No alms, no prayers, fall from him without a witness, belike lest God should deny that He hath received them; and when he hath done (lest the world should not know it) his own 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 knows to a hair.  Whether Holland will have peace he knows, and on what conditions, and with what success, is familiar to him ere it be concluded.  No post can pass him without a question, and rather than he will lose the news, he rides back with him to apprise him of tidings; and then to the next man he meets he supplies the wants of his hasty intelligence and makes up a perfect tale, wherewith he so haunteth the patient auditor, that after many excuses he is fain to endure rather the censure of his manners in running away than the tediousness of an impertinent discourse.  His speech is oft broken off with a succession of long parentheses, which he ever vows to fill up ere the conclusion, and perhaps would effect it if the other’s ear were as umveariable as his tongue.  If he see but two men talk and read a letter in the street, he runs to them and asks if he may not be partner of that secret relation; and if they deny it, he offers to tell, since he may not hear, wonders, and then falls upon