Is but a quarter-master with his wife. He stinks of butter as if he were
anointed all over for the itch. Let him come over never so lean, and
plant him but one month near the brew-houses in St Catherine's, and he
will be puffed up to your hand like a bloat herring. Of all places of
pleasure he loves a common garden, and with the swine of the parish had
need be ringed for rooting. Next to these he affects lotteries
naturally, and bequeaths the best prize in his will aforehand; when his
hopes fall he's blank. They swarm in great tenements like flies; six
households will live in a garret. He was wont, only to make us fools, to
buy the fox skin for threepence, and sell the tail for a shilling. Now
his new trade of brewing strong waters makes a number of madmen. He
loves a Welshman extremely for his diet and orthography; that is, for
plurality of consonants, and cheese. Like a horse, he is only guided by
the mouth; when he's drunk you may thrust your hand into him like an
eel's-skin, and strip him, his inside outwards. He hoards up fair gold,
and pretends 'tis to seethe in his wife's broth for consumption; and
loves the memory of King Henry the Eighth, most especially for his old
sovereigns. He says we are unwise to lament the decay of timber in
England; for all manner of buildings or fortification whatsoever, he
desires no other thing in the world than barrels and hop-poles. To
conclude, the only two plagues he trembles at is small beer and the
Spanish Inquisition.