Is one that knows himself so well, that he does not know himself. Two
excellent well-dones have undone him, and he is guilty of it that first
commended him to madness. He is now become his own book, which he pores
on continually, yet like a truant reader skips over the harsh places,
and surveys only that which is pleasant. In the speculation of his own
good parts, his eyes, like a drunkard's, see all double, and his fancy,
like an old man's spectacles, make a great letter in a small print. He
imagines every place where he comes his theatre, and not a look stirring
but his spectator; and conceives men's thoughts to be very idle, that
is, [only] busy about him. His walk is still in the fashion of a march,
and like his opinion unaccompanied, with his eyes most fixed upon his
own person, or on others with reflection to himself. If he have done any
thing that has passed with applause, he is always re-acting it alone,
and conceits the extasy his hearers were in at every period. His
discourse is all positions and definitive decrees, with _thus it must
be_ and _thus it is_, and he will not humble his authority to prove it.
His tenet is always singular and aloof from the vulgar as he can, from
which you must not hope to wrest him. He has an excellent humour for an
heretic, and in these days made the first Arminian. He prefers Ramus
before Aristotle, and Paracelsus before Galen,[22] [_and whosoever with
most paradox is commended._] He much pities the world that has no more
insight in his parts, when he is too well discovered even to this very
thought. A flatterer is a dunce to him, for he can tell him nothing but
what he knows before: and yet he loves him too, because he is like
himself. Men are merciful to him, and let him alone, for if he be once
driven from his humour, he is like two inward friends fallen out: his
own bitter enemy and discontent presently makes a murder. In sum, he is
a bladder blown up with wind, which the least flaw crushes to nothing.