om worth, and his nobility a
dispensation for doing things ignoble. He expects that men's hats should
fly off before him like a storm, and not presume to stand in the way of
his prospect, which is always over their heads. All the advantage he has
is but to go before or sit before, in which his nether parts take place
of his upper, that continue still, in comparison, but commoners. He is
like an open summer-house, that has no furniture but bare seats. All he
has to show for his honour is his patent, which will not be in season
until the third or fourth generation, if it lasts so long. His very
creation supposes him nothing before, and as tailors rose by the fall of
Adam, and came in, like thorns and thistles, with the curse, so did he
by the frailty of his master. His very face is his gentleman-usher, that
walks before him in state, and cries "Give way!" He is as stiff as if he
had been dipped in petrifying water and turned into his own statue. He
is always taking the name of his honour in vain, and will rather damn it
like a knighthood of the post than want occasion to pawn it for every
idle trifle, perhaps for more than it is worth, or any man will give to
redeem it; and in this he deals uprightly, though perhaps in
nothing else.

A MALICIOUS MAN

Has a strange natural inclination to all ill intents and purposes. He
bears nothing so resolutely as ill-will, which he takes naturally to, as
some do to gaming, and will rather hate for nothing than sit out. He
believes the devil is not so bad as he should be, and therefore
endeavours to make him worse by drawing him into his own party offensive
and defensive; and if he would but be ruled by him, does not doubt but
to make him understand his business much better than he does. He lays
nothing to heart but malice, which is so far from doing him hurt that it
is the only cordial that preserves him. Let him use a man never so
civilly to his face, he is sure to hate him behind his back. He has no
memory for any good that is done him; but evil, whether it be done him
or not, never leaves him, as things of the same kind always keep
together. Love and hatred, though contrary passions, meet in him as a
third and unite, for he loves nothing but to hate, and hates nothing but
to love. All the truths in the world are not able to produce so much
hatred as he is able to supply. He is a common enemy to the world, for
being born to the hatred of it, Nature, that provides for everything