Tyros Roring Megge Planted against the walles of Melancholy. One Booke cut into two Decads [by T. Tyro] |
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Epig. 6 |
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 | Tyros Roring Megge |  |
Epig. 6
Ho: weepe rose-water, spit tart viniger:Tyro is waxt a ruffling Caualiere.
Tyro can strike a die staike dead, and enter.
Ye toothlesse sheepe, go teare your howling foes:
Tyro is ietting in his Bag-pipe hose.
Xanthus, good Xanthus, turne thy posting streame:
Tyro annoynts his nose with clowted creame,
The drunken colour thence away to wipe,
Bred with the fumes of the Tabacco pipe.
Natures whole workemanship, forsake thy kinde:
Tyros round breeches haue a cliffe behinde:
And that same perking Longitude before,
Which for a pin-case antique plowmen wore,
Nor hath he siluer faces in his purse,
On this superfluous trumpry to disburse:
Nor hath he skill in Magickes damned spell,
To raise some golden diuell out of hell.
But who the man that treades on licourd shooe,
Or could beleeue, or dreame that this was true?
Tyro was wont to leade so staid a life,
That sage Sobrietie was thought his wife.
The gracelesse gallant with the crisped lockes.
Was worse to him than any nine-hold stockes.
The painted paper, and the swearing die,
Were ghastly Night-crowes to his single eie.
The witherd leafe that is in such request
He would not ken but did the name detest.
His Slops were spruce, and stucke so neare the skin.
That one might hardly part them with a pin.
Tyro decayes in good, but thriues in ill:
Prowde as a Beacon on a Forrest hill.
| Tyros Roring Megge | |