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 longing
disease of reason, an aspiring and gallant madness. The ambitious climbs
up high and perilous stairs, and never cares how to come down; the
desire of rising hath swallowed up his fear of a fall.
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