Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man’s son doth know.

I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad and to travel for it too!

It is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of
many simples, extracted from many objects, and
indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels,
which, by often rumination, wraps me in a most humorous sadness.

Weary with toil, I hasten me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body’s work’s expired.

Ay, now am I in Arden; the more fool I. When I was at home I was in a better place; but travelers must be content.

The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day:
Now spurns the lated traveler apace
To gain the timely inn.

Farewell, Monsieur Traveler: look you lisp and wear strange suits, disable all the benefits of your own country, be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making you the countenance you are, or I will scarce think you swam in a gondola.