can possibly be more contrary to the Nature of Characteristic-Writings, than the corrupted Taste which prevail’d in the Age.  A continued Affectation of far-fetch’d and quaint Simile’s, which runs thro’ almost all these Characters, makes ’em appear like so many Pieces of mere Grotesque; and the Reader must not expect to find Persons describ’d as they really are, but rather according to what they are thought to be like.

This Censure may be thought hard; but yet it leaves Room for some Exceptions:  And that I may do Justice to Merit, where it is really due, I shall here set down one of those Characters, which seem’d to me to be exquisite in its Kind.  And this I shall the rather do, because the Book it self is not in every body’s Hands.  The Image is taken from low Life; ’tis a beautiful Description of Nature in its greatest Simplicity, and ’tis the more beautiful because ’tis natural.

  A fayre and happy MILKE MAID.

Is a Country Wench, that is so farre from making herselfe beautifull by Art, that one Looke of hers is able to put all Face-Physicke out of Countenance.  Shee knowes a fayre Looke is but a dumbe Orator to commend Vertue, therefore mindes it not.  All her Excellencies stand in her so silently, as if they had stolne upon her without her Knowledge.  The Lining of her Apparell (which is her selfe) is farre better than Outsides of Tissew:  for tho’ shee be not arraied in the Spoyle of the Silke Worme, shee is deckt in Innocency, a far better Wearing.  Shee doth not, with lying long a Bed, spoile both her Complexion and Conditions; Nature hath taught her, too immoderate Sleepe is rust to the Soul:  She rises therefore with Chaunticleare her Dames Cocke, and at Night makes the Lambe her Corfew.  In milking a Cow, and straining the Teates through her Fingers, it seemes that so sweet a Milke-Presse makes the Milke the whiter, or sweeter; for never came Almond Glove or Aromatique Oyntment on her Palme to taint it.  The golden Eares of Corn fall and kisse her Feete when shee reapes them, as if they wisht to be bound and led Prisoners by the same Hand that fell’d them.  Her Breath is her owne, which sents all the Yeere long of June, like a new made Hay-cocke.  Shee makes her Hand hard with Labour, and her Heart soft with Pitty:  And when Winter Evenings fall early (sitting at her merry Wheele) she sings a Defiance to the giddy Wheele of Fortune.  Shee doth all things with so sweet a Grace it seemes Ignorance will not suffer her to do Ill, being her Minde is to do Well.  Shee bestowes her Yeeres Wages at next Faire; and in chusing her Garments, counts no Bravery i’th’ World, like Decency.  The Garden and Bee-hive are all her Physicke and Chyrurgerie, and shee lives the longer for’t.  Shee dares goe alone, and unfold Sheepe i’th’ Night, and feares no manner of Ill, because shee meanes none:  Yet to say Truth, shee is never alone, for shee is still accompanied with old Songs, honest Thoughts, and