C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

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 its 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!

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!