Autumn hath all the summer's fruitful treasure; <br />Gone is our sport, fled is poor Croydon's pleasure. <br />Short days, sharp days, long nights come on apace, <br />Ah, who shall hide us from the winter's face? <br />Cold doth increase, the sickness will not cease, <br />And here we lie, God knows, with little ease. <br />From winter, plague, and pestilence, good Lord deliver us! <br /> <br />London doth mourn, Lambeth is quite forlorn; <br />Trades cry, Woe worth that ever they were born. <br />The want of term is town and city's harm; <br />Close chambers we do want to keep us warm. <br />Long banished must we live from our friends; <br />This low-built house will bring us to our ends. <br />From winter, plague, and pestilence, good Lord deliver us!<br /><br />Thomas Nashe<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/autumn-11/
