Headman’s Axe

There are some strange byways in English poetry, such as Chidiock Tichborne’s “Elegy,” written the night before his execution for treason on September 20, 1586. At the age of twenty-four, he was eviscerated, hanged, and then drawn and quartered. His crime? Taking part in a plot to murder Queen Elizabeth I. He and all his co-conspirators were rounded up, tried, and executed.

Elegy

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 past, and yet I saw no sun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

My tale was heard and yet it was not told,
My fruit is fallen, and yet my leaves are green,
My youth is spent and yet I am not old,
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 my death and found it in my womb,
I looked for life and saw it was a shade,
I trod the earth and knew it was my tomb,
And now I die, and now I was but made;
My glass is full, and now my glass is run,
And now I live, and now my life is done.