There is _prima-facie_ evidence that Greene authored the line, which he semi-parodied in the address, which is found in two places. It appears in its initial form “Oh Tyger’s heart wrapt in a serpent’s hide” in the play called, “The Tragedy of Richard, Duke of York,” and “The Death of Good King Henry the Sixth,” and later with “woman” substituted for “serpent,” again, it is found in the third part of “Henry VI.”, founded on the true tragedy, which was acted by Lord Pembroke’s company, of which, as Nash tells us, Greene was chief agent, and for which he wrote more than four other plays. “Henry VI. Part III” is generally admitted to be the work of Greene, Marlowe and perhaps Peele. Furthermore, the catchwords in the lines parodied betray their author, which is a confirmatory fact. To borrow a citation from the pages of Dr. A. Grosart, “Every one who knows his Greene knows that over and over again he returns on anything of his that caught on, sometimes abridging and sometimes expanding;” and in semi-parodying his own lines, wrapt “Tyger’s heart” in several kinds of hides. It was William Kemp, the comic actor and dancer, not Shakspere, whom Greene wanted to hit. He did not consider as an author at all the “upstart crow” with his “Tyger’s heart wrapt in a player’s hide,” who bombasted orally his own improvisions and interpolations out in blank verse. In their great desire to discover Shakspere as the author, the words “bombast out in blank verse” are seized upon by Shakspere’s commentators with evident greediness. But these words yield nothing in support of author-craft, for bombast or bombastry, in the idiom of the time, stood for high sounding words which might have proceeded from the mouth of a buffoon, clown, jester, montebank or actor, whose profession was to amuse spectators by low antics and tricks, and whose improvisions and extemporizings were destitute of rhyme, but possessed of a musical rhythm called “blank verse.” The words “blank verse” were doubtless intended for the ear of Marlowe, the great innovator, who was thus reminded that the notorious jig-dancer and clown, William Kemp, declaimed his own improvisions and interpolations in the “swelling bombast of a bragging blank-verse,” as Nash called it, and was an absolute “Johannes Factotum in his own conceit”—that is, a person employed to do many things. Who could do more “in his own conceit” than Kemp, who spent his life in mad jigs, as he says? Who but Kemp, the chief actor in the low comedy scenes, who angered the academic play-writers by introducing “his own wit into their plays and make a merriment of them?”