Saturday, December 22, 2012
Winter, Plague, and Pestilence
Thomas Nashe (1567-1601), from A Pleasant Comedie, called Summers Last Will and Testament (London: Simon Stafford, 1600):
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Autumne hath all the Summers fruitefull treasure,
Gone is our sport, fled is poore Croydens pleasure:
Short dayes, sharp dayes, long nights come on a pace,
Ah who shall hide us, from the Winters face?
Colde dooth increase, the sicknesse will not cease,
And here we lye God knowes, with little ease:
From winter, plague & pestilence, good Lord deliver us.
London dooth mourne, Lambith is quite forlorne,
Trades cry, Woe worth, that ever they were borne:
The want of Terme, is towne and Cities harme,
Close chambers we do want, to keep us warme,
Long banished must we live from our friends:
This lowe built house, will bring us to our ends.
From winter, plague & pestilence, good Lord deliver us.
