To Thomas Coryate

I do not wonder, Coryate, that thou hastOver the Alpes, through France and Savoy past,Parch’d on thy skin, and founder’d in thy feete,Faint, thirstie, lowsy, and didst live to see ’t.Though these are Roman sufferings, and do shewWhat creatures back thou hadst could carry so,All I admire is thy returne, and howThy slender pasterns could thee beare, when nowThy observations with thy braine ingendered,Have stuft thy massy and voluminous headWith mountaines, abbies, churches, synagogues,Preputial offals, and Dutch dialogues:A burthen far more grievous then the weightOf wine or sleep; more vexing than the freightOf fruit and oysters, which lade many a pate,And send folks crying home from Billingsgate.No more shall man with mortar on his headSet forwards towards Rome: No! thou art bredA terror to all footmen, and all porters,And all laymen that will turne Jews exhorters,To flie their conquered trade. Proud England thenEmbrace this luggage, which the Man of menHath landed here, and change thy well-a-day!Into some homespun welcome roundelay.Send of this stuffe thy territories thoroughTo Ireland, Wales, and Scottish, Eddenborough.There let this booke be read and understood,Where is no theame nor writer halfe so good.

It is not yet a fortnight sinceLutetia entertain’d our prince,And vented hath a studied toyAs long as was the siege of Troy:And spent herself for full five daysIn speeches, exercise, and plays.

To trim the town, great care beforeWas tane by th’ lord vice-chancellor;Both morn and even he cleans’d the way,The streets he gravelled thrice a day:One strike of March-dust for to seeNo proverb would give more than he.

Their colledges were new be-painted,Their founders eke were new be-sainted;Nothing escap’d, nor post, nor door,Nor gate, nor rail, nor bawd, nor whore:You could not know (Oh strange mishap!)Whether you saw the town or map.

But the pure house of EmanuelWould not be like proud Jesabel,Nor shew her self before the kingAn hypocrite, or painted thing:But, that the ways might all prove fair,Conceiv’d a tedious mile of prayer.

Upon the look’d-for seventh of March,Outwent the townsmen all in starch,Both band and beard, into the field,Where one a speech could hardly wield;For needs he would begin his stile,The king being from him half a mile.

They gave the king a piece of plate,Which they hop’d never came too late;But cry’d, Oh! look not in, great king,For there is in it just nothing:And so prefer’d with tune and gate,A speech as empty as their plate.

Now, as the king came neer the town,Each one ran crying up and down,Alas poor Oxford, thou’rt undone,For now the king’s past Trompington,And rides upon his brave gray dapple,Seeing the top of Kings-Colledge chappel.

Next rode his lordship on a nag,Whose coat was blue, whose ruff was shag,And then began his reverenceTo speak most eloquent non-sense:See how (quoth he) most mighty prince,For very joy my horse doth wince.

What cryes the town? What we? (said he)What cryes the University?What cry the boys? What ev’ry thing?Behold, behold, yon comes the king:And ev’ry period he bedecksWith En & Ecce venit Rex.

Oft have I warn’d (quoth he) our dirtThat no silk stockings should be hurt;But we in vain strive to be fine,Unless your graces sun doth shine;And with the beams of your bright eye,You will be pleas’d our streets to dry.

Now come we to the wondermentOf Christendom, and eke of Kent,The Trinity; which to surpass,Doth deck her spokesman by a glass:Who, clad in gay and silken weeds,Thus opes his mouth, hark how he speeds.

I wonder what your grace doth here,Who have expected been twelve year,And this your son, fair Carolus,That is so Jacobissimus:Here’s none, of all, your grace refuses,You are most welcome to our Muses.

Although we have no bells to jangle,Yet can we shew a fair quadrangle,Which, though it ne’re was grac’d with king,Yet sure it is a goodly thing:My warning’s short, no more I’le say,Soon you shall see a gallant play.

But nothing was so much admir’d,As were their plays so well attir’d;Nothing did win more praise of mine,Then did their actors most divine:So did they drink their healths divinely;So did they dance and skip so finely.

Their plays had sundry grave wise factors,A perfect diocess of actorsUpon the stage; for I am sure thatThere was both bishop, pastor, curat:Nor was their labour light, or small,The charge of some was pastoral.

Our plays were certainly much worse,For they had a brave hobby-horse,Which did present unto his graceA wondrous witty ambling pace:But we were chiefly spoyl’d by thatWhich was six hours of God knows what.

His lordship then was in a rage,His lordship lay upon the stage,His lordship cry’d, All would be marr’d:His lordship lov’d a-life the guard,And did invite those mighty men,To what think you? Even to a Hen.

He knew he was to use their mightTo help to keep the door at night,And well bestow’d he thought his hen,That they might Tolebooth Oxford men:He thought it did become a lordTo threaten with that bug-bear word.

Now pass we to the civil law,And eke the doctors of the spaw,Who all perform’d their parts so well,Sir Edward Ratcliff bore the bell,Who was, by the kings own appointment,To speak of spells, and magick oyntment.

The doctors of the civil lawUrg’d ne’re a reason worth a straw;And though they went in silk and satten,They Thomson-like clip’d the kings Latine;But yet his grace did pardon thenAll treasons against Priscian.

Here no man spake ought to the point,But all they said was out of joint;Just like the chappel ominousI’ the colledge called God with us:Which truly doth stand much awry,Just north and south, yes verily.

Philosophers did well their parts,Which prov’d them masters of their arts;Their moderator was no fool,He far from Cambridge kept a school:The country did such store afford,The proctors might not speak a word.

But to conclude, the king was pleas’d,And of the court the town was eas’d:Yet Oxford though (dear sister) hark yet,The king is gone but to New-market,And comes again e’re it be long,Then you may make another song.

The king being gone from Trinity,They make a scramble for degree;Masters of all sorts, and all ages,Keepers, subcizers, lackeyes, pages,Who all did throng to come aboard,With Pray make me now, Good my lord.

They prest his lordship wondrous hard,His lordship then did want the guard;So did they throng him for the nonce,Until he blest them all at once,And cryed, Hodiissimè:Omnes Magistri estote.

Nor is this all which we do sing,For of your praise the world must ring:Reader, unto your tackling look,For there is coming forth a bookWill spoyl Joseph BarnesiusThe sale of Rex Platonicus.