Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, SATIRES: 2. OF TRAVELLERS: FROM PARIS, by EDWARD HERBERT



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SATIRES: 2. OF TRAVELLERS: FROM PARIS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Ben jonson, travel is a second birth
Last Line: So end this satire, and bid thee good night.
Alternate Author Name(s): Cherbury, 1st Baron Herbert Of; Herbert Of Cherbury, Edward Herbert, 1st Baron; Herbert Of Cherbury, Lord
Subject(s): Travel; Journeys; Trips


BEN JONSON, travel is a second birth,
Unto the children of another earth:
Only, as our King Richard was, so they appear,
New-born to another world, with teeth and hair,
While got by English parents, carried in
Some womb of thirty ton, and lightly twin,
They are deliver'd at Calais or at Dieppe,
And strangely stand, go, feed themselves---nay, keep
Their own money straightways; but that is all,
For none can understand them when they call
For anything---no more than Badger,
That call'd the Queen Monsieur, laid a wager
With the King of his dogs, who understood
Them all alike: which, Badger thought, was good.

But that I may proceed: since their birth is
Only a kind of metempsychosis,
Such knowledge as their memory could give
They have for help, what time these souls do live
In English clothes (a body which again
They never rise unto); but as you see
When they come home, like children yet, that be
Of their own bringing up, all they learn is
Toys and the language; but, to attain this,
You must conceive they 're cozen'd, mock'd, and come
To Faubourg St. Germain, there take a room,
Lightly about th' ambassadors, and where,
Having no church, they come Sundays to hear;
An invitation, which they have most part,
If their outside but promise a desert,
To sit above the Secretary's place,
Although it be almost as rare a case
To see English well-cloth'd here, as with you
At London, Indians. But that your view
May comprehend at once them gone for Blois
Or Orleans, learn'd French, now no more boys
But perfect men at Paris, putting on
Some forc'd disguise or labour'd fashion
To appear strange at home besides their stay:
Laugh and look on with me, to see what they
Are now become (but that the poorer sort,
A subject not fit for my Muse nor sport,
May pass untouch'd); let's but consider what
Elpus is now become, one young, handsome, and that
Was such a wit as very well with four
Of the six might have made one and no more,
Had he been at their Valentine, and could
Agree Tom Rus should use the stock, who would
Carefully in that, ev'n as 'twere his own,
Put out their jests; briefly, one that was grown
Ripe to another taste than that wherein
He is now seasoned and dri'd, as in
His face by this you see, which would perplex
A stranger to define his years or sex;
To which his wrinkles, when he speaks, doth give
That age his words should have, while he doth strive
As if such births had never come from brain,
To show he's not deliver'd without pain,

Nor without after-throes. Sometimes, as grace
Did overflow in circles o'er his face,
Ev'n to the brim, which he thinks [....] Sure,
If this posture do but so long endure
That it be fix'd by age, he'll look as like
A speaking sign as our St. George to strike;
That, where he is, none but will hold their peace,
If th' have but th' least good manners, or confess,
If he should speak, he did presume too far
In speaking then, when others readier are.
Now, that he speaks are complimental speeches,
That never go off but below the breeches
Of him he doth salute, while he doth wring,
And with some loose French words which he doth string,
Windeth about the arms, the legs and sides,
Most serpent-like, of any man that bides
His indirect approach, which being done
Almost without an introduction,
If we have heard but any bragging French
Boast of the favour of some noble wench,
He 'll swear 'twas he did her graces possess,
And damn his own soul for the wickedness
Of other men, strangest of all in that.
But I am weary to describe you what
Ere this you can. As for the little fry
That all along the street turn up the eye
At everything they meet, that have not yet
Seen that swoll'n vicious Queen, Margaret,
Who were a monster ev'n without her sin;
Nor the Italian comedies, wherein
Women play boys---I cease to write,
So end this satire, and bid thee good night.





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