His life is a mere counterfeit patent, which, nevertheless, makes many a
country justice tremble. Don Quixote's water-mills are still Scotch
bagpipes to him. He sends challenges by word of mouth, for he protests
(as he is a gentleman and a brother of the sword) he can neither write
nor read. He hath run through divers parcels of land, and great houses,
beside both the counters. If any private quarrel happen among our great
courtiers, he proclaims the business--that's the word, the business--as
if the united force of the Romish Catholics were making up for Germany.
He cheats young gulls that are newly come to town; and when the keeper
of the ordinary blames him for it he answers him in his own profession,
that a woodcock must be plucked ere he be dressed. He is a supervisor to
brothels, and in them is a more unlawful reformer of vice than prentices
on Shrove-Tuesday. He loves his friend as a counsellor at law loves the
velvet breeches he was first made barrister in, he will be sure to wear
him threadbare ere he forsake him. He sleeps with a tobacco-pipe in his
mouth; and his first prayer in the morning is he may remember whom he
fell out with over night. Soldier he is none, for he cannot distinguish
between onion-seed and gunpowder; if he have worn it in his hollow tooth
for the toothache and so come to the knowledge of it, that is all. The
tenure by which he holds his means is an estate at will, and that's
borrowing. Landlords have but four quarter-days, but he three hundred
and odd. He keeps very good company, yet is a man of no reckoning; and
when he goes not drunk to bed he is very sick next morning. He commonly
dies like Anacreon, with a grape in his throat; or Hercules, with fire
in his marrow. And I have heard of some that have escaped hanging begged
for anatomies, only to deter man from taking tobacco.