AUTUMN
by: Thomas Nashe (1567-1601)
- UTUMN 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!
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- 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!
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