Thomas Nashe was an acquaintance, perhaps a friend, of Christopher Marlowe. Though he was the son of a clergyman, he managed to be in trouble most of his life -- running first with the raucous crowd of "University Wits", and then achieving an unfortunate notoriety with several of his works, at least one of which was condemned by Elizabeth's Privy Council as treasonous. The two lyrics here are from a play called Summer's Last Will and Testament, written and performed for the Archbishop of Canterbury, and seem to contain little of the acerbic wit that marks much of his other work.
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 frm 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 banishèd 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!
Croyden: Archbishop of Canterbury's summer palace, outside London
Lambeth: The Archbishop's London Palace
Trades: tradesmen
This low-built house: Lambeth Palace, near the river
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 me, 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;
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!Wit with his wantonness
Tasteth death's bitterness;
Hell's executioner
Hath no ears for to hear
What vain art can reply;
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!
Fond: Silly, foolish.
Physic: medicine