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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 win...
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Thomas Nashe (1567-1601), British poet. Autumn (l. 1-7). . .
Oxford Anthology of English Literature, The, Vols. I-II. Frank Kermode and John Holla...
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''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.''
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Thomas Nashe (1567-1601), British poet. In Time of Pestilence (l. 15-20). . .
Oxford Anthology of English Literature, The, Vols. I-II. Frank Kermo...
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