He removes his lodging when a subsidy comes; and if he
be found out, and pay it, he grumbles treason: but 'tis in such a
deformed silence as witches raise their spirits in. Gravity he pretends
in all things but in his private vice, for he will not in a hundred
pound take one light sixpence. And it seems he was at Tilbury Camp, for
you must not tell him of a Spaniard. He is a man of no conscience, for
(like the Jakes-farmer that swooned with going into Bucklersbury) he
falls into a cold sweat if he but look into the Chancery; thinks, in his
religion, we are in the right for everything, if that were abolished. He
hides his money as if he thought to find it again at the last day, and
then begin's old trade with it. His clothes plead prescription, and
whether they or his body are more rotten is a question. Yet, should he
live to be hanged in them, this good they would do him: the very hangman
would pity his case. The table he keeps is able to starve twenty tall
men. His servants have not their living, but their dying from him, and
that's of hunger. A spare diet he commends in all men but himself. He
comes to cathedrals only for love of the singing-boys, because they look
hungry. He likes our religion best because 'tis best cheap, yet would
fain allow of purgatory, cause 'twas of his trade, and brought in so
much money. His heart goes with the same snaphance his purse doth: 'tis
seldom open to any man. Friendship he accounts but a word without any
signification; nay, he loves all the world so little, that an it were
possible he would make himself his own executor.
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