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

Epig. 2.

TYro the dastard needs would learne to swim. Yet durst he not come nie the riuers brim. He saw the tempting grauell through the cleere, And yet he trembled like the heartles deere. Pleasure a spur, and Danger was a reyne. That prickt him forward, this did him deteyne. But goodly well anon he can deuise To checke himselfe for shamefull cowardize. Crauen, he saies, pluck vp thy fainting heart: Albe thou want renowned Digbies art, Or swift Palaemons matchles facultie, Yet mayest thou wade withouten ieopardie. O minde degenerate, what needst thou feare? Proud Thamis dashing sourges are not heere. False-harted lad, go cut the cristall waue, Fortune is with them that stout courage haue. He laide him downe, and gan to be so bolde, As feele the water whether hot, or colde: Whether his head went first, the truth to tell, I weene not certainly, but in he fel••. Let not the foote my tender shin-bon punch, Whose dayly burthen gaue so l••ude a lunch. Was neuer liuing eye saw finer tree, His head the roote, his legges the branches bee.

But the milde streame was loath to let him die, And set him on his ten toes by and by. He hid his chilling bare, and home he went, And lay bed-ridden till sixe weekes were spent, Since when he wisht the reason might be found, How chance diue-dappers liue so long vndrownd.