Tichborne's Elegie,

(written with his owne hand in the Tower before his execution)

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, & 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 found it in my wombe,
I lookt for life, and saw it was a shade:
I trod 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.

Beth Evans lived in a mirror, reflecting something past.
     A severed soul was the first stone cast.
Imagination was all which remained,
                                 As her flowered dress sit stained.

                Two years gone without a word
                               An adolescent voice barely heard
                          Sat in a room for days on end.
       Thoughts for which no one penned.
                                                     ...
                           Robert Glasse, 40 years of age
                                                  A man prone to fits of rage
                                           Lived off the means of foreclosed hope
                                                             No more vile than a christened pope.
          
                                   Robert Glasse knew Mr. Evans,
                                            Before the man moved on to the heavens
                          He promised to treat Beth as a daughter,
                                      To the deceased man who was her father.
                                                      ...
            Colleen Evans was a widowed mum
                                                     Who soon developed a love for ***.
                                                       Addiction came with the greatest of speed,
                                              A battle which she had to concede.

                             Rehabilitation took four long weeks
                                            Completed at Pleasant Creeks
                                      Meanwhile, her daughter had class,
                                                              So Beth was fostered by Robert Glasse.
                                                      ...

                                          For the first few days everything was fine
                                              Then Robert poured the girl a glass of wine
                                                             The haze outlasted common ludes,
                                                                    Then the girl awoke partially ****.

                                          Confused, she pushed the event from her mind.
                              Though, truthfully, it just lingered behind.
                                                      Then, one night came a trauma quite severe
Where the girl saw no choice, but to divide herself in a mirror.
                                                            ...

                                                                  Robert had planned it all along
                                                   And nothing in his mind had gone too wrong
                                                                                   Beth was shown no neglect
                                                       He had treated her with the utmost respect

                                                 He refused to see the blood drenching the bed
                                                 (That could have induced a sense of dread)
                                       He just left poor Beth twitching and battered
        And continued to pretend that nothing in life mattered.
                                                              ...

Colleen came home after four long weeks
       Finding her daughter, tears drenched her cheeks
                  Beth lay stagnant, blankly staring
                             The torture she'd been through was more than glaring

                                   Never again was a word spoke between them,
As Beth appeared in constant rem
                                 Realizing that her daughter was now nearly catatonic
                               Colleen had no problem returning to being an alcoholic.

The Holy Bible, th'historie of man,
     And God and man, and God as man on earth;
     The true account of how the world began;
The treasure mapp that leades to love and mirth;
The looking glasse wherein is seene the faire
     Image of God, and all mans ugly sinnes;
     The written word of God for ev'ry heir
Of saving grace who runnes the race and winnes;
The booke of lyfe writ in my Saviours bloud,
     Dictated by the Spirits whisper'd breath;
     The foil for ev'ry curse; the cure for death;
The greatest booke about the greatest good;
     The pasture for the sheepe; the sheepefold rod;
     Manna from heav'n; the ladder up to God.

For years it's been my  defense my escape and my prison
all in one.
It's a drug I can and will never kick.
I wield it as a wepon sharper than any razor none
could ever hold.

But it's a love hate relationship twisted in it's
lack of perfection  harsh edges none can
understand but I.

But in it I find isolation in others happiness I find
none of my own and like any drug its high slowly drains you
yet no matter your best efforts to escape it your always
a ****** after that fix.

I've taken to the stage as easy as breathing
and found it simple to draw there laughter.
Happiness is a splendid vice i deal it often yet
In jokes we show are fears  are weakness is on display
for the mocking of others.

Why do I struggle with masks when my own face is but a stranger
to me?
From the stage im the fool by apearence yet I control
every thought  a craftsman  in laughter  my job
i understand better than any other.

Yet I yern to be more than a teller of jokes.
It's to easy at times not that I want to seem
like a ego mainac  but my job I know well.

Often we see the comedians but seldom do we see the misreble
******* behind the jokes.
Maybe were madmen lunatics in a asylum
so happily on display.

The laughter is the comfort and for a moment it heals.
You feel it like a drug it it flows through your veins.
You take people outta there misery if only for a second
and thats the reward there happines is but my gold in thought.

But any role can become a trap.
For no one cares to hear a fools thought.
So you drown in other vices make light of your ******* up past.

And with any  exceptance in life it changes you.
People treat you diffrent for they see the act not the person.
Soon you cant even see yourself anymore.

Relationships turn sour.
Welcome strangers  who thirst for fun replace friends
And the more you succeed the further away you become.

So you drown in ***** or dose in pills  
Share moments you can barely recall.
Hide behind dark glasse's talk to women who claim
to want a glimpse but you both are just junkies
yerning for that fix.

But to be close if only for a moment is a
bitter sweet  dream cast on a nightmares
wing.

But there's always someone who can see past your *******.
but no matter how strong the love the stage and the laughter
are a poisen few can survive.

For how can you love the man who lives a double life?
Who's loved by many and understood by few if
even himself.

Everytime I get up there it's a sacrfice a road ive choosen
with no set reward.
My love for one can never match the  love of many.

It's more than joke ,Im more than a comedian,
Yet im less off a person after the lights fade.
Nothing can match that fix of the stage.

Pain ,Isolation the loss of yourself  and everyone you ever
cared for  thoose my friends are the setbacks of humor.

I am on a documentary dive
the way I dived in bars or went on pub
crawls

I am all in and after two glasse of champagne baby I want to cut my hair
I want slick Bob on this frizzy curly mane
of mine but I wait for Friday

Friday night when you are home and we can have three drinks each and sunk together I  will have the same recurring thoughts of a shorter cut to maintain the coolness on this hot humid summer night
and I will let you cut and the next we will wake up and go to the hair dresser where they will cut three more inches off my head of hair