a river dwels. Hee carries a cloud in his face, never faire weather: his outside is framed to his inside, in that hee keepes a decorum, both unseemely. Speake to him; he heares with his eyes, eares follow his mind, and that's not at leysure. He thinkes businesse, but never does any: he is all contemplation, no action. He hewes and fashions his thoughts, as if he meant them to some purpose; but they prove unprofitable, as a peece of wrought timber to no use. His spirits, and the sunne are enemies; the sunne bright and warme, his humour blacke and cold: variety of foolish apparitions people his head, they suffer him not to breathe, according to the necessities of nature; which makes him sup up a draught of as much aire at once, as would serve at thrice. He denies nature her due in sleep, and over-paies her with watchfulnesse: nothing pleaseth him long, but that which pleaseth his owne fantasies: they are the consuming evils, and evill consumptions that consume him alive. Lastly, he is a man onely in shew, but comes short of the better part; a whole reasonable soule, which is mans chiefe preeminence, and sole marke from creatures sensible. A Saylor S a pitcht peece of reason calckt and tackled, and onely studied to dispute with tempests. He is part of his own provision, for he lives ever pickled. A fore-wind is the substance of his creed; and fresh water the burden of his prayers. He is naturally ambitious, for he is ever climing: out of which as naturally he feares; for he is ever flying: time and he are every where, ever contending who shall arrive first: he is well winded, for he tires the day, and out-runs darknesse. His life is like a hawkes, the best part mewed; and if he live till three coates, is a master. Hee sees Gods wonders in the deep: but so, as rather they appeare his play-fellowes, then stirrers of his zeale: nothing but hunger and hard rockes can convert him, and then but his upper decke neither ; for his hold neither feares nor hopes. His sleepes are but repreevals of his dangers, and when he wakes, 'tis but next stage to dying. His wisdome is the coldest part about him, for it ever points to the North and it lies lowest, which makes his valour every tide ore-flow it. In a storme 'tis disputable, whether the noise be more his, or the elements, and which will first leave scolding; on which side of the ship hee may bee saved best, whether his faith bee a river dwels. Hee carries a cloud in his face, never faire weather: his outside is framed to his inside, in that hee keepes a decorum, both unseemely. Speake to him; he heares with his eyes, eares follow his mind, and that's not at leysure. He thinkes businesse, but never does any: he is all contemplation, no action. He hewes and fashions his thoughts, as if he meant them to some purpose; but they prove unprofitable, as a peece of wrought timber to no use. His spirits, and the sunne are enemies; the sunne bright and warme, his humour blacke and cold: variety of foolish apparitions people his head, they suffer him not to breathe, according to the necessities of nature; which makes him sup up a draught of as much aire at once, as would serve at thrice. He denies nature her due in sleep, and over-paies her with watchfulnesse: nothing pleaseth him long, but that which pleaseth his owne fantasies: they are the consuming evils, and evil consumptions that consume him alive. Lastly, he is a man onely in shew, but comes short of the better part; a whole reasonable soule, which is mans chiefe preeminence, and sole marke from creatures sensible. A Saylor S a pitcht peece of reason calckt and tackled, and onely studied to dispute with tempests. He is part of his own provision, for he lives ever pickled. A fore-wind is the substance of his creed; and fresh water the burden of his prayers. He is naturally ambitious, for he is ever climing: out of which as naturally he feares; for he is ever flying: time and he are every where, ever contending who shall arrive first: he is well winded, for he tires the day, and out-runs darknesse. His life is like a hawkes, the best part mewed; and if he live till three coates, is a master. Hee sees Gods wonders in the deep: but so, as rather they appeare his play-fellowes, then stirrers of his zeale: nothing but hunger and hard rockes can convert him, and then but his upper decke neither; for his hold neither feares nor hopes. His sleepes are but repreevals of his dangers, and when he wakes, 'tis but next stage to dying. His wisdome is the coldest part about him, for it ever points to the North and it lies lowest, which makes his valour every tide ore-flow it. In a storme 'tis disputable, whether the noise be more his, or the elements, and which will first leave scolding; on which side of the ship hee may bee saved best, whether his faith bee starre-boord faith, or lar-boord; or the helme at that time not all his hope of heaven: his keele is the embleme of his conscience, till it be split he never repents, then no farther than the land allowes him, and his language is a new confusion, and all his thoughts new nations: his body and his ship are both one burthen, nor is it knowne who stowes most wine, or rowles most, only the ship is guided, he has no sterne: a barnacle and hee are bred together, both of one nature, and 'tis fear'd one reason: upon any but a wooden horse he cannot ride, and if the wind blow against him, he dare not: he swarves up to his seat as to a saile-yard, and cannot sit unlesse he beare a flag-staffe: if ever he be broken to the saddle, 'tis but a voyage still, for he mis-takes the bridle for a bowlin, and is ever turning his horse-taile: he can pray, but 'tis by rote, not faith, and when he would hee dares not, for his brackish beleefe hath made that ominous. A rock or a quicke-sand plucks him before hee bee ripe, else he is gathered to his friends at Wapping. A Souldier S the husband-man of valour, his sword is his plough, which Honour and Aquavita, two fiery metald jades, are ever drawing. A younger brother best becomes armes, |