Nashe’s personal life and career are often linked with those of Peele, Greene, and Marlowe. He was educated at Cambridge, toured France and Italy as a very young man, and settled in London. Like the other University Wits with whom his name is associated, his personal life was uncertain, his fortunes often low, and his professional career prolific. In this career Nashe wrote a masque, a satire, and an allegorical pamphlet; he collaborated with Ben Jonson on a play; and he wrote an early English “novel.”
He is best known for this picaresque, historical fiction, The Unfortunate Traveler, or the Life of Jack Wilton. He wrote few poems. The best of these appear in his satirical masque, Summer’s Last Will and Testament.
TEXT:
The Works of Thomas Nashe, in 5 vols., edited by R. B. McKerrow (1904–10).
AUTUMN HATH ALL THE SUMMER’S FRUITFUL TREASURE
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!
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!
IN TIME OF PLAGUE
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 hair;
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.
hair: the usual reading of this word, “air,” is almost certainly incorrect. See J. V. Cunningham, Tradition and Poetic Structure (Denver, 1960), p. 57; and Nashe’s Works, ed. R. B. McKerrow (London, 1904–10), IV, p. 440.