and then one to the other.  Nature hath furnished him with a little more wit upon compassion, for it is like to be his best revenue.  If his annuity stretch so far, he is sent to the university, and with great heart-burning takes upon him the ministry, as a profession he is condemned to by his ill fortune.  Others take a more crooked path yet, the king’s high-way; where at length their vizard is plucked off, and they strike fair for Tyburn:  but their brother’s pride, not love, gets them a pardon.  His last refuge is the Low-countries,[18] where rags and lice are no scandal, where he lives a poor gentleman of a company, and dies without a shirt.  The only thing that may better his fortunes is an art he has to make a gentlewoman, wherewith he baits now and then some rich widow that is hungry after his blood.  He is commonly discontented and desperate, and the form of his exclamation is, that churl my brother.  He loves not his country for this unnatural custom, and would have long since revolted to the Spaniard, but for Kent[19] only, which he holds in admiration.

A MERE FORMAL MAN

Is somewhat more than the shape of a man, for he has his length, breadth, and colour.  When you have seen his outside, you have looked through him, and need employ your discovery no farther.  His reason is merely example, and his action is not guided by his understanding, but he sees other men do thus, and he follows them.  He is a negative, for we cannot call him a wise man, but not a fool; nor an honest man, but not a knave; nor a protestant, but not a papist.  The chief burden of his brain is the carriage of his body and the setting of his face in a good frame; which he performs the better, because he is not disjointed with other meditations.  His religion is a good quiet subject, and he prays as he swears, in the phrase of the land.  He is a fair guest, and a fair inviter, and can excuse his good cheer in the accustomed apology.  He has some faculty in the mangling of a rabbit, and the distribution of his morsel to a neighbour’s trencher.  He apprehends a jest by seeing men smile, and laughs orderly himself, when it comes to his turn.  His businesses with his friends are to visit them, and whilst the business is no more, he can perform this well enough.  His discourse is the news that he hath gathered in his walk, and for other matters his discretion is, that he will only what he can, that is, say nothing.  His life is like one that runs to the church-walk,[20] to take a turn or two, and so passes.  He hath staid in the world to fill a number; and when he is gone, there wants one, and there’s an end.

A CHURCH-PAPIST