A FAIR AND HAPPY MILKMAID

Is a country wench, that is so far from making herself beautiful by art, that one look of her is able to put all 'face-physic" out of countenance. She knows a fair look is. but a dumb orator to commend virtue, therefore minds it not. All her excellences stand in her so silently, as if they had stolen upon her without her knowledge. The lining of her apparel (which is herself) is far better than outsides of tissue; for though she be not arrayed in the spoil of the silkworm, she is decked in innocency, a far better wearing. She doth not, with lying long a-bed, spoil both her complexion and conditions: nature has taught her, too immoderate sleep is rust to the soul; she rises therefore with chanticleer, her dame's cock, and at night makes the lamb her curfew. In milking a cow, and straining the teats through her fingers, it seems that so sweet a milkpress makes the milk the whiter or sweeter; for never came almond glove or aromatic ointment on her palm to taint it. The golden ears of corn fall and kiss her feet when she reaps them, as if they wished to be bound and led prisoners by the same hand that felled them. Her breath is her own, which scents all the year long of June, like a newmade haycock. She makes her hand hard with labour, and her heart soft with pity; and when winter evenings fall early (sitting at her merry wheel) she sings a defiance to the giddy wheel of fortune. She doth all things with so sweet a grace, it seems ignorance will not suffer her to do ill, being her mind is to do well. She bestows her year's wages at next fair; and in choosing her garments, counts no bravery in the world like decency. The garden and beehive are all her physic and chirurgery, and she lives the

longer for it. She dares go alone and infold sheep in the night, and fears no manner of ill, because she means none; yet, to say truth, she is never alone, for she is still accompanied with old songs, honest thoughts, and prayers, but short ones; yet they have their efficacy, in that they are not palled with ensuing idle cogitations. Lastly, her dreams are so chaste, that she dare tell them; only a Friday's dream is all her superstition-that she conceals for fear of anger. Thus lives she, and all her care is she may die in the spring-time, to have store of flowers stuck upon her winding-sheet.

A FRANKLIN.

His outside is an ancient yeoman of England, though his inside may give arms (with the best gentlemen) and never see the herald. There is no truer servant in the house than himself. Though he be master, he says not to his servants, "Go to field," but, "Let us go;" and with his own eye doth both fatten his flock and set forward all manner of husbandry. He is taught by nature to be contented with a little; his own fold yields him both food and raiment; he is pleased with any nourishment God sends, whilst curious gluttony ransacks, as it were, Noah's ark for food, only to feed the riot of one meal. He is never known to go to law; understanding, to be law-bound among men is like to be hide-bound among his beasts-they thrive not under it; and that such men sleep as unquietly as if their pillows were stuffed with lawyers' penknives. When he builds, no poor tenant's cottage hinders his prospect; they are, indeed, his almshouses, though there be painted on them no such superscription: he never sits up late, but when he hunts the

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badger, the avowed foe of his lambs; nor uses he any cruelty, but when he hunts the hare; nor subtlety, but when he sets snares for the snipe, or pitfalls for the blackbird nor oppression, but when, in the month of July, he goes to the next river and shears his sheep. He allows of honest pastime, and thinks not the bones of the dead anything bruised, or the worse for it, though the country lasses dance in the churchyard after even-song. Rock-Monday, and the wake in summer, shrovings, the wakeful catches on Christmas Eve, the hoky, or seed-cake, these he yearly keeps, yet holds them no relics of Popery. He is not so inquisitive after news derived from the privy-closet, when the finding an eyry of hawks in his own ground are tidings more pleasant, more profitable. He is lord paramount within himself, though he hold by never so mean a tenure; and dies the more contentedly (though he leave his heir young) in regard he leaves him not liable to a covetous guardian. Lastly, to end him; he cares not when his end comes, he needs not fear his audit, for his quietus is in heaven.

AN HOSTLER

Is a thing that scrubs unreasonably his horse, reasonably himself. He consists of travellers, though he be none himself. His highest ambition is to be host, and the invention of his sign is his greatest wit; for the expressing whereof he sends away the painters for want of understanding. He hath certain charms for a horse's mouth, that he should not eat his hay; and behind your back he will cozen your horse to his face. His currycomb is one of his best parts, for he expresses much by the jingling; and his mane-comb is a spinner's card turned out of service. He puffs and

blows over your horse, to the hazard of a double jug; and leaves much of the dressing to the proverb of Muli mutuo scabient, "One horse rubs another." He comes to him that calls loudest, not first; he takes a broken head patiently, but the knave he feels not. His utmost honesty is good fellowship, and he speaks Northern, what countryman soever. He hath a pension of ale from the next smith and saddler for intelligence: he loves to see you ride, and holds your stirrup in expectation.

A SERVING-MAN

Is a creature which, though he be not drunk, yet is not his own man. He tells without asking who owns him, by the superscription of his livery. His life is for ease and leisure, much about gentleman-like. His wealth enough to suffice nature, and sufficient to make him happy, if he were sure of it; for he has little, and wants nothing, he values himself higher or lower, as his master is. He hates or loves the men, as his master does the master. He is commonly proud of his master's horses, or his Christmas: he sleeps when he is sleepy, is of his religion, only the clock of his stomach is set to go an hour after his. He seldom breaks his own clothes. He never drinks but double, for he must be pledged; nor commonly without some short sentence nothing to the purpose; and seldom abstains till he comes to a thirst. His discretion is to be careful for his master's credit, and his sufficiency to marshal dishes at a table, and to carve well. His neatness consists much in his hair and outward linen. His courting language, visible jests; and against his matter fail, he is always ready furnished with a song. His inheritance is the chamber-maid, but often

purchases his master's daughter, by reason of opportunity, or for want of a better. His master being appeased, he becomes a retainer, and entails himself and his posterity upon his heirs male for ever.

AN ALMANAC-MAKER

Is the worst part of an astronomer; a certain compact of figures, characters, and ciphers, out of which he scores the fortune of a year, not so profitably as doubtfully. He is tenant by custom to the planets, of whom he holds the twelve houses by lease parole: to them he pays yearly rent, his study, and time; yet lets them out again (with all his heart) for forty shillings per annum. His life is merely contemplative; for his practice, it is worth nothing, at least not worthy of credit; and if (by chance) he purchase any, he loseth it again at the year's end, for time brings truth to light. Ptolemy and Ticho Brache are his patrons, whose volumes he understands not, but admires; and the rather because they are strangers, and so easier to be credited, than controlled. His life is upright, for he is always looking upward; yet dares believe nothing above primum mobile, for it is out of the reach of his Jacob's staff. His charity extends no further than to mountebanks to whom he bequeaths the seasons of the year. The verses in his book have a worse pace than ever had Rochester hackney: for his prose, it is dappled with inkhorn terms, and may serve for an almanac; but for his judging at the uncertainty of weather, any old shepherd shall make a dunce of him. He would be thought the devil's intelligencer for stolen goods, if ever he steal out of that quality; as a fly turns to a maggot, so the corruption of the cunning man is the