Dr. Corbet’s Journey into France

I went from England into France,
Nor yet to learn to cringe nor dance,
Nor yet to ride or fence;
Nor did I go like one of those
That do return with half a nose
They carried from hence.

But I to Paris rode along,
Much like John Dory in the song,
Upon a holy tide.
I on an ambling nag did jet,
I trust he is not paid for yet;
And spur’d him on each side.

And to Saint Dennis fast we came,
To see the sights of Nostre Dame,
The man that shews them snaffles:
Where who is apt for to beleeve,
May see our Ladies right-arm sleeve,
And eke her old pantofles;

Her breast, her milk, her very gown
That she did wear in Bethlehem town,
When in the inn she lay.
Yet all the world knows that’s a fable,
For so good clothes ne’re lay in stable
Upon a lock of hay.

No carpenter could by his trade
Gain so much coyn as to have made
A gown of so rich stuff.
Yet they, poor fools, think, for their credit,
They may believe old Joseph did it,
’Cause he deserv’d enough.

There is one of the crosses nails,
Which whoso sees, his bonnet vails,
And if he will, may kneel.
Some say ’twas false, ’twas never so,
Yet, feeling it, thus much I know,
It is as true as steel.

There is a lanthorn which the Jews,
When Judas led them forth, did use,
It weighs my weight downright:
But to believe it, you must think
The Jews did put a candle in ’t,
And then ’twas very light.

There’s one saint there hath lost his nose;
Another’s head, but not his toes,
His elbow and his thumb.
But when that we had seen the rags
We went to th’ inn and took our nags,
And so away did come.

We came to Paris on the Seine,
’Tis wondrous fair, ’tis nothing clean,
’Tis Europes greatest town.
How strong it is I need not tell it,
For all the world may easily smell it,
That walk it up and down.

There many strange things are to see,
The Palace and great Gallery,
The Place Royal doth excel:
The New Bridge, and the Statues there,
At Nostre Dame, Saint Q. Pater,
The Steeple bears the bell.

For learning, th’ Universitie;
And for old clothes, the Frippery;
The House the Queen did build.
Saint Innocents, whose earth devours
Dead corps in four and twenty hours,
And there the King was kill’d:

The Bastile and Saint Dennis-street,
The Shafflenist, like London-Fleet,
The Arsenal, no toy.
But if you’ll see the prettiest thing,
Go to the court and see the King,
O ’tis a hopeful boy.

He is of all his dukes and peers
Reverenc’d for much wit at ’s years,
Nor must you think it much;
For he with little switch doth play,
And make fine dirty pyes of clay,
O never king made such!

A bird that can but kill a fly,
Or prate, doth please his majesty,
’Tis known to every one.
The duke of Guise gave him a parret,
And he had twenty cannons for it
For his new galeon.

O that I ere might have the hap
To get the bird which in the map
Is called the Indian Ruck!
I’de give it him, and hope to be
As rich as Guise, or Livine,
Or else I had ill luck.

Birds round about his chamber stand,
And he them feeds with his own hand;
’Tis his humility.
And if they do want any thing,
They need but whistle for their king,
And he comes presently.

But now then, for these parts he must
Be enstiled Lewis the Just,
Great Henry’s lawful heir;
When to his stile to add more words,
They’d better call him King of Birds,
Than of the great Navarre.

He hath besides a pretty quirk,
Taught him by Nature, how to work
In iron with much ease.
Sometimes to the forge he goes,
There he knocks, and there he blows,
And makes both locks and keys:

Which puts a doubt in every one,
Whether he be Mars or Vulcan’s son,
Some few believe his mother.
But let them all say what they will,
I came resolv’d, and so think still,
As much the one as th’ other.

The people, too, dislike the youth,
Alledging reasons, for, in truth,
Mothers should honour’d be:
Yet others say, he loves her rather
As well as ere she lov’d his father,
And that’s notoriously.

His queen, a pretty little wench,
Was born in Spain, speaks little French,
She’s nere like to be mother:
For her incestuous house could not
Have children which were not begot
By uncle or by brother.

Now why should Lewis, being so just,
Content himself to take his lust
With his Lucina’s mate;
And suffer his little pretty queen,
From all her race that yet hath been,
So to degenerate?

’Twere charity for to be known
To love others children as his own,
And why? It is no shame;
Unless that he would greater be
Than was his father Henery,
Who, men thought, did the same.