Thomas Nashe Poems
|1.||Spring, the Sweet Spring||1/3/2003|
|3.||A Litany in Time of Plague||1/20/2003|
|4.||Summer's Last Will and Testament (excerpt)||12/31/2002|
|5.||ADIEU, FAREWELL EARTH'S BLISS||12/31/2002|
|7.||In Time of Pestilence||1/4/2003|
|8.||Fair Summer Droops||1/3/2003|
|9.||Poem 1 From Pierce Penilesse||4/13/2010|
|10.||Poem 2 From Pierce Penilesse||4/13/2010|
|11.||To The Right Honorable The Lord S.||4/13/2010|
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;