Classic Poem

I do not wonder Coryate that thou hast
Ouer the Alpes, through France & Sauoy past,
Parch't on thy skin, and, foundred in thy feete,
Fainte, thirstie, Lowzie, and didst liue to see't.
Though these are Romane suffrings, and do show
What creatures backe thou hadst, could carry so.
All I admire is thy returne, and how
Thy slender pasterns could thee beare, when now
The obseruations which thy braine engendered
Haue stuft thy massie and voluminous head
With Mountaines, Abbies, Churches, Synagogues,
Preputiall offals, and Dutch Dialogues:
A burthen far more grieuous than the weight
Of wine, or sleepe; more vexing then the freight
Of fruit and Oysters, which lade many a pate,
And send folkes crying home from Billingsgate.
No more shall man with mortar on his head
Set forwards towards Rome: no. Thou art bred
A terror to all footmen, and all Porters,
And all laymen that will turne Iewes exhorters,
To flie theire conquered trade. Proud England then
Embrace this luggage which the Man of Men
Hath landed here, and change thy Welladay
Into some home-spun welcome Roundelay.
Send of this stuffe thy territories thorough
To Ireland, Wales , and Scottish Edenborough .
There let this booke be read and vnderstood,
Where is no theame nor writer halfe so good.