A PARASITE.

A parasite is the image of iniquity, who for the gain of dross is devoted to all villainy.  He is a kind of thief in committing of burglary, when he breaks into houses with his tongue and picks pockets with his flattery.  His face is brazen that he cannot blush, and his hands are limed to catch hold what he can light on.  His tongue is a bell (but not of the church, except it be the devil’s) to call his parish to his service.  He is sometimes a pander to carry messages of ill meetings, and perhaps hath some eloquence to persuade sweetness in sin.  He is like a dog at a door while the devils dance in the chamber, or like a spider in the house-top that lives on the poison below.  He is the hate of honesty and the abuse of beauty, the spoil of youth and the misery of age.  In sum, he is a danger in a court, a cheater in a city, a jester in the country, and a jackanapes in all.

A DRUNKARD.

A drunkard is a known adjective, for he cannot stand alone by himself; yet in his greatest weakness a great trier of strength, whether health or sickness will have the upper hand in a surfeit.  He is a spectacle of deformity and a shame of humanity, a view of sin and a grief of nature.  He is the annoyance of modesty and the trouble of civility, the spoil of wealth and the spite of reason.  He is only the brewer’s agent and the alehouse benefactor, the beggar’s companion and the constable’s trouble.  He is his wife’s woe, his children’s sorrow, his neighbours’ scoff, and his own shame.  In sum, he is a tub of swill, a spirit of sleep, a picture of a beast, and a monster of a man.

A COWARD.

A coward is the child of fear.  He was begotten in cold blood, when Nature had much ado to make up a creature like a man.  His life is a kind of sickness, which breeds a kind of palsy in the joints, and his death the terror of his conscience, with the extreme weakness of his faith.  He loves peace as his life, for he fears a sword in his soul.  If he cut his finger he looketh presently for the sign, and if his head ache he is ready to make his will.  A report of a cannon strikes him flat on his face, and a clap of thunder makes him a strange metamorphosis.  Rather than he will fight he will be beaten, and if his legs will help him he will put his arms to no trouble.  He makes love commonly with his purse, and brags most of his maidenhead.  He will not marry but into a quiet family, and not too fair a wife, to avoid quarrels.  If his wife frown upon him he sighs, and if she give him an unkind word he weeps.  He loves not the horns of a bull nor the paws of a bear, and if a dog bark he will not come near the house.  If he be rich he is afraid of thieves, and if he be poor he will be slave to a beggar.  In sum, he is the shame of manhood, the disgrace of nature, the scorn of reason, and the hate of honour.