University of Virginia Library

Ben Johnson, 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 tun, and lightly twin,
They are delivered at Callis, or at Diep,
And strangely stand, go, feed themselves, nay keep
Their own money streightwayes; but that is all,
For none can understand them, when they call
For any thing. No more then 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 Metempsy hosis;
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
Toyes, and the Language: but to attain this,
You must conceive, they'r cousen'd, mock'd & come
To Fauxbourgs, St, Germans, 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 Secretaries 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 Bloys,
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, once young, handsom, 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 dry'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 shew, he's not deliver'd without pain,
Nor without After-throws. Sometimes, as Grace
Did overflow in circles o'r 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 complemental 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 he 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,
E're this, you can As for the little fry
That all along the street turn up the eye
At every thing they meet, that have not yet
Seen that swoln vitious Queen, Margaret,
Who were a monster ev'n without her sin;
Nor the Italian Comedies, wherein
Women play Boys—I cease to write.
To end this Satyre, and bid thee good night.