flies at all but his own kind; and as a whale never comes ashore but when she is wounded, so he very seldom but for his necessities.  He is the merchant’s book that serves only to reckon up his losses, a perpetual plague to noble traffic, the hurricane of the sea, and the earthquake of the exchange.  Yet for all this give him but his pardon and forgive him restitution, he may live to know the inside of a church, and die on this side Wapping.

AN ORDINARY FENCER

Is a fellow that, beside shaving of cudgels, hath a good insight into the world, for he hath long been beaten to it.  Flesh and blood he is like other men, but surely nature meant him stockfish.  His and a dancing-school are inseparable adjuncts, and are bound, though both stink of sweat most abominable, neither shall complain of annoyance.  Three large bavins set up his trade, with a bench, which, in the vacation of the afternoon, he used for his day-bed.  When he comes on the stage at his prize he makes a leg seven several ways, and scrambles for money, as if he had been born at the Bath in Somersetshire.  At his challenge he shows his metal, for, contrary to all rules of physic, he dares bleed, though it be in the dog-days.  He teaches devilish play in his school, but when he fights himself he doth it in the fear of a good Christian; he compounds quarrels among his scholars, and when he hath brought the business to a good upshot he makes the reckoning.  His wounds are seldom above skin deep; for an inward bruise lamb-stones and sweetbreads are his only spermaceti, which he eats at night next his heart fasting.  Strange schoolmasters they are that every day set a man as far backward as he went forward, and throwing him into a strange posture, teach him to thresh satisfaction out of injury.  One sign of a good nature is that he is still open-breasted to his friends; for his foil and his doublet wear not out above two buttons, and resolute he is, for he so much scorns to take blows that he never wears cuffs; and he lives better contented with a little than other men, for if he have two eyes in his head he thinks nature hath overdone him.  The Lord Mayor’s triumph makes him a man, for that’s his best time to flourish.  Lastly, these fencers are such things that care not if all the world were ignorant of more letters than only to read their patent.

A PUNY CLERK.

He is taken from grammar-school half coddled, and can hardly shake off his dreams of breeching in a twelvemonth.  He is a farmer’s son, and his father’s utmost ambition is to make him an attorney.  He doth itch towards a poet, and greases his breeches extremely with feeding without a napkin.  He studies false dice to cheat costermongers.  He eats gingerbread at a playhouse, and is so saucy that he ventures fairly for a broken pate at the banqueting-house, and hath it.  He would never come to have any wit but for