nt raised out of its own ashes. He values one old invention, that is
lost and never to be recovered, before all the new ones in the world,
though never so useful. The whole business of his life is the same with
his that shows the tombs at Westminster, only the one does it for his
pleasure, and the other for money. As every man has but one father, but
two grandfathers and a world of ancestors, so he has a proportional
value for things that are ancient, and the farther off the greater.

He is a great time-server, but it is of time out of mind to which he
conforms exactly, but is wholly retired from the present. His days were
spent and gone long before he came into the world, and since his only
business is to collect what he can out of the ruins of them. He has so
strong a natural affection to anything that is old, that he may truly
say to dust and worms, "You are my father;" and to rottenness, "Thou art
my mother." He has no providence nor foresight, for all his
contemplations look backward upon the days of old; and his brains are
turned with them, as if he walked backwards. He had rather interpret one
obscure word in any old senseless discourse than be author of the most
ingenious new one, and, with Scaliger, would sell the Empire of Germany
(if it were in his power) for an old song. He devours an old manuscript
with greater relish than worms and moths do, and, though there be
nothing in it, values it above anything printed, which he accounts but a
novelty. When he happens to cure a small botch in an old author, he is
as proud of it as if he had got the philosopher's stone and could cure
all the diseases of mankind. He values things wrongfully upon their
antiquity, forgetting that the most modern are really the most ancient
of all things in the world, like those that reckon their pounds before
their shillings and pence of which they are made up. He esteems no
customs but such as have outlived themselves and are long since out of
use, as the Catholics allow of no saints but such as are dead, and the
fanatics, in opposition, of none but the living.

A PROUD MAN

Is a fool in fermentation, that swells and boils over like a
porridge-pot. He sets out his feathers like an owl, to swell and seem
bigger than he is. He is troubled with a tumour and inflammation of
self-conceit, that renders every part of him stiff and uneasy. He has
given himself sympathetic love-powder, that works upon him to dotage and
has transformed him