I’ve read of ilands floating and remov’d In Ovids time, but never heard it prov’d Till now: that fable, by the prince and you, By your transporting England, is made true. Wee are not where wee were; the dog-starr raignes No cooler in our climate, then in Spaines; The selfe-same breath, same ayre, same heate, same burning, Is here, as there; will be, till your returning: Come, e’re the card be alter’d, lest perhaps Your stay may make an errour in our mapps; Lest England should be found, when you shall passe, A thousand miles more southward then it was. Oh that you were, my lord, oh that you were Now in Blackfryers, in a disguis’d haire; That you were Smith againe, two houres to bee In Paules next Sunday, at full sea at three; There you should heare the legend of each day, The perills of your inne, and of your way; Your enterprises, accidents, untill You did arrive at court, and reach Madrill. There you should heare how the State-grandees flout you, With their twice-double diligence about you; How our environ’d prince walkes with a guard Of Spanish spies, and his owne servants barr’d; How not a chaplaine of his owne may stay When hee would heare a sermon preach’d, or pray. You would be hungry, having din’d, to heare The price of victuailes, and the scarcity, there; As if the prince had ventur’d there his life To make a famine, not to fetch a wife. Your eggs (which might be addle too) are deare As English capons; capons as sheepe, here; No grasse neither for cattle; for they say It is not cutt and made, grasse there growes hay: That ’tis soe seething hott in Spaine, they sweare They never heard of a raw oyster there: Your cold meate comes in reaking, and your wine Is all burnt sack, the fire was in the vine; Item, your pullets are distinguish’t there Into foure quarters, as wee carve the yeare, And are a weeke a wasting: Munday noone A wing; at supper something with a spoone; Tuesday a legg, and soe forth; Sunday more, The liver and a gizard betweene foure: And for your mutton, in the best houshoulder ’Tis felony to cheapen a whole shoulder. Lord! how our stomackes come to us againe, When wee conceive what snatching is in Spaine! I, whilst I write, and doe the newes repeate, Am forc’t to call for breakfast in, and eate: And doe you wonder at the dearth the while? The flouds that make it run in th’ middle ile, Poets of Paules, those of duke Humfryes messe, That feede on nought but graves and emptinesse. But heark you, noble sir, in one crosse weeke My lord hath lost a thowsand pound at gleeke; And though they doe allow but little meate, They are content your losses should be great. False, on my deanery! falser then your fare is; Or then your difference with _Cond’ de Olivares_,