So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews

By Babel's waters, still remembering Sion:

I'd weep,—but mine is not a weeping Muse,

And such light griefs are not a thing to die on;

Young men should travel, if but to amuse

Themselves; and the next time their servants tie on

Behind their carriages their new portmanteau,

Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto.