firework, that flies out on all sides,
not without scorching itself. Every ear is long ago weary of him, and he
is now almost weary of himself. Give him but a little respite, and he
will die alone, of no other death than other's welfare.

OF THE INCONSTANT.

The inconstant man treads upon a moving earth and keeps no pace. His
proceedings are ever heady and peremptory, for he hath not the patience
to consult with reason, but determines merely upon fancy. No man is so
hot in the pursuit of what he liketh, no man sooner wearies. He is fiery
in his passions, which yet are not more violent than momentary; it is a
wonder if his love or hatred last so many days as a wonder. His heart is
the inn of all good motions, wherein, if they lodge for a night, it is
well; by morning they are gone, and take no leave; and if they come that
way again they are entertained as guests, not as friends. At first, like
another Ecebolius, he loved simple truth; thence, diverting his eyes, he
fell in love with idolatry. Those heathenish shrines had never any more
doting and besotted client; and now of late he is leapt from Rome to
Munster, and is grown to giddy Anabaptism. What he will be next as yet
he knoweth not; but ere he hath wintered his opinion it will be
manifest. He is good to make an enemy of, ill for a friend; because, as
there is no trust in his affection, so no rancour in his displeasure.
The multitude of his changed purposes brings with it forgetfulness, and
not of others more than of himself. He says, swears, renounces, because
what he promised he meant not long enough to make an impression. Herein
alone he is good for a commonwealth, that he sets many on work with
building, ruining, altering, and makes more business than time itself;
neither is he a greater enemy to thrift than to idleness. Propriety is
to him enough cause of dislike; each thing pleases him better that is
not his own. Even in the best things long continuance is a just quarrel;
manna itself grows tedious with age, and novelty is the highest style of
commendation to the meanest offers; neither doth he in books and
fashions ask, How good? but, How new? Variety carries him away with
delight, and no uniform pleasure can be without an irksome fulness. He
is so transformable into all opinions, manners, qualities, that he seems
rather made immediately of the first matter than of well-tempered
elements; and therefore is in possibility anything or everything,
nothing in