 | Two centvries of epigrammes |  |
Epigram. XLIX. In Maurum.
Last day when solemne sad I wal'kt the streete,It was my lucke with Maurus for to meete
Rushing out at a doore; his buttons broke,
His breath wax't short, his fingers ends they shoke,
His haire like a Boares bristles stood vpright,
His eyes did stare, his cheekes look't deadly white.
What was it, thinke you, brought him to this passe?
He came but euen then from his looking glasse:
Viewing his face therein, at the first sight
He blest himselfe, thinking he saw a spright.
| Two centvries of epigrammes | |