Nature
Winter, Plague, and Pestilence
From Lyrics from the Dramatists of the Elizabethan Age, ed. A. H. Bullen (London: Nimmo, 1889)
Autumn hath all the summer's fruitful treasure;
Gone is our sport, fled is our 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!
Cite this poem
MLA
Nashe, Thomas. “Winter, Plague, and Pestilence.” Poetry Codex, poetrycodex.com/poem/nash/3/.
Chicago
Nashe, Thomas. “Winter, Plague, and Pestilence.” Poetry Codex. https://poetrycodex.com/poem/nash/3/.
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