I went from England into France, Nor yet to learn to cringe nor dance, Nor yet to ride or fence; Nor did I go like one of those That do return with half a nose They carried from hence. But I to Paris rode along, Much like John Dory in the song[69], Upon a holy tide. I on an ambling nag did jet, I trust he is not paid for yet; And spur’d him on each side. And to Saint Dennis fast we came, To see the sights of Nostre Dame, The man that shews them snaffles: Where who is apt for to beleeve, May see our Ladies right-arm sleeve, And eke her old pantofles; Her breast, her milk, her very gown That she did wear in Bethlehem town, When in the inn she lay. Yet all the world knows that’s a fable, For so good clothes ne’re lay in stable Upon a lock of hay. No carpenter could by his trade Gain so much coyn as to have made A gown of so rich stuff. Yet they, poor fools, think, for their credit, They may believe old Joseph did it, ’Cause he deserv’d enough. There is one of the crosses nails, Which whoso sees, his bonnet vails, And if he will, may kneel. Some say ’twas false, ’twas never so, Yet, feeling it, thus much I know, It is as true as steel. There is a lanthorn which the Jews, When Judas led them forth, did use, It weighs my weight downright: But to believe it, you must think The Jews did put a candle in ’t, And then ’twas very light. There’s one saint there hath lost his nose; Another’s head, but not his toes, His elbow and his thumb. But when that we had seen the rags We went to th’ inn and took our nags, And so away did come. We came to Paris on the Seine, ’Tis wondrous fair, ’tis nothing clean, ’Tis Europes greatest town. How strong it is I need not tell it, For all the world may easily smell it, That walk it up and down. There many strange things are to see, The Palace and great Gallery, The Place Royal doth excel: The New Bridge, and the Statues there, At Nostre Dame, Saint Q. Pater, The Steeple bears the bell. For learning, th’ Universitie; And for old clothes, the Frippery; The House the Queen did build. Saint Innocents, whose earth devours Dead corps in four and twenty hours, And there the King was kill’d: The Bastile and Saint Dennis-street, The Shafflenist, like London-Fleet, The Arsenal, no toy. But if you’ll see the prettiest thing, Go to the court and see the King, O ’tis a hopeful boy.