hand; for it may be his own another day. These are some certain of his liberall faculties: but in the Terme time, his Clog is a Buckrom bag. Lastly, which is great pitty, hee never comes to his full growth, with bearing on his sholder the sinfull burden of his Master at several Courts in Westminster.
A Foote-man
Let him be never so well made, yet his Legs are not matches: for he is still setting the best foot forward. He will never be a staid main, for he has had a running head of his owne, ever since his child-hood. 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. Hee is very long-winded: and, without doubt, but that hee hates naturally to serve on horsebacke, hee had proved an excellent trumpet. Hee has one happinesse above all the rest of the Servignmen, for when he most overreaches his Master, hee’s best thought of. Hee lives more by his owne heat then the warmth of cloathes: and the waiting-woman hath the greatest fancy to him when he is in his close trouses. Gardes hee wares none: which makes him live more upright than any cross-gartered gentleman-usher. Tis impossible to draw his picture to the life, cause a man must take it as he’s running; onely this. Horses are usually let bloued on S. Stevens day: on S. Patrickes hee takes rest, and is drencht for all the yeare after.
A noble and retir’d House-keeper
Is one whose bounty is limited by reason, not ostentation: & to make it last, he deales it discreetly, as we sowe the furrow, not by the sacke, but by the handfull. His word & his meaning never shake hands and part, but alway goe together. Hee can survey good, and love it, and loves to doe himselfe, for it owne sake, not for thankes. He knows there is no such miserie as to outlive good name, nor no such folly as to put it in practise. His minde is so secure, that thunder rockes him asleepe, which breakes other mens slumbers. Nobilitie lightens in his eyes, and in his face and gesture is painted, The God of Hospitality. His great houses beare in their front more durance, then state; unlesse this adde the greater state to them, that they promise to outlast much of our new phantasticall buylding. His heart never growes old, no more than his memorie: whether at his booke, or on horsebacke, hee passeth his time in such noble exercise, a man cannot say any time is lost by him: nor hath he onely yeeres, to approve he hath lived till he bee old, but vertues. His thoughts have a high aime, though their dwelling bee in the Vale of an humble heart; whence, as by an Engin (that raises water to fall, that it may rise the higher) he is heightned in his humility. The Adamant serves not for all Seas, but his doth; for he hath as it were, put a gird about the whole world, and sounded all her quicksandes. He hath this hand over Fortune, that her injuries, how violent or sodaine soever, they doe not daunt him; for whether his time call him to live, or die, he can do both nobly: if to fall, his descent is breast to breast with vertue; and even then, like the Sunne neare his Set, hee shewes unto the world his clearest countenance.
An Intruder into favour
Is one that builds his reputation on others infamy: for slander is most commonly his morning praier. His passions are guided by Pride, and followed by Injustice. An inflexible anger against some poore sutor, his falsly calles a Couragious constancy, and thinkes the best part of gravity to consist in a ruffled forehead. Hee is the most slavishly submisse, though envious to those are in better place then himself, and knowes the art of words so well, that (for shrowding dishonestie under a faire pretext) hee seemes to preserve mud in Chrystall. Like a man of a kind nature, he is first good to himselfe; in the next file, to his French Tailor, that gives him al his perfection: for indeede, like an Estridge, or Birde of Paradise, his feathers are more worth then his body. If ever hee doe good deed (which is very seldome) his owne mouth is the Chronicle of it, least it should die forgotten. His whole body goes all upon screwes, and his face is the vice that mooves them. If his Patron be given to musicke, hee opens his choppes, and sings, or with a wry necke falles to tuning his instrument: if that faile hee takes the height of his Lord with a Hawking-pole. He followes the mans fortune, not the man: seeking thereby to encrease his owne. He pretends, hee is most undeservedly envied, and cries out, remembring the game Chesse, that a Pawne before a King is most plaid on. Debts hee owes none, but shrewd turnes, and those he paies ere hee be sued. Hee is a flattering Glasse to conceale age, and wrinkles. Hee is Montaigne’s Monkie, that climbing a tree, and skipping from bough to bough, gives you backe his face; but comne once to the top, hee holdes his nose up 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 hee is falling, hee goes of himselfe faster then misery can drive him.
A fayre and happy Milke-mayd
Is a Countrey Wench, that is so farre from making her selfe beautifull by Art, that one looke of hers is able to put all face-Physicke out of countenance. She knowes a fayre 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 upon her without her knowledge. The lining of her apparell (which is her selfe) is farre better then outsides of Tissew: for though shee bee not arrayed in the spoyle of the Silke-worme, shee is deckt with innocence, a farre better wearing. She doth not, with lying long a bed, spoyle both her Complexion & Conditions; nature hath taught her too Immoderate sleepe is a rust to the soule: she rises therefore with Chaunticleare, her Dames Cocke; & 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 never came Almond Glove or Aromatique Oyntment on her Palme to taynt it. The golden eares of Corne fall and kisse her feete when shee reapes them, as if they wisht to bee bound and led prisoners by the same hand fell’d them. Her breath is her owne, which sents all the yeere long of June, like a new-made Hay-cocke. She makes her hand hard with labour, and her heart soft with pittie: and when winter evenings fall early (sitting at her merry wheele) she sings a defiance to the giddy Wheele of Fortune. Shee doth all things with so sweet a grace, it seemes ignorance will not suffer her to doe ill, being her minde is to do well. She bestowes her yeeres wages at next Faire; and in choosing her Garments, counts no bravery i’th’ worlde like decency. The Garden and Bee-hive are all her Physicke & Chyrugery, & she lives the longer for’t. She dare goe alone, and unfold sheepe i’th’ night, and feares no manner of ill, because she means none: yet to say truth, she is never alone, for she is still accompanied with old songs, honest thoughts and prayers, but short ones; yet they have their efficacy, in that they are not pauled with insuing idle cogitations. Lastly, her dreames are so chaste, that she dare tell them: only a Frydayes dreame is all her superstition: that shee conceales for feare of anger. Thus lives she, and all her care is, She may dye in the Spring-time, to have store of flowers stuck upon her winding sheet.
An Arrant Horse-courser
Hath the tricke to blow up Horse-flesh, as a Butcher doth Veale, which shall wash out again in twise riding twixt Waltham and London. The Trade of Spurre-making had decayde long since, but for this ungodly tyre-man. He is curst all over the fourse ancient High-waies of England; none but the blinde men that sell switches i’th’ Road are beholding to him. His Stable is fill’d with so many Diseases, one would thinke most part about Smithfield were and 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 over-tooke you within ten miles, to stay your journey. And though a man cannot say, Hee cousens you directly; yet any Ostler within ten miles, should hee bee brought upon his Booke-oath, will afirme he hath layd a baite for you. Resolve when you first stretch your self in the Stirroppes, you are put as it were upon some Userer, that will never beare wtih you past his day. Hee were good to make one that had the Collick alight often, and (if example will cause him) make urine; let him only for that say, Gra’mercy Horse. For his sale of horses, he hath false covers for all manner of Diseases, onely comes short of one thing (which he despayres not utterly to bring to perfection) to make a Horse goe on a wodden legge and two crutches. For powdring his eares with Quicksilver, and giving him suppositories of live Eeles he’s expert. All the while you are a-cheapning he feares you will not bite; but hee laughs in his sleeve when hee hath cousened you in earnest. French men are his best Chapmen, he keepes amblers for them on purpose, and knowes hee can deceive them very easily. He is so constant to his Trade, that while he is awake he tyres any man hee talkes with, and when hee’s asleepe hee dreames very fearefully of the Paving of Smithfield, for hee knowes it would founder his occupation.
A Roaring Boy
His life is a meere counterfeit Patent: which neverthelesse, makes many a Countrey Justice tremble. Don Quixotes Milles are still Scotch Bagpipes to him. Hee sends Challenges by worde of mouth: for he protests (as hee is a Gentleman and a brother of the Sword) hee can neyther write nor reade. Hee hath runne through divers parcells of Land, and great houses, beside both the Counters. If any private Quarrell happen among our great Courtiers, he proclaimes the businesse, that’s the word, the businesse; as if all the united forces of the Romish Catholicks were making up for Germany. He cheates young Guls that are newly come to Towne; and when the Keeper of the Ordinary blames him for’t, answeres him in his owne Profession, That a Woodcock must bee pluckt ere he be drest. He is a Supervisor to Brothels, and in them is a more unlawfull reformer of vice, then Prentises on Shrove-tuesday. He loves his Friend, as a Counseller at Law loves the velvet Breeches he was first made Barrester in, hee’ll bee sure to weare him thread-bare ere hee forsake him. He sleepes with a Tobacco-pipe in’s mouth; and his first prayer i’th’ morning is, hee may remember whom he fell out with over-night. Souldier he is none, for hee cannot distinguish ‘tween Onion seede and Gunpowder: if he have 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 borrowing. Land-lords have but foure Quarter-dayes; but he three hundred and odde. Hee keepes very good Company; yet is a man of no reckoning: and when hee goes not drunke to bed, he is very sicke next morning. He commonly dyes like Anacreon, with a Grape in’s throate; or Hercules, with fire in’s marrow. And I have heard some (that have scap’t haning) begg’d for Anatomies, onely to deterre men from taking Tobacco.
A drunken Dutch-man resident in England
Is but quarter Master with his Wife. He stinks of Butter, as if he were noynted all over for the Itch. Let him come over never so leane, & plant him but one Moneth neere the Brew-houses in S. Catherines, and hee’ll be puft up to your hand like a bloate Herring. Of all places of pleasure, he loves a Common Garden; and (with the Swine of the Parish) had neede be ringed for rooting. Next to these he affects Lotteries naturally; and bequeaths the best prize, in his Will aforehand: when his hopes fall, hee’s blanke. They swarme in great Tenements like Flyes: sixe House-holds will live in a Garret. Hee was wont (onely to make us fooles) to buy the Foxe skinning for three pence, and selle the tayle for a shilling. Now his new Trade of brewing Strong-waters makes number of mad-men. Hee lovees a Welch-man extreamely for his Dyet and Orthography; that is, for plurality of Consonants and Cheese. Like a Horse, hee’s onely guided by the mouth: when hee’s drunke, you may thrust your hand into him like an Eele skinne, and strippe him his inside outwards. He whoords up fayre gold, and pretends ’tis to seethe in his Wives broth for a Consumption, and loves the memory of King Henry the eighth most especially for his old Soveraignes. He sayes we are unwise to lament the decay of Timber in England; for all manner of Buildings or Fortification whatsoever, hee desires no other thing in the world, than Barrels and Hop-poles. To conclude, the onely two plagues hee trembles at, is small Beere, and the Spanish Inquisition.
A Phantastique
An Improvident young Gallant
There is a confederacy betweene him and his Clothes, to be made a puppy: view him well, and you’ll say his Gentry sits as ill upon him, as if hee had bought it with his penny. Hee hath more places to send money to, then the Divell hath to send his Spirits: and to furnish each Mistresse, would make him runne beside his wit, if he had any to lose. Hee accounts bashfulnesse the wicked’st thing in the world; and therefore studies Impudence. If all men were of his minde, all honestie would bee out of fashion. He withers his Cloathes on the Stage, as a Sale-man is forc’t to doe his Suits in Birchin-Lane; and when the Play is done, if you but mark his rising, ’tis a kind ofwalking Epilogue betweene the two Candles, to know if his Suite may passe for currant. He studies by the discretion of his Barbar, to frizzle like a Baboone: three such would keep three the nimblest Barbers i’th’ towne, form ever having leasure to weare net Garters: for when they have to do with him they have many Irons i’th’ fire. He is travelled, but to little purpose; only went over for a squirt, and came backe againe; yet never the more mended in his conditions, cause he carried himselfe along with him: a Scholer he pretends himselfe, and saies hee hath sweat for it: but the truth is, hee knowes Cornelius, farre better than Tacitus. His ordinarie sportes are Cock-fights; but the most frequent, horse races, from whence hee comes home drie-foundred. Thus when his purse hath cast her calfe, hee goes downe into the Countrey, where hee is brought to milke and white cheese like the Switzers.
A Button-maker of Amsterdame
Is one that is fled over from his Conscience, and let his wife and children upon the Parish. For his knowledge, he is meerely a Horne-booke, without a Christ-crosse afore it, and his zeale consists much in hanging his Bible in a Dutch button. He cosens men in the puritie of his Cloathes: and twas his only joy, when he was on this side, to bee in Prison. Hee cries out, tis impossible for any man to be damn’d, that lives in his religion, and his equivocation is true: so long as a man live in’t, he cannot; but if he dye in’t, there’s the question. Of all Feasts in the yeare, hee accounts St. Georges Feast the prophanest, because of St. Georges Crosse: yet, sometimes he doth sacrifice to his owne belly; provided tha the put off the Wake of his owne nativity, or wedding, till Good Friday. If there be a great feast in the Town, though most of the wicked (as hee calles them) be there, he wil be sure to be a guest, and to out-eat sixe of the fattest Burgers. He thinkes, though he may not pray with a Jew, he may eate with a Jew. Hee winkes when he praies, and thinkes he knowes the way so to Heaven, that he can finde it blindefold. Latin hee accounts the language of the Beast with seven heads; and when he speakes of his owne Countrey, cries, He is fled out of Babel. Lastly, his devotion is Obstinacy, the onely solace of his heart, Contradiction, and his maine end Hypocrisie.
A Distaster of the Time
Is a Winter Grasshopper all the yeare long, that lookes backe upon Harvest with a leane paire of cheekes, never sets forward to meet it. His malice suckes up the greatest part of his venome, and therewith impoisoneth himselfe: and this sickenesse rises rather of selfe-opinion or over-great expectations; so in the conceit of this owne over-worthinesse, like a Coistrell he strives to fill himselfe with winde, and flies against it. Any mans advancement is the most capitall offence that can be to his malice: yet this envy, like Phalaris’ Bull, makes that a torment first for himselfe, he prepared for others. He is a day-bed for the Divell to slumber on. His bloud is of a yellowish colour: like those that have been bitten by Vipers: and his gaule flowes as thicke in him as oile, in a poison’d stomacke. He infects all society, as Thunder sowres Wine. Warre or Peace, Dearth or Plenty, make him equally discontented. And where hee findes no cause to taxe the State, he descends to raile against the rate of salt butter. His wishes are Whirlewindes; which breathed foorth, returne into himselfe, and make him a most giddy and tottering vessell. When he is awake, and goes abroad, hee doth but walke in his sleepe, for his visitation is directed to none: his businesse is nothing. Hee is often dumbe-madde, and goes fetter’d in his own entrailes. Religion is commonly his pretence of discontent, though hee can bee of all religions; therefore truely of none. Thus by unnaturallising himselfe, some would think him a very dangerous fellow to the State, but hee is not greatly to bee fear’d: for this dejection of his, is onely like a rogue that goes one his knees and elbowes in the mire, to further his begging.
A Fellow of a House
Examines all mens carriage but his owne: and is so kind-natured to himselfe, hee findes fault with all mens but his owne. Hee weares his apparell much after the fashion; but his meanes will not suffer him come too night: they afford him Mock-velvet 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 Crœsus is Irus to him. He is a Pedant in shew, though is title be Tutor; and his Pupils, in broader phrase, are Schoole-boyes. On these hee spends the false fallop of his tongue; and with senselesse discourse conceales the sappe: by this meanes he keepes them the longer, himselfe the better. Hee hath learn’t to cought, and spit, and blow his nose at every period, to recover his memory: and studies chiefly to set his eyes and beard to a new forme of learnign. His Religion lyes in wayte for the inclination of his Patron: neyther ebbes nor flowes, but just standing water, betweene Protestant and Puritane. His dreames are of a pluralitie of Benefices and non-residency; and when he rises, acts a long Grace to his Looking-flasse. Against he comes to be some great mans Chaplaine, hee hath a habit of boldnes, 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 so proud, but hee will call the meanest Authour by his name; nor so unskill’d in the Heraldry of a Studie, but he knowes each mans place. For recreation, now and then he hath a Wench; and in the end, the Wench him. So ends that fellowship, and begins the other.
A meere Petifogger
Is one of Sampsons Foxes: He sets men together by the eares, more shamefully then Pillories; and in a long Vacation his sport is to goe a-Fishing with the Penall Statutes. He cannot erre before Judgement, and then you see it, onely Writs of error are the Tariers that keepe his Clyent undoing somewhat longer. He is a Vestrie-man in his Parish, and easily sets his neighbours at variance with the Vickar, when his wicked counsell on both sides is like weapons put into mens hands by a Fencer, whereby they get blowes, hee money. His honesty and learnign bring him to Under-sherif-ship; which having thrise runne through, he do’s not feare the Lieutenant a’th’ Shire: nay more, he feares not God. Cowardise hods him a good Common-wealths-man; his Pen is the Plough, & Parchment the Soyle, whence he reapes both Coyne and Curses. He is an Earthquake, that willingly will let no gound lye in quiet. Broken titles make him whole; to have halfe in the County breake their Bonds, were the onely liberty of conscience: He would wish (though he be a Brownist) no neighbour of his should pay his tythes duely, if such Sutes held continuall Plea at Westminster. He cannot away with the reverend Service in our Church, because it ends with The peace of God. Hee loves blowes extreamely, and hath his Chyrurgions Bill of all rates, form head to foote, to incense the fury: hee would not give away his yeerely beatings for a good piece 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 have cause to remember him. And if hee thought the Ghosts of men did walke againe (as they report in time of Popery) sure he would hide some single money in Westminster-Hall, that his Spirit might haunt there. Only with this, I wil pitch him o’re the Barre, & leave him; That his fingers itch after a Bribe, ever since his first practising of Courthand.
An Ingrosser of Corne
There is no Vermine in the Land like him. He slaunders both Heaven and Earth with pretended Dearths, when there’s no cause of scarcitie. His whording in a deare yeere, is like Erisichtons Bowels, in Ovid: Quodque urbibus esse, quodque satis poterat populo, non sufficit uni. Hee prayes dayly for more inclosures, and knowes no reason in his Religion, why wee should call our fore-fathers dayes, The time of ignorance, but onely because they sold Wheat for twelve-pence a Bushell. He wishes that Danske were at the Molocos; and had rather be certaine of some Forraine invasion, then of the setting up 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 serve his Houshold: and winnowes his Corne in the night, lest, as the chaffe throwne upon the water shew’d plentie in ågypt; so his (carryed by the winde) should proclayme his abundance. No painting pleases him so well, as Pharaohs dreame of the seaven leane Kine, that ate up the fat ones.: that he has in his Parlour, which hee will describe to you like a motion, & his comment ends with a smothered prayer for the like scarcity. He cannot away with Tobacco; for he is perswaded (and not much amisse) that tis a sparer of Bread-corne; which hee could find in his heart to transport without Licence: but waighing the penalty, hee growes mealy-mouth’d, and dares not. Sweete smelles hee cannot abide; wishes that the pure ayre were generally corrupted: nay, that the Spring had lost her fragrancy for ever, or we our superfluous sense of Smelling (as he tearmes it) that his corne might not be found musty. The Poore hee accounts the Justices intelligencers, and cannot abide them: he complaynes of our negligence of discovering new parts of the World, only to rid them from our Clymate. His Sonne, by a certain kinde of instinct, he bindes Prentise to a Taylor, who all the terme of his Indenture hath a deare yeere in’s belly, and ravins bread extreamely: when hee comes to be a Free-man (if it be a dearth) hee marries him to a Bakers Daughter.
A Divellish Usurer
Is sowed as Cummin or Hemp-seede, with curses; and he thinks he trhives the better. He is better read in the Penall Statutes than the Bible; and his evil Angel perswades him, he shall sooner be saved by them. He can be no mans friend; for all men he hath most interst in, he undo’s: and a double dealer he is certainely; for by his good will hee ever takes the forfaite. He puts his money to the unnaturall Act of generation; and his Scrivener is the supervisor Bawd to’t. Good Deedes he loves none, but Seal’d and Delivered; nor doth he wish any thing to thrive in the Countrey, but Bee-hives; for they make him waxe rich. He hates all but Law-Latine; yet thinks hee might be drawne to love a Scholler, could he reduce the yeere to a shorter compasse, that his use-mony might come in the faster. He seemes to be the Son of Jaylor; for all his estate is most heavie and cruell bonds. He doth not give, but sell daies of Payment; and those at the rate of a mans undoing. He doth onely feare, the Day of Judgement should fall sooner then the payment of some great summe of mony due to him. He remooves his lodging when a Subsidy comes; and if hee be found out, and pay it, he grumbles Treason; but ’tis in such a deformed silence, as Witches rayse their Spirits in. Gravitie he pretends in all things, but in his private Whore; for he will not in a hundreth pound take one light sixpence: and it seemes hee was at Tilbury Campe; for you must not tell him of a Spaniard. Hee is a man of no conscience; for (like the Jakesfarmer that swound with going into Bucklersbury) he falles into a cold sweat, if he but looke into the Chauncery: thinks in his Religion, we are in the right for every thing, if that were abolish’t. He hids his money, s if he thought to find it againe at last day, and then beginn’s old trade with it. His clothes plead description; and whether they or his body are more rotten, is a question: yet should he live to be hangd in them, this good they would doe him, The very Hangman would pitty his case. The Table he keepes is able to starve twenty tall men; his servants have not their living, but their dying from him; and that’s of Hunger. A spare Dyet hee commends in all men, but himselfe: hee comes to Cathedralls onely for love of the singing Boyes, because they looke hungry. Hee likes our Religion best, because ’tis best cheape; yet would faine allow Purgatory, ‘cause ‘twas of his Trade, and brought in so much money. His heart goes with the same snaphance his purse doeth, ’tis seldom open to any man: friendship he accounts but a word without any signification; nay, hee loves all the world so little, that, and it were possible, hee would make himselfe his owne Executor: for certaine, he is made Administrator to his owne good name, while he is in perfect memory, for that dyes long afore him; but hee is so farre from being at the charge of a Funerall for it, that hee lets it stinke above ground. In conclusion, for Neighbour-hood, you were better dwell by a contentious Lawyer. And for his death, ’tis either Surfet, the Pox, or Despaire; for seldome such as he dye of Gods making, as honest men should doe.
A Water-man
Is one that hath learn’t to speake well of himselfe: for alwaies hee names himselfe The first man. If hee had betane himselfe to some richer Trade, hee could not have chos’d but done well: for in this (though it gbe a meane one) he is still plying it, and putting himselfe forward. He is evermore telling strange newes; most commonly lyes. If he be a Sculler, aske him if he be maried, hee’l equivocate and sweare hee’s a single man. Little trust is to be given to him, for he thinks that day he does best when he fetches most men over. His daily labour teaches him the Art of dissembling; for like a fellow that rides to the Pillory, hee goes not the way he lookes. He keepes such a bauling at Westminster, that if the Lawyers were not acquainted with it, an order would bee tane with him. When he is upon the water, he is Fare-company: when he comes ashore, he mutinies; and contrarie to all other trades, is most surly to Gentlemen, when they tender payment. The Play-houses only keepe him sober; and as it doth many other Gallants, make 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 River; nor any thing, but a great Frost, can teach him any good manners.
A Reverend Judge
Is one that desires to have his greatnesse onely measured by his goodnesse. His care is to appeare such to the people, as he would have them be; and to bee himselfe such as he appeares: for vertue cannot seem one thing, and be another. He knowes that the hill of greatenesse yeelds a most delightfull prospect, but withall that it is most subject to lightning, and thunder: and that the people, as in ancient Tragedies, sit and censure the actions of those are in authority. He squares his owne therefore, that they may farre be above their pittie. He wishes fewer Lawes, so they were better observ’d: for those are Mulctuary, he understands their institution not to bee like briers or springes, to catch every thing they lay hold of; but like Sea-markes (on our dangerous Goodwin) to avoid the shipwrack of ignorant passengers. He hates ot wrong any man; neither hope, nor depaire of preferment can draw him to such an exigent: he thinks himself then most honourably seated, when he gives mercy the upper hand. Hee rathe rstrives to purchase good name, than land; and of all rich stuffes forbidden by the Statute, loaths to have his Followers weare their cloathes cut out of bribes and extortions. If his Prince call him to higher place, there he delivers his mind plainely, and freely; knowing for truth, there is no place wherein dissembling ought to have lesse credit, then in a Princes Councel. Thus honour keepes peace with him to the grave, and doth not (as with many) there forsake him, and goe backe with the Heralds: but fairely sits ore him, and broods out his memory many right excellent Common-wealths-men.
A vertuous Widdow
Is the Palme-tree, that thrives not after the supplanting of her husband. For her Childrens sake she first marries, for she married that she might have children, and for their sakes she marries no more. She is like the purest gold, only imploid for Princes meddals, she never receives but one mans impression; the large jointure moves her not, titles of honor cannot sway her. To change her name were, shee thinkes, to commit a sin should make her asham’d of her husbands Calling: shee thinks shee hath traveld all the world in one man; the rest of her time therefore shee directs to heaven. Her maine superstition is, shee thinkes her husbands ghost would walke should shee not performe his Will: shee would doe it, were there no Prerogative Court. Shee gives much to pious uses, without any hope to merit by them: and as one Diamond fashions another; so is shee wrought into workes of Charity, with the dust or ashes of her husband. Shee lives to see her selfe full of time: being so necessary for earth, God calles her not to heaven, till she bee very aged: and even then, though her naturall strength faile her, shee stands like an ancient Piramid; which the lesse it growes to mans eye, the nearer it reaches to heaven: this latter Chastity of Hers, is more grave and reverend, then that ere shee was married; for in it is neither hope, nor longing, nor feare, nor jealousie. Shee ought to bee a mirrour for our yongest Dames, to dresse themselves by, when shee is fullest of wrinkles. No calamity can now come neere her, for in suffering the losse of her husband, shee accounts all the rest trifles: she hath laid his dead body in the worthyest monument that can be: Shee hath buried it in her owne heart. To conclude, shee is a Relique, that without any superstition in the world, though she will not be kist, yet may be reverenc’t.
An ordinarie Widdow
Is like the Heralds Hearse-cloath; shee serves to many funerals, with a very little altering the colour. The end of her husband beginnes in teares; and the end of her teares beginnes in a husband. Shee uses to Cunning women to know how many husbands shee shall have, and never marries without the consent of sixe midwives. Her chiefest pride is in the multitude of her Suitors; and by them shee gaines: for one serves to drawe on another, and with one at last shee shootes out another, as Boies do Pellets in Elderne Gunnes. Shee commends to them a single life, as Horse-coursers doe their Jades, to put them away. Her fancy is to one of the biggest of the Guard, but Knighthood maker her draw in a weaker Bow. Her servants, or kinesfolke, are the Trumpeters that summon any to this combat: by them shee gaines much credit, but loseth it againe in the old Proverb: Fama est mendax. If shee live to be thrise married, shee seldome failes to cozen her second Husbands Creditors. A Churchman shee dare not venture upon; for shee hath heard Widowes complaine of dilapidations: nor a Soldier, though he have Candle-rents in the Citie, for his estate may be subject to fire: very seldome a Lawyer, without hee shew his exceeding great practise, and can make her case the better: but a Knight with the old Rent may doe much, for a great comming in is all in all with a Widow: ever provided, that most part of her Plate and Jewels, (before the wedding) lye concealde with her Scrivener. Thus like a too ripe Apple, she falles of her selfe: but hee that hath her, is Lord but of a filthy purchase, for the title is crackt. Lastly, while shee is a Widow, observe ever, shee is no Morning woman: the evening a good fire and Sacke may make her listen to Husband: and if ever shee bee made sure, tis upon a full stomacke to bedward.
A Quacksalver
Is a Mountebanke of a larger bill then a Taylor; if he can but come by names enow of Diseases, to stuffe it with, tis all the skill hee studies for. Hee tooke his first beign from a Cunning woman, & stole of this blacke Art from her, while he made her Seacoale fires. All the diseases ever sinne brought upon man, doth he pretend to bee Curer of; when the truth is, his maine cunning, is Corne-cutting. A great plague makes him: what with railing against such, as leave their cures for feare of infection, and in friendly breaking Cakebread with the Fish-wives at Funerals, he utters a most abominable deale of musty Carduus-water, and the Conduits cry out, All the learned doctors may cast their Caps at him. He parts stakes with some Apothecary in the Suburbes, at whose house hee lies: and though he be never so familiar with his wife; the Apothecary dare not (for the richest Horne in’s shoppe) displease him. All the Mid-wives in the Towne are his intelligencers; but nurses and yong Merchants Wives (that would faine conceive with childe) these are his Idolators. Hee is more unjust Bone-setter, then a Dice-maker; hath put out more eyes then the smal Pox; made more deafe then the Cataracts of Nilus; lames more then the Gout; shrunke more sinewes, then one that makes Bowstrings; and kild more idly, then Tobacco. A Magistrate that had any way so noble a spirit, as but to love a good horse wel, would not suffer him to be a Farrier. His discourse is vomit; and his ignorance, the strongest purgation in the world: to one that would speedily be cured, he hath more delaies, and doubles, then a Hare, or a Law-suit: hee seekes to set us at variance with nature, and rather then wee shall want diseases hee’le beget them. His especiall practise (as I said afore) is upon women; labors to make their mindes sicke, ere their bodies feele it, and then there’s worke for the Dog-leach. He pretends the cure of mad-men; and sure he gets most by them, for no man in his perfect wit would meddle with him. Lastly, he is such a Juggler with Urinals, so dangerously unskillfull, that if ever the Citie will have recourse to him for diseases that neede purgation, let them imploy him in scouring Moore-ditch.
A Canting Rogue
Tis not unlikely but hee was begot by some intelligencer under a hedge; for his minde is wholly given to travell. Hee is not troubled with making of jointures: he can divorce himself without the fee of a Proctor, nor feares he the cruelty of overseers of his Will. He leaves 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, Welch from the Cornish: but Canting is generall, nor ever could be altered by Conquest of the Saxon, Dane, or Norman Hee will not beg out of his limit though hee starve; nor breake his oath if he sweare by his Salomon, though you hang him: and he paies his custome as truly to his graund Rogue, as tribute is paid to the great Turke. The March sun breeds agues in others, but he adores it like the Indians; for then begins his progresse after a hard winter. Ostlers cannot indure him, for he is of the infantry, and serves best on foot. Hee offends not the Statute against the excesse of apparell, for hee will goe naked, and counts it a voluntary penance. Forty of them lie in a Barne together, yet are never sued upon the statute of Inmates. If hee were learned no man could make a better description of England; for he hath traveld it over and over. Lastly, he bragges, that his great houses are repair’d to his hands, when Churches go to ruine: and those are prisons.
A French Cooke
Hee learnt his trade in a Towne of Garison neere famish’t, where hee practised to make a little goe farre; some derive it from more antiquity, & say Adam (when he pickt sallets) 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 companion. Ever since the warres in Naples, hee hath so minc’t the ancient and bountifull allowance, as if his nation should keepe a perpetuall diet. The Servingmen call him the last relique of Popery, that makes men fast against their Conscience. He can be truely said to bee no mans fellow but his Masters: for the rest of his servants are starved by him. He is the prime cause why noblemen build their Houses so Great, for the smalnesse of the Kitchin, makes the house bigger: and the Lord calles him his Alchymist that can extract gold out of hearbs, rootes, musheromes or any thing: that which he dresses wee may rather call a drinking, than a meale: yet is he so full of variety, that he bragges, and truely, that hee gives you but a taste of what hee can doe: he dare not for his life come among the Butchers; for sure they would quarter and bake him after the English fashion; hee’s such an enemy to Beefe and Mutton. To conclude, he were onely fit to make a funerall feast, where men should eate their victuals in mourning.
A Sexton
Is an ill-willer to human nature. Of all Proverbs, he cannot endure to heare that which saies, We ought ot live by the quick, not by the dead. Hee could willingly all his life-time bee confindes to the Churchyeard; at least within five foote on’t: for at every Church-stile, commonly there’s an Ale-house; where let him be found never so idlepated, hee is still a grave drunkard. He breakes his fast hartiliest while he is making a grave, and saies the opening of the ground makes him hungry. Though one would take him to be alsoven, yet hee loves cleane linnen extreamly, and for that reason takes an order that fine holland sheets be not made wormes meate. Like a nation cald the Cusani, hee weepes when any are borne, and laughes when they die: the reason; hee gets by Burials not Christnings: he will holde argument in a Taverne over Sacke, till the Diall and himselfe be both at a stand: hee never observes any time but Sermon time, and there hee sleepes by the houre-glasse. The rope-maker paies him a pension, and hee paies tribute to the Physition; for the Physition makes worke for the Sexton; as the Rope-maker for the Hang-man. Lastly, hee wishes the Dogge-daies would last all yeare long: and a great plague is his yeere of Jubile.
A Jesuite
Is a larger Spoone for a Traytor to feede with the Divell, then any other Order: unclaspe him, and hee’s a gray Woolfe, with a golden Starre in his fore-head: so superstitiously hee followes the Pope, that he forsakes Christ, in not giving Caesar his due. His vowes seeme heavenly; but in medling with State-businesse, hse seemes to mixe heaven and earth together. His best Elements, are Confession and Penance: by the first, hee findes out mens inclinations; and by the latter, heaps wealth to his Seminarie. Hee sprang from Ignatius Loyola, a Spanish Souldier; and though he were found out long since the invention of the Canon, ’tis thought hee hath done not lesse mischiefe. Hee is a false Key to open Princes Cabinets, and pry into their Counsels; and where the Popes excommunication thunders, hee holds no more sinne the decrowning of Kings, then our Puritanes does the suppression of Bishops. His order is full or irregularitie and disobedience; ambitious above all measure; for of late daies, in Portugall & the Indyes, he rejected the name of Jesuite, and would bee called Disciple. In Rome, and other Countries that give him freedome, he weares a Maske upon his heart; in England he shifts it, and puts it upon his face. No place in our Climate hides him so securely as a Ladyes Chamber; the modest of the Pursevant hath only forborne the bed, & so mist him. There is no Disease in Christendome, that may so properly be call’d The Kings Evill. To conclude, would you know him beyond the Sea? In his Seminary, hee’s a Foxe; but in the Inquisition, a Lyon Rampant.
An excellent Actor
Whatsoever is commendable in the grave Orator, is most exquisitely perfect in him; for by a full and significant action of body, he charmes out attention: sit in a full Theater, and you will thinke you see so many lines drawne form the circumference of so many eares, whiles the Actor is the Center. He doth not strive to make nature monstrous, she is often seen in the same Scæne with him, but neither on Stilts, nor Crutches; and for his voice, tis not lower then the prompter, nor lowder then the Foile and Target. By his action he fortifies morall precepts with examples; for what we see him personate, we thinke truely done before us: a man of deepe thought might apprehend the Ghosts of our ancient Heroes walk’t againe, and take him (at severall times) for many of them. Hee is much affected to painting, and tis a question whether that make him an excellent Plaier, or his playing an exquisite painter. Hee addes grace to the Poetslabours: for what in the Poet is but ditty, in him is both ditty and musicke. He entertaines us in the best leasure of our life, that is betweene meales, the most unfit time, either for study or bodily exercise: the flight of Hawkes, and chase of wilde beastes, either of them are delights noble: but some think this sport of men worthier, despite all calumny. All men have beene of his occupation: and indeed, what hee doth fainedly that doe others essentially: this day one plaies a Monarch, the next a private person. Heere one Acts a Tyrant, on the morrow an Exile: A Parasite this man to-night, to-morow a Precisian, and so of divers others. I observe of all men living, a worthy Actor in one kind is the strongest motive of affection that can be: for when he dies, we cannot be perswaded any man can doe his parts like him. Therefore the imitating Characterist was extream idle in calling them Rogues. His Muse it seemes, with all his loud invocation, could not be wak’t to light him a snuffe to read the Statute: for I would let his malicious ignorance understand, that Rogues are not to be imploide as maine ornaments to his Majesties Revels; but the itch of bestriding the Presse, or getting up on this wodden Pacolet, hath defil’d more innocent paper, then ever did Laxative Physicke: yet is their invention such tyred stuffe, that like Kentish Post-horse they cannot go beyond their ordinary stage, should you flea them. But to conclude, I valew a worthy Actor by the corruption of some few of the quality, as I would doe gold in the oare; I should not minde the drosse, but the purity of the metall.
A Franklin
His outside is an ancient Yeoman of England, though his inside may give armes (with the best Gentleman) and ne’re fee the Herald. There is no truer servant in the house then himselfe. Though he be master he saies not to his servants goe to field, but let us goe: and with his owne eye, doth both fatten his flocke, and set forward all manner of husbandry. He is taught by nature to be contented with a little; his own fold yeelds him both food and raiment: he is pleasd with any nourishment God sends, whilest curious gluttony ransackes, as it were, Noahs Arke for food, onely to feed the riot of one meale. He is nere known to goe to Law; understanding to bee Law-bound among men, is like to bee hide-bound among his beasts: they thrive not under it; and that such men sleepe as unquietly, as if their pillowes were stuft with Lawyers pen-knifes. When hee buildes, no poore tenants cottage hinders his prospect, they are indeed his Alme-houses, though there bee painted on them no such superscription. He never sits up late, but when he hunts the Badger, the vowed foe of his Lambes: nor uses hee any cruelty, but when hee hunts the Hare, nor subtilty but when hee setteth snares for the Snite, or pittefalles for the Blackbirde; nor oppression, but when in the month of July, he goes to the next river, and sheares his sheep. He allows of honest pastime, and thinkes not the bones of the dead anything brused, or the worse for it, though the Countrey Lasses daunce in the Churchyard after Evensong. Rocke Monday, and the Wake in Summer, shrovings, the wakefull ketches on Christmas Eve, the Hoky, or seed Cake, these he yearely keepes: yet holdes them no reliques of Popery. Hee is not so inquisitive after newes derived from the privie closet, when the finding an eiery of Hawkes in his owne ground, or the foaling of a Colt come of a good straine, are tydings more pleasant, more profitable. Hee is Lord paramount within himselfe, though he hold by never so meane a Tenure, and dies the more contendedly (though hee leave his heire young) in regard hee leaves him not liable to a covetous Guardian. Lastly, to end him, hee cares not when his end comes; he needes not feare his audit, for his Quietus is in heaven.
A Purveiour of Tobacco
Call him a Broker of Tobacco, he scornes the title, hee had rather be tearmed a cogging Merchant. Sir John Falstaffe robb’d with a bottle of sacke; so doth hee take mens purses, with a wicked roule of Tobacco at his girdle. Hee takes no long time to undoe any man hee hath to do with, he doth it in halfe a yeare, as well as twenty; sand then brags he has nipt them by the members. Hee causes his wife to sit in his Ware-house, to no other purpose, then (as Country Poticary hangs up in Aligarta in his shop) that while his Customers are gaping at her, hee may cosen them of their waight. Hee does not love God, because God loves plaine dealing; and tis a question, whether he loves the King, because the King loves no Tobacco. Many trades hath he filcht through; but this making of Fire-workes brings most commodity: For hee sels his Tobacco with this condition, that they that buy it, shall bee undone by it. Such fellowes that have tane so many by the nose, should hang up their signe Dives smoking in hell, and the word under it: Every man for himselfe, and the Divell for them all.
A Rimer
Is a fellow whose face is hatcht all over with impudence, and should he be hanged or pilloried, its armed fo rit. He is a Juggler with words, yet practises the Art of most uncleanly conveiance. Hee doth boggle very often; and because himselfe winkes at it, thinkes tis not perceived: the maine thing that ever hee did, was the tune hee sang to. There is no thing in the earth so pittifull, no not an Ape-carrier, he is not worth thinking of, and therefore I must leave him as nature left him; a Dung-hill not well laide together.