Chidiock Tichborne (1563–1586)

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 fled, and 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 be 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 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 am but made;

The glass is full, and now my glass is run;

And now I live, and now my life is done!