poem 14
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 dart can fly:
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
Rich men, trust not in wealth,
Gold cannot buy your 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 clos'd 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 is!
(This, one of Thomas Nashe's most famous poems, comes from his 'Summer's Last Will and Testament', published in 1600. It also contains poems on the four seasons, for which the late Constant Lambert composed a vocal and orchestral setting. No more is known of Nashe after this work appeared; he died in 1601, perhaps of the Great Plague, the disaster which inspired this compactly expressed poem.
See Prose 4 for more of his work)