A Here, like Arion, our Coriat doth draw All sorts of fish with music of his maw. B Here, not up Holborn, but down a steep hill, He's carried 'twixt Montrell and Abbeville. C A horse here is saddled, but no Tom him to back, It should rather have been Tom that a horse did lack. D Here, up the Alps (not so plain as to Dunstable) He's carried like a cripple, from constable to constable. E A punk here pelts him with eggs. How so? For he did but kiss her, and so let her go. F Religiously here he bids, row from the stews, He will expiate this sin with converting the Jews. G And there, while he gives the zealous bravado, A rabbin confutes him with the bastinado. H Here, by a boor too, he's like to be beaten For grapes he had gathered before they were eaten. I Old hat here, torn hose, with shoes full of gravel, And louse-dropping case, are the arms of his travel. K Here, finer than coming from his punk you him see, F. shows what he was, K. what he will be. L Here France, and Italy both to him shed Their horns, and Germany pukes on his head. M And here he disdained not, in a foreign land To lie at livery, while the horses did stand. N But here, neither trusting his hands, nor his legs, Being in fear to be robbed, he most learnedly begs. |