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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=425020" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Epitaph III - Parody Chidiock TICHBOURNE 1558_1586 Elegy and Thomas KYD</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">My little space no trace may leave behind, <br>My little base, - whose clock must soon unwind.<br>Why little haste? When discontented mind<br>reproves the race of shadow-shapes unsigned, <br>when worth and mirth too soon are undermined, <br>to earth returned, - with nobody to mind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Our passing tresses, jesses just a while<br>play gesture-jester, jest at Fate’s swift trial<br>where sentence executionary the smile<br>aborts, deletes, erases: goodness, guile, <br>find no reprieve, with self to reconcile, <br>before Time tells of span unprotractile. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The sentence-execution’s always known<br>instinctively from crown to funny-bone.<br>If bridge between birth, death, we hold our own<br>then where lies sense, or there sense lies: once sown<br>the blossom sees one sunrise then is blown, <br>Time makes short shrift of deist cornerstone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Today we dream we dream tomorrow’s plan, <br>which in and of itself mocks mortal man.<br>Time grates great pyramid, sand's partisan<br>defends ground zero status quo who’s span<br>prepares its own demise. Wise he who can<br>play for the day, unpaid life’s courtisan.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The sentence-execution’s always known<br>instinctively from crown to funny-bone.<br>If bridge between birth, death, we hold our own<br>then where lies sense, or there sense lies: once sown<br>the blossom sees one sunrise then is blown, <br>Time makes short shrift of deist cornerstone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There’s no extension offered free, sublime, <br>no subtle lock to block the wheels of time.<br>We cognate are both cog and natal rhyme<br>as photo flash forgotten frames our grime, -<br>the ‘moving finger’ writes our pantomime<br>who’s string, who’s strung, when none can care a dime? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Our intranet is mirage-module base<br>to serve self image, through projection place<br>perspective partial playing to replace<br>the void within, avoiding loss of face.<br>Perhaps through love a moment’s state of grace<br>some lucky few may conjure for a space.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As flies within an amber double bind, <br>time’s trap some squander, others tap to find<br>through questions answerless with which mankind<br>plays games with frames of reference which, blind, <br>are vain reminders ‘I the undersigned’<br>is/was the proof Life knows no mastermind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Today awake, tomorrow lost beneath<br>some sodden turf, with little left to show<br>for threescore years of sojourn, lacking teeth, <br>poor eyesight, addled brain, 'tis time to go.<br>'My fruit is fallen, yet'... wit weaves writ wreath, <br>glass full lies empty, quits, slips underneath.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'I looked for life and saw it' masquerade<br>of misinterpretations from the womb<br>until tomb's doom, where puppet man and maid<br>together dance suspended from chance gloom <br>that seldom clears the clouds of bias backed<br>from birth to final berth in charnel stacked.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">An eyelid's twinkling, blink, our present past<br>becomes, numb, dumb, for coward and for brave, <br>most stillborn linger, finger truth aghast, <br>seek safety mining crass conventions' cave, <br>and then they die, their story stillborn too, <br>through mind pollution rue solutions true. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">No matter what the rhyme-scheme that is used<br>'upon this chequer board of nights and days, '<br>no matter what's accepted, what's refused, <br>'life hither, thither, moves, and checks and slays.'<br>'the Moving Finger writes, and, having writ, <br>no tears can cancel out one word of it.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Our Spring 'of youth is but a frost of cares, ' <br>our fullness feast plays out, frays, 'dish of pain, ' <br>'our crop of corn' time-worn, warns harvest dares' <br>glean gleams decay, stained by 'vain hope of gain.'<br>'Our day is past, ' hour one-way trip mirage, <br>stage tripped, page ripped, sage stripped in crypt collage.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>© Jonathan Robin 23 January 2006 Parody Chidiock TICHBOURNE<br>..........................revised with final five verses added 2 April 2010 and verse 4 revised 15 November 2011<br>Elegy</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My prime of youth is but a frost of cares, <br>My feast of joy is but a dish of pain, <br>My crop of corn is but a field of tares, <br>And all my good is but vain hope of gain, <br>The day is past, and yet I saw no sun, <br>And now I live, and now my life is done. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">My tale was heard and yet it was not told, <br>My fruit is fallen, and yet my leaves are green, <br>My youth is spent and yet I am not old, <br>I saw the world and yet I was not seen, <br>My thread is cut and yet it is not spun, <br>And now I live, and now my life is done. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I sought my death and found it in my womb, <br>I looked for life and saw it was a shade, <br>I trod the earth and knew it was my tomb, <br>And now I die, and now I was but made, <br> My glass is full, and now my glass is run, <br>And now I live, and now my life is done. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">This is the first printed version from Verses of Prayse and Joye 1586. This version differs slightly from the original text, in which the first line of the second verse reads The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung, and had various other minor textual differences.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Chidiock TICHBOURNE 1558_1586 Written in the Tower of London before his execution I. i.59<br>..........................<br>Chidiochi Tychborne</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thy prime of youth is frozen with thy faults, <br> thy feast of joy is finisht with thy fall: <br>Thy crop of corn is tares availing naughts, <br> thy good God knows thy hope, thy hap and all. <br>Short were thy days, and shadowed was thy sun, <br>T' obscure thy light unluckily begun. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Time trieth truth, and truth hath treason tripped; <br> thy faith bare fruit as thou hadst faithless been: <br>Thy ill spent youth thine after years hath nipped; <br> and God that saw thee hath preserved our Queen. <br>Her thread still holds, thine perished though unspun, <br>And she shall live when traitors lives are done. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thou soughtst thy death, and found it in desert, <br> thou look'dst for life, yet lewdly forc'd it fade: <br>Thou trodst the earth, and now on earth thou art, <br> As men may wish thou never hadst been made. <br>Thy glory and thy glass are timeless run; <br> And this, O Tychborne, hath thy treason done.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thomas KYD 1558_1595</div><div style="margin:10px 0">-<br>Time Consumed </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>What if imagination's wave-lengths show<br>man mirage mirror, wishful thinking's wings, <br>if 'truth' hid doubts, fear's fast consuming flow, <br>blot rot, not pearly gates devout scout sings? <br>Life's school would be in/of itself an end, <br>while pastures green no credency could lend.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">If rite can't right 'wrong's' preying for a day<br>can pray repair man's puny pantomime, <br>if heresy today's tomorrow's lay<br>may hope scope draw from 'orthodox' if Time<br>makes crime of what, before, was held sincere, <br>and what held dear through time must disappear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We birth on earth for threescore years and ten<br>then berth beneath the sods for auld lang syne, <br>Time mocks eternal second innings' yen<br>as much for saint as sinner, wineless whine.<br>When some await fair houri harem troop<br>may minds that stray or pray sign seraph scoop? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Though many paths are said to point the way<br>to paradise, or purgatory's pen, <br>though sects' decrees, dogma dissected, grey<br>from heaven's white to hell's black cannot ken.<br>Weak skeins knot vain, belie redemptive spin, <br>speak bane not reign of angels on a pin.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What peace of mind is gained when lost to life<br>if life itself proves hapless vale of tears, <br>when piece of mind resembles veil of strife, <br>whose knife's encountered on and off for years? <br>The answer may be neither here nor there, <br>but 'carpe diem! ' fête fate's day with flair! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">J.R.4 April 2010 significantly revised 15 November 2011 with second and fourth verses added</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Jonathan+Robin">Jonathan Robin</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=425020" data-title="Epitaph III - Parody Chidiock TICHBOURNE 1558_1586 Elegy and Thomas KYD de Jonathan Robin" data-description="My little space no trace may leave behind, 
My little base, - whose clock must soon unwind.
Why little haste? When discontented mind
reproves the race of shadow-shapes unsigned, 
when worth and mirth too soon are undermined, 
to earth returned, - ..."></div>
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