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My Prime Of Youth Is But A Frost Of Cares

Chediock Ticheborne

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
And all my goodes is but vain hope of gain.

The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun;
And now I live, and now my life is done!

My spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung,
The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green,
My youth is past, and yet I am but young,
I saw the world, and yet I was not seen.

My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun;
And now I live, and now my life is done!

I sought for death and found it in the wombe,
I lookt for life, and yet it was a shade,
I trade the ground, and knew it was my tombe,
And now I die, and now I am but made.

The glass is full, and yet my glass is run;
And now I live, and now my life is done!

Written in the Tower, the night before his probably
unjust execution for treason.

Home :: Poetry :: Sorrow and Sadness (7) :: My Prime Of Youth Is But A Frost Of Cares

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