A Litany in Time of Plague

ADIEU, farewell, earth's bliss;

This world uncertain is;

Fond are life's lustful joys;

Death proves them all but toys;

I am sick, I must die.

Lord, have mercy on us!

Rich men, trust not wealth,

Gold cannot buy you health;

Physic himself must fade.

All things to end are made,

The plague full swift goes by;

I am sick I must die

Lord have mercy on us!

Beauty is but a flower

Which wrinkels will devour;

Brightness falls from the air;

Queens have died young and fair;

Dust hath closed Helen's eye.

I am sick, I must die.

Lord, have mercy on us.

Strength stoops unto the grave,

Worms feed on Hector brave;

Swords may not fight with fate,

Earth still holds ope her gate.

"Come, come!" the bells do cry.

I am sick, I must die.

Lord, have mercy on us.

Haste, therefore, each degree,

To welcome destiny;

Heaven is our heritage,

Earth but a player's stage;

Mount we unto the sky.

I am sick, I must die.

Lord, have mercy on us.

Thomas Nashe

Fair Summer Droops

FAIR summer droops, droop men and beasts therefore;

So fair a summer look for never more.

All good things vanish, less than in a day,

Peace, plenty, pleasure, suddenly decay.

Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad year;

The earth is hell when thou leavest* to appear.         [cease]

What, shall those flowers, that decked thy garland erst,

Upon thy grave be wastefully dispersed?

O trees, consume your sap in sorrow's source;

Streams, turn to tears your tributary course.

Go not yet hence, bright soul of the sad year;

The earth is hell when thou leavest to appear.

Thomas Nashe

Spring, The Sweet Spring

SPRING, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king;

Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,

Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing:

Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The palm and may* make houses gay,         [hawthorn blossoms]

Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,

And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay:

Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,

Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit;

In every street these tunes our ears do greet:

Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

     Spring, the sweet spring!

Thomas Nashe

Autumn

AUTUMN hath all the summer's fruitful treasure;

Gone is our sport, fled is poor Croydon's* pleasure.         [town in Surrey]

Short days, sharp days, long nights come on apace,

Ah! who shall hide us from the winter's face?

Cold doth increase, the sickness will not cease,

And here we lie, God knows, with little ease.

From winter, plague, and pestilence, good Lord, deliver us!

London doth mourn, Lambeth* is quite forlorn;         [south London suburb]

Trades cry, woe worth that ever they were born.

The want of term* is town and city's harm;         [lack of an end]

Close chambers we do want, to keep us warm.

Long banished must we live from our friends;

This low-built house will bring us to our ends.

From winter, plague, and pestilence, good Lord,beliver us!

Thomas Nashe