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 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!