Chidiock Tichborne (c. 24 August 1562 - 20 September 1586 / Southampton, England)
My Prime of Youth Is But a Frost of Cares
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,
My youth is gone, and yet I am but young,
I saw the world, and yet I was not seen,
My thread is cut, and yet it was not spun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.
I sought my death and found it in my womb,
I look't for life and saw it was a shade,
I trode the earth and knew it was my tomb,
And now I die, and now I am but made.
The glass is full, and now the glass is run,
And now I live, and now my life is done.
Read poems about / on: spring, green, joy, hope, pain, death, sun, life, world, running
Comments about this poem (My Prime of Youth Is But a Frost of Cares by Chidiock Tichborne )
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This is undoubtedly a fine poem, but was it really written on the eve of the poet`s execution. Does it not strain credulity to suggest that someone facing hanging, drawing, and quartering the next day would spend his last hours scribbling poetry, And if he did, could he be expected to produce something of the quality of this work. One wonders if there was a tradition at the time of writers who were condemned to death composing a poem on the frailty of life the night before they died. And if the work had actually been written some time before. who that knew was likely to say so. Sir Walter Raleigh, before he was beheaded for treason in 1618, also left us with a poem allegedly written on the eve of his execution. It is possible, of course, that men were made of stern stuff in those days, and even with death staring them in the face they could still toss off something worthy of remembrance.
very interesting poem on a conclusion of a short life.
Chidiock Tichborne was convicted as a plotter in the Babington Conspiracy, a Catholic plot that aimed to assassinate Queen Elizabeth I and put Mary Queen of Scots on the English throne. Tichborne was executed on September 20th 1586. He wrote the poem on the eve of his execution.