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This poem was written before Chidioch's execution. When I heard it yesterday it brought back all the anguish of diagnosis and the life to which we are condemned.

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
my feast of joy is but a dish of paine:
My crop of corne is but a field of tares,
and al my good is but vaine hope of gaine.
The day is past, and yet I saw no sunne;
And now I live, and now my life is done.

My tale was heard, and yet it was not told,
my fruite is falne, and yet my leaves are greene:
My youth is spent, and yet I am not old,
I saw the world, and yet I was not seene.
My thred is cut, and yet it is not spunne;
And now I live, and now my life is done.

I sought my death, and founde it in my wombe,
I lookt for life and saw it was a shade:
I trode the earth, and knew it was my tombe,
and now I die, and now I was but made.
My glasse is full, and now my glasse is runne;
And now I live, and now my life is done.

Quoting poetry, gibbledygook wrote:... and now my life is done.

Well I'm buggered if I'm going to think my life done! I've felt particulary awful this past month but I aint done for yet!

Well quite right. These are after all the musings of a man about to be executed and none of us, I hope, is facing that! But somehow the verses really sang to me especially when I heard them in a heart-rending depiction of Elizabeth I by Helen Mirren on UK's indomitable Channel 4.

So forgive the sorrowful self-indulgence!