age to his servant, he
sends a second after him to listen how it is delivered. He is his own
secretary, and of his own counsel for what he hath, for what he
purposeth. And when he tells over his bags, looks through the keyhole to
see if he have any hidden witness, and asks aloud, Who is there? when no
man hears him. He borrows money when he needs not, for fear lest others
should borrow of him. He is ever timorous and cowardly, and asks every
man's errand at the door ere he opens. After his first sleep he starts
up and asks if the furthest gate were barred, and out of a fearful sweat
calls up his servant and bolts the door after him, and then studies
whether it were better to lie still and believe, or rise and see.
Neither is his heart fuller of fears than his head of strange projects
and far-fetched constructions. What means the state, think you, in such
an action, and whither tends this course? Learn of me (if you know not)
the ways of deep policies are secret, and full of unknown windings; that
is their act, this will be their issue: so casting beyond the moon, he
makes wise and just proceedings suspected. In all his predictions and
imaginations he ever lights upon the worst; not what is most likely will
fall out, but what is most ill. There is nothing that he takes not with
the left hand; no text which his gloss corrupts not. Words, oaths,
parchments, seals, are but broken reeds; these shall never deceive him,
he loves no payments but real. If but one in an age have miscarried by a
rare casualty, he misdoubts the same event. If but a tile fallen from an
high roof have brained a passenger, or the breaking of a coach-wheel
have endangered the burden, he swears he will keep home, or take him to
his horse. He dares not come to church for fear of the crowd, nor spare
the Sabbath's labour for fear of the want, nor come near the Parliament
house, because it should have been blown up. What might have been
affects him as much as what will be. Argue, vow, protest, swear, he
hears thee, and believes himself. He is a sceptic, and dare hardly give
credit to his senses, which he hath often arraigned of false
intelligence. He so lives, as if he thought all the world were thieves,
and were not sure whether himself were one. He is uncharitable in his
censures, unquiet in his fears, bad enough always, but in his own
opinion much worse than he is.

OF THE AMBITIOUS.

Ambition is a proud covetousness, a dry thirst of honour, the lo