A Jolly fellow Essex borne and bred,
A Farmers Sonne, his Father being dead,
T’expell his griefe and melancholly passions,
Had vowd himselfe to travell and see fashions.
His great mindes object was no trifling toy,
But to put downe the wandring Prince of Troy.
Londons discoverie first he doth decide,
His man must be his Pilot and his guide.
Three miles he had not past, there he must sit:
He ask’t if he were not neere London yet?
His man replies good Sir your selfe besturre,
For we have yet to goe sixe times as farre.
Alas I had rather stay at home and digge,
I had not thought the worlde was halfe so bigge.
Thus this great worthie comes backe (thoewith strife)
He never was so farre in all his life.
None of the seaven worthies: on his behalfe,
Say, was not he a worthie Essex Calfe?