My journeyings were brought to Jericho: 
Thus I resume.  Who studious in our art
Shall count a little labour unrepaid? 
I have shed sweat enough, left flesh and bone
On many a flinty furlong of this land. 
Also, the country-side is all on fire
With rumours of a marching hitherward: 
Some say Vespasian deg. cometh, some, his son. deg.28
A black lynx snarled and pricked a tufted ear: 
Lust of my blood inflamed his yellow balls:  30
I cried and threw my staff and he was gone. 
Twice have the robbers stripped and beaten me,
And once a town declared me for a spy deg.; deg.33
But at the end, I reach Jerusalem,
Since this poor covert where I pass the night,
This Bethany, lies scarce the distance thence
A man with plague-sores at the third degree
Runs till he drops down dead. deg.  Thou laughest here! deg.38
’Sooth, it elates me, thus reposed and safe,
To void the stuffing of my travel-scrip 40
And share with thee whatever Jewry yields. 
A viscid choler is observable
In tertians, I was nearly bold to say;
And falling-sickness hath a happier cure deg. deg.44
Than our school wots of:  there’s a spider here
Weaves no web, watches on the ledge of tombs,
Sprinkled with mottles on an ash-gray back;
Take five and drop them deg. ... but who knows his mind, deg.48
The Syrian run-a-gate I trust this to? 
His service payeth me a sublimate 50
Blown up his nose to help the ailing eye. 
Best wait:  I reach Jerusalem at morn,
There set in order my experiences,
Gather what most deserves, and give thee all—­
Or I might add, Judaea’s gum-tragacanth
Scales off in purer flakes, shines clearer-grained,
Cracks ’twixt the pestle and the porphyry. 
In fine exceeds our produce.  Scalp-disease
Confounds me, crossing so with leprosy: 
Thou hadst admired one sort I gained at Zoar—­ 60
But zeal outruns discretion.  Here I end.

Yet stay! my Syrian blinketh gratefully,
Protested his devotion is my price—­
Suppose I write, what harms not, tho’ he steal? 
I half resolve to tell thee, yet I blush, deg. deg.65
What set me off a-writing first of all. 
An itch I had, a sting to write, a tang! 
For, be it this town’s barrenness—­or else
The man had something in the look of him—­
His case has struck me far more than ’tis worth. 70
So, pardon if—­(lest presently I lose,
In the great press of novelty at hand,
The care and pains this somehow stole from me)
I bid thee take the thing while fresh in mind. 
Almost in sight—­for, wilt thou have the truth? 
The very man is gone from me but now,
Whose ailment is the subject of discourse. 
Thus then, and let thy better wit help all!