ROBERT GREEN, Was born, perhaps, about 1550, and died in 1592. He is said to have been equally famous for his wit and profligacy; and his life forms a melancholy epocha in the history of our literature, if it be true, as the well-informed authors of the Biographia Dramatica have asserted, that he was the first English poet who wrote for bread. Not less than 35 different pamphlets, in most of which are interspersed small pieces of poetry, are ascribed to Green; and he was the undoubted author of five plays. The best account of his life was compiled by the late Mr. Steevens, from the MS. notes of Oldys; and is to be found in Berkenhout's "Bio"graphia Literaria." [From his "Farewell to Folly," 1617.] SWEET are the thoughts that savour of content; The poor estate scorns fortune's angry frown. Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss, Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. The homely house, that harbours quiet rest, MELICERTUS'S DESCRIPTION OF HIS MISTRESS. [From his "Arcadia," 1589.] TUNE on my pipe the praises of my love, Shall I compare her form unto the sphere Whence sun-bright Venus vaunts her silver shine? Oh, more than that, by just compare is thine, Whose chrystal looks the cloudy heavens do clear. How oft have I descending Titan seen, His burning looks couch in the sea-queen's lap; And beauteous Thetis his red body wrap, In watry robes, as he her lord had been ? When as my nymph, impatient of the night, Bade bright Atreus with his train give place, While she led forth the day with her fair face, And lent each star a more than Delian light. Not Jove, or nature (should they both agree THE PENITENT PALMER'S ODE. [From "Never too Late," in two parts, 1600.] WHILOM, in the winter's rage, When he thought on years mis-spent ; How fond love had made him blind, "I thought my mistress' hairs were gold, "That wrapped me in vain delight, "Her ivory front, her pretty chin, “ All her looks for love were meet; "But love is folly: this I know: [From the Orpharion, 1599, 4to.] CUPID abroad was 'lated in the night, His wings were wet with ranging in the rain: Harbour he sought: to me he took his flight, To dry his plumes: I heard the boy complain, I oped the door, and granted his desire ; I rose myself, and made the wag a fire. Looking more narrow, by the fire's flame I would have gone, for fear of farther crack, But what I drad, did me poor wretch betide— For forth he drew an arrow from his side. He pierced the quick, and I began to start; [From the Philomela, 1615.] SITTING by a river's side, Where a silent stream did glide, That to man in life is lent. And some others do contend, Quiet none like to a friend. |