Classic and Contemporary Poetry
SATIRES: 2. OF TRAVELLERS: FROM PARIS, by EDWARD HERBERT 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RICHARD, WHAT'S THAT NOISE? by RICHARD HOWARD LOOKING FOR THE GULF MOTEL by RICHARD BLANCO RIVERS INTO SEAS by LYNDA HULL DESTINATIONS by JOSEPHINE JACOBSEN THE ONE WHO WAS DIFFERENT by RANDALL JARRELL THE CONFESSION OF ST. JIM-RALPH by DENIS JOHNSON SESTINA: TRAVEL NOTES by WELDON KEES TO H. B. (WITH A BOOK OF VERSE) by MAURICE BARING AN ODE UPON A QUESTION WHETHER LOVE SHOULD CONTINUE FOREVER by EDWARD HERBERT DITTY IN IMITATION OF THE SPANISH: ENTRE TANTO QUE L'AVRIL by EDWARD HERBERT EPITAPH FOR SIR PHILIP SIDNEY, AT ST. PAUL'S WITHOUT A MONUMENT ... by EDWARD HERBERT |
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