Located in the UK
Located in the USA
Located in Europe
- Iain Bell
A Litany in Time of Plague (2015)
- Chester Music Ltd (World)
- 1+picc.1.1.1/1.1.1.0/str4t
- Mezzo
- 9 min
- Thomas Nashe (1567- 1601)
- English
Programme Note
A Litany in Time of Plague (1600)
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 air.
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!
Thomas Nashe (1567- 1601)
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 air.
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!
Thomas Nashe (1567- 1601)
Scores
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