A GOOD OLD MAN

Is the best antiquity, and which we may with least vanity admire.  One whom time hath been thus long a working, and like winter fruit, ripened when others are shaken down.  He hath taken out as many lessons of the world as days, and learnt the best thing in it; the vanity of it.  He looks over his former life as a danger well past, and would not hazard himself to begin again.  His lust was long broken before his body, yet he is glad this temptation is broke too, and that he is fortified from it by this weakness.  The next door of death sads him not, but he expects it calmly as his turn in nature; and fears more his recoiling back to childishness than dust.  All men look on him as a common father, and on old age, for his sake, as a reverent thing.  His very presence and face puts vice out of countenance, and makes it an indecorum in a vicious man.  He practises his experience on youth without the harshness of reproof, and in his counsel is good company.  He has some old stories still of his own seeing to confirm what he says, and makes them better in the telling; yet is not troublesome neither with the same tale again, but remembers with them how oft he has told them.  His old sayings and morals seem proper to his beard; and the poetry of Cato does well out of his mouth, and he speaks it as if he were the author.  He is not apt to put the boy on a younger man, nor the fool on a boy, but can distinguish gravity from a sour look; and the less testy he is, the more regarded.  You must pardon him if he like his own times better than these, because those things are follies to him now that were wisdom then; yet he makes us of that opinion too when we see him, and conjecture those times by so good a relic.  He is a man capable of a dearness with the youngest men, yet he not youthfuller for them, but they older for him; and no man credits more his acquaintance.  He goes away at last too soon whensoever, with all men’s sorrow but his own; and his memory is fresh, when it is twice as old.

A FLATTERER

Is the picture of a friend, and as pictures flatter many times, so he oft shews fairer than the true substance:  his look, conversation, company, and all the outwardness of friendship more pleasing by odds, for a true friend dare take the liberty to be sometimes offensive, whereas he is a great deal more cowardly, and will not let the least hold go, for fear of losing you.  Your mere sour look affrights him, and makes him doubt his cashiering.  And this is one sure mark of him, that he is never first angry, but ready though upon his own wrong to make satisfaction.  Therefore he is never yoked with a poor man, or any that stands on the lower ground, but whose fortunes may tempt his pains to deceive him.  Him he learns first, and learns well, and grows perfecter in his humours than himself, and by this door enters upon his soul, of