My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of paine,
My crop of corne is but a field of tares,
And all my good is but vaine hope of gaine.
The day is past, and yet I saw no sunne,
And now I live, and now my life is done.
My tale was heard, and yet it was not told,
My fruite is falne, and yet my leaves are greene:
My youth is spent, and yet I am not old,
I saw the world, and yet I was not seene.
My thred is cut, and yet it is not spunne,
And now I live, and now my life is done.
I sought my death, and found it in my wombe,
I lookt for life, and saw it was a shade:
I trod the earth, and knew it was my Tombe,
And now I die, and now I was but made.
My glasse is full, and now my glasse is runne,
And now I live, and now my life is done.
NOTE: Tichborne was one of the plotters in the Babbington Plot, which had intended to assassinate Elizabeth I. This poem was reputedly written to his wife days before he was gruesomely hung, drawn and quartered in 1586.