Tyros Roring Megge Planted against the walles of Melancholy. One Booke cut into two Decads [by T. Tyro] |
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Epig. 10. |
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 | Tyros Roring Megge |  |
Epig. 10.
The lad replide: Were I an Alcumist,Earths yellow excrement should fill thy fist.
Base-minded thing, shall asses trapt in gold
Haue free accesse, while I the candle hold?
O tree! O blocke! O stone, if still I stand,
And see my nosegay worne in clownish hand.
What Iacke? Anon sir. Saddle me my nag,
New-Market heath affoords a man a bag:
My Atalanta will runne on too fast,
Vnlesse some Golden Apples I her cast.
No, maiden, no, my liuer's not so hot,
As to compell me loue, if you loue not.
And yet (regardlesse of thy selfe and me,)
How darst thou marre so sweete a symphonie?
Say truely, am I a Sardanapale?
Thou knowst thy seeming vertues were my stale.
No Night-flie I, to dallie in the flame,
Til I be scorcht, and shamefully fall lame.
The more thy sinne to shew thy selfe vniust
To him, whose kindnes was no kinne to lust.
In vaine I champe the bit: no Ouids art,
No Nestors tongue can riue thy flintie heart.
Then sinke thou, swim thou, liue, or die, all's one,
Who would be yokt, when he may liue alone?
Be wed to home-spunne russet coate, or blew,
To both, to neither, what care I? Adew.
| Tyros Roring Megge | |