a catechism.  His fashion and demure habit gets him in with some town-precisian, and makes him a guest on Friday nights.  You shall know him by his narrow velvet cape, and serge facing; and his ruff, next his hair the shortest thing about him.  The companion of his walk is some zealous tradesman, whom he astonishes with strange points, which they both understand alike.  His friends and much painfulness may prefer him to thirty pounds a year, and this means to a chambermaid; with whom we leave him now in the bonds of wedlock:—­next Sunday you shall have him again.

A GRAVE DIVINE

Is one that knows the burthen of his calling, and hath studied to make his shoulders sufficient; for which he hath not been hasty to launch forth of his port, the university, but expected the ballast of learning, and the wind of opportunity.  Divinity is not the beginning but the end of his studies; to which he takes the ordinary stair, and makes the arts his way.  He counts it not profaneness to be polished with human reading, or to smooth his way by Aristotle to school-divinity.  He has sounded both religions, and anchored in the best, and is a protestant out of judgment, not faction; not because his country, but his reason is on this side.  The ministry is his choice, not refuge, and yet the pulpit not his itch, but fear.  His discourse is substance, not all rhetoric, and he utters more things than words.  His speech is not helped with inforced action, but the matter acts itself.  He shoots all his meditations at one butt; and beats upon his text, not the cushion; making his hearers, not the pulpit, groan.  In citing of popish errors, he cuts them with arguments, not cudgels them with barren invectives; and labours more to shew the truth of his cause than the spleen.  His sermon is limited by the method, not the hourglass; and his devotion goes along with him out of the pulpit.  He comes not up thrice a week, because he would not be idle; nor talks three hours together, because he would not talk nothing:  but his tongue preaches at fit times, and his conversation is the every day’s exercise.  In matters of ceremony, he is not ceremonious, but thinks he owes that reverence to the Church to bow his judgment to it, and make more conscience of schism, than a surplice.  He esteems the Church hierarchy as the Church’s glory, and however we jar with Rome, would not have our confusion distinguish us.  In simoniacal purchases he thinks his soul goes in the bargain, and is loath to come by promotion so dear:  yet his worth at length advances him, and the price of his own merit buys him a living.  He is no base grater of his tithes, and will not wrangle for the odd egg.  The lawyer is the only man he hinders, by whom he is spited for taking up quarrels.  He is a main pillar of our church, though not yet dean or canon, and his life our religion’s best apology.  His death is the last sermon, where, in the pulpit of his bed, he instructs men to die by his example.[10]