burdensome, mediocrity contemptible.  Everything faulteth, either in too much or too little.  This man is ever headstrong and self-willed, neither is he always tied to esteem or pronounce according to reason; some things he must dislike he knows not wherefore, but he likes them not; and otherwhere, rather than not censure, he will accuse a man of virtue.  Everything he meddleth with he either findeth imperfect or maketh so; neither is there anything that soundeth so harsh in his ear as the commendation of another; whereto yet perhaps he fashionably and coldly assenteth, but with such an after-clause of exception as doth more than mar his former allowance; and if he list not to give a verbal disgrace, yet he shakes his head and smiles, as if his silence should say, I could and will not.  And when himself is praised without excess, he complains that such imperfect kindness hath not done him right.  If but an unseasonable shower cross his recreation, he is ready to fall out with heaven, and thinks he is wronged if God will not take his times when to rain, when to shine.  He is a slave to envy, and loseth flesh with fretting—­not so much at his own infelicity as at others’ good; neither hath he leisure to joy in his own blessings whilst another prospereth.  Fain would he see some mutinies, but dares not raise them; and suffers his lawless tongue to walk through the dangerous paths of conceited alterations; but so, as in good manners he had rather thrust every man before him when it comes to acting.  Nothing but fear keeps him from conspiracies, and no man is more cruel when he is not manacled with danger.  He speaks nothing but satires and libels, and lodgeth no guests in his heart but rebels.  The inconstant and he agree well in their felicity, which both place in change; but herein they differ—­the inconstant man affects that which will be, the malcontent commonly that which was.  Finally, he is a querulous cur, whom no horse can pass by without barking at; yea, in the deep silence of night the very moonshine openeth his clamorous mouth.  He is the wheel of a well-couched firework, that flies out on all sides, not without scorching itself.  Every ear is long ago weary of him, and he is now almost weary of himself.  Give him but a little respite, and he will die alone, of no other death than other’s welfare.

OF THE INCONSTANT.

The inconstant man treads upon a moving earth and keeps no pace.  His proceedings are ever heady and peremptory, for he hath not the patience to consult with reason, but determines merely upon fancy.  No man is so hot in the pursuit of what he liketh, no man sooner wearies.  He is fiery in his passions, which yet are not more violent than momentary; it is a wonder if his love or hatred last so many days as a wonder.  His heart is the inn of all good motions, wherein, if they lodge for a night, it is well; by morning they are gone, and take no leave; and if they