Autumn
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!