Woods or steepy mountain yields...
And I will make thee a bed of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies...
Chris never knew what it was to have a bed of roses, not even for a fortnight.
He might have gone on to splendid heights. His verses mean much to me. I liked him for his clowning, his patience, his kind words, his persuasive pen. Glover’s son and shoemaker’s boy—we had many a boisterous time. Of his plays I think best of Tambourlaine and Faustus.
From jigging veins of riming mother wits
And such conceits as clownage keeps in pay
We’ll lead you to the stately tent of war...
As we collaborated on our plays, he was constantly fighting debts, his mistress riding him hard. Our tankards full we worked in my place or his. I shied away from his association with the School of Atheists, leaving that to him and Raleigh.
No writer could have had a better guide for Titus, Henry and Richard. M__ had learned to smoke and like R__ had to putter with tobacco, pipe and flint.