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Poems of Chidiock Tichborne
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My Prime of Youth Is But a Frost of
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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 good is but vain hope of gain. The day is gone and I yet I saw no sun, And now I live, and now my life is done.
The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung, The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green,
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