Complete. Number XII. of “Microcosmography.”

A TOO idly reserved man is one that is a fool with discretion, or a strange piece of politician that manages the state of himself. His actions are his privy council, wherein no man must partake beside. He speaks under rule and prescription, and dares not show his teeth without Machiavel. He converses with his neighbors as he would in Spain, and fears an inquisitive man as much as the Inquisition. He suspects all questions for examinations, and thinks you would pick something out of him, and avoids you. His breast is like a gentlewoman’s closet, which locks up every toy or trifle, or some bragging mountebank that makes every stinking thing a secret. He delivers you common matters with great conjuration of silence, and whispers you in the ear acts of parliament. You may as soon wrest a tooth from him as a paper, and whatsoever he reads is letters. He dares not talk of great men for fear of bad comments, and he knows not how his words may be misapplied. Ask his opinion, and he tells you his doubt; and he never hears anything more astonishedly than what he knows before. His words are like the cards at primivist, where six is eighteen, and seven, one and twenty; for they never signify what they sound; but if he tell you he will do a thing, it is as much as if he swore he would not. He is one, indeed, that takes all men to be craftier than they are, and puts himself to a great deal of affliction to hinder their plots and designs, where they mean freely. He has been long a riddle himself, but at last finds Œdipuses; for his over-acted dissimulation discovers him, and men do with him as they would with Hebrew letters, spell him backwards and read him.