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 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!

Strength stoops into 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!