Tyros Roring Megge Planted against the walles of Melancholy. One Booke cut into two Decads [by T. Tyro] |
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Epig. 8. |
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 | Tyros Roring Megge |  |
Epig. 8.
Tyro
by chance did reade, that Generation
Was the sole finall cause of Augmentation.
Eft soones he shooke the hand with single life,
And set his wit on renters for a wife.
He tooke his quill, and pend this kindly plaint,
Vnto a mincing minion fine, and daint.
O thou Eclipticke lyne, wherein the sunne
Of my felicitie doth dayly runne:
Eye-pleasing obiect, hunnie-succle sweete,
Tyro thy vassall tumbles at thy feete:
He a Leander, readie for thy sake,
To passe an Hellespont of paine and ake.
Be thou a Hero standing on the shore
With open armes, and claspe him more and more.
Thou shalt perceiue, 'so be thy loue be wonne,
I am not Snow to melt against the sunne.
My bleered eyes shall steepe themselues in teares,
Till some milde answer ventilate my feares.
Ah, dearest Nimph, some light-foote lackie send
With white, and blacke, to giue me life, or end.
Roses are in thy lips, O hellish smart,
If angrie nettles grow vpon thy heart.
Farewell thou prettie Mop, and me remember,
Written in haste the twentith of December,
About the dinner houre of Eleuen,
1597
Was the sole finall cause of Augmentation.
Eft soones he shooke the hand with single life,
And set his wit on renters for a wife.
He tooke his quill, and pend this kindly plaint,
Vnto a mincing minion fine, and daint.
O thou Eclipticke lyne, wherein the sunne
Of my felicitie doth dayly runne:
Eye-pleasing obiect, hunnie-succle sweete,
Tyro thy vassall tumbles at thy feete:
To passe an Hellespont of paine and ake.
Be thou a Hero standing on the shore
With open armes, and claspe him more and more.
Thou shalt perceiue, 'so be thy loue be wonne,
I am not Snow to melt against the sunne.
My bleered eyes shall steepe themselues in teares,
Till some milde answer ventilate my feares.
Ah, dearest Nimph, some light-foote lackie send
With white, and blacke, to giue me life, or end.
Roses are in thy lips, O hellish smart,
If angrie nettles grow vpon thy heart.
Farewell thou prettie Mop, and me remember,
Written in haste the twentith of December,
About the dinner houre of Eleuen,
1597
Tyro, thy Delphicke sword til Crowes be old,
Til Ister be luke-warme, and Ganges cold.
Til Ister be luke-warme, and Ganges cold.
| Tyros Roring Megge | |