De te pollicitus librum es, sed in te Est magnus tuus hic liber libellus. 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. A CERTAIN POEM, _As it was presented in Latine by Divines and others before His Majesty in Cambridge, by way of Enterlude, styled ~Liber novus de Adventu Regis ad Cantabrigiam~. Faithfully done into English, with some liberal Additions. Made rather to be sunge than read, to the Tune of Bonny Nell._ (The Notes are from a MS. copy in the Editor’s possession.) It is not yet a fortnight since Lutetia[39] entertain’d our prince, And vented hath a studied toy As long[40] as was the siege of Troy: And spent herself for full five days In speeches, exercise, and plays. To trim the town, great care before Was tane by th’ lord vice-chancellor; Both morn and even he cleans’d the way, The streets he gravelled thrice a day: One strike of March-dust for to see No proverb[41] would give more than he. Their colledges were new be-painted, Their founders eke were new be-sainted; Nothing escap’d, nor post, nor door, Nor gate, nor rail, nor bawd, nor whore: You could not know (Oh strange mishap!) Whether you saw the _town_ or _map_. But the pure house of _Emanuel_[42] Would not be like proud _Jesabel_, Nor shew her self before the king An hypocrite, or _painted_ thing: But, that the ways might all prove fair, Conceiv’d a tedious mile of prayer.