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I do not mean on the present occasion to give an analysis of the whole pamphlet. At signature C 4, begins “Roberto's Tale," with these words: “In the north parts there dwelt an old squire."
The following poein occurs at the back of sigSnature E, introduced in this manner:
“Hereafter suppose me the said Roberto, and I will go on with that he promised: Greene will send you now his “Groatsworth of Wit,' that never shewed a mite's worth in his life: S and though no man now be by, to do me good, yet, ere I die, I by my repentance endeavour to do all men good.
Deceiving world that with alluring toys,
And never see thy slights, which few men shun,
Oft have I sung of Love and of his fire,
What thoughts of love, what motion of delight,
Witness my want the murderer of my wit,
Because so long they lent them me to use,
0, that a year were granted me to live,
Time loosely spent will not again be won,
We are bound to believe, on the faith of Chettle's s solemn assertion, that these lines are the genuine pro
duction of Greene. They are written in a tone which raises a strong conviction of his sincerity. They exhibit also an ease and force of expression, which shew that his mind was, even at this period of sickness and bodily debility, sane and vigorous. The powers which thus, amid the seductions of habitual debauchery, could throw forth fruits so numerous and so forcible as the list of our Author's works exhibits, must have been endowed with no ordinary share of the gifts of Nature. The popularity which these writings attained in their own day, and long afterwards, is another proof of their attractive qualities.
“He was at this time,” says Anthony Wood, “a Pastoral Sonnet Maker, and author of several things which were pleasing to men and women. They made much sport, and were valued among scholars; but since they have been mostly sold in Ballad-mongers' stalls."
I have before mentioned the lines addressed to Greene, in the character of John Harvey, who died before him. I here insert them:
John Harvey (the Physician's) welome to Robert Greene.
Come, fellow Greene, come to thy gaping grave,
Bid Vanity and Foolery farewell;
And overloud hast rung the bawdy bell.
No fitter house for busy folk to dwell;
Some other must those arrant stories tell:
Come on; I pardon thy offence to me;
A Fcol and a Physician may agree!
They are not to disease a buried elf.
The cause of Greene's death is said to have been eating pickled herrings, and drinking rhenish wine with them; at a banquet at which Tom Nash was present.
Such was the melancholy fate of Greene; a fate too similar to that, which has befallen many other unhappy sons of Genius. Like Marlow, and Otway, and Savage, and Boyse, death released him from that misery, into which debauchery had plunged the noblest talents. The memory of his works shall yet live, while his vices, which were most hurtful to himself, shall be forgiven, if not forgotten.
Alluding to “ The Art of Coney-catching."
September 9, 1913. NEVER were the alternate feelings of delight and gloom, which almost always attend a mind of high poetical temperament, more beautifully and faithfully described, than in the simple, the harmonious, and affecting stanzas of “ Childe Alarique," a poem published at Edinburgh, by my young, and most accomplished friend, Mr. Gillies, in June last: a poem which rivals the most exquisite charms of The Minstrel, without ever falling into its occasional flatness.
For me, who am afflicted with all the evils of such a temperament, without being blessed with the gifts of its countervailing powers; how frequent is that sinking of the heart, that comfortless aspect of existence,
“Which wraps the hour of woe in tenfold night.”
It must have been in one of these humours, that I wrote the following fragment, which I find among my papers:
Lines written on a stormy Day, at the Fall of the Leaf,
erpressive of Spleen.