THOMAS NASHE

SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year’s pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing— Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! The palm and may make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay— Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, In every street these tunes our ears do greet— Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! Spring, the sweet Spring!

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!