Ye talk of France—a slight unseason’d country,
Abundance of gross food, which makes us blockheads.
We are fair set out indeed, and so are fore-horses:—
Men say, we are great courtiers,—men abuse us;
We are wise, and valiant too,—non credo, signor;
Our women the best linguists,—they are parrots;
O’ this side the Alps they are nothing but mere drolleries.
Ha! Roma la Santa, Italy for my money!
Their policies, their customs, their frugalities,
Their courtesies so open, yet so reserv’d too,