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He casts a smiling contempt upon calumny; it meets him as if glass should encounter adamant. He thinks war is never to be given over but on one of these three conditions: an assured peace, absolute victory, or an honest death. Lastly, when peace folds him up, his silver head should lean near the golden sceptre, and die in his prince's bosom.

A VAINGLORIOUS COWARD IN COMMAND Is one that has bought his place, or come to it by some nobleman's letter: he prefers that death may happen in his company by the scurvy, rather than by a battle. View him at a muster, and he goes with such noise, as if his body were the wheel-barrow that carried his judgment rumbling to drill his soldiers. No man can worse define between pride and noble courtesy: he that salutes him not so far as a pistol carries level gives him the disgust, or affront, choose you whether. He trains by the book, and reckons so many postures of the pike and musket, as if he were counting at noddy. When he comes at first upon a camisado, he looks like the four winds in painting, as if he would blow away the enemy; but at the very first onset, suffers fear and trembling to dress themselves in his face apparently. He scorns any man should take place before him: yet, at the entering of a breach, he has been so humble-minded, as to let his lieutenant lead his troops for him. He is so sure armed for taking hurt, that he seldom does any: and while he is putting on his arms, he is thinking what sum he can make to satisfy his ransom. He will rail openly against all the great commanders of the adverse party; yet in his own conscience allows them for better men. Such is the nature of his fear, that con

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trary to all other filthy qualities it makes him think better of another man than himself. The first part of him that is set a running, is his eyesight: when that is once struck with terror, all the costive physic in the world cannot stay him; if ever he do anything beyond his own heart, it is for a knighthood, and he is the first who kneels for it without bidding.

A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN

Is a thing out of whose corruption the generation of a justice of peace is produced. He speaks statutes and husbandry well enough to make his neighbours think him a wise man; he is well skilled in arithmetic or rates, and has eloquence enough to save his twopence. His conversation amongst his tenants is desperate; but amongst his equals full of doubt. His travel is seldom farther than the next market town, and his inquisition is about the price of corn; when he travels, he will go ten miles out of the way to a cousin's house of his to save charges, and rewards the servants by taking them by the hand when he departs. Nothing under a subpœna can draw him to London; and when he is there, he sticks fast upon every object, casts his eyes away upon gazing, and becomes the prey of every cutpurse. When he comes home, those wonders serve him for his holiday talk. If he go to court, it is in yellow stockings; and if it be in winter, in a slight taffety cloak and pumps and pantofles. He is so eager that he wooes the usher for his coming into the presence, where he becomes troublesome with the ill managing of his rapier, and the wearing of his girdle of one fashion, and the hangers of another. By this time he has learned to kiss his hand and make a leg

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both together, and the names of lords and councillors; he has thus much toward entertainment and courtesy, but of the last he makes more use; for by the recital of "my Lord," he conjures his poor countrymen. But this is not his element; he must home again, being like a Dor, that ends his flight in a dunghill.

A FINE GENTLEMAN

Is the cinnamon tree, whose bark is more worth than his body. He has read the book of good manners, and by this time each of his limbs may read it. He allows of no judge but the eye; painting, bolstering, and bombasting are his orators: by these also he proves his industry; for he has purchased legs, hair, beauty, and straightness, more than nature left him. He speaks euphues, not so gracefully as heartily. His discourse makes not his behaviour, but he buys it at court, as countrymen their clothes in Birchin Lane. He is somewhat like the salamander, and lives in the flame of love, which pains he expresses comically and nothing grieves him so much as the want of a poet to make an issue in his love; yet he sighs sweetly, and speaks lamentably for his breath is perfumed, and his words are wind. He is best in season at Christmas, for the boar's head and reveller come together: his hopes are laden in his quality and lest fiddlers should take him unprovided, he wears pumps in his pocket: and lest he should take them unprovided, he whistles his own galliard. He is a calender of ten years, and marriage rusts him. Afterwards, he maintains himself an implement of household, by carving and ushering. For all this, he is judicial only in tailors and barbers, but his opinion is ever ready and ever idle. If

you will know more of his acts, the broker's shop is the witness of his valour, where lies wounded, dead, rent, and out of fashion, many a spruce suit, overthrown by his fantastic

ness.

A COURTIER

To all men's thinking is a man, and to most men the finest : all things else are defined by the understanding, but this by the senses; but his surest mark is, that he is to be found only about princes. He smells; and puts away much of his judgment about the situation of his clothes. He knows no man that is not generally known. His wit, like the marigold, opens with the sun, and therefore he rises not before ten o'clock. He puts more confidence in his words than meaning, and more in his pronunciation than his words. Occasion is his Cupid, and he has but one recipe for making love. He follows nothing but inconstancy, admires nothing but beauty, honours nothing but fortune— loves nothing. The sustenance of his discourse is news, and his censure like a shot depends upon the charging. He is naught if he be out of court. Neither his motion or aspect are regular, but he moves by the upper spheres, and is the reflection of higher substances.

If you find him not here, you shall in Paul's, with a picktooth in his hat, a capecloak, and a long stocking.

AN INNS-OF-COURT MAN.

He is distinguished from a scholar by a pair of silk stockings and a beaver hat, which make him contemn a scholar as much as a scholar does a schoolmaster. By that he has heard one mooting, and seen two plays, he thinks as basely

of the university as a young sophister does of the grammarschool. He talks of the university with that state, as if he were her chancellor; finds fault with alterations, and the fall of discipline, with an "It was not so when I was a student," although that was within this half-year. He will talk ends of Latin, though it be false, with as great confidence as ever Cicero could pronounce an oration, though his best authors for it be taverns and ordinaries. He is as far behind a courtier in his fashion, as a scholar is behind him and the best grace in his behaviour is to forget his acquaintance.

He laughs at every man whose band sits not well, or that has not a fair shoe-tie, and he is ashamed to be seen in any man's company that wears not his clothes well. His very essence he places in his outside, and his chiefest prayer is, that his revenues may hold out for taffety cloaks in the summer and velvet in the winter. To his acquaintance he offers two quarts of wine for one he gives. You shall never see him melancholy, but when he wants a new suit, or fears a sergeant: at which times only he betakes himself to Ploydon. By that he hath read Lyttleton, he can call Solon, Lycurgus, and Justinian fools, and dares compare his law to a Lord Chief-Justice's.

A MERE SCHOLAR.

A mere scholar is an intelligible ass: or a silly fellow in black, that speaks sentences more familiarly than sense. The antiquity of his university is his creed, and the excellency of his college (though but for a match at football) an article of his faith: he speaks Latin better than his mothertongue; and is a stranger in no part of the world but his

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