mouth is his trumpet to proclaim it. With the superfluity of his usury
he builds an hospital, and harbours them whom his extortion hath
spoiled; so while he makes many beggars he keeps some. He turneth all
gnats into camels, and cares not to undo the world for a circumstance.
Flesh on a Friday is more abomination to him than his neighbour's bed:
he more abhors not to uncover at the name of Jesus than to swear by the
name of God. When a rhymer reads his poem to him he begs a copy, and
persuades the press there is nothing that he dislikes in presence that
in absence he censures not. He comes to the sick-bed of his stepmother,
and weeps when he secretly fears her recovery. He greets his friend in
the street with so clear a countenance, so fast a closure, that the
other thinks he reads his heart in his face, and shakes hands with an
indefinite invitation of "When will you come?" and when his back is
turned, joys that he is so well rid of a guest; yet if that guest visit
him unfeared, he counterfeits a smiling welcome, and excuses his cheer,
when closely he frowns on his wife for too much. He shows well, and says
well, and himself is the worst thing he hath. In brief, he is the
stranger's saint, the neighbour's disease, the blot of goodness, a
rotten stick in a dark night, a poppy in a corn-field, an ill-tempered
candle with a great snuff that in going out smells ill; and an angel
abroad, a devil at home, and worse when an angel than when a devil.



OF THE BUSYBODY.

His estate is too narrow for his mind, and therefore he is fain to make
himself room in others' affairs, yet ever in pretence of love. No news
can stir but by his door, neither can he know that which he must not
tell. What every man ventures in Guiana voyage, and what they gained, he