Activity

Thomas Nashe
(1567-1601)

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 hair;
Queens have died you 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.