A Prisoner S one that hath beene a monied man, and is still a very close fellow; whoso ever is of his acquaintance, let them make much of him, for they shall find him as fast a friend as any in England: he is a sure man, and you know where to find him. The corruption of a bankerupt, is commonly the generation of this creature: hee dwels on the back side of the world, or in the suburbs of society, and lives in a tenement which he is sure none will goe about to take over his head. To a man that walkes abroad, he is one of the antipodes, that goes on the top of the world; and this under it. At his first comming in, hee is a peece of new coyne, all sharking old prisoners lye sucking at his purse. An old man and he are much alike, neither of them both goe farre. They are still angry, and peevish, and they sleepe little. Hee was borne at the fall of Babel, the confusion of languages is onely in his mouth. All the vacations, he speakes as good English, as any man in England; in tearme times he breaks out of that and hopping one-legg'd pace, into a racking trot of issues, billes, replications, rejoynders, demurres, querelles, subpena's, &c. able to fright a simple countrey fellow, and make him beleeve he conjures. Whatsoever : his complexion was before, it turnes (in this place) to choler or deepe melancholy, so that hee needs every houre to take physick to loose his body, for that (like his estate) is very foule and corrupt, and extremely hard bound. The taking of an execution off his stomack, gives him five or sixe stooles, and leaves his body very soluble. The withdrawing of an action, is a vomit. Hee is no sound man, and yet an utter Barrester (nay, a sergeant of the case) will feed heartily upon him, hee is very good picking meat for a lawyer. The barber surgeons may (if they will) beg him for an anatomie after hee hath suffered execution; an excellent lecture may bee made upon his body hee is a kind of dead carkasse, creditors, lawyers, and jaylors devoure it: creditors peck out his eyes with his owne teares, lawyers flay off his owne skinne, and lappe him in parchment, and jaylors are the promethean vultures that gnaw his very heart. Hee is a bond-slave to the law, and (albeit he were a shop-keeper in London) yet he cannot with safe conscience write himselfe a freeman. His religion is of five or six colours; this day he prayes that God may turne the hearts of his creditors: and to morrow he curseth the hour that ever he saw them. His apparell is dawb'd commonly with statute lace, the suit it selfe of durance, and the hose full of long paines. He hath many other lasting suits, which he himselfe is never able to weare out, for they weare out him. The Zodiaque of his life, is like that of the Sun (marry not halfe so glorious.) It begins in Aries, and ends in Pisces. Both head and feet are (all the yeare long) in troublesome and laborious motions, and Westminster Hall is his spheare. Hee lives betweenne the two tropiques, (Cancer and Capricorne) and by that means is in double danger (of crabbed creditors) for his purse, and hornes for his head, if his wives heeles bee light. If hee be a gentleman, he alters his armes so soone as he comes in. Few (heere) carry fields or argent, but whatsoever they bare before, here they give onely sables. Whiles he lies by it, he's travelling ore the Alps, and the hearts of his creditors are the snows that lye unmelted in the middle of Sommer. He is an almanack out of date: none of his daies speake of faire weather. Of all the files of men, hee marcheth in the last, and comes limping, for he is shot, and is no man of this world, unlesse he be fetcht off nobly. He hath lost his way, and being benighted, strayed into a wood full of wolves, and nothing so hard as to get away, without being devoured. Hee that walkes from six to six in Pauls, goes still but a quoites cast before this man. A Creditour S a fellow that torments men for their good conditions. He is one of Deuca lions sons begotten of a stone. The marble images in the Temple Church, that lye crosselegg'd, doe much resemble him, saving that this is a little more crosse. Hee weares a forfeited bond under that part of his girdle where his thumb stickes, with as much pride as a Welchman does a leek on S. Davids day, and quarrels more and longer about it. He is a catchpoles mornings draught: for the newes that such a gallant's come yesternight to towne, drawes out of him both muscadel and mony too. He saies the Lords praier backwards, or (to speake better of him) he hath a pater noster by himself, and that particle, Forgive us our debts, as we forgive others, &c. he either quite leaves out, or els leaps over it. It is a dangerous rub in the alley of his conscience. He is the bloud-hound of the law, and hunts counter, very swiftly and with great judgement. He hath a quicke sent to smell out his game, and a good deepe mouth to pursue it, yet never opens till he bites, and bites not till hee killes, or at least drawes bloud, and then hee pincheth most doggedly. Hee is a lawyers moyle, and the onely beast upon which he ambles so often to Westminster. And a lawyer is his God Almighty, in him only he trusts, to him he flyes in all his troubles, from him he seekes succour; to him he prayes, that hee may by his meanes overcome his enemies: him does hee worship both in the temple and abroad, and hopes by him and good Angels, to prosper in all his actions. A scrivener is his farriar, and helps to recover all his diseased and maimed obligations. Every tearme he sets up a tenters in Westminster Hall, upon which he rackes and stretches gentlemen like English broadcloth, beyond the staple of the wooll, till the threds cracke, and that causeth them with the least wet to shrink, and presently to weare bare: marrie hee handles a citizen (at least if himselfe be one) like a peece of Spanish cloth, gives him onely a touch, and straines him not too hard, knowing how apt he is to break of himselfe, and then he can cut nothing out of him but shreds. To the one, he comes like Tamberlaine, with his blacke and bloudy flag. But to the other, his white one hangs out, and (upon the parley) rather then faile, he takes ten groats i'th' pound for his ransom, and so lets him march away with bag and baggage. From the beginning of Hilary to th' end of Michaelmas, his purse is full of quicksilver, and that sets him running from sun-rise to sun-set up Fleet street, and so to the Chancery, from thence to Westminster, then back to one court, after that to another; then to M |