Characters of Virtues
and
Vices (1608)
Joseph Hall, Bishop of
Exeter
Note on the e-text: this Renascence
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Appleton, Wisconsin. The text is based on Hall's Works, ed.
Philip
Wynter, Vol. VI. (AMS Press, 1969. 89-125. Reprint of Oxford 1863
edn.),
is in the public domain. 19th century updating of spelling and
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CHARACTERS
OF
VERTVES
AND
VICES:
In two Bookes:
By
IOS. HALL.
LONDON,
Printed by Melch. Bradwood
for
Eleazar Edgar and Samuel
Marham,
and are to be sold at the sign
of the Bul-head in Pauls
Church-yard.
ANNO
1608.
TO THE
RIGHT HONO-
RABLE MY
SINGVLAR
GOOD LORDS,
EDWARD LORD
DENNY,
BARON OF
WALTHAM,
AND,
IAMES LORD
HAIE,
HIS RIGHT
NOBLE AND
WORTHY SONNE
IN LAVV,
I. H.
HUMBLY
DEDICATES
HIS LABOR,
DEVOTETH HIM-
SELFE,
WISHETH ALL
HAP-
PINESSE.
A
PREMONITION OF THE TITLE
AND USE OF CHARACTERS.
R e a d e
r, -
He
divines of the old heathens were their moral philosophers: These
received
the acts of an inbred law in the Sinai of nature; and delivered them,
with
many expositions, to the multitude. These were the overseers of
manners,
correctors of vices, directors of lives, doctors of virtue, which yet
taught
their people the body of their natural divinity not after one manner:
while
some spent themselves in deep discourses of human felicity, and the way
to it in common; others thought best to apply the general precepts of
goodness
or decency to particular conditions and persons: a third sort, in a
mean
course betwixt the two other, and compounded of them both, bestowed
their
time in drawing out the true lineaments of every virtue and vice, so
lively,
that who saw the medals might know the face: which art they
significantly
termed charactery. Their papers were so many tables, their writings so
many speaking pictures, or living images; whereby the ruder multitude
might,
even by their sense, learn to know virtue, and discern what to detest.
I am deceived, if any course could be more likely to prevail: for
herein
the gross conceit is led on with pleasure; and informed, while it feels
nothing but delight. And if pictures have been accounted the books of
idiots,
behold here the benefit of an image without the offence. It is no shame
for us to learn wit of heathens; neither is it material in whose school
we take out a good lesson: yea, it is more shame not to follow their
good
than not to lead them better. As one therefore, that, in worthy
examples,
holds imitation better than invention, I have trod in their paths, but
with an higher and wider step; and out of their tablets have drawn
these
larger portraitures of both sorts. More might be said, I deny not, of
every
virtue, of every vice: I desired not to say all, but enough. If thou do
but read or like these, I have spent good hours ill; but, if thou shalt
hence abjure those vices which before thou thoughtest not ill-favoured,
or fall in love with any of these goodly faces of virtue; or shalt
hence
find, where thou hast any little touch of these evils, to clear
thyself,
or where any defect in these graces to supply it; neither of us shall
need
to repent of our labour.
___________________
BOOK 1.
The
Proem.
Virtue is not loved
enough, because
she is not seen; and vice loseth much detestation, because her ugliness
is secret. Certainly, my lords, there are so many beauties and so many
graces in the face of goodness, that no eye can possibly see it without
affection, without ravishment: and the visage of evil is so monstrous
through
loathsome deformities, that if her lovers were not ignorant they would
be mad with disdain and astonishment. What need we more than to
discover
these two to the world? This work shall save the labour of exhorting
and
dissuasion. I have here done it as I could; following that ancient
master
of morality who thought this the fittest task for the ninety and ninth
year of his age, and the profitablest monument that he could leave for
a fare well to his Grecians. Lo here, then, virtue and vice stript
naked
to the open view, and despoiled, one of her rags, the other of her
ornaments;
and nothing left them but bare presence to plead for affection: see now
whether shall find more suitors. And if still the vain minds of lewd
men
shall dote upon their old mistress, it will appear to be, not because
she
is not foul, but for that they are blind and bewitched. And first,
behold
the goodly features of wisdom, an amiable virtue, and worthy to lead
this
stage; which, as she extends herself to all the following graces, so,
amongst
the rest, is for her largeness most conspicuous.
The
character of the wise
man.
THERE is nothing that he
desires not
to know; but most and first, himself: and not so much his own strength
as his weaknesses. Neither is his knowledge reduced to discourse, but
practice.
He is a skilful logician, not by nature so much as use; his working
mind
doth nothing all his time but make syllogisms and draw out conclusions;
everything that he sees and hears serves for one of the premises; with
these he cares, first, to inform himself, then to direct others. Both
his
eyes are never at once from home, but one keeps house while the other
roves
abroad for intelligence. In material and weighty points, he abides not
his mind suspended in uncertainties, but hates doubting where he may,
where
he should be resolute. And first, he makes sure work for his soul;
accounting
it no safety to be unsettled in the foreknowledge of his final estate:
the best is first regarded; and vain is that regard which endeth not in
security. Every care hath his just order; neither is there any one
either
neglected or misplaced. He is seldom overseen with credulity: for,
knowing
the falseness of the world, he hath learned to trust himself always;
others,
so far as he may not be damaged by their disappointment. He seeks his
quietness
in secrecy; and is wont, both to hide himself in retiredness, and his
tongue
in himself. He loves to be guessed at, not known; and to see the world,
unseen; and when he is forced into the light, shows, by his actions,
that
his obscurity was neither from affectation nor weakness. His purposes
are
neither so variable as may argue inconstancy, nor obstinately
unchangeable,
but framed according to his afterwits, or the strength of new
occasions.
He is both an apt scholar and an excellent master; for both every thing
he sees informs him, and his mind, enriched with plentiful observation,
can give the best precepts. His free discourse runs back to the ages
past,
and recovers events out of memory; and then preventeth time in flying
forward
to future things; and, comparing one with the other, can give a verdict
well near prophetical, wherein his conjectures are better than
another's
judgments. His passions are so many good servants, which stand in a
diligent
attendance, ready to be commanded by reason, by religion; and if at any
time, forgetting their duty, they be miscarried to rebel, he can first
conceal their mutiny, tben suppress it. In all his just and worthy
designs
he is never at a loss, but hath so projected all his courses that a
second
begins where the first failed, and fetcheth strength from that which
succeeded
not. There be wrongs which he will not see; neither doth he always look
that way which he meaneth, nor take notice of his secret smarts when
they
come from great ones. In good turns he loves not to owe more than he
must;
in evil, to owe and not pay. Just censures he deserves not, for he
lives
without the compass of an adversary; unjust he contemneth, and had
rather
suffer false infamy to die alone, than lay hands upon it in an open
violence.
He confineth himself in the circle of his own affairs, and lists not to
thrust his finger into a needless fire. He stands like a centre,
unmoved,
while the circumference of his estate is drawn above, beneath, about
him.
Finally, his wit hath cost him much, and he can both keep and value and
employ it. He is his own lawyer, the treasury of knowledge, the oracle
of counsel; blind in no man's cause, best sighted in his own.
Of the
honest man.
HE looks not to what he
might do, but
what he should. Justice is his first guide: the second law of his
actions
is expedience. He had rather complain than offend: and hates sin more
for
the indignity of it than the danger. His simple uprightness works in
him
that confidence which ofttimes wrongs him, and gives advantage to the
subtle,
when he rather pities their faithlessness than repents of his
credulity.
He hath but one heart, and that lies open to sight; and, were it not
for
discretion, he never thinks aught whereof he would avoid a witness. His
word is his parchment, and his yea his oath; which he will not violate
for fear or for loss. The mishaps of following events may cause him to
blame his providence, can never cause him to eat his promise: neither
saith
he, 'This I saw not,' but, 'This I said.' When he is made his friend's
executor, he defrays debts, pays legacies; and scorneth to gain by
orphans
or to ransack graves: and therefore will be true to a dead friend,
because
he sees him not. All his dealings are square and above the board: he
bewrays
the fault of what he sells, and restores the overseen gain of a false
reckoning.
He esteems a bribe venomous, though it come gilded over with the colour
of gratuity. His cheeks are never stained with the blushes of
recantation,
neither doth his tongue falter, to make good a lie with the secret
glosses
of double or reserved senses: and when his name is traduced, his
innocency
bears him out with courage: then, lo, he goes on the plain way of
truth,
and will either triumph in his integrity or suffer with it. His
conscience
overrules his providence: so as in all things, good or ill, he respects
the nature of the actions, not the sequel. If he see what he must do,
let
God see what shall follow. He never loadeth himself with burdens above
his strength, beyond his will; and once bound, what he can he will do;
neither doth he will but what he can do. His ear is the sanctuary of
his
absent friend's name, of his present friend's secret: neither of them
can
miscarry in his trust. He remembers the wrongs of his youth, and repays
them with that usury which he himself would not take. He would rather
want
than borrow, and beg than not pay. His fair conditions are without
dissembling:
and he loves actions above words. Finally, he hates falsehood worse
than
death: he is a faithful client of truth; no man's enemy; and it is a
question,
whether more another man's friend or his own. And if there were no
heaven,
yet he would be virtuous.
Of the
faithful man.
His eyes have no other
objects but absent
and invisible; which they see so clearly, as that to them sense is
blind:
that which is present they see not; if I may not rather say, that what
is past or future is present to them. Herein he exceeds all others,
that
to him nothing is impossible, nothing difficult, whether to bear or
undertake.
He walks every day with his Maker; and talks with him familiarly; and
lives
ever in heaven; and sees all earthly things beneath him. When he goes
in
to converse with God, he wears not his own clothes, but takes them
still
out of the rich wardrobe of his Redeemer; and then dare boldly press
in,
and challenge a blessing. The celestial spirits do not scorn his
company,
yea, his service. He deals in these worldly affairs as a stranger, and
hath his heart ever at home. Without a written warrant he dare do
nothing,
and with it any thing. His war is perpetual; without truce, without
intermission:
and his victory certain: he meets with the infernal powers, and
tramples
them under feet: the shield that he ever bears before him can neither
be
missed nor pierced: if his hand be wounded, yet his heart is safe: he
is
often tripped, seldom foiled; and if sometimes foiled, never
vanquished.
He hath white hands and a clean soul, fit to lodge God in, all the
rooms
whereof are set apart for his holiness. Iniquity hath oft called at the
door, and craved entertainment, but with a repulse: or if sin of force
will be his tenant, his lord he cannot. His faults are few, and those
he
hath, God will not see. He is allied so high, that he dare call God
Father;
his Saviour, Brother; heaven, his patrimony: and thinks it no
presumption
to trust to the attendance of angels. His understanding is enlightened
with the beams of divine truth: God hath acquainted him with his will;
and what he knows he dare confess: there is not more love in his heart
than liberty in his tongue. If torments stand betwixt him and Christ,
if
death, he contemns them; and if his own parents lie in his way to God,
his holy carelessness makes them his footsteps.
His experiments
have drawn
forth rules of confidence, which he dares oppose against all the fears
of distrust: wherein he thinks it safe to charge God with what he hath
done, with what he hath promised. Examples are his proofs, and
instances
his demonstrations: what hath God given which he cannot give? what have
others suffered which he may not be enabled to endure? Is he threatened
banishment? there he sees the dear evangelist in Patmos: cutting in
pieces?
he sees Isaiah under the saw: drowning? he sees Jonas diving into the
living
gulf: burning? he sees the three children in the hot walk of the
furnace:
devouring? he sees Daniel in the sealed den, amidst his terrible
companions:
stoning? he sees the first martyr under his heap of many gravestones:
heading?
lo there the Baptist's neck, bleeding, in Herodias' platter: he
emulates
their pain, their strength, their glory. He wearies not himself with
cares;
for he knows he lives not of his own cost, not idly omitting means, but
not using them with diffidence. In the midst of ill rumours and
amazements,
his countenance changeth not; for he knows both whom he hath trusted,
and
whither death can lead him. He is not so sure he shall die, as that he
shall be restored; and outfaceth his death with his resurrection.
Finally,
he is rich in works; busy in obedience; cheerful and unmoved in
expectation;
better with evils; in common opinion, miserable; but in true judgment,
more than a man.
Of the
humble man.
HE is a friendly enemy to
himself: for,
though he be not out of his own favour, no man sets so low a value of
his
worth as himself; not out of ignorance or carelessness, but of a
voluntary
and meek dejectedness. He admires every thing in another, while the
same
or better in himself he thinks not unworthily contemned: his eyes are
full
of his own wants and others' perfections. He loves rather to give than
take honour; not in a fashion of complimental courtesy, but in
simplicity
of his judgment: neither doth he fret at those on whom he forceth
precedency,
as one that hoped their modesty would have refused; but holds his mind
unfeignedly below his place, and is ready to go lower, if need be,
without
discontentment. When he hath but his due, he magnifieth courtesy, and
disclaims
his deserts. He can be more ashamed of honour than grieved with
contempt;
because he thinks that causeless, this deserved. His face, his
carriage,
his habit, savour of lowliness, without affectation, and yet he is much
under that he seemeth. His words are few and soft; never either
peremptory
or censorious; because he thinks both each man more wise, and none more
faulty than himself; and when he approacheth to the throne of God, he
is
so taken up with the divine greatness, that in his own eyes he is
either
vile or nothing. Places of public charge are fain to sue to him, and
hale
him out of his chosen obscurity: which he holds off; not cunningly, to
cause importunity, but sincerely, in the conscience of his defects. He
frequenteth not the stages of common resorts, and then alone thinks
himself
in his natural element when he is shrouded within his own walls. He is
ever jealous over himself, and still suspecteth that which others
applaud.
There is no better object of beneficence: for what he receives he
ascribes
merely to the bounty of the giver, nothing to merit. He emulates no man
in any thing but goodness, and that with more desire than hope to
overtake.
No man is so contented with his little, and so patient under miseries;
because he knows the greatest evils are below his sins, and the least
favours
above his deservings. He walks ever in awe, and dare not but subject
every
word and action to a high and just censure. He is a lowly valley,
sweetly
planted and well watered: the proud man's earth, where he trampleth;
but
secretly full of wealthy mines, more worth than he that walks over
them:
a rich stone, set in lead: and, lastly, a true temple of God, built
with
a low roof.
Of a
valiant man.
He undertakes without
rashness, and
performs without fear. He seeks not for dangers; but when they find
him,
he hears them over with courage, with success. He hath ofttimes looked
death in the face, and passed by it with a smile; and when he sees he
must
yield, doth at once welcome and contemn it. He forecasts the worst of
all
events, and encounters them before they come, in a secret and mental
war:
and if the suddenness of an unexpected evil have surprised his
thoughts,
and infected his cheeks with paleness, he hath no sooner digested it in
his conceit, than he gathers up himself and insults over mischief. He
is
the master of himself, and subdues his passions to reason; and by this
inward victory works his own peace. He is afraid of nothing but the
displeasure
of the Highest, and runs away from nothing but sin. He looks not on his
hands, but his cause; not how strong he is, but how innocent: and where
goodness is his warrant, he may be overmastered, he cannot be foiled.
The
sword is to him the last of all trials, which he draws forth still as
defendant,
not as challenger, with a willing kind of unwillingness; no man can
better
manage it with more safety, with more favour. He had rather have his
blood
seen than his back, and disdains life upon base conditions. No man is
more
mild to a relenting or vanquished adversary, or more hates to set his
foot
on a carcass: he had rather smother an injury than revenge himself of
the
impotent; and I know not whether more detests cowardliness or cruelty.
He talks little, and brags less; and loves rather the silent language
of
the hand; to be seen than heard. He lies ever close within himself,
armed
with wise resolution; and will not be discovered but by death or
danger.
He is neither prodigal of blood, to misspend it idly; nor niggardly, to
grudge it, when either God calls for it, or his country, neither is he
more liberal of his own life than of others'. His power is limited by
his
will, and he holds it the noblest revenge, that he might hurt and doth
not. He commands, without tyranny and imperiousness; obeys, without
servility:
and changes not his mind with his estate. The height of his spirits
overlooks
all casualties, and his boldness proceeds neither from ignorance nor
senselessness;
but first he values evils, and then despises them. He is so ballaced
with
wisdom, that he floats steadily in the midst of all tempests.
Deliberate
in his purposes; firm in resolution; bold in enterprising; unwearied in
achieving; and, howsoever, happy in success: and if ever he be
overcome,
his heart yields last.
The
patient man.
THE patient man is made of
metal not
so hard as flexible. His shoulders are large, fit for a load of
injuries;
which he bears, not out of baseness and cowardliness, because he dare
not
revenge, but out of Christian fortitude, because he may not: he hath so
conquered himself, that wrongs cannot conquer him and herein alone
finds
that victory consists in yielding. He is above nature, while he seems
below
himself. The vilest creature knows how to turn again, but to command
himself
not to resist, being urged, is more than heroical. His constructions
are
ever full of charity and favour; either this wrong was not done, or not
with intent of wrong, or if that, upon misinformation, or if none of
these,
rashness, though a fault, shall serve for an excuse. Himself craves the
offender's pardon before his confession, and a slight answer contents
where
the offended desires to forgive. He is God's best witness; and when he
stands before the bar for truth, his tongue is calmly free, his
forehead
firm, and he, with erect and settled countenance, hears his unjust
sentence,
and rejoices in it. The gaolers that attend him are to him his pages of
honour; his dungeon, the lower part of the vault of heaven; his rack or
wheel, the stairs of his ascent to glory: he challengeth his
executioners,
and encounters the fiercest pains with strength of resolution; and,
while
he suffers, the beholders pity him, the tormentors complain of
weariness,
and both of them wonder. No anguish can master him, whether by violence
or by lingering. He accounts expectation no punishment, and can abide
to
have his hopes adjourned till a new day. Good laws serve for his
protection,
not for his revenge; and his own power, to avoid indignities not to
return
them. His hopes, are so strong, that they can insult over the greatest
discouragements, and his apprehensions so deep, that when he hath once
fastened, he sooner leaveth his life than his hold. Neither time nor
perverseness
can make him cast off his charitable endeavours, and despair of
prevailing;
but, in spite of all crosses and all denials, he redoubleth his
beneficial
offers of love. He trieth the sea after many shipwrecks, and beats
still
at that door which he never saw opened. Contrariety of events doth but
exercise, not dismay him; and when crosses afflict him, he sees a
divine
band invisibly striking with these sensible scourges, against which he
dares not rebel or murmur. Hence all things befall him alike, and he
goes
with the same mind to the shambles and to the fold. His recreations are
calm and gentle, and not more full of relaxation than void of fury.
This
man only can turn necessity into virtue, and put evil to good use. He
is
the surest friend, the latest and easiest enemy, the greatest
conqueror;
and so much more happy than others, by how much he could abide to be
more
miserable.
Of the
true friend.
His affections are both
united and divided;
united, to him he loveth; divided, betwixt another and himself: and his
own heart is so parted, that while he hath some, his friend hath all.
His
choice is led by virtue, or by the best of virtues, religion; not by
gain,
not by pleasure; yet not without respect of equal condition, of
disposition
not unlike; which, once made, admits of no change; except he whom he
loveth,
be changed quite from himself; nor that suddenly, but after long
expectation.
Extremity doth but fasten him, while he, like a well wrought vault,
lies
the stronger by how much more weight he bears. When necessity calls him
to it, he can be a servant to his equal, with the same will wherewith
he
can command his inferior; and though he rise to honour, forgets not his
familiarity, nor suffers inequality of estate to work strangeness of
countenance:
on the other side, he lifts up his friend to advancement with a willing
hand, without envy, without dissimulation. When his mate is dead, he
accounts
himself but half alive; then his love, not dissolved by death, derives
itself to those orphans which never knew the price of their father;
they
become the heirs of his affection and the burden of his cares. He
embraces
a free community of all things, save those which either honesty
reserves
proper, or nature; and hates to enjoy that which would do his friend
more
good. His charity serves to cloak noted infirmities, not by untruth,
not
by flattery, but by discreet secrecy, neither is he more favourable in
concealment than round in his private reprehensions; and when another's
simple fidelity shows itself in his reproof, he loves his monitor so
much
the more by how much more he smarteth. His bosom is his friend's
closet,
where he may safely lay up his complaints, his doubts, his cares; and
look,
how he leaves so he finds them, save for some addition of seasonable
counsel
for redress. If some unhappy suggestion shall either disjoint his
affection
or break it, it soon knits again, and grows the stronger by that
stress.
He is so sensible of another's injuries, that when his friend is
stricken
he cries out, and equally smarteth untouched, as one affected, not with
sympathy, but with a real feeling of pain; and in what mischief may be
prevented he interposeth his aid, and offers to redeem his friend with
himself; no hour can be unseasonable, no business difficult, nor pain
grievous,
in condition of his ease; and what either he doth or suffereth, he
neither
cares nor desires to have known, lest he should seem to look for
thanks.
If he can therefore steal the performance of a good office unseen, the
conscience of his faithfulness herein is so much sweeter as it is more
secret. In favours done, his memory is frail; in benefits received,
eternal:
he scorneth either to regard recompense, or not to offer it. He is the
comfort of miseries, the guide of difficulties, the joy of life, the
treasure
of earth, and no other than a good angel clothed in flesh.
Of the
truly Noble.
HE stands not upon what he
borrowed
of ancestors, but thinks he must work out his own honour; and if he
cannot
reach the virtue of them that gave them outward glory by inheritance,
he
is more abashed of his impotency than transported with a great name.
Greatness
doth not make him scornful and imperious, but rather like the fixed
stars;
the higher he is, the less he desires to seem; neither cares he so much
for pomp and frothy ostentation as for the solid truth of nobleness.
Courtesy
and sweet affability can be no more severed from him than life from his
soul; not out of a base and servile popularity, and desire of ambitious
insinuation; but of a native gentleness of disposition, and true value
of himself. His hand is open and bounteous, yet not so as that he
should
rather respect his glory than his estate; wherein his wisdom can
distinguish
betwixt parasites and friends, betwixt changing of favours and
expending
them. He scorneth to make his height a privilege of looseness; but
accounts
his titles vain, if he be inferior to others in goodness; and thinks he
should be more strict the more eminent he is, because he is more
observed,
and now his offences are become exemplar. There is no virtue that he
holds
unfit for ornament, for use; nor any vice which he condemns not as
sordid,
and a fit companion of baseness, and whereof he doth not more hate the
blemish than affect the pleasure. He so studies, as one that knows
ignorance
can neither purchase honour nor wield it; and that knowledge must both
guide and grace him. His exercises are from his childhood ingenuous,
manly,
decent; and such as tend still to wit, valour, activity; and if, as
seldom,
he descend to disports of chance, his games shall never make him either
pale with fear or hot with desire of gain. He doth not so use his
followers,
as if he thought they were made for nothing but his servitude; whose
felicity
were only to be commanded and please; wearing them to the back, and
then
either finding or framing excuses to discard them empty; but upon all
opportunities
lets them feel the sweetness of their own serviceableness and his
bounty.
Silence, in officious service, is the best oratory to plead for his
respect;
all diligence is but lent to him, none lost. His wealth stands in
receiving,
his honour in giving; he cares not either how many hold of his
goodness,
or to how few is beholden; and if he have cast away favours, he hates
either
to upbraid them to his enemy or to challenge restitution. None can be
more
pitiful to the distressed or more prone to succour, and then most,
where
is least means to solicit, least possibility of requital. He is equally
addressed to war and peace; and knows not more how to command others,
than
how to be his country's servant in both. He is more careful to give
true
honour to his Maker, than to receive civil honour from men. He knows
that
this service, free and noble, and ever loaded with sincere glory; and
how
vain it is to hunt after applause from the world, till he be sure of
him
that mouldeth all hearts, and poureth contempt on princes; and,
shortly,
so demeans himself, as one that accounts the body of nobility to
consist
in blood, the soul, in the eminence of virtue.
Of the
good magistrate.
HE is the faithful deputy
of his Maker,
whose obedience is the rule whereby he ruleth. His breast is the ocean
whereinto all the cares of private men empty themselves; which as he
receives
without complaint and overflowing, so he sends them forth again by a
wise
conveyance in the streams of justice. His doors, his ears are ever open
to suitors; and not who comes first speeds well, but whose cause is
best.
His nights, his meals are short and interrupted; all which he bears
well,
because be knows himself made for a public servant of peace and
justice.
He sits quietly at the stern, and commands one to the topsail, another
to the main, a third to the plummet, a fourth to the anchor, as he sees
the need of their course and weather requires; and doth no less by his
tongue than all the mariners with their hands. On the bench, he is
another
from himself at home; now all private respects, of blood, alliance,
amity,
are forgotten; and if his own son come under trial, he knows him not.
Pity,
which in all others is wont to be the best praise of humanity and the
fruit
of Christian love, is by him thrown over the bar for corruption. As for
Favour, the false advocate of the gracious, he allows him neot to
appear
in the court; there only causes are heard speak, not persons. Eloquence
is then only not discouraged when she serves for a client of truth;
mere
narrations are allowed in this oratory, not proems, not excursions, not
glosses; truth must strip herself, and come in naked to his bar,
without
false bodies or colours, without disguises. A bribe in his closet, or a
letter on the bench, or the whispering and winks of a great neighbour,
are answered with an angry and courageous repulse. Displeasure,
revenge,
recompense, stand on both sides the bench, but he scorns to turn his
eye
towards them, looking only right forward at equity, which stands full
before
him.
His sentence is ever
deliberate,
and guided with ripe wisdom; yet his hand is slower than his tongue;
but
when he is urged by occasion either to doom or execution, he shows how
much he hateth merciful injustice; neither can his resolution or act be
reversed with partial importunity. His forehead is rugged and severe,
able
to discountenance villany; yet his words are more awful than his brow,
and his hand than his words. I know not whether he be more feared or
loved,
both affections are so sweetly contempered in all hearts: the good,
fear
him lovingly; the middle sort, love him fearfully; and only the wicked
man fears him slavishly, without love. He hates to pay private wrongs
with
the advantage of his office, and if ever be be partial, it is to his
enemy.
He is not more sage in his gown than valorous in arms, and increaseth
in
the rigour of his discipline as the times in danger. His sword hath
neither
rusted for want of use, nor surfeiteth of blood; but after many threats
is unsheathed, as the dreadful instrument of divine revenge. He is the
guard of good laws, the refuge of innocency, the comet of the guilty,
the
paymaster of good deserts, the champion of justice, the patron of
peace,
the tutor of the church the father of his country, and, as it were,
another
god upon earth.
Of the
penitent.
HE hath a wounded heart
and a sad face;
yet not so much for fear as for unkindness. The wrong of his sin
troubles
him more than the danger. None but he is the better for his sorrow,
neither
is any passion more hurtful to others than this is gainful to him. The
more he seeks to hide his grief, the less it will be hid; every man may
read it, not only in his eyes, but in his bones. While he is in charity
with all others, he is so fallen out with himself, that none but God
can
reconcile him: sued himself in all courts; accuseth, arraigneth,
sentenceth,
punisheth himself unpartially; and sooner may find mercy at any hand
than
at his own. He only hath pulled off the fair visor of sin: so as that
which
appears not but masked unto others, is seen of him barefaced; and
bewrays
that fearful ugliness which none can conceive but he that hath viewed
it.
He hath looked into the depth of the bottomless pit; and hath seen his
own offence tormented in others, and the same brands shaken at him. He
hath seen the change of faces in that Evil one, as a tempter, as a
tormenter,
and hath heard the noise of a conscience; and is so frighted with all
these,
that he can never have rest till he have run out of himself to God; in
whose face at first he finds rigour; but afterwards sweetness in his
bosom:
he bleeds first from the hand that heals him. The law of God hath made
work for mercy; which he hath no sooner apprehended than he forgets his
wounds, and looks carelessly upon all these terrors of guiltiness. When
he casts his eye back upon himself, he wonders where he was, and how he
came there; and grants, that if there were not some witchcraft in sin,
he could not have been so sottishly graceless. And now, in the issue,
Satan
finds, not without indignation and repentance, that he hath done him a
good turn in tempting him; for he had never been so good if he had not
sinned; he had never fought with such courage if he had not seen his
blood,
and been ashamed of his foil. Now, he is seen and felt in the front of
the spiritual battle; and can teach others how to fight, and encourage
them in fighting. His heart was never more taken up with the pleasure
of
sin, than now with care of avoiding it: the very sight of that cup,
wherein
such a fulsome potion was brought him, turns his stomach: the first
offers
of sin make him tremble more now, than he did before at the judgments
of
his sin; neither dares he so much as look towards Sodom. All the powers
and craft of hell cannot fetch him in for a customer to evil; his
infirmity
may yield once, his resolution never. There is none of his senses or
parts
which he hath not within covenants for their good behaviour which they
cannot ever break with impunity. The wrongs of his sin he repays to men
with recompense, as hating it should be said he owes anything to his
offence;
to God, what in him lies, with sighs, tears, vows. and endeavours of
amendment.
No heart is more waxen to the impressions of forgiveness; neither are
his
hands more open to receive than to give pardon. All the injuries which
are offered to him are swallowed up in his wrongs to his Maker and
Redeemer:
neither can be call for the arrearages of his farthings, when he looks
upon the millions forgiven him: he feels not what he suffers from men,
when he thinks of what he hath done and should have suffered. He is a
thankful
herald of the mercies of his God; which if all the world hear not from
his mouth, it is no fault of his. Neither did he so burn with the evil
fires of concupiscence, as now with the holy flames of zeal to that
glory
which he hath blemished; and his eyes are full of moisture as his heart
of heat. The gates of heaven are not so knocked at by any suitor,
whether
for frequence or importunity. You shall find his cheeks furrowed his
knees
hard; his lips sealed up, save when he must accuse himself, or glorify
God; his eyes humbly dejected; and sometimes you shall take him
breaking
off a sigh in the midst; as one that would steal an humiliation
unknown,
and would be offended with any part that should not keep his counsel.
When
he finds his soul oppressed with the heavy guilt of a sin, he gives it
vent through his mouth into the ear of his spiritual Physician, from
whom
he receives cordials answerable to his complaint. He is a severe
exacter
of discipline; first, upon himself, on whom he imposes more than one
Lent;
then, upon others, as one that vowed to be revenged on sin wheresoever
he finds it; and though but one hath offended him, yet his detestation
is universal. He is his own taskmaster for devotion; and if
Christianity
have any work more difficult or perilous than other, that he enjoins
himself;
and resolves contentment even in miscarriage. It is no marvel if the
acquaintance
of his wilder times know him not, for he is quite another from himself;
and if his mind could have had any intermission of dwelling within his
breast, it could not have known this was the lodging; nothing but an
outside
is the same it was, and that altered more with regeneration than with
age.
None but he can relish the promises of the gospel; which he finds so
sweet,
that he complains not his thirst after them is unsatiable. And now that
he hath found his Saviour, he hugs him so fast, and holds him so dear,
that he feels not when his life is fetched away from him for his
martyrdom.
The latter part of his life is so led, as if he desired to unlive his
youth:
and his last testament is full of restitutions and legacies of piety.
In
sum, he hath so lived and died, as that Satan hath no such match; sin
hath
no such enemy; God hath no such servant as he.
He is
an happy man,
THAT hath learned to read
himself more
than all books, and hath so taken out this lesson, that he can never
forget
it; that knows the world, and cares not for it; that, after many
traverses
of thoughts, is grown to know what he may trust to, and stands now
equally
armed for all events; that hath got the mastery at home; so as he can
cross
his will without a mutiny, and so please it, that he makes it not a
wanton:
that in earthly things wishes no more than nature; in spiritual, is
ever
graciously ambitious: that for his condition, stands on his own feet,
not
needing to lean upon the great; and can so frame his thoughts to his
estate,
that when he hath least he cannot want, because he is as free from
desire
as superfluity: that hath seasonably broken the headstrong restiness of
prosperity, and can now manage it at pleasure; upon whom all smaller
crosses
light as hailstones upon a roof; and for the greater calamities, he can
take them as tributes of life and tokens of love; and if his ship he
tossed,
yet he is sure his anchor is fast. If all the world were his, he could
be no other than he is; no whit gladder of himself, no whit higher in
his
carriage; because he knows contentment lies not in the things he hath,
but in the mind that values them. The powers of his resolution can
either
multiply or subtract at pleasure. He can make his cottage a manor or a
palace when he lists; and his home-close a large dominion; his stained
cloth, arras; his earth, plate; and can see state in the attendance of
one servant: as one that hath learned, a man's greatness or baseness is
in himself; and in this he may even contest with the proud, that he
thinks
his own the best. Or, if he must be outwardly great, he can but turn
the
other end of the glass, and make his stately manor a low and strait
cottage;
and in all his costly furniture, he can see, not richness, but use: he
can see dross in the best metal; and earth through the best clothes:
and
in all his troop he can see himself his own servant. He lives quietly
at
home, out of the noise of the world; and loves to enjoy himself always;
and sometimes his friend: and hath as full scope to his thoughts as to
his eyes. He walks ever even, in the midway betwixt hopes and fears;
resolved
to fear nothing but God, to hope for nothing but that which he must
have.
He hath a wise and virtuous mind in a serviceable body, which that
better
part affects as a present servant and a future companion; so cherishing
his flesh, as one that would scorn to be all flesh. He hath no enemies;
not for that all love him, but because he knows to make a gain of
malice.
He is not so engaged to any earthly thing that they two cannot part on
even terms; there is neither laughter in their meeting, nor in their
shaking
of hands, tears. He keeps ever the best company; the God of spirits,
and
the spirits of that God; whom he entertains continually in an awful
familiarity;
not being hindered, either with too much light, or with none at all.
His
conscience and his hand are friends, and, what devil soever tempt him,
will not fall out: that divine part goes ever uprightly and freely; not
stooping under the burden of a willing sin, not fettered with the gives
of unjust scruples. He would not, if he could, run away from himself or
from God; not caring from whom he lies hid, so he may look these two in
the face. Censures and applauses are passengers to him, not guests; his
ear is their thoroughfare, not their harbour; he hath learned to fetch
both his counsel and his sentence from his own breast. He doth not lay
weight upon his own shoulders, as one that loves to torment himself,
with
the honour of much employment; but, as he makes work his game, so doth
he not list to make himself work. His strife is ever to redeem, and not
to spend time. It is his trade to do good, and to think of it his
recreation.
He hath hands enow for himself and others; which are ever stretched
forth
for beneficence, not for need. He walks cheerfully in the way that God
hath chalked, and never wishes it more wide or more smooth. Those very
temptations whereby he is foiled strengthen him: he comes forth crowned
and triumphing out of the spiritual battles; and those scars that he
hath,
make him beautiful. His soul is every day dilated to receive that God
in
whom he is; and hath attained to love himself for God, and God for his
own sake. His eyes stick so fast in heaven, that no earthly object can
remove them: yea, his whole self is there before his time; and sees
with
Stephen, and hears with Paul, and enjoys with Lazarus, the glory that
he
shall have; and takes possession beforehand of his room amongst the
saints.
And these heavenly contentments have so taken him up, that now he looks
down displeasedly upon the earth, as the region of his sorrow and
banishment:
yet, joying more in hope than troubled with the sense of evils, he
holds
it no great matter to live, and his greatest business to die; and is so
well acquainted with his last guest, that he fears no unkindness from
him:
neither makes he any other of dying than of walking home when he is
abroad;
or of going to bed when he is weary of the day. He is well provided for
both worlds; and is sure of peace here, of glory hereafter; and
therefore
hath a light heart and a cheerful face. All his fellow-creatures
rejoice
to serve him: his betters, the angels, love to observe him: God himself
takes pleasure to converse with him; and hath sainted him afore his
death,
and in his death crowned him.
________________________
BOOK
II.
CHARACTERISTICS OF
VICES.
The Proem.
HAVE
showed you many fair virtues. I speak not for them: if their sight
cannot command affection, let them lose it. They shall please yet
better
after you have troubled your eyes a little with the view of
deformities;
and by how much more they please, so much more odious and like
themselves
shall these deformities appear. This light contraries give to each
other
in the Midst of their enmity, that one makes the other seem more good
or
ill. Perhaps in some of these (which thing I do at once fear and hate)
my style shall seem to some less grave, more satirical. If you find me
not without cause jealous, let it please you to impute it to the nature
of those vices which will not be otherwise handled.
The fashions of some
evils are, besides
the odiousness, ridiculous; which to repeat is to seem bitterly merry.
I abhor to make sport with wickedness, and forbid any laughter here but
of disdain. Hypocrisy shall lead this ring: worthily, I think, because
both she cometh nearest to virtue, and is the worst of vices.
The
hypocrite.
AN hypocrite is the worst
kind of player,
by so much as he acts the better part: which hath always two faces;
ofttimes
two hearts: that can compose his forehead to sadness and gravity, while
he bids his heart be wanton and careless within; and in the mean time
laughs
within himself to think how smoothly he hath cozened the beholder: in
whose
silent face are written the characters of religion, which his tongue
and
gestures pronounce, but his hands recant: that hath a clean face and
garment,
with a foul soul: whose mouth belies his heart, and his fingers belie
his
mouth. Walking early up into the city he turns into the great church,
and
salutes one of the pillars on one knee; worshipping that God, which at
home he cares not for: while his eye is fixed on some window, on some
passenger;
and his heart knows not whither his lips go: he rises, and, looking
about
with admiration, complains of our frozen charity; commends the ancient.
At church he will ever sit where he may be seen best; and in the midst
of the sermon pulls out his tables in haste, as if he feared to lose
that
note; when he writes, either his forgotten errand, or nothing: then he
turns his Bible with a noise to seek an omitted quotation; and folds
the
leaf, as if he had found it; and asks aloud the name of the preacher,
and
repeats it; whom he publicly salutes, thanks, praises, invites,
entertains
with tedious good counsel, with good discourse, if it had come from an
honester mouth. He can command tears when he speaks of his youth;
indeed
because it is past, not because it was sinful: himself is now better,
but
the times are worse. All other sins he reckons up with detestation,
while
he loves and bides his darling in his bosom. All his speech returns to
himself, and every occurrent draws in a story to his own praise. When
he
should give, he looks about him, and says, 'Who sees me?' No alms, no
prayers
fall from him without a witness: belike, lest God should deny that he
hath
received them: and when he hath done, lest the world should not know
it,
his own mouth is his trumpet to proclaim it. With the superiority of
his
usury he builds an hospital, and harbours them whom his extortion hath
spoiled: so, while he makes many beggars, he keeps some. He turneth all
gnats into camels; and cares not to undo the world for a circumstance:
flesh on a Friday is more abomination to him than his neighbour's bed:
he abhors more, not to uncover at the name of Jesus, than to swear by
the
name of God. When a rhymer reads his poem to him, he begs a copy, and
persuades
the press. There is nothing that he dislikes in presence that in
absence
he censures not. He comes to the sick bed of his stepmother and weeps,
when he secretly fears her recovery. He greets his friend in the street
with so clear a countenance, so fast a closure, that the other thinks
he
reads his heart in his face; and shakes hands with an indefinite
invitation
of, 'When will you come?' and when his back is turned, joys that he is
so well rid of a guest: yet if that guest visit him unfeared he
counterfeits
a smiling welcome; and excuses his cheer, when closely he frowns on his
wife for too much. He shows well, and says well; and himself is the
worst
thing he hath. In brief, he is the stranger's saint; the neighbour's
disease;
the blot of goodness; a rotten stick in a dark night; a poppy in a
cornfield;
an ill tempered candle, with a great snuff, that in going out smells
ill;
an angel abroad, a devil at home; and worse when an angel than when a
devil.
The
busybody,
His estate is too narrow
for his mind,
and therefore he is fain to make himself room in others' affairs; yet
ever,
in pretence of love. No news can stir but by his door; neither can he
know
that which he must not tell. What every man ventures in Guiana voyage,
and what they gained, he knows to a hair. Whether Holland will have
peace,
he knows; and on what conditions, and with what success, is familiar to
him, ere it be concluded. No post can pass him without a question; and
rather than he will lose the news, he rides back with him to appose him
of tidings: and then to the next man he meets he supplies the wants of
his hasty intelligence, and makes up a perfect tale; wherewith he so
haunteth
the patient auditor, that, after many excuses, he is fain to endure
rather
the censure of his manners in running away, than the tediousness of an
impertinent discourse. His speech is oft broken off with a succession
of
long parentheses, which he ever vows to fill up ere the conclusion; and
perhaps would effect it, if the other's ear were as unweariable as his
tongue. If he see but two men talk, and read a letter in the street, he
runs to them, and asks if he may not be partner of that secret
relation;
and if they deny it, he offers to tell, since he may not hear, wonders:
and then falls upon the report of the Scottish mine, or of the great
fish
taken up at Lynn, or of the freezing of the Thames; and, after many
thanks
and dismissions, is hardly entreated silence. He undertakes as much as
he performs little. This man will thrust himself forward, to be the
guide
of the way he knows not; and calls at his neighbour's window, and asks
why his servants are not at work. The market hath no commodity which he
prizeth not, and which the next table shall not hear recited. His
tongue,
like the tail of Samson's foxes, carries firebrands, and is enough to
set
the whole field of the world on a flame. Himself begins tabletalk of
his
neighbour at another's board; to whom he bears the first news, and
adjures
him to conceal the reporter: whose choleric answer he returns to his
first
host, enlarged with a second edition: so, as it uses to be done in the
fight of unwilling mastiffs, he claps each on the side apart, and
provokes
them to an eager conflict. There can no act pass without his comment;
which
is ever far-fetched, rash, suspicious, delatory. His ears are long, and
his eyes quick; but most of all to imperfections, which as he easily
sees,
so he increases with intermeddling. He harbours another man's servant;
and, amidst his entertainment, asks what fare is usual at home, what
hours
are kept, what talk passeth their meals, what his master's disposition
is, what his government, what his guests: and when he hath by curious
inquiries
extracted all the juice and spirit of hoped intelligence, turns him out
whence he came, and works on a new. He hates constancy, as an earthen
dulness,
unfit for men of spirit; and loves to change his work and his place:
neither
yet can he be so soon weary of any place as every place is weary of
him:
for as he sets himself on work, so others pay him with hatred; and
look,
how many masters he hath, so many enemies; neither is it possible that
any should not hate him but who know him not. So then he labours
without
thanks; talks without credit; lives without love; dies without tears,
without
pity; save that some say, 'It was pity he died no sooner.'
The
superstitious.
SUPERSTITION is godless
religion, devout
impiety. The superstitious is fond in observation, servile in fear; he
worships God but as he lists; he gives God what he asks not, more than
he asks, and all but what he should give, and makes more sins than the
Ten Commandments. This man dares not stir forth till his breast be
crossed
and his face sprinkled. If but an hare cross him the way, he returns;
or
if his journey began, unawares, on the dismal day; or, if he stumbled
at
the threshold. If he see a snake unkilled, he fears a mischief; if the
salt fall towards him, he looks pale and red, and is not quiet till one
of the waiters have poured wine on his lap; and when he sneezeth,
thinks
them not his friends that uncover not. In the morning, he listens
whether
the crow crieth even or odd, and by that token presages of the weather.
If he hear but a raven croak from the next roof, he makes his will; or
if a bittour fly over his head by night: but if his troubled fancy
shall
second his thoughts with the dream of a fair garden, or green rushes,
or
the salutation of a dead friend, he takes leave of the world, and says
he cannot live. He will never set to sea but on a Sunday, neither ever
goes without an Erra Pater in his pocket. St. Paul's day, and St.
Swithin's,
with the twelve, are his oracles, which he dares believe, against the
almanack.
When he lies sick on his deathbed, no sin troubles him so much, as that
he did once eat flesh on a Friday: no repentance can expiate that; the
rest need none. There is no dream of his without an interpretation,
without
a prediction; and if the event answer not his exposition, he expounds
it
according to the event. Every dark grove and pictured wall strikes him
with an awful, but carnal devotion. Old wives and stars are his
counsellors:
his nightspell is his guard; and charms, his physicians. He wears
Paracelsian
characters for the toothache; and a little hallowed wax is his antidote
for all evils. This man is strangely credulous, and calls impossible
things
miraculous: if he hear that some sacred block speaks, moves, weeps,
smiles,
his bare feet carry him thither with an offering; and if a danger miss
him in the way, his saint hath the thanks. Some ways he will not go,
and
some he dares not; either there are bugs, or he feigneth them; every
lantern
is a ghost, and every noise is of chains. He knows not why, but his
custom
is to go a little about, and to leave the cross still on the right
hand.
One event is enough to make a rule: out of these rules he concludes
fashions,
proper to himself; and nothing can turn him out of his own course. If
he
have done his task, he is safe. It matters not with what affection.
Finally,
if God would let him be the carver of his own obedience, he could not
have
a better subject: as he is, he cannot have a worse.
The
profane.
THE superstitious hath too
many gods:
the profane man hath none at all; unless perhaps himself be his own
deity,
and the world his heaven. To matter of religion his heart is a piece of
dead flesh, without feeling of love, of fear, of care, or of pain from
the deaf strokes of a revenging conscience. Custom of sin hath wrought
this senselessness; which now hath been so long entertained, that it
pleads
prescription, and knows not to be altered. This is no sudden evil: we
are
born sinful, but have made ourselves profane; through many degrees we
climb
to this height of impiety. At first, he sinned, and cared not; now he
sinneth,
and knoweth not. Appetite is his lord, and reason his servant, and
religion
his drudge. Sense is the rule of his belief; and if piety may be an
advantage,
he can at once counterfeit and deride it. When aught succeedeth to him,
he 'sacrifices to his nets,' and thanks either his fortune or his wit,
and will rather make a false god than acknowledge the true; if
contrary,
he cries out of destiny, and blames Him to whom he will not be
beholden.
His conscience would fain speak with him, but he will not hear it; sets
the day, but he disappoints it; and when it cries loud for audience, he
drowns the noise with good fellowship. He never names God, but in his
oaths;
never thinks of him, but in extremity: and then he knows not how to
think
of him, because he begins but then. He quarrels for the hard conditions
of his pleasure, for his future damnation; and, from himself, lays all
the fault upon his Maker; and from his decree fetcheth excuses of his
wickedness.
The inevitable necessity of God's counsel makes him desperately
careless;
so, with good food he poisons him self. Goodness is his minstrel;
neither
is any mirth so cordial to him as his sport with God's fools. Every
virtue
hath his slander, and his jest to laugh it out of fashion; every vice,
his colour. His usuallest theme is the boast of his young sins; which
he
can still joy in, though he cannot commit: and, if it may be, his
speech
makes him worse than he is. He cannot think of death with patience,
without
terror; which he therefore fears worse than hell, because this he is
sure
of, the other be but doubts of. He comes to church as to the theatre,
(saving
that not so willingly,) for company, for custom, for recreation;
perhaps
for sleep, or to feed his eyes or his ears: as for his soul, he cares
no
more than if he had none. He loves none but himself, and that not
enough
to seek his true good; neither cares he on whom he treads, that he may
rise. His life is full of license, and his practice of outrage. He is
hated
of God as much as he hateth goodness; and differs little from a devil,
but that he hath a body.
The
malcontent.
HE is neither well, full
nor fasting;
and though he abound with complaints, yet nothing dislikes him but the
present; for what he condemned while it was, once past he magnifies,
and
strives to recall it out of the jaws of time. What he hath, he seeth
not;
his eyes are so taken up with what he wants: and what he sees, he cares
not for; because be cares so much for that which is not. When his
friend
carves him the best morsel, he murmurs, 'That it is a happy feast
wherein
each one may cut for himself.' When a present is sent him, he asks, 'Is
this all?' and 'What! no better?' and so accepts it as if he would have
his friend know how much he is bound to him for vouchsafing to receive
it: it is hard to entertain him with a proportionable gift: if nothing,
he cries out of unthankfulness; if little, that he is basely regarded;
if much, he exclaims of flattery and expectation of a large requital.
Every
blessing hath somewhat to disparage and distaste it; children bring
cares;
single life is wild and solitary; eminency is envious; retiredness,
obscure;
fasting, painful; satiety, unwieldy; religion, nicely severe; liberty
is
lawless; wealth burdensome; mediocrity contemptible: every thing
faulteth
either in too much or too little. This man is ever headstrong and
self-willed;
neither is he always tied to esteem or pronounce according to reason;
some
things be must dislike, he knows not wherefore, but he likes them not;
and otherwhere, rather than not censure, he will accuse a man of
virtue.
Every thing he meddleth with, he either findeth imperfect or maketh so;
neither is there any thing that soundeth so harsh in his ear as the
commendation
of another; whereto yet perhaps he fashionably and coldly assenteth,
but
with such an afterclause of exception as doth more than mar his former
allowance; and if he list not to give a verbal disgrace, yet he shakes
his head and smiles, as if his silence should say, 'I could, and will
not.'
And when himself is praised without excess, he complains that such
imperfect
kindness hath not done him right. If but an unseasonable shower cross
his
recreation, he is ready to fall out with Heaven; and thinks he is
wronged
if God will not take his times, when to rain, when to shine. He is a
slave
to envy, and loseth flesh with fretting, not so much at his own
infelicity
as at others' good; neither hath he leisure to joy in his own
blessings,
whilst another prospereth. Fain would he see some mutinies, but dares
not
raise them, and suffers his lawless tongue to walk through the
dangerous
paths of conceited alterations; but so, as, in good manners, he had
rather
thrust every man before him when it comes to acting. Nothing but fear
keeps
him from conspiracies, and no man is more cruel when he is not manacled
with danger. He speaks nothing but satires and libels, and lodgeth no
guests
in his heart but rebels. The inconstant and he agree well in their
felicity,
which both place in change; but herein they differ, the inconstant man
affects that which will be, the malcontent commonly that which was.
Finally,
he is a querulous cur, whom no horse can pass by without barking at;
yea,
in the deep silence of night, the very moonshine openeth his clamorous
mouth; he is the wheel of a well couched firework, that flies out on
all
sides, not without scorching itself. Every ear was long ago weary of
him,
and he is now almost weary of himself: give him but a little respite,
and
he will die alone; of no other death than others' welfare.
The
unconstant.
THE inconstant man treads
upon a moving
earth, and keeps no pace. His proceedings are ever heady and
peremptory:
for he hath not the patience to consult with reason, but determines
merely
upon fancy. No man is so hot in the pursuit of what he liketh, no man
sooner
weary. He is fiery in his passions, which yet are not more violent than
momentary: it is a wonder if his love or hatred last so many days as a
wonder. His heart is the inn of all good motions; wherein if they lodge
for a night, it is well: by morning they are gone, and take no leave;
and
if they come that way again, they are entertained as guests, not as
friends.
At first like another Ecebolius, he loved simple truth: thence
diverting
his eyes, he fell in love with idolatry; those heathenish shrines had
never
any more doting and besotted client; and now of late he is leaped from
Rome to Munster, and is grown to giddy anabaptism. What he will be
next,
as yet he knoweth not; but ere he have wintered his opinion, it will be
manifest. He is good to make an enemy of; ill, for a friend: because,
as
there is no trust in his affection, so no rancour in his displeasure.
The
multitude of his changed purposes brings with it forgetfulness; and not
of others more than of himself. He says, swears, renounces; because,
what
he promised, he meant not long enough to make an impression. Herein
alone
he is good for a commonwealth, that he sets many on work, with
building,
ruining, altering; and makes more business than time itself: neither is
he a greater enemy to thrift than to idleness. Propriety is to him
enough
cause of dislike; each thing pleases him better that is not his own.
Even
in the best things long continuance is a just quarrel: manna itself
grows
tedious with age; and novelty is the highest style of commendation to
the
meanest offers: neither doth he in books and fashions ask, 'How good?'
but, 'How new?' Variety carries him away with delight; and no uniform
pleasure
can be without an irksome fulness. He is so transformable into all
opinions,
manners, qualities, that he seems rather made immediately of the first
matter, than of well tempered elements; and therefore is, in
possibility,
any thing or every thing; nothing, in present substance. Finally, he is
servile, in imitation; waxy, to persuasions; witty, to wrong himself; a
guest, in his own house; an ape of others; and, in a word, any thing
rather
than himself.
The
flatterer.
FLATTERY is nothing, but
false friendship,
fawning hypocrisy, dishonest civility, base merchandise of words, a
plausible
discord of the heart and lips. The flatterer is blear-eyed to ill, and
cannot see vices; and his tongue walks ever in one track of unjust
praises,
and can no more tell how to discommend than to speak true. His speeches
are full of wondering interjections, and all his titles are
superlative;
and both of them seldom ever but in presence. His base mind is well
matched
with a mercenary tongue, which is a willing slave to another man's ear;
neither regardeth he how true, but how pleasing. His art is nothing but
delightful cozenage; whose rules are smoothing and guarded with
perjury;
whose scope is, to make men fools in teaching them to overvalue
themselves,
and to tickle his friends to death. This man is a porter of all good
tales,
and mends them in the carriage; one of fame's best friends, and his
own;
that helps to furnish her with those rumours that may advantage
himself.
Conscience hath no greater adversary; for when she is about to play her
just part of accusation, he stops her mouth with good terms: and
well-near
strangleth her with shifts. Like that subtle fish, he turns himself
into
the colour of every stone for a booty. In himself he is nothing, but
what
pleaseth his great one; whose virtues he cannot more extol than imitate
his imperfections, that he may think his worst graceful: let him say it
is hot, he wipes his forehead, and unbraceth himself; if cold, he
shivers,
and calls for a warmer garment. When he walks with his friend, he
swears
to him that no man else is looked at; no man talked of; and that,
whomsoever
he vouchsafes to look on and nod to is graced enough: that he knows not
his own worth, lest he should be too happy; and when he tells what
others
say in his praise, he interrupts himself modestly, and dares not speak
the rest: so his concealment is more insinuating than his speech. He
hangs
upon the lips which he admireth, as if they could let fall nothing but
oracles; and finds occasion to cite some approved sentence, under the
name
he honoureth; and when aught is nobly spoken, both his hands are little
enough to bless him. Sometimes, even in absence, he extolleth his
patron,
where he may presume of safe conveyance to his ears; and in presence so
whispereth his commendation to a common friend, that it may not be
unheard
where he meant it. He hath salves for every sore, to hide them, not to
heal them; complexion for every face. Sin hath not any more artificial
broker, or more impudent bawd. There is no vice that hath not from him
his colour, his allurement; and his best service is either to further
guiltiness
or smother it. If he grant evil things inexpedient, or crimes errors,
he
hath yielded much: either thy estate gives privilege of liberty, or thy
youth; or if neither, 'What if it be ill, yet it is pleasant!'
[H]onesty
to him is nice singularity; repentance, superstitious melancholy;
gravity,
dulness; and all virtue, an innocent conceit of the base-minded. In
short,
he is the moth of liberal men's coats; the earwig of the mighty; the
bane
of courts; a friend and a slave to the trencher; and good for nothing
but
to be a factor for the devil.
The
slothful.
HE is a religious man, and
wears the
time in his cloister; and, as the cloak of his doing nothing, pleads
contemplation:
yet is he no whit the leaner for his thoughts; no whit learneder. He
takes
no less care how to spend time, than others how to gain by the expense;
and when business importunes him, is more troubled to forethink what he
must do, than another to effect it. Summer is out of his favour for
nothing
but long days, that make no haste to their even. He loves still to have
the sun witness of his rising; and lies long, more for loathness to
dress
him than will to sleep: and after some stretching and yawning, calls
for
dinner unwashed; which having digested with a sleep in his chair, he
walks
forth to the bench in the market-place, and looks for companions:
whomsoever
he meets, he stays with idle questions and lingering discourse: how the
days are lengthened; how kindly the weather is; how false the clock;
how
forward the spring; and ends ever with, 'What shall we do?' It pleases
him no less to hinder others, than not to work himself. When all the
people
are gone from church, he is left sleeping in his seat alone. He enters
bonds, and forfeits them by forgetting the day; and asks his neighbour
when his own field was fallowed, whether the next piece of ground
belong
not to himself. His care is either none, or too late; when winter is
come,
after some sharp visitations, he looks on his pile of wood, and asks
how
much was cropped the last spring. Necessity drives him to every action;
and what he cannot avoid he will yet defer. Every change troubles him,
although to the better; and his dulness counterfeits a kind of
contentment.
When he is warned on a jury, he had rather pay the mulct than appear.
All
but that which nature will not permit, he doth by a deputy: and counts
it troublesome to do nothing; but, to do any thing, yet more. He is
witty
in nothing but framing excuses to sit still; which, if the occasion
yield
not, he coineth with ease. There is no work that is not either
dangerous
or thankless; and whereof he foresees not the inconvenience and
gainlessness
before he enters: which if it be verified in event, his next idleness
hath
found a reason to patronise it. He had rather freeze than fetch wood;
and
chooses rather to steal than work; to beg, than take pains to steal;
and,
in many things, to want, than beg. He is so loath to leave his
neighbour's
fire, that he is fain to walk home in the dark; and if he be not looked
to, wears out the night in the chimney corner; or if not that, lies
down
in his clothes to save two labours. He eats and prays himself asleep;
and
dreams of no other torment but work. This man is a standing pool; and
cannot
choose but gather corruption: he is descried amongst a thousand
neigbbours
by a dry and nasty hand, that still savours of the sheet; a beard
uncut,
unkembed; an eye and ear yellow with their excretions; a coat, shaken
on,
ragged, unbrushed; by linen and face striving whether shall excel in
uncleanness.
For body, he hath a swollen leg, a dusky and swinish eye, a blown
cheek,
a drawling tongue, a heavy foot, and is nothing but a colder earth
moulded
with standing water: to conclude, is a man in nothing but in speech and
shape.
The
covetous.
HE is a servant to
himself; yea, to
his servant: and doth base homage to that which should be the worst
drudge.
A lifeless piece of earth is his master; yea, his god: which he shrines
in his coffer, and to which he sacrifices his heart. Every face of his
coin is a new image, which he adores with the highest veneration; yet
takes
upon him to be protector of that he worshippeth: which he fears to
keep,
and abhors to lose; not daring to trust either any other god or his
own.
Like a true chemist, he turns every thing into silver; both what he
should
eat, and what he should wear: and that he keeps to look on, not to use.
When he returns from his field, he asks, not without much rage, what
became
of the loose crust in his cupboard, and who hath rioted amongst his
leeks.
He never eats good meal, but on his neighbour's trencher; and there he
makes amends to his complaining stomach for his former and future
fasts.
He bids his neighbours to dinner, and when they have done, sends in a
trencher
for the shot. Once in a year, perhaps, he gives himself leave to feast;
and, for the time, thinks no man more lavish; wherein he lists not to
fetch
his dishes from far; nor will he beholden to the shambles: his own
provision
shall furnish his board with an insensible cost; and when his guests
are
parted, talks how much every man devoured, and how many cups were
emptied;
and feeds his family with the mouldy remnants a month after. If his
servant
break but an earthen dish for want of light, he abates it out of his
quarter's
wages. He chips his bread, and sends it back to exchange for staler. He
lets money, and sells time for a price; and will not be importuned,
either
to prevent or defer his day; and in the mean time looks for secret
gratuities,
besides the main interest, which he sells and returns into the stock.
He
breeds of money to the third generation, neither hath it sooner any
being
than he sets it to beget more. In all things he affects secrecy and
propriety:
he grudgeth his neighbour the water of his well; and, next to stealing,
he hates borrowing. In his short and unquiet sleeps, he dreams of
thieves,
and runs to the door, and names more men than he hath. The least sheaf
he ever culls out for tithe; and to rob God, holds it the best pastime,
the clearest gain. This man cries out, above other, of the prodigality
of our times; and tells of the thrift of our forefathers: how that
great
prince thought himself royally attired when he bestowed thirteen
shillings
and four pence on half a suit: how one wedding gown served our
grandmothers,
till they exchanged it for a winding sheet: and praises plainness, not
for less sin, but for less cost. For himself, he is still known by his
forefathers' coat; which he means, with his blessing, to bequeath to
the
many descents of his heirs. He neither would be poor nor be accounted
rich.
No man complains so much of want, to avoid a subsidy: no man is so
importunate
in begging, so cruel in exaction: and when he most complains of want,
he
fears that which he complains to have. No way is indirect to wealth,
whether
of fraud or violence: gain is his godliness, which if conscience go
about
to prejudice, and grow troublesome by exclaiming against, he is
condemned
for a common barretor. Like another Ahab, he is sick of the next field;
and thinks he is ill seated, while he dwells by neigbbours. Shortly,
his
neighbours do not much more hate him than he himself. He cares not, for
no great advantage, to lose his friend, pine his body, damn his soul:
and
would despatch himself when corn falls, but that he is loath to cast
away
money on a cord.
The
vainglorious.
ALL his humour rises up
into the froth
of ostentation, which, if it once settle, falls down into a narrow
room.
If the excess be in the understanding part, all his wit is in print:
the
press hath left his head empty; yea, not only what he had, but what he
could borrow without leave. If his glory be in his devotion, he gives
not
an alms but on record; and if he have once done well, God hears of it
often;
for upon every unkindness he is ready to upbraid him with his merits.
Over
and above his own discharge, he hath some satisfactions to spare for
the
common treasure. He can fulfil the law with ease, and earn God with
superfluity.
If he have bestowed but a little sum in the glazing, paving, parieting
of God's house, you shall find it in the church window. Or if a more
gallant
humour possess him, he wears all his land on his back; Sells all he has
for clothes and, walking high, looks over his left shoulder to see if
the
point of his rapier follow him with a grace. He is proud of another
man's
horse; and, well-mounted, thinks every man wrongs him that looks not at
him. A bare head in the street doth him more good than a meal's meat.
He
swears big at an ordinary; and talks of the court with a sharp accent:
neither vouchsafes to name any not honourable, nor those without some
term
of familiarity; and likes well to see the hearer look upon him
amazedly,
as if he said, 'How happy is this man, that is so great with great
ones!'
Under pretence of seeking for a scroll of news, he draws out a handful
of letters, indorsed with his own style to the height, half reading
every
title, passes over the latter part with a murmur; not without
signifying
what lord sent this, what great lady the other, and for what suits: the
last paper, as it happens, is his news from his honourable friend in
the
French court. In the midst of dinner, his lackey comes sweating in with
a sealed note from his creditor, who now threatens a speedy arrest; and
whispers the ill news in his master's ear: when he aloud names a
counsellor
of state, and professes to know the employment. The same messenger he
calls
with an imperious nod; and after expostulation, where he hath left his
fellows, in his ear sends him for some new spur-leathers, or stockings
by this time footed; and when he is gone half the room, recalls him,
and
saith aloud, 'It is no matter; let the greater bag alone till I come:'
and yet again calling him closer, whispers, so that all the table may
hear,
that if his crimson suit be ready against the day, the rest need no
haste.
He picks his teeth when his stomach is empty, and calls for pheasants
at
a common inn. You shall find him prizing the richest jewels and fairest
horses, when his purse yields not money enough for earnest. He thrusts
himself into the prease before some great ladies; and loves to be seen
near the head of a great train. His talk is, how many mourners he
furnished
with gowns at his father's funerals, how many messes; how rich his coat
is, and how ancient; how great his alliance; what challenges he hath
made
and answered; what exploits he did at Calais or Nieuport; and when he
hath
commended others' buildings, furnitures, suits, compares them with his
own. When he hath undertaken to be the broker for some rich diamond, he
wears it; and pulling off his glove, to stroke up his hair, thinks no
eye
should have any other object. Entertaining his friend, he chides his
cook
for no better cheer; and names the dishes he meant, and wants. To
conclude,
he is ever on the stage, and acts a still glorious part abroad; when no
man carries a baser heart, no man is more sordid and careless, at home.
He is a Spanish soldier on an Italian theatre; a bladder full of wind,
a skin full of words; a fool's wonder, and a wise man's fool.
The
presumptuous.
PRESUMPTION is nothing but
hope out
of his wits; a high house upon weak pillars. The presumptuous man loves
to attempt great things, only because they are hard and rare; his
actions
are bold and venturous, and more full of hazard than use. He hoisteth
sail
in a tempest, and saith, never any of his ancestors were drowned: he
goes
into an infected house, and says the plague dares not seize on noble
blood:
he runs on high battlements, gallops down steep hills, rides over
narrow
bridges, walks on weak ice, and never thinks, 'What if I fall?' but, '
What if I run over, and fall not?' He is a confident alchymist; and
braggeth
that the womb of his furnace hath conceived a burden that will do all
the
world good: which yet he desires secretly born, for fear of his own
bondage:
in the mean time, his glass breaks; yet he, upon better luting, lays
wagers
of the success, and promiseth wedges beforehand to his friend. He
saith,
'I will sin, and be sorry, and escape: either God will not see, or not
be angry, or not punish it, or remit the measure: if I do well, he is
just
to reward; if ill, he is merciful to forgive.' Thus his praises wrong
God,
no less than his offence; and hurt himself, no less than they wrong
God.
Any pattern is enough to encourage him: show him the way where any foot
hath trod, he dare follow, although he see no steps returning: what if
a thousand have attempted, and miscarried; if but one have prevailed,
it
sufficeth. He suggests to himself false hopes of never too late; as if
he could command either time or repentance: and dare defer the
expectation
of mercy till betwixt the bridge and the water. Give him but where to
set
his foot, and he will remove the earth. He foreknows the mutations of
states,
the events of war, the temper of the seasons: either his old prophecy
tells
it him, or his stars. Yea, he is no stranger to the records of God's
secret
counsel; but he turns them over, and copies them out at pleasure. I
know
not whether, in all his enterprises, he show less fear or wisdom: no
man
promises himself more, no man more believes himself. 'I will go, and
sell;
and return, and purchase; and spend, and leave my sons such estates:'
all
which if it succeed, he thanks himself; if not, he blames not himself.
His purposes are measured, not by his ability, but his will; and his
actions
by his purposes. Lastly, he is ever credulous in assent; rash in
undertaking;
peremptory in resolving; witless in proceeding; and in his ending,
miserable;
which is never other, than either the laughter of the wise or the pity
of fools.
The
distrustful.
THE distrustful man hath
his heart in
his eyes or in his hand; nothing is sure to him but what he sees, what
he handles. He is either very simple or very false; and therefore
believes
not others, because he knows how little himself is worthy of belief. In
spiritual things, either God must leave a pawn with him, or seek some
other
creditor. All absent things, and unusual, have no other but a
conditional
entertainment: they are strange, if true. If he see two neighbours
whisper
in his presence, he bids them speak out; and charges them to say no
more
than they can justify. When he hath committed a message to his servant,
he sends a second after him, to listen how it is delivered. He is his
own
secretary, and of his own counsel, for what he hath, for what he
purposeth;
and when he tells over his bags looks through the keyhole, to see if he
have any hidden witness, and asks aloud, 'Who is there?' when no man
hears
him. He borrows money when he needs not, for fear lest others should
borrow
of him. He is ever timorous and cowardly, and asks every man's errand
at
the door ere he opens. After his first sleep, he starts up, and asks if
the farthest gate were barred; and, out of a fearful sweat, calls up
his
servant, and bolts the door after him; and then studies, whether it
were
better to lie still and believe, or rise and see. Neither is his heart
fuller of fears, than his head of strange projects and farfetched
constructions:
' What means the state, think you, in such an action; and whither tends
this course? Learn of me, if you know not: the ways of deep policies
are
secret, and full of unknown windings: that is their act; this will be
their
issue:' so casting beyond the moon, he makes wise and just proceedings
suspected. In all his predictions and imaginations, he ever lights upon
the worst: not what is most likely will fall out, but what is most ill.
There is nothing that he takes not with the left hand; no text which
his
gloss corrupts not. Words, oaths, parchments, seals, are but broken
reeds:
these shall never deceive him: he loves no payments but real. If but
one
in an age have miscarried, by a rare casualty, he misdoubts the same
event.
If but a tile fallen from a high roof have brained a passenger, or the
breaking of a coach wheel have endangered the burden; he swears he will
keep home, or take him to his horse. He dares not come to church, for
fear
of the crowd; nor spare the sabbath's labour, for fear of want; nor
come
near the parliament house, because it should have been blown up: what
might
have been affects him as much as what will be. Argue, vow, protest,
swear;
he hears thee, and believes himself. He is a sceptic; and dare hardly
give
credit to his senses, which he hath often arraigned of false
intelligence.
He so lives, as if he thought all the world were thieves, and were not
sure whether himself were one. He is uncharitable in his censures;
unquiet
in his fears: had enough always; but, in his own opinion, much worse
than
he is.
The
ambitious.
AMBITION is a proud
covetousness; a
dry thirst of honour; the longing disease of reason; an aspiring and
gallant
madness. The ambitious climbs up high and perilous stairs, and never
cares
how to come down: the desire of rising hath swallowed up his fear of a
fall. Having once cleaved, like a burr, to some great man's coat, he
resolves
not to be shaken off with any small indignities; and finding his hold
thoroughly
fast, casts how to insinuate yet nearer: and therefore he is busy and
servile
in his endeavours to please, and all his officious respect turns home
to
himself. He can be at once a slave, to command; an intelligencer, to
inform;
a parasite, to soothe and flatter; a champion to defend; an
executioner,
to revenge: any thing for an advantage of favour. He hath projected a
plot
to rise, and woe be to the friend that stands in his way. He still
haunteth
the court, and his unquiet spirit haunteth him; which, having fetched
him
from the secure peace of his country rest, sets him new and impossible
tasks; and, after many disappointments, encourages him to try the same
sea in spite of his shipwrecks, and promises better success: a small
hope
gives him heart against great difficulties, and draws on new expense,
new
servility; persuading him, like foolish boys, to shoot away a second
shaft,
that be may find the first: he yieldeth; and now, secure of the issue,
applauds himself in that honour which be still affecteth, still
misseth;
and, for the last of all trials, will rather bribe for a troublesome
preferment
than return void of a title: but now, when he finds himself desperately
crossed, and at once spoiled both of advancement and hope, both of
fruition
and possibility all his desire is turned into rage; his thirst is now
only
of revenge; his tongue sounds of nothing but detraction and slander:
now,
the place he sought for is base, his rival unworthy, his adversary
injurious,
officers corrupt, court infectious; and how well is he, that may be his
own man, his own master; that may live safely in a mean distance at
pleasure,
free from starving, free from burning! but if his designs speed well,
ere
he be warm in that seat, his mind is possessed of an higher: what he
hath,
is but a degree to what he would have: now, he scorneth what he
formerly
aspired to; his success doth not give him so much contentment as
provocation;
neither can he be at rest, so long as he hath one either to overlook,
or
to match, or to emulate him. When his country friend comes to visit
him,
he carries him up to the awful presence: and now, in his sight,
crowding
nearer to the chair of state, desires to be looked on, desires to be
spoken
to by the greatest; and studies how to offer an occasion, lest he
should
seem unknown, unregarded; and if any gesture of the least grace fall
happily
upon him, be looks back upon his friend, lest he should carelessly let
it pass without a note: and what he wanteth in sense he supplies in
history.
His disposition is never but shamefully unthankful; for unless he have
all, be hath nothing. It must be a large draught whereof he will not
say,
that those few drops do not slake, but inflame him: so still he thinks
himself the worse for small favours. His wit so contrives the likely
plots
of his promotion, as if be would steal it away without God's knowledge,
besides his will: neither doth be ever look up and consult in his
forecasts
with the Supreme Moderator of all things; as one that thinks honour is
ruled by fortune, and that heaven meddleth not with the disposing of
these
earthly lots: and therefore it is just with that wise God to defeat his
fairest hopes, and to bring him to a loss in the hottest of his chase;
and to cause honour to fly away so much the faster, by how much it is
more
eagerly pursued. Finally, he is an importunate suitor; a corrupt
client;
a violent undertaker; a smooth factor, but untrusty; a restless master
of his own; a bladder puffed up with the wind of hope and selflove: he
is in the common body as a mole in the earth, ever unquietly casting;
and,
in one word, is nothing but a confused heap of envy, pride,
covetousness.
The
Unthrift.
HE ranges beyond his pale,
and lives
without compass. His expense is measured, not by ability, but will. His
pleasures are immoderate, and not honest. A wanton eye, a liquorish
tongue,
a gamesome hand have impoverished him. The vulgar sort call him
bountiful;
and applaud him while he spends; and recompense him with wishes when be
gives, with pity when he wants: neither can it be denied that he
wrought
true liberality, but overwent it: no man could have lived more
laudably,
if, when he was at the best, he had stayed there. While he is present,
none of the wealthier guests may pay aught to the shot, without much
vehemency,
without danger of unkindness. Use hath made it unpleasant to him not to
spend. He is in all things more ambitious of the title of
good-fellowship
than of wisdom. When he looks into the wealthy chest of his father, his
conceit suggests that it cannot be emptied; and while he takes out some
deal every day, he perceives not any diminution; and when the heap is
sensibly
abated, yet still flatters himself with enough: one hand cozens the
other,
and the belly deceives both. He doth not so much bestow benefits, as
scatter
them: true merit doth not carry them, but smoothness of adulation. His
senses are too much his guides and his purveyors; and appetite is his
steward.
He is an impotent servant to his lusts, and knows not to govern either
his mind or his purse. Improvidence is ever the companion of
unthriftiness.
This man cannot look beyond the present; and neither thinks nor cares
what
shall be; much less suspects what may be: and, while he lavishes out
his
substance in superfluities, thinks he only knows what the world is
worth,
and that others overprize it. He feels poverty before he sees it; never
complains till he be pinched with wants; never spares till the bottom,
when it is too late either to spend or recover. He is every man's
friend
save his own; and then wrongs himself most, when he courteth himself
with
most kindness. He vies time with the slothful; and it is an hard match,
whether chases away good hours to worse purpose: the one, by doing
nothing;
the other, by idle pastime. He hath so dilated himself with the beams
of
prosperity, that he lies open to all dangers; and cannot gather up
himself,
on just warning, to avoid a mischief. He were good for an almoner, ill
for a steward. Finally, he is the living tomb of his forefathers, of
his
posterity; and when he hath swallowed both, is more empty than before
he
devoured them.
The
envious.
HE feeds on others' evils,
and hath
no disease but his neighbours' welfare: whatsoever God do for him, he
cannot
be happy with company; and if he were put to choose whether he would
rather
have equals in a common felecity, or superiors in misery, he would
demur
upon the election. His eye casts out too much, and never returns home
but
to make comparisons with another's good. He is an ill prizer of foreign
commodity; worse, of his own: for that he rates too high; this, under
value.
You shall have him ever inquiring into the estates of his equals and
betters;
wherein he is not more desirous to hear all, than loath to hear any
thing
over good: and if just report relate aught better than he would, he
redoubles
the question, as being hard to believe what he likes not; and hopes
yet,
if that be averred again to his grief, that there is somewhat concealed
in the relation, which if it were known would argue the commended party
miserable, and blemish him with secret shame. He is ready to quarrel
with
God, because the next field is fairer grown; and angrily calculates his
cost and time and tillage. Whom he dares not openly backbite nor wound
with a direct censure, he strikes smoothly, with an overecold praise:
and
when he sees that he must either maliciously oppugn the just praise of
another (which were unsafe), or approve it by assent, he yieldeth; but
shows withal, that his means were such, both by nature and education,
that
he could not, without much neglect, be less commendable: so his
happiness
shall be made the colour of detraction. When an wholesome law is
propounded,
he crosseth it, either by open or close opposition; not for any
incommodity
or inexpedience, but because it proceeded from any mouth besides his
own:
and it must be a cause rarely plausible that will not admit some
probable
contradiction. When his equal should rise to honour, he strives against
it, unseen; and rather, with much cost, suborneth great adversaries:
and
when he sees his resistance vain, he can give an hollow gratulation in
presence; but in secret disparages that advancement: either the man is
unfit for the place, or the place for the man; or if fit, yet less
gainful,
or more common than opinion: whereto he adds, that himself might have
had
the same dignity upon better terms, and refused it. He is witty in
devising
suggestions to bring his rival, out of love, into suspicion: if he be
courteous,
he is seditiously popular; if bountiful, he binds over his clients to a
faction; if successful in war, he is dangerous in peace; if wealthy, he
lays up for a day; if powerful, nothing wants but opportunity of
rebellion.
His submission is ambitious hypocrisy; his religion, politic
insinuation:
no action is safe from a jealous construction. When he receives an ill
report of him whom he emulates, he saith, 'Fame is partial, and is wont
to blanch mischiefs;' and pleaseth himself with hope to find it worse:
and if ill-will have dispersed any more spiteful narration, he lays
hold
on that, against all witnesses; and broacheth that rumour for truest,
because
worst: and when he sees him perfectly miserable, he can at once pity
him
and rejoice. What himself cannot do, others shall not: he hath gained
well,
if he have hindered the success of what he would have done, and could
not.
He conceals his best skill, not so as it may not be known that he knows
it, but so as it may not be learned; because he would have the world
miss
him. He attained to a sovereign medicine by the secret legacy of a
dying
empiric; whereof he will leave no heir, lest the praise should be
divided.
Finally, he is an enemy to God's favours, if they fall beside himself;
the best nurse of ill fame; a man of the worst diet, for he consumes
himself,
and delights in pining; a thorn hedge, covered with nettles; a peevish
interpreter of good things; and no other than a lean and pale carcass
quickened
with a fiend.
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