Letter to William Davenant

–It is reported here a-shipboard that the wind is, as women are, for the most part bad: that it altogether takes part with the water, for it crosses him continuously that crosses the seas: that it is not good for a state-reserved politician to come to sea, for he is subject to lay forth his mind in very plain terms: that it is an ill gaming place, for four days together here has been very bad casting of all sides, and I think if we had tarried longer it would have been worse: that so much rope is a needless thing in a ship, for they drown altogether, not hang: that if a wench at land or a ship at sea spring a leak, ‘tis fit and necessary they should be pump’d: that Dunkirk is the Papist’s purgatory, for men are fain to pay money to be freed of it; or, to speak more like a true Protestant, it is the water-hell, for if a man ‘scape this, ‘tis ten to one he shall be saved: that lying four nights a-shipboard is almost as bad as sitting up to lose money at threepenny gleek, and so pray tell Mr. Brett; and thus much for sea-news.

Since my coming ashore, I find that the people of this country are a kind of infidels, not believing in the Scripture; for though it be there promised there shall never be another deluge, yet they do fear it daily, and fortify against it: that they are Nature’s youngest children, and so, consequently, have the least portion of wit and manners; or rather that they are her bastards, and so inherit none at all. And sure their ancestors, when they begot them, thought on nothing but monkeys and boars and asses, and such like ill-favoured creatures; for their physiognomies are so wide from the rules of proportion, that I should spoil my prose to let in the description of them. In a word, they are almost as bad as those of Leicestershire; their habits are as monstrous as themselves to all strangers. But by my troth, to speak the naked truth of them, the difference between the dressing of their women and ours is only this–these bombast their tails, and ours their arms. As for the country, the water and the King of France beleaguer it round. Sometimes the Hollander gets ground upon them; sometimes they upon him. It is so even a level that a man must have more than the quantity of a grain of mustard-seed in faith to remove a mountain here, for there is none in the country. Their own turf is their firing altogether, and it is to be feared that they will burn up their country before doomsday. The air, what with their breathing in it and its own natural corruption, is so unwholesome that a man must resolve to be at the charge of an ague once a month. The plague is here constantly–I mean excise–and in so great a manner that the whole country is sick on’t. Our very farts stand us in I know not how much excise to the states before we let them. To be learned here is capital treason of them, believing that fortuna favet fatuis; and therefore, that they may have the better success in their wars, they choose burgomasters and burghers, as we do our mayors and aldermen, by their great bellies, little wits, and full purses. Religion they use as a stuff cloak in summer, more for show than anything else, their summum bonum being altogether wealth. They wholly busy themselves about it; not a man here but would do that which Judas did for half the money. To be short, the country is stark nought, and yet too good for the inhabitants; but being our allies, I will forbear their character and rest.–Your humble servant,

Nov. 18th, 1629.