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Autumn

Autumn hath all the summer's fruitful treasure;
Gone is our sport, fled is poor Croydon's pleasure.
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;
Trades cry, Woe worth that ever they were born.
The want of term is town and city's harm;
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 deliver us!

poem by Thomas Nashe
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Poem 1 From Pierce Penilesse

Why ist damnation to dispaire and die,
When life is my true happinesse disease?
My soule, my soule, thy safetye makes me flie
The faultie meanes, that might my paine appease.
Diuines and dying men may talke of hell,
But in my heart, her seueral tormentes dwell.
Ah worthlesse Wit, to traine me to this woe,
Deceitfull Artes that nourish Discontent:
Ill thriue the Follie that bewicht me so,
Vaine thoughts adieu, for now I will repent.
And yet my wants perswade me to proceede,
Since none takes pitie of a Scollars neede.
Forgiue me God, although I curse my birth,
And ban the aire, wherein I breath a Wretch:
Since Miserie hath daunted all my mirth,
And I am quite vndone through promise-breach.
Oh friends, no friends, that then vngently frowne,
When changing Fortune casts us headlong downe.
Without redresse complaines my carelesse verse,
And Mydas-eares relent not at my moane:

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poem by Thomas Nashe
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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;
None from his darts can fly;
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

Rich men, trust not in 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 wrinkles will devour;
Brightness falls from the air;
Queens have died young and fair;

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poem by Thomas Nashe
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Adieu, Farewell Earth's Bliss

1 Adieu, farewell earth's bliss,
2 This world uncertain is;
3 Fond are life's lustful joys,
4 Death proves them all but toys,
5 None from his darts can fly:
6 I am sick, I must die.
7 Lord, have mercy on us!

8 Rich men, trust not in wealth,
9 Gold cannot buy you health;
10 Physic himself must fade;
11 All things to end are made;
12 The plague full swift goes by:
13 I am sick, I must die.
14 Lord, have mercy on us!

15 Beauty is but a flower
16 Which wrinkles will devour;
17 Brightness falls from the air,
18 Queens have died young and fair,

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poem by Thomas Nashe
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In Time of Pestilence

ADIEU, farewell earth's bliss!
This world uncertain is:
Fond are life's lustful joys,
Death proves them all but toys.
None from his darts can fly;
I am sick, I must die--
   Lord, have mercy on us!

Rich men, trust not in 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 wrinkles will devour;
Brightness falls from the air;
Queens have died young and fair;

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Nashe
Added by Poetry Lover
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