d heartily repented of his ill passed
Life, especially of the wrongs he had done to his Wife; which he
declared in a Letter written to her, and found with his Book of _A
Groatsworth of Wit_, after his Death, containing these Words;

_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