Treasure Island

Robert Greene

(1560-1592 / England)

Quotations

  • ''Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content,
    The quiet mind is richer than a crown;
    Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent,
    The poor estate scorns Fortune's angry frown.
    Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss,
    Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss.''
    Robert Greene (1558?-1592), British author. Farewell to Folly (l. 12). . . Poets of the English Language, Vols. I-V. Vol. I: Langland to Spenser; Vol. II: Marlowe to Marvell; Vol. III: Milton to Goldsmith; Vol. IV: Blake to Poe; Vol. V: Tennyson to Yeats. W. H. Auden and Norman Holmes Pearson, eds. (1950) The Viking Press.
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  • ''Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;
    When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.''
    Robert Greene (1558?-1592), British author. Menaphon (l. 12). . . New Oxford Book of English Verse, The, 1250-1950. Helen Gardner, ed. (1972) Oxford University Press.
  • ''Sovran of beauty! like the spray she grows,
    Compassed she is with thorns and cankered bower.
    Yet were she willing to be plucked and worn,
    She would be gathered, though she grew on thorn.''
    Robert Greene (1558?-1592), British author. Pandosto (l. 12). . . Oxford Book of English Verse, The, 1250-1918. Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. (New ed., rev. and enl., 1939) Oxford University Press.
  • ''Ah were she pitiful as she is fair,
    Or but as mild as she is seeming so,
    Then were my hopes greater than my despair,
    Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe.''
    Robert Greene (1558?-1592), British author. Pandosto (l. 12). . . Oxford Book of English Verse, The, 1250-1918. Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. (New ed., rev. and enl., 1939) Oxford University Press.

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Fawnia

AH! were she pitiful as she is fair,
Or but as mild as she is seeming so,
Then were my hopes greater than my despair,
Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe.
Ah! were her heart relenting as her hand,
That seems to melt even with the mildest touch,
Then knew I where to seat me in a land
Under wide heavens, but yet there is not such.
So as she shows she seems the budding rose,

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