Weepe not, my Wanton, smile upon my knee,
When thou art old theres griefe enough for thee.
The wanton smilde, father wept,

Mother cried, babie lept;

Now he crow'd more he cride,

Nature could not sorrow hide;

He must goe, he must kisse
Childe and mother, babie blisse,
For he left his prettie boy,

Fathers sorrow, fathers joy.

Weepe not, my Wanton, smile upon my knee,

When thou art old theres griefe enough for thee.

There is a simple neatness and melody in the following lines, not often to be met with in the poetry of this period.

ROUNDELAY.

When tender ewes brought home with evening sunne,

Wend to their foldes,

And to their holdes,

The shepheards trudge, when light of daie is done,

Upon

Upon a tree

The eagle, Joves fierce bord did pearch,

There resteth he.

A little flie his harbour then did search,

And did presume, though others laught thereat,
To pearch whereas the princely eagle sate.

The eagle frownd, and shooke his royal wings,
And chargd the flie

From thence to hie.

Afraid, in haste the little creature flings,

Yet seekes againe,

Fearefull to pearch him by the eagles side,
With moodie vaine

The speedie poste of Ganimede replide,
Vassaile avaunt, or with my wings you die;
Is't fit an eagle seate him with a flie?

The flie cravd pittie, still the eagle frownde,
The seely flie,

Readie to die,

Disgraced, displacde, fell groveling to the ground.

The eagle saw,

And with a royal minde saide to the flie,

Be not in awe,

I scorne by me the meanest creature die;
Then seate thee here; the joyful flie up flings,
And sate safe shadowed with the eagles wings.

The following sprightly ballad is taken from his "Ciceronis Amor, or Tullies Love. 1616."

Mars in a fury against loves brightest queene,

Put on his helm, and tooke him to his launce,
On Erecynùs mount was Mavours seene,
And there his ensignes did the God advance,

VOL. II.

And

And by heavens greatest gates he stoutly swore,
Venus should dye, for she had wrongd him sore.

Cupid heard this, and he began to cry,

And wisht his mothers absence for a while.
Peace, foole, quoth Venus, Is it I must dye?
Must it be Mars? with that she coynd a smile,
She trimmed her tresses, and did curle her haire,
And made her face with beautie passing faire.

A fan of silver feathers in her hand,

And in a coach of Ebony she went,

She past the place where furious Mars did stand,
And unto her lookes a lovely smile she sent.
Then from her browes lept out so sharp a frowne,
That Mars, for feare, threw all his armour downe..

He vowd repentance for his rash misdeed,
Blaming his choler that had causd his woe.
Venus grew gracious, and with him agreed,
But chargd him not to threaten beautie so,
For womens lookes are such enchanting charmes,
As can subdue the greatest gods in armes.

The lines which succeed are from Greene's "Never too late," by which, as well as from the contents of the book, the author inculcates the maxim, that it is never too late to repent.

With sweating browes I long have plowd the sand;
My seed was youth, my crop was endlesse care,
Repentance hath sent home with empty hand

At last to tell how rife our follies are,

And time hath left experience to approove,
The gaine is griefe to those that traffique love.

The silent thought of my repentant yeeres

That fill my head, have calld me home at last,
Now love unmaskt a wanton wretch appeares,
Begot by guileful thoughts with over hast.

In prime of youth a rose, in age a weed,
That for a minutes joy payes endlesse meed.

Dead to delights, a foe to fond conceit,

Alied to wit by want and sorrow bought,
Farewell fond youth long fostred in deceit,
Forgive me time disguised idle thought,
And love adew: to hasten to my end,
I finde no time too late for to amend.

It is impossible not to lament with strong emotions of pity, that a man should perish in premature age, the victim of licentiousness and intemperance, who was capable of enforcing, with earnestness, such rules as these for the regulation of his conduct.

"Let Gods worship be thy mornings worke, and his wisdome the direction of thy dayes labour. Rise not without thankes, nor sleepe not without repentance.

Choose but a few friends, and try those; for the flatterer speakes fairest.

If thy wife be wise, make her thy secretary; else locke thy thoughts in thy heart, for women are seldome silent.

If she be faire, be not jealous; for suspition cures not womens follies.

If she be wise, wrong her not; for if thou lovest others she will loath thee.

Let thy childrens nurture be their richest portion for wisdome is more precious than wealth. Be not proude amongst thy poore neighbours; for a poore mans hate is perillous :

Nor too familiar with great men; for presumption winnes disdaine."

I here take my leave of Robert Greene, and I confess, not without reluctance. I have been highly entertained with many of his performances, I feel a great respect for his talents, much disgust at his profligacy, but a sincere concern for his misfortunes.

GABRIEL HARVEY.

NEXT to the miserable and wretched Greene, I do not know who can follow with greater propriety than the man who knew him well, and who, perhaps, not altogether undeservedly, was, from principle, his determined and implacable adversary.

The contests, squibs and pamphlets, between Nash and Greene and Harvey, at one time

occupied