James and Mary Ford, eds. Every Day in the Year. 1902.
September 20Chediock Ticheborne
By Chediock Ticheborne
M
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!
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 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!