of that country.  He never spends candle but at Christmas (when he has them for New Year’s gifts), in hope that his servants will break glasses for want of light, which they double pay for in their wages.  His actions are guilty of more crimes than any other men’s, thoughts; and he conceives no sin which he dare not act save only lust, from which he abstains for fear he should be charged with keeping bastards.  Once a year he feasts, the relics of which meal shall serve him the next quarter.  In his talk he rails against eating of breakfasts, drinking betwixt meals, and swears he is impoverished with paying of tithes.  He had rather have the frame of the fall than the price of corn.  If he chance to travel he curses his fortune that his place binds him to ride, and his faithful cloak-bag is sure to take care for his provision.  His nights are as troublesome as his days; every rat awakes him out of his unquiet sleeps.  If he have a daughter to marry, he wishes he were in Hungary, or might follow the custom of that country, that all her portion might be a wedding-gown.  If he fall sick, he had rather die a thousand deaths than pay for any physic; and if he might have his choice, he would not go to heaven but on condition he may put money to use there.  In fine, he lives a drudge, dies a wretch that leaves a heap of pelf, which so many careful hands had scraped together, to haste after him to hell, and by the way it lodges in a lawyer’s purse.

THE PROUD MAN

Is one in whom pride is a quality that condemns every one besides his master, who, when he wears new clothes, thinks himself wronged if they be not observed, imitated, and his discretion in the choice of his fashion and stuff applauded.  When he vouchsafes to bless the air with his presence, he goes as near the wall as his satin suit will give him leave, and every passenger he views under the eyebrows, to observe whether he vails his bonnet low enough, which he returns with an imperious nod.  He never salutes first, but his farewell is perpetual.  In his attire he is effeminate; every hair knows his own station, which if it chance to lose it is checked in again with his pocket-comb.  He had rather have the whole commonwealth out of order than the least member of his muchato, and chooses rather to lose his patrimony than to have his band ruffled.  At a feast, if he be not placed in the highest seat, he eats nothing howsoever; he drinks to no man, talks with no man for fear of familiarity.  He professeth to keep his stomach for the pheasant or the quail, and when they come he can eat little; he hath been so cloyed with them that year, although they be the first he saw.  In his discourse he talks of none but privy councillors, and is as prone to belie their acquaintance as he is a lady’s favours.  If he have but twelve pence in his purse, he will give it for the best room in a playhouse.  He goes to sermons only to show his gay clothes, and if on other inferior days he chance to meet his friend, he is sorry he sees him not in his best suit.