TO THOMAS CORYATE.
I do not wonder, Coryate, that thou hast
Over the Alpes, through France and Savoy past,
Parch’d on thy skin, and founder’d in thy feete,
Faint, thirstie, lowsy, and didst live to see ’t.
Though these are Roman sufferings, and do shew
What creatures back thou hadst could carry so,
All I admire is thy returne, and how
Thy slender pasterns could thee beare, when now
Thy observations with thy braine ingendered,
Have stuft thy massy and voluminous head
With mountaines, abbies, churches, synagogues,
Preputial offals, and Dutch dialogues:
A burthen far more grievous then the weight
Of wine or sleep; more vexing than the freight
Of fruit and oysters, which lade many a pate,
And send folks crying home from Billingsgate.
No more shall man with mortar on his head
Set forwards towards Rome: No! thou art bred
A terror to all footmen, and all porters,
And all laymen that will turne Jews exhorters,
To flie their conquered trade. Proud England then
Embrace this luggage[38], which the Man of men
Hath landed here, and change thy well-a-day!
Into some homespun welcome roundelay.
Send of this stuffe thy territories thorough
To Ireland, Wales, and Scottish, Eddenborough.
There let this booke be read and understood,
Where is no theame nor writer halfe so good.