Tyros roring Megge Planted against the walles of melancholy. One booke cut into two decads.

Epig. 1.

A Threed-bare prouerbe, Youth must haue a swing, For greener age flies with a wanton wing. It was the sober season of the yeare, When Pisces and Aquarius dominiere, It's cleaped Lent. Tom Tyros itching legges Aduertisde him to take his leaue of egges, And get him flesh. The rake-hell strain'd his wit, To compasse rost meate for the naked spit. He gat him gone vnto a neighbour towne, To see what pullen stragled vp and downe: He went a thousand paces long and tall, Ere he could spie one bird Domesticall: At last he cast his eye vpon a gander, That from his fellowes new began to wander: He threw, and hat, and made a deadly hole, In the t••ue keeper of the Capitole. An old old Beldame plodded there along, Whose teeth did waggle faster then her tongue: He ranne, she followed with a yelling sound, And tucked vp her dirtie sauegard round. But Tyro floated on the beaten way, Like a swift vessell on the yeelding sea: She faire and softly walkt in pausing moode, And tract the felon by the Ganders blood. The ruddīe sunne forsooke our Hemispheare,

When she the wilie f••x approached neere. The new-faln droppes led this olde bloud-hound hie, To an out-chamber, where she did espie &c. The heauie accidents that then befell My merry Muse may not abide to tell. Yet thus much: Tyro stampt, and fret, and swore, Neuer to prey on foolish goose-flesh more.