of the weather.  If he hear but a raven croak from the next roof he makes his will, or if a bittern fly over his head by night; but if his troubled fancy shall second his thoughts with the dream of a fair garden, or green rushes, or the salutation of a dead friend, he takes leave of the world and says he cannot live.  He will never set to sea but on a Sunday, neither ever goes without an Erra Pater in his pocket.  Saint Paul’s Day and Saint Swithin’s with the Twelve are his oracles, which he dares believe against the almanack.  When he lies sick on his deathbed no sin troubles him so much as that he did once eat flesh on a Friday; no repentance can expiate that, the rest need none.  There is no dream of his without an interpretation, without a prediction; and if the event answer not his exposition, he expounds it according to the event.  Every dark grove and pictured wall strikes him with an awful but carnal devotion.  Old wives and stars are his counsellors, his night-spell is his guard, and charms his physicians.  He wears Paracelsian characters for the toothache, and a little hallowed wax is his antidote for all evils.  This man is strangely credulous, and calls impossible things miraculous.  If he hear that some sacred block speaks, moves, weeps, smiles, his bare feet carry him thither with an offering; and if a danger miss him in the way, his saint hath the thanks.  Some ways he will not go, and some he dares not; either there are bugs, or he feigneth them; every lantern is a ghost, and every noise is of chains.  He knows not why, but his custom is to go a little about, and to leave the cross still on the right hand.  One event is enough to make a rule; out of these he concludes fashions proper to himself; and nothing can turn him out of his own course.  If he have done his task he is safe, it matters not with what affection.  Finally, if God would let him be the carver of his own obedience, He could not have a better subject; as he is, He cannot have a worse.

OF THE PROFANE.

The superstitious hath too many gods; the profane man hath none at all, unless perhaps himself be his own deity, and the world his heaven.  To matter of religion his heart is a piece of dead flesh, without feeling of love, of fear, of care, or of pain from the deaf strokes of a revenging conscience.  Custom of sin hath wrought this senselessness, which now hath so long entertained that it pleads prescription and knows not to be altered.  This is no sudden evil; we are born sinful, but have made ourselves profane; through many degrees we climb to this height of impiety.  At first he sinned and cared not, now he sinneth and knoweth not.  Appetite is his lord, and reason his servant, and religion his drudge.  Sense is the rule of his belief; and if piety may be an advantage, he can at once counterfeit and deride it.  When aught succeedeth to him he sacrifices to his net, and thanks either his fortune or his wit;