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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,
Hast made my life the subject of thy scorn:
And scornest now to lend thy fading joys,
T outlength my life, whom friends have left forlorn,
How well are they that die ere they be born,

And never see thy slights, which few men shun,
Till unawares they helpless are undone.

Oft have I sung of Love and of his fire,
But now I find that poet was advised,
Which made full feasts increasers of desire,
And proves weak Love was with the poor despis’d:
for when the life with food is not suffic'd,

What thoughts of love, what motion of delight,
What pleasance can proceed from such a wight?

Witness my want the murderer of my wit,
My ravish'd sense of wonted fury reft,
Wants such conceit, as should in poems fit
Set down the sorrow wherein I am left:
But therefore have high heavens their gifts bereft,

Because so long they lent them me to use,
And I so long their bounty did abuse.

UN

0, that a year were granted me to live,
And for that year my former wits restor'd:
What rules of life, what counsel would I give,
How should my sin with sorrow be deplor'd!
But I must die of every man abhor'd:

Time loosely spent will not again be won,
My time is loosely spent, and I undone.”

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;
That overlong hast play'd the mad-brain'd knave,

And overloud hast rung the bawdy bell.
Vermine to vermine must repair at last;

No fitter house for busy folk to dwell;
Thy coney-catching pageants are past,"

Some other must those arrant stories tell:
These hungry worms think long for their repast;

Come on; I pardon thy offence to me;
It was thy living; be not so aghast !

A Fcol and a Physician may agree!
And for my brothers never vex thyself;

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."

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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.
Shrill shrieks the blast; the falling leaves
In eddies hasten to the ground:
My melancholy spirit grieves;
Mourns my sad bosom at the sound.
Faded and pale, and clad in mists,
The woods, late gay and laughing, sigh;
In vain the last dim shade resists
The furious whirlwind hurrying by;
Upon yon forest's ruin'd scene
From my lone cell I look with spleen,
And weep to think on weary days,
Ere Spring again the leaves shall raise.
0, why has Sloth unnerv'd the hand
That once could toil at my command,
And still with equal fight could trace
My kindling Fancy's rapid pace.
Weak is that hand; my words are slow;
And vanish'd is the mental glow,
That bade the breathing language flow.
Vain is complaint: the parting gift,
Alas! no murmurs back can bring :
I'll rather strive my soul to lift
Above vile Discontent's sharp sting.
But when I look around, and see
How few are prey to Care like me,
My gloomier fate o'ercomes my mind,
And vainly bids me be resign’d.
Resign’d, while sound these hollow cries,
That shriek careering through the skies?
Ah! what complacent breast can hear
The doleful tones without a tear?

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