_The Remembrance of many Wrongs offered Thee and thy unreproved Vertues, add greater sorrow to my miserable State than I can utter, or thou conceive; neither is it lessened by consideration of thy Absence (though Shame would let me hardly behold thy Face) but exceedingly aggravated, for that I cannot (as I ought) to thy own self reconcile my self, that thou mightest witness my inward Wo at this instan Green, _and may grow strait, if he be carefully tended; otherwise apt enough (I fear me) to follow his Fathers Folly. That I have offended thee highly, I know; that thou canst forget my Injuries, I hardly believe; yet I perswade my self, if thou sawest my wretched estate, thou couldst not but lament it: Nay, certainly I know thou wouldst. All my wrongs muster themselves about me, and every Evil at once plagues me: For my Contempt of God, I am contemned of Men; for my swearing and fors Thy Repentant Husband for his Disloyalty, _Robert Greene_. In a Comedy called _Green's Tu quoque_, written by _John Cooke_, I find these Verses made upon his Death; How fast bleak Autumn changeth _Flora_'s Die; What yesterday was _Greene_, now's sear and dry. * * * * * _THOMAS NASH_. _Thomas Nash_ was also a Gentleman born, and bred up in the University of _Cambridge_; a man of a quick apprehension and Satyrick Pen: One of his first Books he wrote was entituled _Pierce Penniless his Supplication to the Devil_, wherein he had some Reflections upon the Parentage of Dr. _Harvey_, his Father being a Rope-maker of _Saffron-Walden_: This begot high Contests betwixt the Doctor and him, so that it became to be a well known Pen-Combate. Amongst other Books which Mr. _Nash_ wrote against him, one was entituled, _Have with ye to_ Saffron-Walden; and another called _Four Letters confuted_; in which last he concludes with this Sonnet; Were there no Wars, poor men should have no Peace; Uncessant Wars with Wasps and Drones I cry: He that begins oft knows not how to cease; He hath begun; He follow till I die. Ile hear no Truce, Wrong gets no Grave in me: Abuse pell-mell encounter with abuse; Write he again, Ile write eternally; Who feeds Revenge, hath found an endless Muse. If Death ere made his black Dart of a Pen, My Pen his special Bayly shall become: Somewhat Ile be reputed of 'mongst men, By striking of this Dunce or dead or dumb: Await the World the Tragedy of Wrath, What next I paint shall tread no common Path. It seems he had a Poetical Purse as well as a Poetical Brain, being much straightned in the Gifts of Fortune; as he exclaims in his _Pierce Penniless_.