A TRAVELLER.

One so made out of the mixture of shreds and forms that himself is truly
deformed. He walks most commonly with a clove or pick-tooth in his
mouth, he is the very mint of compliment, all his behaviours are
printed, his face is another volume of essays, and his beard is an
Aristarchus. He speaks all cream skimmed, and more affected than a dozen
waiting-women. He is his own promoter in every place. The wife of the
ordinary gives him his diet to maintain her table in discourse; which,
indeed, is a mere tyranny over her other guests, for he will usurp all
the talk; ten constables are not so tedious. He is no great shifter;
once a year his apparel is ready to revolt. He doth use much to
arbitrate quarrels, and fights himself, exceeding well, out at a window.
He will lie cheaper than any beggar, and louder than most clocks; for
which he is right properly accommodated to the whetstone, his page. The
other gallant is his zany, and doth most of these tricks after him;
sweats to imitate him in everything to a hair, except a beard, which is
not yet extant. He doth learn to make strange sauces, to eat anchovies,
maccaroni, bovoli, fagioli, and caviare, because he loves them; speaks
as he speaks, looks, walks, goes so in clothes and fashion: is in all as
if he were moulded of him. Marry, before they met, he had other very
pretty sufficiencies, which yet he retains some light impression of; as
frequenting a dancing-school, and grievously torturing strangers with
inquisition after his grace in his galliard. He buys a fresh
acquaintance at any rate. His eyes and his raiment confer much together
as he goes in the street. He treads nicely, like the fellow that walks
upon ropes, especially the first Sunday of his silk stockings; and when
he is most neat and new, you shall strip him with commendations.