University of Virginia Library

To the worshipfull and true Gentleman Maister Iohn Lucas, Eternitie.

In Zoilistam.

He makes each mote a mount, and keepes in store
A brazen penne to dash at this and that:
Yet doth this currish censor see no more,
Than the mashapen Owle, or doubtfull Bat.
O let the man that carpes without a cause,
Be caught himselfe in Momus griping Clawes.

Recentibus (Salem,/Plurimum.) & Salutem

Absurd. Let Heraclyte do nought but crie,
And put his raw-bond finger in his eie.
Laugh ye: let earthie melancholie parte:
It's Aqua fortis to a merrie heart.
Can all your Logick prooue that matter good,
That fils the mother-veyn with sickly bloud?
Salt not so much your tender bosomes frets,
As do the humours thrilling greefe begets.
What is the reason why your faces beene
So neare a kinne to Wakefield on the greene?
Is't not, for that you do so seldome smile,
Ne with blithe matters winter nights beguile?
Is't not, because you sit in darke some nookes,
And reade such vengeable and puling bookes?
Go then, my rimes, with dimples in your cheekes,
And chide them that they are so greene as leekes.
Be ye as working pilles to purge their paine,
And make them cleare complectiond once againe.
Say for theyr sakes your maister tooke in hond,
(Being tyed their friend with Adamantin bond)
With sun-shine iest t'expell their rotten fogges,
And make them dappet like pale yellow frogges.
O ye no Tyrants, but of Tyros crew,
Beate not my crouching meeters blacke and blew.
O let your Substances be well content
For to support this feeble Accident.
So shall I pray with voyce articulate,
That the drie Barrell may you euer hate.
Each day Ile perbreake wishes more or lesse,
That ye may oft be seniors of your messe.
If not: and if my chickens fare not well,
Which are but newly crept forth of the shell:
By the fiue prædicables I protest,
That who writes nought at all, does write the best.

Tyros Roring Megge.

Decad 1.

Epig. 1.

The Sunnes proude coursers, hauing rest their fill,
Curuetted stately vp the Easterne hill.
The flowring fieldes each creature did content,
VVith motly coate, and goodly blandishment.
The cheerefull larke sang prick-song in the aire,
And yonger sheepe skipt on the face of care.
Wel mought I walke, for why me thought it sinne,
Not to perke forth my head, but keepe it in.
Strange thing: scarce had I well a furlong gone,
When as, mee seemd, I heard a pitteous mone:
Ay me, t'was one wrapt in a bead mans gowne,
Whose gesture shewd him freshely come to towne.
Small labour lost, quoth I, to list a while
To this poore gowne-mans lamentable stile.
He spake: I listen'd. Lucklesse lad, said he,
That am inforst this dismall day to see:
Shall I that wont to make my bellie cracke,
Stay here and loose the flesh from of my backe?
Rather then Tyro such a change will brooke,
Out at the Ropers window will he looke.
I inly greeude to heare him plaine his harmes,
When he infolded Dawes-crosse in his armes:
And, the warme humor drizling downe his face.
Bade it adew and soorthwith trudg'd apace.
I like a thiese that had in ambush line,
Did bid him Stand, and go with me and dine.
Such dinner was lesse easie to disgest,
Then greasie brew is swimming in the brest.
He thought, poore soule, no harme: I, like a king,
Strait led him to his Tutor in a string:
VVhere the graue Agent did his part so play,
That since his Patient neuer ranne away.
Had he escapte, he had felt mickle losse.
For Tumbling stone nere gathers cleauing mosse.
He is a friend, albe he seeme a foe,
That serues all nimble footed fresh-men so.

Epig. 2.

Lo, he the boy, whose mouth whilom did lug
The slauered milke from out his mothers dug:
Is now exalt to vndeserued hap,
And walkes in Garment milde, and circled Cap.
And strouting it along the vnknowne street,
With some fantasticke Ramist doth he meet:
Who can him greet and welcome him full faire
All lowting low and nodding like a mare
That ore her bridle wagges her wanton head.
Pincht with the hungrie flies thereon bespread,
He thus can say.
VVelcome to Athens, gentle yonger brother:
Thou maist, ere long, be comfort to thy mother,
And to thy dad, and to thy grandsire too,
If thou attend the wordes I shall thee shew.
Be wist, and warie of that prating sect
Which striues 'gainst Ramus, lest it thee infect.
For tidy Peter like a pritty primmer,
May well be learned ere thou go to dinner.
Hee's pithie, deep, succinct, methodicall,
A Cornucope, a volume all in all.
But Aristotle is a ridling Sphinx,
A riuer poysonous to him that drinks.
Hee's blunt, vnpolisht, tedious, harsh, obscure,
Fraught with vile stuffe, and sentences impure:
The childe is tourn'd, and claps him on the backe,
And sweares, that Ramus foes shall go to racke:
Making (forsooth) a sad and solemne vow,
That he will reuerence the golden Bough.
When Boyes in age, or wit haue said their fill,
Old Organon must be best Logike still.

Epig. 3.

VVhat though Albertus be a merry man,
May I not take the floure, and leaue the bran?
Let him be baudie (as he is indeed)
May I not choose the flower, and scorne the weed?
What though vnseemly secrets he disclose,
May I not hide mine eyes, and stop my nose?
Great All-beard, rough with thy luxurious hide,
Ile be thy scholer whatsoe're betide.
Ile be Acute, and Graue, and Circumflex
In the deepe dealings of the female sex.
And yet I will not. What? shall Tyro be
A Prentice to the trade of midwiferie?
Hence bolde bad Albert, pleasing baite of sinne.
Bellowes of lust to him that reades the rein.
I would not for a pecke of Tagus sand,
My Tutour had espyed thee in my hand.
I rest thy foe, deferring thy damnation,
But till I make a Theame or Declamation.

Epig. 4

O grosse! O monstrous! fie, Tom Tiro, fie:
Giue thy king Edwards shilling for a pie,
And then transport it to thy den alone,
And chop it vp, and giue thy fellowes none?
What? spoile a Neats-foote, and a marrow-bon,
And neuer call thy next Vcalegon?
Fie that thy greedy-wormed tong is such;
Fie that thy chopping kniues can mince so much.
Art thou a Milo, or Philoxenus,
That art so sturdie and delicious?
Th'Harpyæ would not snatch so greedily,
Whose talons were of great capacity.
How can thy noddle choose but be so dull.
When capon-like thy maw is cramd so full?
Right well I wot thou maist haue lighter hart;
If this thou leaue, and learne to size a part.

Epig. 5.

VVhat is he vnder heauens inammeld vault,
That liueth spotlesse, and deuoide of fault?
Where is the soule contain'd in brickle wall
That standes so firmely that she cannot fall?
Venus was debonaire, and beauties grace,
And yet a mole lay sleeping on her face.
Faire are the sphears wherein the Planets bin,
And yet colde Saturne claimes a place therein.
No meruaile then though Tyro haue some blot,
Sith perfect vertue fals to no mans lot.
Tyro can strike the sitterns siluer string,
And to the lute full many a dittie sing.
Tyro can act and if he like the Stage,
Hop like a Bull-finch in a Barbers cage.
Yet when he solde his Ælian at the stall,
Had not the villaine almost sham'd vs al?
Would not the drowsie dormouse haue bin hang'd,
That slept till ten a clocke and then was Stang'd?
O faults! no faultes, but trickes of gentle kinde,
And Proper adiuncts to a youthfull minde.

Epig. 6

Ho: weepe rose-water, spit tart viniger:
Tyro is waxt a ruffling Caualiere.
Mount vp ye mil-stōes: heauens come kisse your centre:
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.

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.

Epig. 8.

Epig. 9.

Shee read and writ, I did my selfe much wrong,
To view the weeping accents of thy song.
Thy lines the foes that sought my Fort to win,
Mine eyes the traytours that haue let them in.
Tyro, my all in all: alacke, how can
Seely weake virgin chuse but loue a man?
Nor can drie tinder stony fire withstand,
Nor straw the ieat, nor I thy faire demaund.
But, bonny Boy, the pillar of my ioy,
How canst thou shunne thy imminent annoy?
All wert thou Homer, famous Poets pride,
And th'Heliconian Ladies by thy side:
Yet, sith thou want'st the worlds pale-colour'd Queene,
I may not haue my kind affection seene.
Adde wealth to wit, for, if thou faile in this,
We must not bathe our selues in Salmacis:
That I am forst to ring this heauie knell,
I can but greeue, and so I shall. Farewell.

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.

Decad 2.

To the Reader.

Mishapen does mishapen stand,
And craues Correction at thy hand.
In the Inuectiue 'gainst the Daw
That makes a mil-post of a straw,
At the fourth line, is to be seene
The Beast: and so, God saue the Queene.