A MERE FELLOW OF AN HOUSE

Examines all men’s carriage but his own, and is so kind-natured to himself, he finds fault with all men’s but his own.  He wears his apparel much after the fashion; his means will not suffer him to come too nigh.  They afford him mock-velvet or satinisco, but not without the college’s next lease’s acquaintance.  His inside is of the self-same fashion, not rich; but as it reflects from the glass of self-liking, there Croesus is Irus to him.  He is a pedant in show, though his title be tutor, and his pupils in a broader phrase are schoolboys.  On these he spends the false gallop of his tongue, and with senseless discourse tows them alone, not out of ignorance.  He shows them the rind, conceals the sap; by this means he keeps them the longer, himself the better.  He hath learnt to cough and spit and blow his nose at every period, to recover his memory, and studies chiefly to set his eyes and beard to a new form of learning.  His religion lies in wait for the inclination of his patron, neither ebbs nor flows, but just standing water, between Protestant and Puritan.  His dreams are of plurality of benefices and non-residency, and when he rises acts a long grace to his looking-glass.  Against he comes to be some great man’s chaplain he hath a habit of boldness, though a very coward.  He speaks swords, fights ergos.  His peace on foot is a measure, on horseback a gallop, for his legs are his own, though horse and spurs are borrowed.  He hath less use than possession of books.  He is not so proud but he will call the meanest author by his name; nor so unskilled in the heraldry of a study but he knows each man’s place.  So ends that fellowship and begins another.

A MERE PETTIFOGGER

Is one of Samson’s foxes; he sets men together by the ears, more shamefully than pillories, and in a long vacation his sport is to go a fishing with the penal statutes.  He cannot err before judgment, and then you see it, only writs of error are the tariers that keep his client undoing somewhat the longer.  He is a vestryman in his parish, and easily sets his neighbour at variance with the vicar, when his wicked counsel on both sides is like weapons put into men’s hands by a fencer, whereby they get blows, he money.  His honesty and learning bring him to Under-Shrieveship, which, having thrice run through, he does not fear the Lieutenant of the Shire; nay more, he fears not God.  Cowardice holds him a good commonwealth’s-man; his pen is the plough and parchment the soil whence he reaps both coin and curses.  He is an earthquake that willingly will let no ground lie in quiet.  Broken titles makes him whole; to have half in the country break their bonds were the only liberty of conscience.  He would wish, though he be a Brownist, no neighbour of his should pay his tithes duly, if such suits held continual plea at Westminster.