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In martial sports I had my cunning tried,
And yet to break more staves did me address,
While with the people's shouts, I must confess,
Youth, luck, and praise, e'en fill'd my veins with

When Cupid having me his slave descried
In Mars's livery, prancing in the press,
What now, Sir Fool ?” said he, “ I would no less;
Look here, I say.”—I look'd, and Stella spied,
Who hard by made a window send forth light;
My heart then quak’d, then dazzled were mine eyes;
One hand forgot to rule, th' other to fight;
Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly cries.
My foe came on and beat the air for mė,
Till that her blush taught me my shame to see.

O HAPPY Thames, that didst


Stella bear, I saw myself, with many a smiling line Upon thy cheerful face, joy's livery wear, While those fair planets on thy streams did shine ; The boat for joy could not to dance forbear; While wanton winds, with beauties so divine Ravish'd, staid not till in her golden hair They did themselves, oh sweetest prison! twine; And fain those Eol's youth there would their stay

Have made, but forc'd by Nature still to fly,
First did with puffing kiss those locks display:
She, so dishevell’d, blush'd :—from window I,
With sight thereof, cried out, O fair disgrace,
Let Honour's self to thee grant highest place.


Was born at Norwich about 1560, was educated at Cambridge, travelled in Spain and Italy, and on his return held, for about a year, the vicarage of Tollesbury, in Essex. The rest of his life seems to have been spent in London, with no other support than his pen,

and in the society of men of more wit than worldly prudence. He is said to have died about 1592, from a surfeit occasioned by pickled herrings and Rhenish wine. Greene has acknowledged, with great contrition, some of the follies of his life; but the charge of profligacy which has been so mercia lessly laid on his memory, must be taken with great abatement, as it was chiefly dictated by his bitterest enemy, Gabriel Harvey, who is said to have trampled on his dead body when laid in the grave. it may be hoped, for the credit of human nature, is untrue; but it shews to what a pitch the malignity of Harvey was supposed to be capable of being excited. Greene is accused of having deserted an amiable wife; but his traducers rather inconsistently re

The story, proach him also with the necessity of writing for her maintenance.

A list of his writings, amounting to forty-five separate productions, is given in the Censura Literaria, including five plays, several amatory romances, and other pamphlets, of quaint titles and rambling contents. The writer of that article has vindicated the personal memory of Greene with proper feeling, but he seems to overrate the importance that could have ever been attached to him as a writer. In proof of the once great popularity of Greene's writings, a passage is quoted from Ben Jonson's Every Man out of his Humour, where it is said that Saviolina uses as choice figures as any in the Arcadia, and Carlo subjoins, or in Greene's works, where she may steal with more security. This allusion to the facility of stealing without detection from an author, surely argues the reverse of his being popular and well known. Greene's style is in truth most whim. sical and grotesque.

He lived before there was a good model of familiar prose ; and his wit, like a stream that is too weak to force a channel for itself, is lost in rhapsody and diffuseness.


When gods had framed the sweets of Woman's face,
And lockt men's looks within her golden hair,
That Phoebus blush'd to see her matchless grace,
And heavenly gods on earth did make repair,

To quip fair Venus' overweening pride,
Love's happy thoughts to jealousy were tied.

Then grew a wrinkle on fair Venus' brow,
The amber sweet of love is turned to gall;
Gloomy was Heaven; bright Phæbus did avow
He would be coy, and would not love at all;
Swearing no greater mischief could be wrought,
Than love united to a jealous thought.


Ay, were she pitiful as she is fair,
Or but as mild as she is seeming so,
Then were my hopes greater than my despair,
Then all the world were Heaven, nothing woe.
Ah, were her heart relenting as her hand,
That seems to melt e’en with the mildest touch,
Then knew I where to seat me in a land,
Under the wide Heavens, but yet not such.
Just as she shews so seems the budding rose,
Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower;
Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows;
Compass'd she is with thorns and canker'd flowers;
Yet, were she willing to be pluck'd and worn,
She would be gather'd, though she grew on thorn.

Ah, when she sings, all music else be still,
For none must be compared to her note;

Ne'er breath'd such glee from Philomela's bill,
Nor from the morning singer's swelling throat.
And when she riseth from her blissful bed,
She comforts all the world, as doth the sun.


Was born in 1562, took a bachelor's degree at Cambridge, and came to London, where he was a contemporary player and dramatic writer with Shakespeare. Had he lived longer to profit by the example of Shakespeare, it is not straining conjecture to suppose, that the strong misguided energy of Marlowe would have been kindled and refined to excellence by the rivalship; but his death, at the age of thirty, is alike to be lamented for its disgracefulness and prematurity, his own sword being forced upon him, in a quarrel, at a brothel. Six tragedies, however, and his numerous translations from the classics, evince, that if his life was profligate, it was not idle. The bishops ordered his translations of Ovid's Love Elegies to be burnt in public for their licentiousness. If all the licentious poems of that period had been included in the martyrdom, Shakespeare's Venus and Adonis would have hardly escaped the flames.

In Marlowe's tragedy of Lust's Dominion there is a scene of singular coincidence with an event

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