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An Answere to Mr Tichborne who was executed wth Babington

Thy flower of youth is with a north wind blasted thy feast of Joye, is an Idea found Thy corne is shed, thy untimely harvest wasted thy good in ill, thy hope in hurt as wasted Darke was thy daye & shadow was thy sun And by such lights, thy life untymely spun

Thy tale was nought thy oratory told thy fruite is rotten & thy leaves are gone Thy selfe wert young in yeares in tyme growne the world accoumpts thee not worth thinking on old Thy thred's not cutt nor spun, but broken Soe let thy heart, though yet it be but open

Thou soughts thy death and foundst it in desert thou lookest for life, yet leudly foet it fade Thou trodst on Earth, & now in Earth thou art and men may wish that yu hadst nere bine borne Thy glorye and thy glase are tymeless ruine wch (O unhappye man) by thy selfe was donne Finis