MY SWEETEST LESBIA

When timely death my life and fortune ends,

Let not my hearse be vext with mourning friends;

But let all lovers, rich in triumph, come And with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb:

And, Lesbia, close up thou my little light, And crown with love my ever-during night.

Now winter nights enlarge
The number of their hours;
And clouds their storms discharge
Upon the airy towers.

Let now the chimneys blaze
And cups o'erflow with wine,
Let well-tuned words amaze
With harmony divine!
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall wait on honey love

While youthful revels,

courtly sights,

masques,

and

Sleep's leaden spells remove.

This time doth well dispense
With lovers' long discourse;
Much speech hath some defence,
Though beauty no remorse.
All do not all things well;
Some measures comely tread,
Some knotted riddles tell,
Some poems smoothly read..

The summer hath his joys,
And winter his delights;

Though love and all his pleasures are but

toys,

They shorten tedious nights.

Thomas Nashe

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 country houses gay,

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!

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;
Dust hath closed Helen's eye:
I am sick, I must die.

Lord have mercy on us!

LAMENT IN TIME OF PLAGUE

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!