Classic Poem

Post hast since so thou mak'st the coast of Fraunce to see,
Thy frends advice in baren verse, good George, yet take with thee.
Have thou a haught disdaine, which art a Bryttan bred,
At thy returne to prove howe that French follies filles thy hed;
In native soyle disguised, thy selfe God shield thou showe,
In coate, in cloake, in hat, in hose, a French man like to go:
French shoes, made fast with pointes, in doublets syde and wide,
Which French men weare (God wot) for ease, sute not thy selfe through pride.
What tendeth to thy thrift, to folow not refuse:
Keepe thou one servant and no more, but not, as French men use,
For wages pay not words, as is the guise of Fraunce.
Array him not in tattered rags, french like, or nakt to daunce.
One meale, no more, a day is pittance very small,
To like wel of such french like fare few English yeomen fall.
Let gesture, words, nor weedes, inforce thy friends to say,
Behold a Frenchman wher he flaunts! if face be turn'd away.
Which face French like to sute, good George, take speciall heede,
In taste the baites are very sweete, that do such cankers breede.
For to pronounce thy wordes, yea, French and all first lose,
Afore thou spoyle thy English tong with snufling in the nose.
Thou knowest what I meane, thy wit is good and quicke,
Yet wise men oft, before they looke, fast in the myre sticke.
But ere thou rashly leape, the ditches I reveale;
The plainesse of my muse bewrayes, my warning is of zeale.
My joy thy profite great, if thy returne do showe
Thy travell tends to countries good, not French man like to goe.
The rage of retchlesse youth thy travell did allay,
And not thereby with proudest shewe to royst in garments gay,
That thou canst yeald account what is the countries state,
What newes of note do run abroade, as well of love as hate.
These fruits thy friends expect at thy returne to reape;
But stay I here into advice my muse too farre doth creepe.
She ment not to direct how thou shouldst use thy time,
She ment French follies, for thy heede, to touch in naked rime:
Well, since she rov'd so farre, alowe what she hath sayde,
My inward wish (for thy avayle) she hath no more but wrayde.