Is a winter grasshopper all the year long that looks back upon harvest
with a lean pair of cheeks, never sets forward to meet it; his malice
sucks up the greatest part of his own venom, and therewith impoisoneth
himself: and this sickness rises rather of self-opinion or over-great
expedition; so in the conceit of his own over-worthiness, like a
coistrel he strives to fill himself with wind, and flies against it. Any
man's advancement is the most capital offence that can be to his malice,
yet this envy, like Phalaris' bull, makes that a torment first for
himself he prepared for others. He is a day-bed for the devil to slumber
on. His blood is of a yellowish colour, like those that have been bitten
by vipers, and his gall flows as thick in him as oil in a poisoned
stomach. He infects all society, as thunder sours wine: war or peace,
dearth or plenty, makes him equally discontented. And where he finds no
cause to tax the State, he descends to rail against the rate of
salt-butter. His wishes are whirlwinds, which breathed forth return into
himself, and make him a most giddy and tottering vessel. When he is
awake, and goes abroad, he doth but walk in his sleep, for his
visitation is directed to none, his business is nothing. He is often
dumb-mad, and goes fettered in his own entrails. Religion is commonly
his pretence of discontent, though he can be of all religions, therefore
truly of none. Thus by naturalising himself some would think him a very
dangerous fellow to the State; but he is not greatly to be feared, for
this dejection of his is only like a rogue that goes on his knees and
elbows in the mire to further his cogging.