Complete.

THERE is no vermin in the land like him; he slanders both heaven and earth with pretended dearths, when there’s no cause of scarcity. His hoarding in a dear year is like Erisicthon’s bowels in Ovid, “quodque urbibus esse; quodque satis poterat populo, non sufficit uni.” He prays daily for more inclosures, and knows no reasons in his religion why we should call our forefathers’ days the time of ignorance, but only because they sold wheat for twelve pence a bushel. He wishes that Dantzick were at the Mollocco’s, and had rather be certain of some foreign invasion than of the setting up the stilyard. When his barns and granaries are full, if it be a time of dearth, he will buy half a bushel in the market to serve his household, and winnows his corn in the night, lest as the chaff thrown upon the water showed plenty in Egypt, so his, carried by the wind, should proclaim his abundance. No painting pleases him so well as Pharaoh’s dream of the seven lean kine that ate up the fat ones; that he has in his parlor, which he will describe to you like a motion, and his comment ends with a smothered prayer for the like scarcity. He cannot away with tobacco, for he is persuaded, and not much amiss, that it is a sparer of bread,—corn, which he could find in his heart to transport without license, but weighing the penalty, he grows mealy mouthed, and dares not; sweet smiles he cannot abide,—wishes that the pure air were generally corrupted,—nay, that the spring had lost her fragrancy forever, or we our superfluous sense of smelling, as he terms it, that his corn might not be found musty. The poor he accounts the justices’ intelligencers and cannot abide them; he complains of our negligence of discovering new parts of the world, only to rid them from our climate. His son, by a certain kind of instinct, he binds apprentice to a tailor, who all the term of his indenture hath a dear year in his belly, and ravins bread extremely when he comes to be a freeman; if it be a dearth, he marries him to a baker’s daughter.