Is the hanger that a sergeant wears by his side; it is a false die of
the same ball but not the same cut, for it runs somewhat higher and does
more mischief. It is a tumbler to drive in the conies. He is yet but a
bungler, and knows not how to cut up a man without tearing, but by a
pattern. One term fleshes him, or a Fleet Street breakfast. The devil is
but his father-in-law, and yet for the love he bears him will leave him
as much as if he were his own child. And for that cause (instead of
prayers) he does every morning at the Counter-gate ask him blessing, and
thrives the better in his actions all the day after. This is the hook
that hangs under water to choke the fish, and his sergeant is the quill
above water, which pops down so soon as ever the bait is swallowed. It
is indeed an otter, and the more terrible destroyer of the two. This
counter-rat hath a tail as long as his fellows, but his teeth are more
sharp and he more hungry, because he does but snap, and hath not his
full half-share of the booty. The eye of this wolf is as quick in his
head as a cutpurse's in a throng, and as nimble is he at his business as
an hangman at an execution. His office is as the dogs do worry the sheep
first, or drive him to the shambles; the butcher that cuts his throat
steps out afterwards, and that's his sergeant. His living lies within
the city, but his conscience lies bed-rid in one of the holes of a
counter. This eel is bred too out of the mud of a bankrupt, and dies
commonly with his guts ripped up, or else a sudden stab sends him of his
last errand. He will very greedily take a cut with a sword, and suck
more silver out of the wound than his surgeon shall. His beginning is
detestable, his courses desperate, and his end damnable.