ment in Dionysius the Areopagite, De Cœlesti Hierarchia (compare Milton's favourite 'Thrones, dominations, princedoms, virtues, powers'). Heywood's Lucifer charg'd with insolence and spleene' inevitably suggests Milton's sons of 'Belial flown with insolence and wine,' and makes it likely that Milton knew Heywood's book, the plan of which is extraordinarily elastic. The first book, for example, treats the arguments for the being of God, refutes at great length the 'tenents of Atheisme and Saducisme,' deals with false gods, idolatry in general, and the 'malice of the divell.' The second book discusses the nature of God, the Trinity, and the deity of Christ in such verses as the following:

The sacred Scriptures are sufficient warrant
By many texts to make the Trine apparant,
As from the first creation we may prove-
God did create, God said, the Spirit did move.
Create imports the Father; said the Sonne;
The Spirit that mov'd, the Holy Ghost.
Come to the Gospell, to Saint Paul repaire;
Of him, through him, and for him all things are;
To whom be everlasting praise. Amen!
In which it is observed by Origen,

This done,

Of, through, and for three Persons to imply,
And the word him the Godhead's Unity.

Room is found, in prose or verse, for discussing the creation of sun, moon, and stars, and their motions; the constellations, and the myths involved; astrology; the creation of man and the fall of the angels, the fall of man, the redemption, and Scripture story; together with the torments of hell, sketches of the ancient philosophical systems, mediæval theology, Mahomet and his 'Alcaron,' the hideous superstition of the Ethnicks, Finlanders, Laplanders, and 'Bothnienses.' Heywood's own views are supported by copious citations and translations from Homer, Lucian, Virgil, Mahomet, Avicenna, Abenzoar, the Jewish Rabbis, Albertus Magnus, Thomas Aquinas, Hermes Trismegistus, Dionysius the Areopagite, Olaus Magnus, Dante, and hundreds of less-known authors ('Hear Faustus Andrelinus, an excellent poet'! he says, meaning Andrelini, an Italian writer of Latin verse who died in 1518). His (Italian) quotations from Dante prove him to have been one of the earliest English students of Dante. And there is room not merely for innumerable blood-curdling witch-stories, but for apparently any pleasing anecdote or sound observation that occurs to him, often utterly irrelevant to the argument in hand. Thus, apropos of a meditation on death, comes a singular glimpse of contemporary treatment of English poets:

Mans life's a Goale and Death end of the race,
And thousand sundry wayes point to the place.
For now the conqueror with the captive 's spread
On one bare earth as on the common bed.
The servant with the master, and the maid
Stretcht by her mistresse: both their heads are laid
Upon a common pillow.

Blinde Homer in the grave lies doubly darke,

Against him now base Zoylus dares not barke.

From this he suddenly goes off to complain that, though Homer's fame is undisputed, in modern England 'impudent sycophants and balladin, knaves' overbear meriting men.' Further, whereas 'past ages did the antient poets grace' by giving them their full style, often adding to their name the place of their birth or the nature of their work, so that with their worth encreast their stiles, the most grac'd with three names at least,' in England it is quite otherwise. Then he seems inconsequently to justify the usage. And after quoting George Buchanan on the poverty of poets, he grumbles that now 'the puny assumes the name of poet,' and shamelessly

Taskes such artists as have took degree
Before he was a fresh man; and because,
No good practitioner in the stage lawes,

He miss'd the applause he aim'd at, hee'l devise
Another course his name to immortalise ;
Imploring divers pens, failing in 's owne,

To support that which others have cried down. Incapable poets and dramatists in his time, in fact, were not merely insolent to their seniors who had been moderately successful, but having failed themselves, had recourse to log-rolling, no less. This is the principal part of the excursus :

Our moderne Poets to that passe are driven, Those names are curtal'd which they first had given; And, as we wisht to have their memories drown'd, We scarcely can afford them halfe their sound.

Greene, who had in both Academies ta'ne
Degree of Master, yet could never gaine
To be call'd more than Robin: who had he
Profest ought save the Muse, Serv'd, and been Free
After a seven yeares Prentiseship; might have
(With credit too) gone Robert to his grave.
Marlo, renown'd for his rare art and wit,
Could ne're attaine beyond the name of Kit;
Although his Hero and Leander did
Merit addition rather. Famous Kid
Was call'd but Tom. Tom. Watson, though he wrote
Able to make Apollo's selfe to dote

Upon his Muse; for all that he could strive,
Yet never could to his full name arrive.
Tom. Nash (in his time of no small esteeme)
Could not a second syllable redeeme.
Excellent Bewmont, in the formost ranke
Of the rar'st Wits, was never more than Franck.
Mellifluous Shake-speare, whose inchanting Quill
Commanded Mirth or Passion, was but Will.
And famous Johnson, though his learned Pen
Be dipt in Castaly, is still but Ben.

Fletcher and Webster, of that learned packe
None of the mean'st, yet neither was but Jacke.
Deckers but Tom; nor May, nor Middleton.
And hee's now but Jacke Foord, that once were John.
Nor speake I this, that any here exprest,
Should thinke themselves lesse worthy than the rest,
Whose names have their full syllable and sound;
Or that Franck, Kit, or Jacke are the least wound
Unto their fame and merit. I for my part
(Thinke others what they please) accept that heart
Which courts my love in most familiar phrase;
And that it takes not from my paines or praise.

If any one to me so bluntly com,

I hold he loves me best that calls me Tom.
Heare but the learned Buchanan complaine,
In a most passionate Elegiacke straine ;
And what emphaticall phrases he doth use
To waile the wants that wait upon the Muse.
The Povertie (saith he) adde unto these,
Which still attends on the Aönides, &c.

Dodsley included only two of Heywood's plays (1744). The old Shakespeare Society printed a dozen (1842-51). Not till 1874 was there a complete edition of all the plays then known-twenty-three -in 6 vols. by Mr Pearson; The Captives, as we have said, was printed by Mr Bullen in 1885. The Mermaid' edition, edited by Mr Symonds (1888), contains five plays. See also Symonds, Shakespeare's Predecessors; and Ward, History of the English Drama.

Robert Burton.

Robert Burton, the author of the Anatomy of Melancholy, was born at Lindley, in Leicestershire, 8th February 1577; entered Brasenose College, Oxford, in 1593; and in 1599 was elected student of Christ Church. In 1614 he took his B.D., and two years later was presented by his college to the vicarage of St Thomas at Oxford, and about 1630 by Lord Berkeley to the rectory of Segrave in his native county. Both livings he kept with much ado to his dying day,' and appears to have continued all his life at Christ Church, where he died 25th January 1639, and was buried in Christ Church Cathedral. His death took place very near the time he had long since foretold by the calculation of his own nativity for he believed in and practised the art of judicial astrology: hence arose, as we learn from Anthony Wood, a false report that he had 'sent up his soul to heaven thro' a slip about his neck.' Burton is thus described by Wood: 'He was an exact mathematician, a curious calculator of nativities, a general read scholar, a thro' paced philologist, and one that understood the surveying of lands well. As he was by many accounted a severe student, a devourer of authors, a melancholy and humorous [i.e. subject to 'the humours'] person; so by others, who knew him well, a person of great honesty, plain dealing, and charity. I have heard some of the antients of Christ Church often say that his company was very merry, facete, and juvenile, and no man in his time did surpass him for his ready and dextrous interlarding his common discourses among them with verses from the poets or sentences from classical authors, which being then all the fashion in the university made his company more acceptable.' Little is known of his life, but according to Bishop Kennet's Register and Chronicle (1728), 'In an interval of Vapours he would be extreamely pleasant, and raise Laughter in any Company. Yet I have heard that nothing at last could make him laugh, but going down to the Bridge-foot in Oxford, and hearing the Bargemen scold and storm and swear at one another, at which he would set his Hands to his Sides, and laugh most profusely.' There is, however, a strong presumption that the anecdote is a mythical trans

ference to Burton of the idiosyncratic relaxation he says his prototype permitted himself (page 437).

The first edition of the Anatomy of Melancholy, by 'Democritus Junior' (1621), was in quarto; and four more editions in folio were published within the author's lifetime, each with successive alterations and additions. The final form of the book was the sixth edition (1651-52), printed from the author's annotated copy. It is divided into three divisions, each subdivided into sections, members, and subsections. Part I. treats of the causes and symptoms of melancholy, Part II. of the cure of melancholy, and Part III. of love melancholy and religious melancholy. In the long and interesting

preface, 'Democritus to the Reader,' Burton gives an account of himself and his studies, and is his own best critic: 'I have laboriously collected this Cento out of divers Writers, and that sine injuria, I have wronged no authors, but given every man his own.' Of his style he says: "I neglect phrases, and labor wholly to inform my reader's understanding, and not to please his ear; 'tis not my study or intent to compose neatly, which an Orator requires, but to express myself readily and plainly as it happens. So that as a River runs sometimes precipitate and swift, then dul and slow; now direct, then per ambages; now deep, then shallow; now muddy, then clear; now broad, then narrow; doth my stile flow: now serious, then light; now comical, then satyrical; now more elaborate, then remisse, as the present subject required, or as at that time I was affected.'

This strange book is far more systematic than the superficial reader is apt to imagine. It is indeed a farrago from all, even the most out-of-the

way classical and medieval writers, yet not one quotation out of all his ponderous learning but lends strength or illustration to his argument. Every page is marked by keen irony, profound and often gloomy humour, and by, strong and excellent sense; while throughout the book there runs a deep undertone of earnestness that fits well with its concluding sentences, and at times rises into a grave eloquence of quite singular charm. The 'fantastic old great man' is certain of immortality as one of the greatest English writers. Johnson said Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy was the only book that ever took him out of bed wo hours sooner than he wished to rise; and Charles Lamb shows plainly its influence on his own style as well as in his direct imitation, the 'curious Fragments,' professedly extracted from Burton's Common-Place Book. Milton's L'Allegro and Il Penseroso owed much to 'The Author's Abstract of Melancholy' prefixed (in verse) to his book, and Ferriar in 1798 pointed out to the world the indebtedness of Sterne. Byron speaks of its great value as materials 'for literary conversation,' but Wood had long before pointed out this merit: "Tis a book so full of variety of reading, that gentlemen who have lost their time and are put to a push for invention, may furnish themselves with matter for common or scholastical discourse and writing.'

But in spite of Burton's prophylactic apology, Democritus has some right to complain of the use made of his name: the learned recluse of Christ Church did not follow the best authorities on Democritus, and would hardly have called himself Democritus Junior' had he fully realised how wide and deep was the gulf between himself and the philosopher of Abdera. All he meant by calling himself Democritus was that he laughed at the follies of mankind. Now, it so happens that this tradition about the original Democritus is late and unauthentic; so is the cognate one that opposes him, as 'the laughing philosopher,' to Heraclitus, the weeping philosopher.' Democritus (senior) seems to have been a man of a healthy, happy disposition, who habitually looked at the cheerful side of things: the false proverb is but a perversion of this fact. Democritus laughed, not because he was caustic, bitter, satirical, but because he was good-humoured. Democritus, the predecessor of Epicurus, was a thorough-going atomist-his gods were but aggregations of atoms a degree or two more powerful than men, and there is no design in naturewhereas Burton was an orthodox, if not perfervid, Christian and Churchman. Democritus was the greatest traveller of his time; Burton spent all his life in his college. Democritus learnt from living men, not from books; Burton was the very king of bookworms. But both were exceptionally gifted, learned, good men; and Burton may be excused for following the multitude in taking Democritus as characteristically 'a laugher at human follies.'

Burton is quite wrongly regarded as a pessimist

to be ranked with the Ecclesiast, with Buddhist sages, with Schopenhauer, and with Hartmann. He did not regard life as essentially and unredeemably evil the scholar who wrote to relieve his own depression, who devoted one great division of his work to the cure of melancholy, obviously regarded the miseries that do accompany and flow from love, hypochondriasis, superstition, madness, jealousy, and solitude as separable accidents of human nature, or aberrations that ought to be, and can be, guarded against. He was a man subject to the vapours,' in short, and though between whiles cheerful enough, had the moody temperament which led him to dwell on the darker side of life, especially after he had constituted the Anatomy of Melancholy his life-work. And he set himself calmly, not unsympathetically, but candidly, learnedly, even facetiously, to anatomise human folly and perversity. To a man of his ingenuity it was possible to bring almost everything to bear on his pet subject; and hence in his great work we have the most marvellous olla podrida that exists in book form, yet a book with a very definite plan and an unmistakable purpose. The multitudinous quotations, that look at times as if discharged at random from a series of commonplace books, are never wholly irrelevant any more than the frequent and amazing digressions, which are a feature of the book. And though the piles of citations make many of the sentences inordinately long, formless, and almost structureless, Burton when he is writing 'out of his own head' writes tersely, smoothly, and melodiously beyond many of his contemporaries. He is profoundly humorous in another sense than Wood's; his grave and profound humour is, like Sir Thomas Browne's, a marked characteristic.

In the copious preface, 'Democritus to the Reader,' Burton explains his choice of a pseudonym or nom de guerre, and incidentally gives an interesting account of himself and his studies (we follow the text and spelling of the fifth edition of 1638):

Democritus, as he is described by Hippocrates and Laërtius, was a little wearish [withered] old man, very melancholy by nature, averse from company in his latter daies, and much given to solitarinesse, a famous philosopher in his age, coavus with Socrates, wholly addicted to his studies at the last, and to a private life; writ many excellent works, a great divine, according to the divinitie of those times, an expert physician, a politician, an excellent mathematician, as Diacosmus and the rest of his works do witness. He was much delighted with the studies of husbandrie, saith Columella; and often I find him cited by Constantinus and others treating of that subject. He knew the natures, differences of all beasts, plants, fishes, birds; and, as some say, could understand the tunes and voyces of them. In a word, he was omnifariam doctus, a general scholar, a great student; and, to the intent he might better contemplate, I find it related by some that he put out his eyes, and was in his old age voluntarily blinde, yet saw more than all Greece besides, and writ of everie subject: Nihil in toto opificio naturæ de quo non scripsit: a man of an excellent wit, profound conceit; and to attain knowledge the better,

in his younger years he travelled to Egypt and Athens, to conferre with learned men, admired of some, despised of others. After a wandring life, he setled at Abdera, a town in Thrace, and was sent for thither to be their law-maker, recorder, or town-clerke, as some will; or as others, he was there bred and born. Howsoever it was, there he lived at last in a garden in the suburbs, wholly betaking himself to his studies and a private life, saving that sometimes he would walk down to the haven, and laugh heartily at such varietie of ridiculous objects, which there he saw. Such a one was Democritus.

But, in the mean time, how doth this concerne me, or upon what reference doe I usurpe his habit? I confesse, indeed, that to compare my self unto him for ought I have yet said, were both impudencie and arrogancie. I do not presume to make any parallel. Antistat mihi millibus trecentis: parvus sum; nullus sum; altum nec spiro, nec spero. Yet thus much I will say of my self, and that I hope without all suspicion of pride or selfconceit: I have lived a silent, sedentary, solitary, private life, mihi et Musis, in the university, as long almost as Xenocrates in Athens, ad senectam fere, to learne wisdome as he did, penned up most part in my studie: for I have been brought up a student in the most flourishing colledge of Europe, augustissimo collegio, and can bragge with Jovius, almost, in eâ luce domicilii Vaticani, totius orbis celeberrimi, per 37 annos multa opportunaque aidici; for thirty years I have continued (having the use of as good libraries as ever he had) a scholar, and would be therefore loth either, by living as a drone, to be an unprofitable or unworthie member of so learned and noble a societie, or to write that which should be any way dishonourable to such a royall and ample foundation. Something I have done though by my profession a divine, yet turbine raptus ingenii, as he said, out of a running wit, an unconstant, unsetled mind, I had a great desire (not able to attain to a superficiall skill in any) to have some smattering in all, to be aliquis in omnibus, nullus in singulis; which Plato commends, out of him Lipsius approves and furthers, as fit to be imprinted in all curious wits, not to be a stare of one science, or dwell altogether in one subject, as most do, but to rove abroad, centum puer artium, to have an oare in every mans boat, to taste of every dish, and to sip of every cup; which, saith Montaigne, was well performed by Aristotle, and his learned countrey-man Adrian Turnebus. This roving humor (though not with like successe) I have ever had, and, like a ranging spaniell that barks at every bird he sees, leaving his game, I have followed all, saving that which I should, and may justly complain and truly, qui ubique est, nusquam est, which Gesner did in modesty; that I have read many books, but to little purpose, for want of good method, I have confusedly tumbled over divers authors in our libraries with small profit, for want of art, order, memorie, judgement. I never travelled but in map or card, in which my unconfined thoughts have freely expatiated, as having ever been especially delighted with the study of cosmography. Saturn was lord of my geniture, culminating, &c., and Mars principal significator of manners, in partile conjunction with mine ascendent; both fortunate in their houses, &c. I am not poore, I am not rich; nihil est, nihil deest; I have little, I want nothing all my treasure is in Minerva's tower. : Greater preferment as I could never get, so am I not in debt for it. I have a competency (laus Deo) from my noble and

munificent patrons. Though I live still a collegiat student, as Democritus in his garden, and lead a monastique life, ipse mihi theatrum, sequestred from those tumults and troubles of the world, et tamquam in speculâ positus (as he said), in some high place above you all, I hear and see what is done abroad, how others run, ride, turmoile, and macerate themselves in court and countrey, far from those wrangling lawsuits, aulæ vanitatem, fori ambitionem, ridere mecum soleo: I laugh at all, only secure, lest my suit go amisse, my ships perish, corn and cattle miscarry, trade decay, I have no wife nor children, good or bad, to provide for; a meere spectator of other mens fortunes and adventures, and how they act their parts, which me thinks are diversely presented unto me, as from a common theatre or scene. I hear new news every day: and those ordinary rumours of war, plagues, fires, inundations, thefts, murders, massacres, meteors, comets, spectrums, prodigies, apparitions, of towns taken, cities besieged in France, Germany, Turky, Persia, Poland, &c., daily musters and preparations, and such like, which these tempestuous times affoord, battles fought, so many men slain, monomachies, shipwracks, piracies, and seafights, peace, leagues, stratagems, and fresh alarums. A vast confusion of vows, wishes, actions, edicts, petitions, law-suits, pleas, laws, proclamations, complaints, grievances are daily brought to our ears. New books everie day, pamphlets, currantoes [gazettes], stories, whole catalogues of volumes of all sorts, new paradoxes, opinions, schismes, heresies, controversies in philosophie, religion, &c. Now come tidings of weddings, maskings, mummeries, entertainments, jubilies, embassies, tilts, and tournaments, trophies, triumphs, revels, sports, playes: then again, as in a new shifted scene, treasons, cheating tricks, robberies, enormous villanies in all kinds, funerals, burials, death of princes, new discoveries, expeditions; now comicall, then tragicall matters. To day we hear of new lords and officers created, to morrow of some great men deposed, and then again of fresh honors conferred: one is let loose, another imprisoned: one purchaseth, another breaketh he thrives, his neighbour turns bankrupt; now plentie, then againe dearth and famine; one runs, another rides, wrangles, laughs, weeps, &c. Thus I daily hear, and such like, both private and publike news. Amidst the gallantrie and miserie of the world, jollitie, pride, perplexities and cares, simplicitie and villanie, subtletie, knaverie, candor and integritie, mutually mixt and offering themselves, I rub on privus privatus : as I have still lived, so I now continue statu quo prius, left to a solitary life, and mine own domestick discontents; saving that sometimes, ne quid mentiar, as Diogenes went into the citie and Democritus to the haven, to see fashions, I did for my recreation now and then walk abroad, look into the world, and could not choose but make some little observation, non tam sagax observator, ac simplex recitator, not, as they did, to scoffe or laugh at all, but with a mixt passion:

Bilem, sæpe jocum vestri movere tumultus.

I did sometime laugh and scoffe with Lucian, and satyrically taxe with Menippus, lament with Heraclitus, sometimes again I was petulanti splene cachinno, and then again, urere bilis jecur, I was much moved to see that abuse which I could not amend: in which passion howsoever I may sympathize with him or them, 'tis for no such respect I shroud my self under his name, but either

in an unknown habit to assume a little more libertie and freedome of speech, or if you will needs know, for that reason and only respect which Hippocrates relates at large in his epistle to Damegetus, wherein he doth expresse how, comming to visit him one day, he found Democritus in his garden at Abdera, in the suburbs, under a shadie bower, with a book on his knees, busie at his studie, sometime writing, sometime walking. The subject of his book was melancholy and madnes: about him lay the carcasses of many several beasts, newly by him cut up and anatomized; not that he did contemn God's creatures, as he told Hippocrates, but to find out the seat of this atra bilis, or melancholy, whence it proceeds, and how it was engendred in mens bodies, to the intent he might better cure it in himself, by his writings and observations teach others how to prevent and avoid it. Which good intent of his Hippocrates highly commended, Democritus Junior is therefore bold to imitate, and, because he left it imperfect, and it is now lost, quasi succenturiator Democriti, to revive again, prosecute, and finish in this treatise. . .

If any man except against the matter or manner of treating of this my subject, and will demand a reason of it, I can alleage more than one. I write of melancholy, by being busie to avoid melancholy. There is no greater cause of melancholy than idlenesse, no better cure than businesse, as Rhasis holds: and howbeit stultus labor est ineptiarum, to be busied in toyes is to small purpose, yet hear that divine Seneca, better aliud agere quam nihil, better doe to no end than nothing. I writ therefore and busied myself in this playing labour, otiosâque diligentiâ, ut vitarem torporem feriandi, with Vectius in Macrobius, atque otium in utile verterem negotium;

-Simul et jucunda et idonea dicere vitæ,
Lectorem delectando simul atque monendo.

To this end I write, like them, saith Lucian, that recite to trees and declaime to pillers, for want of auditors; as Paulus Ægineta ingenuously confesseth, not that any thing was unknown or omitted, but to exercise my self (which course if some took, I think it would be good for their bodies, and much better for their souls); or peradventure as others do, for fame to shew myself (Scire tuum nihil est, nisi te scire hoc sciat alter). I might be of Thucydides opinion, to know a thing and not to expresse it, is all one as if he knew it not. When I first took this task in hand, et, quod ait ille, impellente genio negotium suscepi, this I aymed at, vel ut lenirem animum scribendo, to ease my minde by writing, for I had gravidum cor, fætum caput, a kind of impostume in my head, which I was very desirous to be unladen of, and could imagine no fitter evacuation than this. Besides I might not well refrain; for, ubi dolor, ibi digitus, one must needs scratch where it itches. I was not a little offended with this maladie, shall I say my mistris melancholy, my Ægeria, or my malus genius; and for that cause, as he that is stung with a scorpion, I would expel clavum clavo, comfort one sorrow with another, idlenes with idlenes, ut ex vipera theriacum, make an antidote out of that which was the prime cause of my disease. Or as he did, of whom Felix Plater speaks, that thought he had some of Aristophanes frogs in his belly, still crying Breccekex, coax, coax, oop, oop, and for that cause studied physick seven years, and travelled over most part of Europe, to ease himself; To do my self good, I turned over such physicians as our libraries

would affoord, or my private friends impart, and have taken this pains.

Symptomes of Love.

Bocace hath a pleasant tale to this purpose, which he borrowed from the Greekes, and which Beroaldus hath turned into Latine, Bebelius in verse, of Cymon and Iphigenia. This Cymon was a foole, a proper man of person, and the governour of Cyprus' sonne, but a very asse; insomuch that his father being ashamed of him, sent him to a farme house he had in the country, to bee brought up; where by chance, as his manner was, walking alone, hee espied a gallant young gentlewoman named Iphigenia, a burgomaster's daughter of Cyprus, with her maid, by a brooke side, in a little thicket, fast asleepe in her smock, where she had newly bathed her selfe. When Cymon saw her, he stood leaning on his staffe, gaping on her immoveable, and in a maze: at last he fell so farre in love with the glorious object, that he began to rouze himselfe up; to bethinke what he was; would needs follow her to the citty, and for her sake began to be civill, to learne to sing and dance, to play on instruments, and got all those gentleman-like qualities and complements, in a short space, which his friends were most glad of. In briefe, hee became from an idiot and a clowne, to bee one of the most compleat gentlemen in Cyprus; did many valorous exploits, and all for the love of Mistris Iphigenia. In a word, I may say this much of them all, let them be never so clownish, rude and horrid, Grobians and sluts, if once they be in love, they will be most neat and spruce; for, Omnibus rebus, et nitidis nitoribus antevenit amor; they will follow the fashion, beginne to tricke up, and to have a good opinion of themselves; venustatum enim mater Venus; a ship is not so long a rigging, as a young gentlewoman a trimming up her selfe against her sweet-heart comes. A painter's shop, a flowry meadow, no so gracious aspect in Nature's storehouse as a young maid, nubilis puella, a Novitsa [novizza is a Venetian word for a new-married bride] or Venetian bride, that lookes for an husband; or a young man that is her suiter; composed looks, composed gate, cloathes, gestures, actions, all composed; all the graces, elegances, in the world, are in her face. Their best robes, ribbines, chaines, iewels, lawnes, linnens, laces, spangles, must come on, præter quam res patitur student elegantia, they are beyond all measure coy, nice, and too curious on a sudden. 'Tis all their study, all their busines, how to wear their cloathes neat, to be polite and terse, and to set out themselves. No sooner doth a young man see his sweet-heart comming, but he smugges up himselfe, pulls up his cloake, now falne about his shoulders, ties his garters, points, sets his band, cuffs, slicks his hair, twires his beard, &c.

(From Part III. sect. ii.)

Study a Cure for Melancholy. Amongst exercises or recreations of the minde within doors, there is none so generall, so aptly to be applyed to all sorts of men, so fit & proper to expell idlenesse and melancholy, as that of study: studia senectutem oblectant, adolescentiam agunt, secundas res ornant, adversis perfugium et solatium præbent, domi delectant, &c. finde the rest in Tully pro Archia Poeta. What so full of content as to read, walke, and see mappes. pictures, statues, jewels, marbles, which some so much magnifie as those that Phidias made of old, so exquisite