Picturae Loquentes. OR PICTURES Drawn forth in CHARACTERS. With a Poem of a MAID. By WYE SALTONSTALL. Nè Sutor ultra crepidam. LONDON, Printed by Tho. Cotes, and are to be sold by Tho. Slater, at his shop in the Black Friars 1631. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Suo. C. S. S. P. D. THe eye can judge of no object in the dark: ●●en so these Pictures ●eing hidden in tene●is, could not be dis●rned, until the Prin●r brought them to light, and set the forth to the view the world. And therefore as they lived darkness, and proceeded from a mind 〈◊〉 of dark thoughts, have given them dark Dedication since for myself I desire to be ignote unknown to other and for you to who I present them, I kno● no fame can redou● unto you by the ●●eane Essays, which ●ere written Ocium ●agis foventes, quam stu●entes gloriae, as Shepherd's play upon their ●aten pipes, to recreate themselves, not to get credit. However▪ 〈◊〉 you find hereafter ●hat these Pictures are ●ot shadowed forth with those lively and exact Lineaments, which are required in a Character, yet I hope you will pardon the Painter, since all I promise is only this: Vt cum agis nihil, haec legas & ne nihil agas, defendas; That when you have nothing to do, if you read them, they will keep you from doing nothing. And so I leave them as a testimony of my love, presuming of your kind acceptation. F. tuus. W. S. To the Reader. SInce the Title is the first leaf that cometh under censure, some perhaps will dislike the name of Pictures, and say, I have no colour for it; which I confess, for these Pictures are not drawn in colours, but in Characters, representing to the eye of the mind diverse several professions, which if they appear more obscure than I could wish; yet I would have you know, that it is not the nature of a Character to be as smooth as a bulrush, but to have some fast and loose knots, which the ingenious Reader may easily untie. The first Picture, is the description of a Maid, which young men may read, and from thence learn to know, that virtue is the truest beauty. The next follow in their order, being set together in ●his little Book, that in Winter you may read ●hem ad ignem, by the fire side, and in Summer ad umbram, under some shady tree, and there with pass away the tedious hours. So hoping of thy favourable censure, knowing that the least judicious are most ready to judge: I expose them to thy view, with Appelles' Motto, Ne Suitor ultra crepidam. Lastly, whether you like them, or leave them, yet the Author bids you welcome: Thine as mine, W. S. THE TABLE. THe World. 1. An Old man. 2. A Woman. 3. A Widow. 4. A true Lover. 5. A Country Bride. 6. A Ploughman. 7. A Melancholy man. 8. A young Heir. 9 A Scholar in the University. 10. A Lawyer's Clerk. 11. A Townsman 〈◊〉 Oxford. 12. An Usurer. 13. A Wand'ring Rogue. 14. A Waterman. 15. A Shepherd. 16. A jealous man. 17. A Chamber lain. 18. A Maid. 19 A Bayley. 20. A petty Country Fair. 21. A Country Alehouse. 22. A Horse race. 23. A Farmer's Daughter. 24. A Keeper. 25. A Gentleman's house in the Country. 26. FINIS. The Author On his Poem of a MAID. SOme jealous brain may here demand in haste, Can this Maid that's so vendible be chaste? That stands t'allure her Lovers on each Stall, Her liberal beauty so exposed to all? I answer, not; Thyself, thyself deceive; 'Tis in thy choice to love, to like, or leave: Yet thus much; Should she prove more light than meet, She could but thus do penance in a sheet. A MAID The Argument. FIrst, a nominal definition of the title of Maid; with the description of that habituated Innocence which should be in them that challenge● at appellation, advising the preservation thereof: ● also a moderation in their carriage: First, negatively, that they be not too coy, nor too kind: Then affirmatively, that they be modest, courteous, con●ant: And lastly, the object, and final cause of this ●idestie, which though last in action, is first in 〈◊〉: Marriage. A MAID. WHen God this universal world had framed, He placed the Epitome of his work therein, A virgin Man and Woman, both unstaynd; ●or Adam knew not Eve, till he knew sin. Whence those that live a single life are said, Still to be Maids, because at first so made. The ●ame of Maid we take not in that sense, For that which two may lose but neither win, But for a habit of chaste Innocence; By time and custom introduced within: A constant breast which goodness doth contain For love of goodness, not for fear of fame. And she in whom this habit we do find, Comes nearest sure unto her first creation, Whose body pure contains a purer mind; Whose thoughts ne'er fed on ill by speculation: Many are guiltless of the active part, Who yet commit the adulteries of the heart. 'Tis not enough for to deserve the name Of Maid, because in acts she is one; Perhaps potentia wanted to 〈◊〉 blame, Had that been granted she had then been none: Or circumstances wanted, not her will, Of time, and place, concurrent to be ill. Thus forced chastity no praise yet found, There's no resistanc● where there's no temptation's Where's no assault no victory is crowned, She merits most, where's most solicitation: Who being tempted, makes her looks speak no, Cooling unchaste desires like winter's snow. 'Tis no first pleasures of a Maiden's bed, Which do at once find out their birth, and death, Which can deserve the name of Maidenhead, Whose lives are like our winter morning's breath; Thus ridled: A black lamb with blue feet, Here I have't, but yonder now I see't. The name of Maidenhead to Maids assigned For modesty which should in them shine clear: A Maid from modesty may be defined, Who rather strives to be so than appear, Whose harmless thoughts ne'er knew yet to begin To frame or shape out any forms of sin. A Maid thus shown, I next would have her warned How she her modesty do lay at stake, She that's forewarned may likewise be forearmed, To keep what none but by exchange can take, And from her modesty ne'er to make divorce, Till 〈◊〉 marriage shall the same enforce. For this once lost, who can again repair? Who can call back the quick thoughts of the brain? Or who can make words trusted to the air, Revert unto their owner back again? So ●he that once to do this hath begun, Can ne'er undo what once she hath undone. She than that knows the worth of this chaste habit Should still beware of any rash privation, Since being total it can ne'er admit, Unto a habit any back regression: Water once spilt, who can again recover? And this once lost, is lost (they say (for ever. And if this can't the loser thoughts restrain, Of some to keep within their Maiden state: Let them cast up their losses with their gain, They'll buy repentance at too dear a rate: When one fled moment shall at once begin, And terminate fond pleasure, not their sin. Let her consider last the shame hence got, Which does reflect at once on more than one, And like some murdering piece instead of shot, Disperses shame on more than her alone: For ill fame still, than good is longer lived, And to the Stock and Family is derived. And yet 'tis hard for woman to deserve, By thought and deed this Maiden appellation: And yet more hard the same still to preserve, Unless by help of modest Education; By this perhaps she may be taught to frame A Maiden carriage, to a Maiden name. 〈◊〉 or Maids are vessels, and but weak ones too, 〈◊〉 that if goodness be not straight instilled, They take in pride, and love though steeped in Rue: They know no vacuum but must still be filled. ●ood counsels seasoning makes a Virgin last, ●s vessels ever of first liquors taste. At fifteen years some notions gi'en to lulke, Of general evil in a Maiden's breast, And then the appetite begins to work, On what the fancy did at first suggest. For Ovid need not in strict rules have shown, The Art of love, which Maids can learn alone. Those younger years are flexible, their will ●s soon seduced to act some fond transgression, And soon consent importuned once to ill, Like virgins wax receiving all impression; Or like some flower which doth in growth proceed, Themselves got up, straight haste to run to seed. Or like unto an early Rose new blown, Which each hand strives to pluck from off the stem; So being ripe they are as soon too gone, And shall be sure to be attempted then. If virtues force secure them not, they stand Like the poor Rose obnoxious to each hand▪ What did avail Acrisius' thickest guards, When jove did fall down in a golden shower In Danae's lap? He passed then all those wards, And to deny him then she had no power. With Maids when one way fails another takes, When Lovers like to Proteus change their shapes. 'Tis no cold walls, or Nunnery, no false spies That can secure a Maid that's once inclined To ill: though watched by jealous Argus' eyes, To act her thoughts a time yet will she find: There is no way to keep a Maid at all, But when herself is like a brazen wall: That can repel men's flatteryes though afar, And make her looks her liking soon to show, Which like a frost such thoughts as lustful are, Nips in the blossom ere they ranker grow. Since then the eye, and gesture speak the heart, A Maiden carriage is a Maids chief Art. First, she should not be coy, or proud withal, Though she alone were nature's Masterpiece; Nor yet show undeserued scorn to all, And think herself a second jasons' fleece: Whom none but he that ventures life must please, And like to jason sail the Grecian Seas. 〈◊〉 by scorn their ruin thus procure, ●●ting their thoughts soar higher than their place, ●●e yet at last stooped to some vulgar lure, 〈◊〉 so remained the objects of disgrace: 〈◊〉 scorn doth still this punishment obtain, ●●eed of pity to find scorn again. ●●uld all perfections that do women grace, ●●joying one whereof, makes many proud, ●●all contracted in one Maidens face; 〈◊〉 should not keep them masked up in a cloud, 〈◊〉 let her beauty which makes Lovers pine, ●●●ike the Sun, on all at once to shine. 〈◊〉 since their looks at once can cure & wound, 〈◊〉 like Achilles' lance, both hurt and heal, ●●ould not have them cruel tyrants found, ●●hen Lovers do for favour once appeal. 〈◊〉 just god Cupid will revenge that wrong, ●hen Lovers are befoold and scorned too long. 〈◊〉 not too coy, so likewise not so kind 〈◊〉 should not be, as straightway to be moved ●ith the false gales of every flattering wind, 〈◊〉 give all cause to think themselves beloved: 〈◊〉 love should passive be, so love t'entertain, 〈◊〉 be beloved, not loving all again. For she that scatters out her love amongst many, Since love and truth admits of no division, Can ne'er be truly said yet to love any; For love and truth remain entirely one: Let Maids than give to one their loves and self, To be a Monarchy, no Commonwealth. Though good be bettered by community▪ Yet since that love and Sovereignty do know No partners, but consists in unity: Maids should not let their loves too common grow ●●or't holds in them, though not in matters civil, A common good is but a private evil. For who'd spend time in such a vain assault, To gain her love, who if she yield the same, Like some French Castle will as soon revoult, And let another straight the same obtain? She should be proof against the falsest flattery, And ne'er to yield upon the strongest battery. For as those Virgins from the Sun alone, Kindle their vestal lamps, and if the same Be once extinct, they can renewed from none Unhallowed fire but from the Sun again. So Maids love should be like that sacred fire, And both from one take light, in one expire. Thus by opposing contraries together, Maids may from hence avoid each rash extream●, And since that contraries best do show each other, They may from hence draw forth the golden mean By participation: which they shall find I● to be courteous, not too coy; too kind. And by a wise discretion well should know, Not to be coy to quench all Lovers fires; Nor yet so kind but that she can too show Scornful neglect on men's unchaste desires: To mix these passions well should be her care, To cherish chaste hopes, make unchaste despair. She may be courteous when that Lover's woe, Yet not seem easy straight to condescend To her inferior and her equal too, Yet not below herself seem to descend: She must from time and place take chief direction, And from the person vary speech and action. Next courteous, chaste she should be, not for fear, Truth●telling time her shame at last might show, But 'cause she loves her chastity so dear, She would not loos't, though none the loss might know: ●or 'tis no thanks to her whom none did woe To be a Maid: since 'tis an act of two. And to remain so, let them shun such pleasure As doth pervert the mind by strong temptation; Then let some business give their thoughts no leisure; For I allow not Maids much contemplation, Since they do seldom such a subject find, As may inform, but often hurt the mind. Nor should they read books which of some fond Lover, The various fortunes and adventures show; Nor such as nature's secrets do discover, Since still desire doth but from knowledge grow: These books if that within the breast remain, One spark of ill will blow't into a flame. Nor too indulgent to herself become, Since by soft ease, and by too lofty fare, Rebel desires unto their objects run, And for the reins of reason do not care: For ease instils a secret close desire, And Bacchus helps to kindle Venus' fire. And much less should she through a gadding mind, Converse with women whose suspected fame, May her disgrace, since that we often find, Vice's elixir turns us to the same. Ill women oft spoil Maids by conversation, And in the patient work assimilation. Thus she should still be chaste, but not enforced To keep this Maiden chastity for ever, Since 'tis but kept for to be lost at last, And like a flower will, if not gathered whither▪ For 'tis the final cause of Maiden's carriage, To gain themselves a fit, and timely marriage. They have no way advancement to derive Unto themselves, but when they match aright, For 'tis their marriage must them honour give, They shine but with a mutaticious light: For women's honours, from their husbands come, As Cynthia borrows lustre from the Sun. And sure the fittest time love to engage, Is when to youth, time doth discretion bring, For who can love the winter of her age, That ne'er enjoyed part of youthful spring▪ Let them improve their time then, least at last, The brazen head in them speak, time is past. And since that marriage is a strict relation, Me thinks good counsel were not here in vain, That they be sure to make a good foundation, Since that they cannot play their cast again: For hence their future good is lost or won, And once to err, is still to be undone. Yet to propound such rules I do not know, By which their choice herein may never fail, Since he that fears the wind shall never sow, Nor he yet build, that counsel takes of all. In somethings we can but advise our best, But must commit to fortune all the rest. First, let not then the love of wealth so sway Their minds to match with age, for than they must But sacrifice their youth up as a pray, To feed the Vulture of some beastly just: And what can be more horrid thought or said, Than aged impotency is unto a Maid? For though that beauty can make age turn Lover And like Medea's charms can youth advance, And dead desires again to life recover, Which straight again are killed with dalliance: Yet all this fire is but like sparks that lie Concealed in ashes, lives▪ and so doth dye. Nor yet to match with some rich suit of clothes Some outside, being but a man in seeming, That can set forth his love with graceful oaths; Protesting that which is not worth believing: His love is lust, fruition to obtain, Which once enjoyed, his love turns ha●e again. Nor yet with some young beardless Heir to lie, Who like Adonis would some Venus' tire, To prompt his boyish thoughts which stili did fly Her meaning, and could raise but quench no fire, A shadow there of marriage but appears, When there's so great disparity of years. But let her choose out one that may but be Her just immediate Senior, for 'tis ever Observed that they do always best agree, Who have both spent their youth & age together. But that they prospered who can e'er remember, When youthful May was matched with cold December? And much less should they be enforced to love, Or swayed to like by some matchmaking mother; But where equality of desires do move, First ●et them like, and after pair together: When that his years, her years do equalise, And when their natures both do sympathise. And if she choose she must too likewise take, Letting her love in one begin and end; She must be fixed and but one centre make, To which the lines of her affection tend: For she must be a subject but to one, Whose being must consist in her alone. If of love she make a deed of gift, And before witness do confirm the same, For to revoke it back she has no shift, Or to reverse her deed thus made again: Her love thus given to one she can't deny, Since in love's Court no writs of error lie. Her word must here irrevocable stand, More fixed than any Chancery decree, Which as though written by the Eternal hand, Can ne'er be altered by posterity. For let her think when once she plights her love, The same is registered straight in heaven above. But such a lover let her still detest, Who 'fore the appointed day of resignation, Would of her modesty be forepossest, By an old figure of praeoccupation. 'Tis lust that hunts thus hotly to obtain, When true love seeks but love for love again. For when the Tyrian Queen did make her feast, She should not then have let Aeneas tasted Those pleasures which she might have wisely guessed, By their enjoying would be soon too wasted. For nature can't her actions so suspend, But having once begun, she hasts to end. Let her not then be drawn to make surrender, Of that which doth so sweeten expectation, That Lovers even joy when they remember, The day shall give their hopes full consummation: When she with blushes shall unwilling yield, And weakly striving lose at last the field. This day once come, she must then understand, That marriage is a Tenure not at will, But with her heart to one must give her hand, To hold for Term of life, for good or ill; The Church affords but witness to this act, Till both the parties seal to this contract. And now 'tis time to bid the Bride good-night, Having brought her thither where she now must leave, The thought of father, mother, & delight In one alone, and unto one must cleave; Tying their loves with such a Gordian knot, None can but death like Alexander cut. FINIS. Picturae Loquentes. OR PICTURES drawn forth in Characters. 1. The World. IS a Stage, men the Actors, who seldom go off with an applause, often are hist at. Or it may be likened to a Scale or Predicament of Relation, wherein the King is the summum genus, under whom are many subordinate degrees of men, till at last we descend to the Beggar the Infima species of mankind, whose misery cannot be subdivided into any lesser fortune. The world contemns a Scholar, and learning makes a Scholar contemn the world. Arts and Sciences are accounted here mere speculations, terminated only in the knowledge of their subjects; and therefore the most study the great volume of the world, and strive to reduce knavery to practise. Poverty is accounted as spreadingly contagious as the Plague, he that is infected with it is shunned of all men, and his former friends look upon him as men look upon Dial's with a skew countenance, and so finding him in the afternoon of ●his fortunes, pass by him. Acquaintance is here chosen with the bravest, not with the wisest: and a good shoot makes a man good company. The chiefest goddess here adored is riches, she might have her Temple as well as juno, Minerva, and the rest, but in lieu thereof she takes up every man's heart, and for her sacrifice exacts their first morning thoughts, so that the most universal government is now a Ploutocracy. Friends are only here but concomitants of felicity, being like the Leaves of Trees which stick to them close in summer, but fall off from them in winter when they most need them. To make love the foundation of marriage is contemned as befitting the Innocency of Arcadian Shepherds, and therefore now they marry portions and take wives as things to boot. This perhaps glewes the eldest sister into some foolish family, while the younger perhaps has nothing but natures' talon, which while she puts to use, spoils all. When men look for happiness here, 'tis a sign they expect none above, striving to make heaven descend to earth, as though they were loath to take the pains to go thither. To conclude and not flatter the world, she is the fool's paradise, the wise man's scorn, the rich man's heaven who is miserably happy, the poor man's hell who is happily miserable, for these two shall hereafter exchange their condition. 2. An Old Man. IS loath to bid the world goodnight, he knows the grave is a long sleep, and therefore would sit up as long as he could. His soul has long dwelled in a ruinous tenement, and yet is so unwilling to leave it that it could be content to sue the body for reparations. He lives now but to be a burden to his friends, as age is to him, and yet his thoughts are as far from death as he is nigh it. Howsoever time be a continued motion, yet the Dial of his age stands still at 50. that's his age for ten years afterward, and loves such a friend that like a flattering glass tells him he seems far younger. His memory is full of the actions of his youth, which he often historifies to others in tedious tales, and thinks they should please others because himself. His discourses are full of parenthesis, and his words fall from him as slowly as water from an Alimbeck; drop by drop. He loves the chimney corner and his chair which he brags was his grandfathers, from whence he secures the cubboard from the Cats and Dogs, or the milk from running over, and is only good to build up the architecture of a seacole fire by applying each circumstant cynder. When his natural powers are all impotencyes, he marries a young wench for warmth sake, and when he dies makes her an estate durante viduitate only for widowhood. At talk he commonly uses some proverbial verses gathered perhaps from cheese-trenchers or Schola Salerna, which he makes as appliable, as a mountebancks plasters to all purposes, all occasions. He calls often to the Servingman for a cup of Sack, and to that end styles him friend; and wonders much that new wine should not be put in old bottles. Though the proverb be, once a man and twice a child, yet he hopes from his second childhood ●o run back into his ●eenes, and so be twice a man too. Lastly, he's a ●andle burnt to the snuff, she ruins only of a man, whose soul 〈◊〉 the salt of his body to keep it from stinking, and can scarcely perform that ●oo. 3. A Woman. IS the second part of the little volume of man, and differs from him only in her erratas, which can't be mended, because she comes out worst still in the last impression. Though men's desires range after variety, yet they find no change, since in one woman all are epitomizd; for nature is a skilful painter and seldom errs, she that drew one, drew all. The cheefect object of their creation is procreation, and the continuation of the Species of mankind; for when God first gave her to man, he gave her with this blessing, Increase and multiply. She was then called a helper, and so she is still; for to many she helps to undo them. she's like unto a running Lottery; a man may draw forty blanks before he gets one prize. Her apparel is but like a sauce to a good dish, to stir and provoke the appetite to take a taste of herself: Or like an envious curtain, which our fancy persuades us conceals many rarities from us, but being once withdrawn sails much in the expectation: She may be ty'rd before satiated, and therefore is one of Salomon's three things that cry, Give, give, hell, woman, and the grave. For her tears they must be distinguished, for they are not only the effects of sorrow, sometimes of deceit, sometimes anger, and can bid them flow in a plentiful manner when she list. she's full of mutability and like April weather, can laugh and weep at once. Or she's like a stratagem of war, which admits of no second errors, for to him that marries a woman; once to err is for ever to be undone. If she have beauty she grows proud oft at fifteen, begins to look for suitors, and baits them with laying forth her hair, smothing the superficies of her face, and frequents public meetings that she may the better publish her beauty, which she knows is a flower will not long last, and therefore desires it may be soon gathered. She is naturally curious and inquisitive to know all things, but careless to conceal any. And he that commits a secret to her, may as well put water into a sieve or cullender, and may look to have both kept alike. Lastly, she is but a costly vanity, the folly of wise men, the shell of our generation, more deceitful than horseflesh; an instument that may be easily played upon, for it has but one stop, and yet that makes music too. 4. A Widow. IS like a cold Pie thrust down to the lower end of the Table, that has had too many fingers in't, or the last letter of the Greek Alphabet Omega. To a younger brother she's a reversion after three livest for after the death of three husbands, she commonly helps to re-edify his ruinous fortunes again. If he be rich, her chamber ●ntertaynes more suitors ●●an a lawyers does client's 〈◊〉 Term time, and for ●hat purpose keeps a wai●ing Gentlewoman, upon ●hom she pretends to bestow the dowry of a good education, but indeed uses ●er as a portal to a great ●oome to give access to brangers. She praises ●uch her former husband, ●or whom while she ●ournes in her gown she ●aughs in her sleeve, to ●hinke how she shall gull ●er following suitors with this formality of sorrow whiles she enforces 〈◊〉 customary sigh as a tribute to the memory of her bes● deceased. He that marries her condemns himself perpetually to digs in a coal-pit, and instead o● Rosemary may carry Ru● to the Church, for the Plague follows him. She's a good Logician, and seldom denies the major often the minor, because she knows there's small force or validity in't. Her daughters (if she have any) out of the guilty consciousness o● her own youth, are folded up a nights in her own chamber for fear of straying, and in the day time mewed up in some inner parlour to be objects of a stranger's salutation, who is more tired to salute them, than a French Cook that hath many dishes to taste which gives the best relish. She must be wooed in a converted order from a maid, for in the one we must begin from love to end in action, but in the other from action to gain ●oue. For her apparel 'tis much like herself, too much porne, and serves but as a ●ainted cloth to cover a ●otten wall. Her house is ●ell furnished both for or●ament and use, only herself is the worst piece in't. She condemns much the hasty marriage of maids, when herself thought fifteen too long. Her rings are so many cheats from several suitors, in one of which she commonly wears a death's head, but is indeed herself a better emblem of mortality for memento mori like a Motto to be written in her forehead. Lastly she's a cancelled bond that has been long before sealed and delivered, and is now grown out of date. 5. A true Lover. IS one whose Soul hath made choice of a mistress to serve and obey: and this service proceeds not from fear but love, and he loves were not for her beauty, but ●or her inward virtue, which shines through the cover of her body, as gold work shadowed un●er Lawn. His desires are so chaste that if he thought enjoying would abate his ●ove, he had rather still love ●han enjoy. In his visits he ●ses a plain eloquence, as ●est becoming the truth of his affections, Telling her that he loves her, and then supplies the rest with sighs. If she wish for any thing, her wishes are his commands, and he runs to provide it for her. If his mistress be wronged, he makes his own sword, the sword of justice to right her, and he thinks injured love the fairest Quarrel▪ He loves her not for wealth or portion, but per se that is, for herself, and could be content to take her as Adam took Eve, though she were naked When she speaks he thinks he hears the Lute of Orpheus, and so stands amazed like a wondering statue, till the close of her speech dis-enchants him. If her answer be full of scorn and disdain, he retires to some solitary place, breathing forth his complaint to Rocks & Mountains, where Echo from her hollow dwelling replies again: and when he cries she is cruel, Echo cries again she is cruel too, and so pleases his sad mind by soothing up his sorrows. Thus her frowns become his frenzy, he knows not what to do, fain he would do something, but then he dislikes that something, and so does just nothing. If he take his Lute, he quarrels with the strings, and cannot please himself in tuning it; when indeed the discord is in his own thoughts. If at last she vouchsafe to write to him, he receives her letter with more adoration than a Sibyl's leaf, and having bestowed some kisses on the paper, opens it to know the blessed contents, and in answering it spends much time, before he can resolve what to answer. Yet at last love quickens his Invention, and fills his brain with choice fancies, while he invokes no other Muse but his mistress. Thus he lives like a man tossed in Cupid's blanket, and yet is so constant to his sufferings, that he could be content to be Love's martyr, and dye in the flames of love, only to have this Epitaph: here lies the true Lover. 6. A Country Bride. IS a Sacrifice to Venus; led to Church by two young Bachelors. And all the way is paud with strew on which she treads so lightly, that she hardly bruises a gentle flower, while the maids attend upon her with Rosemary and Ribbons, the ensigns of a wedding. Being come to Church, her marriage knot is soon tied, and the Ring put on her thumb, as an emblem of affection, which like a circle should be endless. The fiddlers now croued on, till being come home the mysterious Bridecake is broke over their heads, in the remembrance of the old Roman custom of confarreation; and afterwards she is placed at the upper end of the Table to denoate her Supremacy in household matters. here she minces it, and is ready to cut her fingers with too much modesty, while the name of Bride makes her simper like a pot that's ready to run o'er, for she conceits, some strange matters, and could wish the day were shorter though it be at Christmas. Dinner once done they fall to country dances, where the lusty Lads take the Bride to task, and all to bepecke the floor with their hobnayles, while they bestir themselves out of measure, and are only rewarded with a concluding smack from the bride's lips. Thus the Bride is but the maygame of a country village, that fil's the town with mirth and music: Till night comes, and then she is laid in her husband's arms, where the Curtains being drawn, we must leave them, and leave you to think out the rest yourself. 7. A Ploughman. IS the Earth's midwife, & helps to deliver her of her yearly burden. His labour frees her in part from the curse of the barrenness, which she repays again with a fruitful crop. he's the best usurer, for when he sows the grain, he looks to have it repaid with the sevenfold Interest. His antiquity is from Abel, the first tiler of the ground, and himself goes like an Adamite always in skin. When he hangs between the Ploughstilts, you have his true posture, where he's seldom an upright man, for he leans most to one side. A whole flight of Crows follow him for their food, and when they fly away they give him ill language. The smell of the earth makes him hungry, for he brings home an invincible stomach, and nothing holds him tack but a barley pudding. He unyokes with the Sun, and so comes whistling home his team, which consists of Horse or Oxen, and his care is to see them meated before himself. This done he's set to supper, where his meals are not lasting because violent; for he eats hard for the time, and when he finds himself satisfied, puts up his knife, with a God be praised. In the winter nights the mending of his whip or shoes find him business, and for that purpose buys hobnails at Fairs. His greatest pride is a fair bandpoynt, and to wear a posy in his hat snatched from the maid joan. He prays only for a fair seedetime, and of all days will be sure to keep Plough-munday. If he fall in love, he'll be sure to single her out at the next Wake to dance with, and lays such blows on her lips you may hear the smack afar off. If she reject him, he grows melancholy, and instead of sighs whistles out his breath; and if he have a Rival, challenges him at football. Rainy days makes him only idle, for when he cannot plough yet he goes to the Harrow because 'tis an Alehouse. Here he dare lose his two pots at Noddy and spends his hostess more chalk to reckon it than her gains are worth. In a word though he have no sign, he's the Land's chief victualler, a good harvest is▪ his happiness, and the last seed he sows is his own body which he knows like his grain, though it seem to perish, yet shall spring again. 8. A melancholy Man. IS a full vessel which makes not so great a sound, as those that are more empty and answer to every knock. His wise parsimony of words shows more wisdom, than their many, which are oftentimes more than wise. He can be merry without expressing it by an ignorant laughter: And if his company screw themselves up to an excessive strain of mirth; he proves amongst them but like a jarring string to a consort of music, and cannot raise himself to so high a note of jollity. When other men strive to seem what they are not, he alone is what he seems not, being content in the knowledge of himself, and not weighing his own worth in the balance of other men's opinions. If he walk and see you not, 'tis because his mind being busied in some serious contemplation, the common sense has no time to judge of any sensual object. he's hardly with much invitation drawn to a feast, where every man sits an observer of another man's action, and had rather with Diogenes wash his own Roots at home, than with Aristippus frequent the Court of Kings. His actions show no temerity, having been long before Intentions, and are at last produced as the ripe issue of a serious, and deliberate resolution. His speech shows more matter in't then words, and like your gold coin contains much worth in a little, when other men's is but like brass-farthings, and expresses little in much. As his apprehensions so his passions, are violent and strong, not enduring on the sudden any opposition of good counsel, but like a torrent bears down all before it. If he fall in love, he woos more by letter than his own presence, and is not hasty in the desire of fruition. His apparel is plain like himself, and shows the riches of his mind, which contemns a gaudy outside as the badge of fools. He goes therefore commonly in black, his Hat unbrusht, a hasty gate with a look fixed on the ground, as though he were looking pins there, when yet his mind is then soaring in some high contemplation; and is then always most busy, when he seems most idle. 9 A young Heir. IS a Gamester at Noddy, one and twenty makes him out, if he have a flush in his hand, expect him shortly to show it without hiding his cards. For his father's Avarice he runs into the other extreme prodigality; his hand is of the quality of lightning, which melts his money in his purse, but leaves his purse entirely whole. In all companies though almost his equals, he arrogates to himself supremacy of payment, and like a good Soldier withstands all the shot, letting none disperse among the rest. During his minority he's but a companion to Servingmen, who quickly make him proud by buzzing him in the ear with his future inheritance. Next to his father he looks for a secondary respect from the Tenants, and is much affected with the title of young Landlord. His mother's indulgence keeps him still at home, like a b●rd in a cage, so that when he gets forth he's soon ensnared by any she fowler and falls down to her stales straightway. When he has wit enough to divide Commons, he's sent perhaps to Oxford, and having stayed there the dabbling of a fresh man's grown, comes home again, being content rather to eat Sugar-plums at home, than taste there of the bitter root of Learning. From hence he's transported to the Inns of Court, and dotes much upon the first chapter of Littleton's Tenors concerning feesimple, because his own estate. His father's long life is his lingering sickness, and wishes to be once able to say the first petition of our Lord's prayer, Our father which art in heaven. After his decease, he takes Arms afresh of the Herald, and pays for crest, and Motto. He walks now next to the wall with a swelled countenance, and speaks as hautily to his inferiors, as though he had swallowed a Lordship already, and the Steeple stuck in his throat. His known estate in the country proposes him varieties of matches, and his wealth, not his wit wins him affection. he's now beholding to Poets for lovesonnetts, and the posy of his wedding Ring. Being thus fixed in one centre, his next ambition is to be pricked down justice of peace; now his warrants have more virtue in them than himself. he's terrible now to his Tenants, and by his authority can out of his chair nod a Beggar to the Stocks. In his discourse his inferiors must now grant him the better, and at his own table if he break a saltlesse jest, all must applaud him. Thus he lives till time making him grow old, what was folly in youth now proves dotage, having his desires of his father's death punished now at last in the same desires of his heir, who would gladly give Cloaks for him without mourning, and afterwards bury him in the Sepulchar of his fathers. 10. A Scholar in the University, MAy be known by a harmless innocent look; his nose seems to be raw for want of fires in winter, and yet has such a quick sent, that he quickly smells out his chopped mutton commons a far off. In his freshmanship he's full of humility, but afterward ascends the steps of ambition by degrees. He studies so long words of Art, that all his learning at last is but an Art of words. His discourse is always grounded out of Aristotle, in whose 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 he puts as much confidence as in his Creed. In his letters he's often ready to shake the whole frame of the sense to let in some great word, affecting a nonsenticall eloquence before propriety of phrase; If he were compelled to salute a Gentlewoman, he would tremble more than ever he did in pronouncing his first declamation. He often frequents Bookbinder's shops, for his unconstant humour of tumbling over many books, is like a sick man's palate, which desires to taste of every dish but fixes on none. The University Library is his magazine of learning, where he'll be sure to be seen in his formalityes as soon as he's graduated; for the liberty thereof expresses him a Bachelor. He earnestly inquires after the weekly Currantoes, and swallows down any news with great confidence. His chiefest courtesy to strangers, is to show you his College Buttery, and to sconce himself a halfpenny farthing for your ententainement. If you seem to admire the names of their small divisions, as halfpenny, farthing, and the like, out of a self simplicity he strait laughs at your ignorance. And if you contend for priority in going forth, puts you down with a stale compliment. 〈◊〉 est Peregrini. When he makes a journey 'tis in the vacation, and then he canvises a fortnight aforehand amongst his friends for Boötes and Spurs. His purse like the Sea is governed by the Moon, for he has his several ebbs and tides, according as he receives his several exhibitions from his friends. Lastly, he wears out a great deal of time there to know what kind of Animal he is, contemns every man that is not a Graduate if himself be one, and because he professes himself a Scholar, goes commonly in black, and many times 'tis all he has to show for't. 11. A Lawyer's Clerk. HIs father thought it too chargeable to keep him at School till he could read Harry Stottle, and therefore preferred him to a man of Law. His master is his genius, and dictates to him before he sets pen to paper. If he be to make a Bond or Bill, for fear of writing false Latin, he abbreviates the ending and termination of his word with a dash, and so leaves it doubtful. He sits night the door to give access to strangers, and at their going forth gives them a leg in expectation. His master is a cunning juggler of lands and knows how to convey them underhand, he only copies them over again, and looks for a fee for expedition. His utmost knowledge is the names of the Courts and their several offices, and begins after a while like a Pie that his tongue slit, to chatter out some terms of Law, with more audacity than knowledge: At a new play he'll be sure to be seen in the threepeny Room, and buys his pippins before he goes in, because he can have more for money. When he hears some stale jest (which he best apprehends) he fills the house with an ignorant laughter. He wears cutfingerd dogskin gloves, for his ease, or the desire of bribes makes his hands grow itchy. In the vacation his master goes into the country to keep Courts, and then he's tie to a Cloakebagge and rides after him. He calls himself the hand of the Law, and commends the wisdom thereof, in having so many words go to a bargain, for that both lengthens them, and makes his fees the larger. He would fain read Littleton if he might have a comment on him, otherwise he's too obscure, and dotes much on west's Symboliography for teaching him the form of an acquittance. In his freshmanship he hunts after cheap venery, and is in debt to the Cook, for Eel pies on fasting days, and friday nights. The corruption of him is a weak Attorney, than he trafiques with countrymens' businesses, and brings them down a bill of charges, worse than a Tailors for a suit in the last fashion, and here we leave him, for now he's at the highest. 12. A Townsman in Oxford. IS one that hath long lived by the well of knowledge, but never sipped at it, for he loves no water in his wine, though it come from Helicon. He gains most by the recentity of freshmen, unto whom he sticks as close as a Horseleech, till he have sucked out the superfluity of their purses. His wife commonly makes him free by her own copy, and in spite of Pembroke College keeps open Broade-gates still. He loves not a Scholar in his heart, for he sides against them in any faction though it be but at a match at football. His phrase savours somewhat of the university, being fragments gleaned from other men's mouths, and gives his words such a punctual stiff pronunciation, as though they were starched into his mouth, and durst not come out faster for fear of ruffling. A Scholar had better take up any wares of his wife than of him, for he'll be sure to make them pay for the expectation of their carrier. He takes ill words because he knows he deserves them, and yields the supremacy of the wall to any gown. If the opinion of his riches choose him Alderman, he thinks himself as wise as any Roman Senator, after this if he can but call a poor man Rogue, and read a proclamation, he may be thought eligible for Mayor. He frequents Sermons at St. mary's only to spy out his debtors, whom he afterwards haunts at their College, and troubles with knocking at their Chamber doors, but receives no answer, for he's known as well there as a Sergeant in the Inns of Court, and alike hated. he's no Logician, and yet sometims concludes a Syllogism in Bocardo, and is hardly reduced from thence. Lastly, he's a burr that sticks close to freshmen gowns, a seducer of hopeful wits, & one that strives to writhe the pliantness of youth to all ill actions. 13. An Usurer. MVst be drawn like to those pictures that have a double aspect, which if you behold one way seems to be a man, but the otherway a devil. He grounds the lawfulness of his usury from the Parable, wherein the servant was not approved of, that had not inproved his talon, he'll be sure therefore not to hide his, but make the best use of it. He gets into men's estates as Cutpurses get cloaks in the night, if he can but wind himself into a piece of't, he'll be sure to get it all at last. Or like an Essex ague, will shake whole Lordships into a consumption. His case for heaven is very dangerous, because he sins still with security. he's an excellent Cook to dress a young Heir, for he first plucks off his feathers, and afterwards serves him up to the world with woodcock sauce. His Clerk is the Vulcan, that forges the Bonds and Shackles which he imposes on other men. If you come to borrow money of him, if he feel out your necessity, he'll be sure to make you pay for't, and his first question will be, what's your security? He could find in his heart to be circumcised for a jew, if he thought he might thrive more by his usury. His pining covetous thoughts eats off his flesh from his body, and as though he bade been laid in Lime, makes him look like a living Anatomy. All his life is a golden dream, for he dreams of nothing but gold, and this red earth is all the heaven he expects. To conclude, he's one that makes haste to be rich, and therefore can't be innocent. Like thiefs he undoes men by binding them. And lastly, his estate is raised out of the ruins of whole families, which first sends him in ill getting it, and afterward his son in ill spending it, both to the Devil; and there I leave them. 14. A wand'ring Rogue, IS an Individuum Vagtim, a wand'ring Planet. He alone contemns fortune, for what she never gave, she can never take away from him, The veils of his apparel is not much worth, for 'tis a rhapsody of Rags which at michaelmas begins with the leaves of trees to fall off from him and leave him stark naked. He keeps no table, and yet has a great retinue of hangers on, which almost devour him alive. If he had wit he might profess himself a Lawyer, for he has been often called to the bar, though 'twere but to plead not guilty. He thinks himself as ancient a gentleman as the best, and can deduce his pedigree from Adam. He professes often fortunetelling by looking in your hand, and yet knows not his own for all 'tis burnt there. He keeps a catalogue of all gentlemen's houses, but dares not come near a justice of Peace's for fear of his inexorable Mittimus. He styles himself a traveller, and indeed it is thought if he had learning, he might make a good description of England, for he knows all the highways, though not at his fingers, yet his toes-end. He's always accompanied with some dirty Doxy, whom he never marries, but lies with under a hedge, and thinks it a sure contract, because 'tis in the sight of heaven. On the highway if he meet a Travelour unweaponed, he begs stoutly of him, and so extorts a benevolence rather for fear, than charity. And at last if his heart serve him, he falls quite from begging to robbing, which he finds more gainful and ready to preferment, for it advances him to the Gallows, and now he's at the highest, where we leave him to make the world his priest by a confession. 15. A Waterman. IS like a piece of Hebrew speled backward, or the emblem of deceit, for he rows one way & looks another. When you come within ken of them, you shall hear a noise worse than the confusion of Bedlam, and if you go with a Scholar, the Oars think you no Gentleman. He carries many a bankrupt over the water, and yet when he set's them ashore makes them Landed men. If you dislike the roughness of the water, he warrants you a safe passage, and on that condition, gives you his hand to help you into the Boat, and his first question is, where you'll be? Though he be ne'er sober yet he's never drunk, for he lives by water, and is not covetous to get any great estate, for he's best contented when he goes most down the wind. A fresh water Soldier he is, and therefore gets to wear some Nobleman's badge to secure him from pressing. He knows all news, and informs men of the names of noble men's houses toward the Thames. A man would take him for a very busy fellow, for he has an Oar in every Boat, which though it leak not, yet 'tis ever ready to take water. he's so seldom drunk that 'tis chalked up for a miracle, for he goes commonly on the score. Thus he lives and when he dies, he's sure his soul shall pass to the Elysian fields, for if Charon should deny him passage, he means to steal his Boat, and so ferry himself over. 16. A Shepherd. IS a happy man, and yet knows not of it; his chief unhappiness consists in not knowing his own happiness. In Summer time he enthrones himself on the top of some high Mountain, from whence his eye is entertained with variety of Landscapes, whilst his sheep promiscuously choose out the threepild grass in the valley. he's the Emblem of a King or Priest, and his sheep are his Subjects. He uses his dog as Kings their Laws, oftener to restra●ne than punish offerees; for if any of his sheep chance to transgress the bounds of their sheepewalke, he whistles out his dog to fetch them in again. He makes not his stomach observe any set times of meals, but makes his meals keep time with his stomach, and then sits down on his grassy carpet, instead of tapestry, and what ever his fare be, content furnisheth out his Table. His chiefest ambition is to be elected the Shepherds' King, which he obtains not by any corrupt suffrage, but by having the first Lamb yeaned that year. His profession is one of the ancientest, and is only younger brother unto husbandry, as Abel was to Kaine. Whatsoever is fabled of jason, he alone gets the golden fleece without sauling fort. To strangers h●e's a living Mercury, & if he be laid, points them out their way with his foot, instead of his hand, and his knowledge seldom extends farther than the reach of his eye. His common standing posture is crossleggd, and when he drives his sheep, his lameness makes him keep equal pace with them. When he marries he's no ward to have a match enforced upon him, but chooses where he list amongst the Sheapherdesses, where a mutual and reciprocal love on both sides claps up the match without any by-respect of jointure. This day the rest of the Swains (having first presented his bride unto him crowned with a chaplet of flowers) solemnize with dancing and singing Roundelaes', wherein the simplicity of their performance gives a peculiar grace to every action. Afterward his care becomes hers, she helps him to pitch the hurdles, and at night folds him in her own arms. he's a good physician to his sheep, and his Tarrbox affords a general medicine for any outward application. He ●ackes nothing but some business for his thoughts, for were he a Scholar he has the best leisure for contemplation that could be. And lastly as Alexander wished if he were not Alexander to be Diogenes, so if all knew his happiness, they would wish to be Shepherds. 17. A jealous Man. HIs care and fears are all to know what would vex him more being once known. His passion proceeds from the superfluity of his love, or from the consciousness of some deficiency or inability in himself. His unwise and jealous fearfulness to be deceived, often teaches her the way to deceive him, and makes her desirous to prove that difference of other men which he so much suspects. He dares not invite his friend to his house, for fear he should salute his wife, which he esteems as a Prologue to an ensuing comedy. At ●able he observes upon whom his wife scatters most favourable looks (for he fears there may be a dialogue of eyes aswell as ●ongues:) whom she oftenest drinks to, whom she ●omes to, and then his suspicion comments upon every action. he's witty in inventing trials of his ●ives chastity, and he ●retendeth very often journeys into the Country, thereby to make her more secure in his absence, but returns again unexpectedly. Sometimes he attends her in unknown disguises, urges her with earnest solicitation, and is so hasty for his horns that he could be content to be his own Cuckoldmaker. His jealous thoughts are ready to bastardise his Children, and if they be not in every respect like himself, thinks them not his own. His fear of being robbed is worse than the robbery itself, a woman being like an untold sum of money, wherein the honour is ●ot sensible of any small theft. In his thoughts he commends much the security of the Italian Padlock, and could willingly put it ●n practise too. His house ●s divided into factions, ●etts every Servant to be a opye over his fellow, and ●ll of them over his wife. ●f she strive to please him, he ●hinkes it's but to deceive ●im; if not to please him, ●ee thinks she's better pleased with others. To conclude, he's a man possessed with a mixed passion of love-melancholy, which he more easily entertains than ●s quit off. His jealousy like ●inegar dries up his blood; hence his paleness. He wishes himself unmarried, and thinks when he changed his bachelor buttons for Rosemary, he lost the best flower in his garden. Lastly whole numbers may be made out of fractions, but jealousy makes an irreparable division of love, which grows worse by continuance. 18. A Chamberlain. IS the first Squire that gives entertainment to errant strangers. At your first alighting he strait offers you to see a Chamber, but has got the trick of tradesmen to show you the worst first. he's as nimble as Hamlets ghost here and every where, and when he has many guests, stands most upon his pantofles, for he's then a man of some calling. His gain consists most in gratuities & retailing of faggotts, wherein he's allowed fourteen to the dozen, and what he can over-reckon is his own gain. he's Secretary to the Kitchen and Tapstery, and pays himself his own fees in adding something to every particular. He takes wages of no man, and yet serves every man. He may seem a base fellow over night, but in the morning you shall find him a man of some reckoning. When you ask what's to pay, he comes down and returns again with a general total, which if you dislike, he offers to prove it by an Induction of particular Items. Your Tapster takes great care that your jugges shall ne'er be full, and the Chamberlain that they shall ne'er b●e empty, for he'll carry them away half full. You shall sooner get fresh litter for your hor●e, than clean sh●et●s for yourself, for he has a trick by wetting them to make them feel damp, and so having smoothed up the matter, if you dislike them, he strait equivocates, and swears they were never laid in since they were last wet. When he's called up a mornings, he gapes as though he were Sea-sick, and afterward like the emblem of deceit, brings fire in one hand and water in the other. If you save the remainder of your meat for breakfast, he grumbells, for he holds that Tenent, that we ought not to care for the morrow. Lastly, his life for ease is ●ust about Serving manlike, and commonly runs the same fortunes, both in their age overtaking beggary; but I forbear any farther description since his picture is drawn to the life in every Inn. 19 A Maid. IS a fruit that grows ripe at fifteen, and if she be not then gathered, falls of herself. Till she be married she thinks it long, but afterwards she comes shorter of her expectation. I● she keep a Chambermaid she ly●s, at her beds feet, and they two say no Pater-nosters, but in the morning tell one another all their wanton dream's, talk all night long of young men, and will be both sure to fast on St Agnes Night to know who shall be their first husbands. Her desires grow now impatient of delay, nothing being more tedious than a full ripe maidenhead, which she lets a Servingman often obtain by opportunity. When she's wooed, like the Lapwing she flies farthest from her nest; and because she can seem coy in words; would make you believe her thoughts are so too. She laughs at those that shoot at Rovers, and make their own way difficult, when they might sooner hit the mark, and prove themselves better shooters. If she be troubled with night talking, she confesses all, and her dreams make her blush awake; when she falls sick she's much afeard to lead Apes in Hell, for she would not willingly dye in Ignorance: she reads now loves histories as Amadis de Gaul and the Arcadia, & in them courts the shadow of love till she know the substance, Each morning she and her glass help to correct the erratas of nature, & comes not out of her Chamber till she be fully dressed. She learns many graceful qualities as dancing and playing, which all propose to themselves no other end but to hasten her marriage. Till which she counts all time as last tarrying, and if her wishes had been true she had not been a Maid since she reached her teens first. To conclude, she's a fading flower, her wedding night withers her, when she rises again with an innocent blush, and ne'er grieves for her losses. 20. A Bailie▪ IS the Supervisor of a manor under the Lord of the Soil. The Tenants court him to connive at his Master's injuries, but yet underhand he persuades him to enclose his Common, in hope to have the yearly letting of it. Though his master be a Prodigal, yet he strives to enlarge his waste, for he informs him of all inchroachments. He trusts his Tablebooke with much of his business, and wears a Bre●nors Almanac in his pocket for the blanks-sake. He can cast his face into a buying or bargaining form, and can soon reduce Pounds, into Marks and Nobles. He gives not an account but makes it, and his Arithmetic is only the rule of falsehood; His addition is by Counters with which he casts up his Bills, and his skill in Geometry serves him to measure a Rood of hedging, and to know how many pe●ches are contained in an Acre. He informs his master when Fairs happen, where though he cheat him in buying and selling, yet at night he makes him a fair reckoning. He has the general Theory of all husbandry, but his business is the direction of other men's labours. His diligence in harvest time is expressed, by being seen often afield with a Fork on his shoulder, and he cuts grass always in the change of the Moon. The Tenants hold his master's land in occupation, and he their wives, and for befriending them in renewing their Lease, he seals them without witness. He knows how to bounder land, and counts it a heinous offence to remove a merestone. He is the apparitor of the Parish, and brings in his presentments against the next court day, with what justice the Lord knows for they are fined to them by Amercements. 21. A Petty Country Fair. IS the publication of some few Pedlars packs distinguished into Booths, which is yet filled with a great confluence of country people, who flock thither to buy some trivial necessaries▪ A far off it seems a tumult of white staves, and red petticoats and mu●lers, but when you come nearer they make a fair show. The men buy hobnayles and plough-irons, and the women household trifles, yet such as are for use more than ornament. Your country Gentlewomen come thither to buy bonelace, and London gloves, & are only known by a Mask hanging on their cheek and an Antic plume of feathers in a Fair, and 'twould do you good to hear them bargain in their own dialect. The Inns are this day filled, every man meets his friend and unless they crush a pot they think it a dry compliment. here the young Lads give their Lasses Fairring, which if she take with a simpering consent, the next Sunday their banes are bidden. A Balletsinger may be sooner heard here than seen, for instead of the viol he sings to the crowd. If his Ballet be of love, the country wenches buy it, to get by heart at home, and after sing it over their milkepayles. Gipsies flock thither, who tell men of losses, and the next time they look for their purses, they find their words true. At last after much sweat and trampling too and fro, each one carries home a piece of the Fair, and so it ends. 22. A Country Alehouse. IS the centre of the Towns good fellowship, or some humble roofed Cottage licenced to sell Ale. The inward hangings is a painted cloth, with a row of Balletts pasted on it. It smells only of smoke and new Wort, and yet the usual guests think it a rare perfume. They drink no healths here to Mistresses, but their only compliment is: Here's to thee neighbour jobson. They pay here by the poll, for they think that many purses makes light shots, as many hands light work. Their only game here is Noddy, and that but for a pot of Ale for pastime. 'Tis the married man's sanctuary, whither he flies to avoid a scolding wife at home, and thinks to drench his cares in this Ale lethe. They often make bargains here, but before they go out, can hardly stand to them. All the posts are Creditors, and the Chalk like an inseparable accident can hardly be wiped of. They drink here till their mirth and drink fly out both together, the one in the Chimney and the other in drunken catches, till the street ring again, and every pot raises them a note higher. To strangers 'tis known by the advancement of a Maypole; and is the only guest house to Pedlar's pilgrimages. L●stly, if there be two in the Town, they live in hostile emulation; and their faction is about brewing the best Ale. 23. A Horse Race. IS a way to let money run away full speed. Amongst the Romans 'twas an Olympic exercise, and the prize was a Garland, but now they bear the Bell away. 'Tis the prodigality of country Gentlemen, & the gullery of Londoners; the one diets his horse till his purse grows lank, and the other pays for rash betting. The former would give any thing for a horse of Pegasus Race, or one begot of the wind while the mare turned her backside in Boreas' mouth. They lay wagers here on their horse heels, and hope to win it by their running heads. The Riders speak northern howsoever, and though they want many grains of honest men, yet when they are put into the Scale, they are made weight. The horses are brought hither in their night clothes, and from thence walk down to the starting post, whence grew the Latin proverb, a carceribus ad metam. The country people have time now to commend white-mayne and Peppercorn, while the Gentlemen ride up and down with Bets in their mouths, crying three to one, till the word Done make it a wager. By this time they are coming up, and the forerunner is received ovant, with great acclamations of joy, and the hinder man though he rid booty, yet he shows that he favoured neither side by the spur-galling. It being now done, they drop away into the villages, where their tongues run over the race again, which for that night fills Alehouses with noise and discourse. 24. A Farmer's daughter. IS a pretty piece of Innocence, that's slow into conceiting love, and had never thought of marriage, but for example sake, when she saw her youngers go before her. She is handmaid to her mother's housewifery, which by seeing done she makes her own, and it proves her best portion. she's a Bridemaid to all young couples, where she wears her Rosemary pinned on her Heartside, to show her affection to Hymen's rites; and if she see them both a-bed, she carries away a strong fancy of the sequel. She can sell corn at the next Market, and while she rides thither on her sack, her short coats administers a temptation in discovering her Leg. Her corn stands not long for the cellar's sake, and she crosses the Proverb, for she measures it out by another's Bushel. She receives her money of her Chapman, and has a kiss given her always to boot. If she have any thing to buy, the Mercer's shops furnishes her, where she remembers her mother's commission to a halfpennerth of soap, and at home makes her account of all. If her father thrive on his farm, the poor neighbours put the mastership upon him, and if she learn ●o play on Virginals, 'tis thought a Courtlike breeding. For her beauty 'tis a durable one, and fears no wind, nor weather, which shows 'tis not beholding to Art. She baits not her eyes to attract Suitors, but for a husband trusts all to 〈◊〉 Providence; and at last Cupid in compassion strikes some Farmer's son in love with her, and then she brews and makes her own Ale and Cakes for the wedding. 25. A Keeper. IS a fellow in green, that's led about by a dog in a line, and the burden of his shoulder is a long staff. He wanders the wild woods to secure the Game, and is one that's licenced to be a night walker. If he find any trespassers, half a piece puts out half his eyes, and a whole one makes him wholly blind. His lodge is a lone house, often feigned in histories to give entertainment to wandering strangers, and in the fictions of Duels & ravishments, who comes in still to rescue, but a Keeper? His honest rudeness makes him a protector of men and maydenheades, for he thinks the sufferance of such an act would blast the trees and make the leaves look wan. The horn that affrights other men, is his best music: he knows the changes of the chase, and when a noted Deer is hunted, he winds his fall, and weeps at it. All the woodnimphs court him, and when he rushes from them, the briers seem to pull him back again. He understands no chamber whispering, but drowns the winds with hallowing, and is answered back in the same Language. He knows the ages of his Deer by casting their horns, and thinks a Cuckold most infortunate that his should stick so close to him. He breaks up a wench as he does a stag, and having taken an essay of her, if he find her fat in the flank marries her. His Children like the Indians are borne Bowmen, his hounds and they lap and feed both out of a dish: he loves those that write in the praise of hunting, and himself talks whole volumes of it. He wishes all Noble men were Nimrods', mighty hunters; for besides their liberality, the bounty o● beasts gives him the shoulder and the Humbles for his fee. Last, when he wanders to an Alehouse, he loves no sign but the Robbinhood, because he was a Forester: where we leave him, till at night he be forth coming. 26. A Gentleman's House in the Country. IS the prime house of some village, and carries gentility in the front of it. The Tenants round about travel thither in Pilgrimage with their pig and goose offerings, and their duty increases with the near expiring of their leases. The Servingman are like quarter waiters; for while some give attendanee at home, the rest are dispersed in the Alehouses. Their master allows them to make men drink for his credit, while they sound forth his fame of hospitality upon the Trumpe●s of black jacks. They envye most their own coat, for if a Gentleman bring half a dozen men with him, they'll not suffer a man to come off alive, and that expr●sses their Master's welcome. At meals you shall have a scattered troup of dishes, led in by some black puddings, and in the Rear some demolished pastyes, which are not fallen yet to the Servingmen. Between meals there's bread and Beer for all comers, and for a stranger a napkin, and cold, meat in the buttery may be obtained. All the Rooms smell of Dogs and Hawks, and the Halls bears arms, though it be but a muskit● and two Corsletts. The maids have their several swee-thearts, which they get by befriending men in their several offices: As the dairy maid by a dish of Cream: The Chambermaid by her landrye; and for this the Serving man do● them as good a turn. After which if she knot and prove, she obtains of her Mistress a poor Copyhold, and they both turn Tenants to the family; and are called retainers. The Master of the house is adored as a Relic of gentilitye, and if his wife come by some home-match, he dares not let her see London or the Court, for fear she should make his woods pay for't. He observes all times and seasons of the year, and his Christmas is the butler's jubilee. To conclude, his house is the seat of hospitality, the poor man's Court of justice, the Curate's Sunday ordinary, and the only exchequer of Charity, where the poor go away relieved, and cry, God bless the founder. FINIS.