uilty 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