Tyros Roring Megge Planted against the walles of Melancholy. One Booke cut into two Decads [by T. Tyro] |
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Epig. 7. |
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 | Tyros Roring Megge |  |
Epig. 7.
Looke how a Horseleech, or back-biting flea,Sticks to the skinne, ne can be got away,
Vntill her panch be tympanized so.
That she must either burft, or else crie who:
So bookish Tyro cleaues vnto his tunne,
Vntill his houre-glasse be twelue times runne,
And till his Common sence, and Phantasie,
And Vnderstanding part yglutted bee:
Two yoke of Oxen and a mare before,
Can hardly draw him to his studie dore.
I dare auerre he felt no sweete-breatht aire,
Since the Red Bull drew weights at Sturbridge faire.
Lo what it is that makes him languish still,
Like a crow-troden hen that makes her will.
Lo here the proper cause as I suppose,
Why wormes digge parsnips in his dunged nose.
Faith, Tyro, you and I must plucke a crow,
If you go on to spoyle your carcasse so.
| Tyros Roring Megge | |