A Letter to the Duke of Buckingham, Being with the Prince in Spaine

I’ve read of ilands floating and remov’dIn Ovids time, but never heard it prov’dTill now: that fable, by the prince and you,By your transporting England, is made true.Wee are not where wee were; the dog-starr raignesNo 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 perhapsYour 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 wereNow in Blackfryers, in a disguis’d haire;That you were Smith againe, two houres to beeIn 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, untillYou 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 guardOf Spanish spies, and his owne servants barr’d;How not a chaplaine of his owne may stayWhen hee would heare a sermon preach’d, or pray.You would be hungry, having din’d, to heareThe price of victuailes, and the scarcity, there;As if the prince had ventur’d there his lifeTo make a famine, not to fetch a wife.Your eggs (which might be addle too) are deareAs English capons; capons as sheepe, here;No grasse neither for cattle; for they sayIt is not cutt and made, grasse there growes hay:That ’tis soe seething hott in Spaine, they sweareThey never heard of a raw oyster there:Your cold meate comes in reaking, and your wineIs all burnt sack, the fire was in the vine;Item, your pullets are distinguish’t thereInto foure quarters, as wee carve the yeare,And are a weeke a wasting: Munday nooneA 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 weekeMy 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,Which was reported strongly for one tyde,But, after six houres floating, ebb’d and dyde.If God would not this great designe should bePerfect and round without some knavery,Nor that our prince should end this enterprize,But for soe many miles, soe many lyes:If for a good event the Heav’ns doe pleaseMens tongues should become rougher then the seas,And that th’ expence of paper shall be such,First written, then translated out of Dutch:Corantoes, diets, packets, newes, more newes,Which soe much innocent whitenesse doth abuse;If first the Belgicke pismire must be seene,Before the Spanish lady be our queene;With such successe, and such an end at last,All’s wellcome, pleasant, gratefull, that is past.And such an end wee pray that you should see,A type of that which mother ZebedeeWisht for her sonnes in heav’n; the prince and youAt either hand of James, (you need not sue)Hee on the right, you on the left, the kingSafe in the mids’t, you both invironing.Then shall I tell my lord, his word and bandAre forfeit, till I kisse the princes hand;Then shall I tell the duke, your royall friendGave all the other honours, this you earn’d;This you have wrought for; this you hammer’d outLike a strong Smith, good workman and a stout.In this I have a part, in this I seeSome new addition smiling upon mee:Who, in an humble distance, claime a shareIn all your greatnesse, what soe ere you are.