He is a servant to himself, yea, to his servant; and doth base homage to
that which should be the worst drudge. A lifeless piece of earth is his
master, yea his god, which he shrines in his coffer, and to which he
sacrifices his heart. Every face of his coin is a new image, which he
adores with the highest veneration; yet takes upon him to be protector
of that he worshippeth, which he fears to keep and abhors to lose, not
daring to trust either any other god or his own. Like a true chemist, he
turns everything into silver, both what he should eat, and what he
should wear; and that he keeps to look on, not to use. When he returns
from his field, he asks, not without much rage, what became of the loose
crust in his cupboard, and who hath rioted among his leeks. He never
eats good meal but on his neighbour's trencher, and there he makes
amends to his complaining stomach for his former and future fasts. He
bids his neighbours to dinner, and when they have done, sends in a
trencher for the shot. Once in a year, perhaps, he gives himself leave
to feast, and for the time thinks no man more lavish; wherein he lists
not to fetch his dishes from far, nor will be beholden to the shambles;
his own provision shall furnish his board with an insensible cost, and
when his guests are parted, talks how much every man devoured, and how
many cups were emptied, and feeds his family with the mouldy remnants a
month after. If his servant break but an earthen dish for want of light,
he abates it out of his quarter's wages. He chips his bread, and sends
it back to exchange for staler. He lets money, and sells time for a
price, and will not be importuned either to prevent or defer his day;
and in the meantime looks for secret gratuities, besides the main
interest, which he sells and returns into the stock. He breeds of money
to the third generation, neither hath it sooner any being, than he sets
it to beget more. In all things he affects secrecy and propriety; he
grudgeth his neighbour the water of his well, and next to stealing he
hates borrowing. In his short and unquiet sleeps he dreams of thieves,
and runs to the door and names more men than he hath. The least sheaf he
ever culls out for tithe, and to rob God holds it the best pastime, the
clearest gain. This man cries out above others of the prodigality of our
times, and tells of the thrift of our forefathers: how that great prince
thought himself royally attired, when he bestowed thirteen shillings and
fourpence on half a suit. How one wedding gown served our grandmothers
till they exchanged it for a winding-sheet; and praises plainness, not
for less sin, but for less cost. For himself, he is still known by his
forefather's coat, which he means with his blessing to bequeath to the
many descents of his heirs. He neither would be poor, nor be accounted
rich. No man complains so much of want, to avoid a subsidy; no man is so
importunate in begging, so cruel in exaction; and when he most complains
of want, he fears that which he complains to have. No way is indirect to
wealth, whether of fraud or violence. Gain is his godliness, which if
conscience go about to prejudice, and grow troublesome by exclaiming
against, he is condemned for a common barretor. Like another Ahab, he is
sick of the next field, and thinks he is ill-seated, while he dwells by
neighbours. Shortly, his neighbours do not much more hate him, than he
himself. He cares not (for no great advantage) to lose his friend, pine
his body, damn his soul; and would despatch himself when corn falls, but
that he is loth to cast away money on a cord.