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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

SUMMER'S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT: AUTUMN, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Autumn hath all the summer's fruitful treasure
Last Line: From winter, plague, and pestilence, good lord, deliver us!
Alternate Author Name(s): Nash, Thomas+(1)
Variant Title(s): Dirge Of The Satyrs And Wood Nymphs
Subject(s): Autumn; Seasons; Fall


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!

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'''s 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





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