What is there in France to be learned more than in England but
falsehood in fellowship, perfect slovenry, to love no man but for my
pleasure, to swear Ah, par la mort Dieu when a man's hams are scabbed.
For the idle traveller (I mean not for the soldier), I have known some that
have continued there by the space of half a dozen years, and when they
come home they have hid a little wearish lean face under a broad French
hat, kept a terrible coil with the dust in the street in their long cloaks of
grey paper, and spoke English strangely. Naught else have they profited by
their travel, save learned to distinguish of the true Bordeaux grape, and
know a cup of neat Gascoigne wine from wine of Orleans; yea, and
peradventure this also, to esteem of the pox as a pimple, to wear a velvet
patch on their face, and walk melancholy with their arms folded.