Tyros Roring Megge Planted against the walles of Melancholy. One Booke cut into two Decads [by T. Tyro] |
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Epig. 2.
Lo, he the boy, whose mouth whilom did lugThe slauered milke from out his mothers dug:
Is now exalt to vndeserued hap,
And walkes in Garment milde, and circled Cap.
And strouting it along the vnknowne street,
With some fantasticke Ramist doth he meet:
Who can him greet and welcome him full faire
All lowting low and nodding like a mare
That ore her bridle wagges her wanton head.
Pincht with the hungrie flies thereon bespread,
He thus can say.
VVelcome to Athens, gentle yonger brother:
Thou maist, ere long, be comfort to thy mother,
And to thy dad, and to thy grandsire too,
If thou attend the wordes I shall thee shew.
Be wist, and warie of that prating sect
Which striues 'gainst Ramus, lest it thee infect.
For tidy Peter like a pritty primmer,
May well be learned ere thou go to dinner.
Hee's pithie, deep, succinct, methodicall,
A Cornucope, a volume all in all.
But Aristotle is a ridling Sphinx,
A riuer poysonous to him that drinks.
Hee's blunt, vnpolisht, tedious, harsh, obscure,
Fraught with vile stuffe, and sentences impure:
The childe is tourn'd, and claps him on the backe,
And sweares, that Ramus foes shall go to racke:
Making (forsooth) a sad and solemne vow,
That he will reuerence the golden Bough.
When Boyes in age, or wit haue said their fill,
Old Organon must be best Logike still.
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