A mere scholar is an intelligible ass, or a silly fellow in black that
speaks sentences more familiarly than sense. The antiquity of his
University is his creed, and the excellency of his college (though but
for a match at football) an article of his faith. He speaks Latin better
than his mother-tongue, and is a stranger in no part of the world but
his own country. He does usually tell great stories of himself to small
purpose, for they are commonly ridiculous, be they true or false. His
ambition is that he either is or shall be a graduate; but if ever he get
a fellowship, he has then no fellow. In spite of all logic he dares
swear and maintain it, that a cuckold and a town's-man are _termini
convertibles_, though his mother's husband be an alderman. He was never
begotten (as it seems) without much wrangling, for his whole life is
spent in _pro et contra_. His tongue goes always before his wit, like
gentleman-usher, but somewhat faster. That he be a complete gallant in
all points, _cap-à-pie_, witness his horsemanship and the wearing of his
weapons. He is commonly long-winded, able to speak more with ease than
any man can endure to hear with patience. University jests are his
universal discourse, and his news the demeanour of the proctors. His
phrase, the apparel of his mind, is made of divers shreds, like a
cushion, and when it goes plainest it hath a rash outside and fustian
linings. The current of his speech is closed with an _ergo_; and,
whatever be the question, the truth is on his side. It is a wrong to his
reputation to be ignorant of anything; and yet he knows not that he
knows nothing. He gives directions for husbandry, from Virgil's
"Georgics;" for cattle, from his "Bucolics;" for warlike stratagems,
from his "Æneids" or Caesar's "Commentaries." He orders all things and
thrives in none; skilful in all trades and thrives in none. He is led
more by his ears than his understanding, taking the sound of words for
their true sense, and does therefore confidently believe that Erra Pater
was the father of heretics, Radulphus Agricola a substantial farmer, and
will not stick to aver that Systemo's Logic doth excel Keckerman's. His
ill-luck is not so much in being a fool, as in being put to such pains
to express it to the world, for what in others is natural, in him (with
much ado) is artificial. His poverty is his happiness, for it makes some
men believe that he is none of fortune's favourites. That learning which
he hath was in non age put in backward like a glyster, and it's now like
ware mislaid in a pedlar's pack; a has it, but knows not where it is. In
a word, his is the index of a man and the title-page of a scholar, or a
puritan in morality--much in profession, nothing in practice.