want, nor come near the Parliament house, because it should have been blown up.  What might have been affects him as much as what will be.  Argue, vow, protest, swear, he hears thee, and believes himself.  He is a sceptic, and dare hardly give credit to his senses, which he hath often arraigned of false intelligence.  He so lives, as if he thought all the world were thieves, and were not sure whether himself were one.  He is uncharitable in his censures, unquiet in his fears, bad enough always, but in his own opinion much worse than he is.

OF THE AMBITIOUS.

Ambition is a proud covetousness, a dry thirst of honour, the longing disease of reason, an aspiring and gallant madness.  The ambitious climbs up high and perilous stairs, and never cares how to come down; the desire of rising hath swallowed up his fear of a fall.  Having once cleaved like a burr to some great man’s coat, he resolves not to be shaken off with any small indignities, and, finding his hold thoroughly fast, casts how to insinuate yet nearer.  And therefore he is busy and servile in his endeavours to please, and all his officious respects turn home to himself.  He can be at once a slave to command, an intelligencer to inform, a parasite to soothe and flatter, a champion to defend, an executioner to revenge anything for an advantage of favour.  He hath projected a plot to rise, and woe be to the friend that stands in his way.  He still haunteth the court, and his unquiet spirit haunteth him, which, having fetched him from the secure peace of his country rest, sets him new and impossible tasks, and, after many disappointments, encourages him to try the same sea in spite of his shipwrecks, and promise better success.  A small hope gives him heart against great difficulties, and draws on new expense, new servility, persuading him like foolish boys to shoot away a second shaft, that he may find the first.  He yieldeth, and now secure of the issue, applauds himself in that honour, which he still affecteth, still misseth; and, for the last of all trials, will rather bribe for a troublesome preferment than return void of a title.  But now, when he finds himself desperately crossed, and at once spoiled both of advancement and hope, both of fruition and possibility, all his desire is turned into rage, his thirst is now only of revenge, his tongue sounds of nothing but detraction and slander.  Now the place he fought for is base, his rival unworthy, his adversary injurious, officers corrupt, court infectious; and how well is he that may be his own man, his own master, that may live safely in a mean distance, at pleasure, free from starving, free from burning?  But if his designs speed well, ere he be warm in that feat, his mind is possessed of an higher.  What he hath is but a degree to what he would have.  Now he scorneth what he formerly aspired to.  His success doth not give him so much contentment as provocation; neither can he be at rest so long as he hath one,