Autumn 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!LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
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.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
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!"LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »