Classic Poem

The pounded spise both tast and sent doth please;
In fadinge smoke the force doth incense showe;
The perisht kernell springeth with increase;
The lopped tree doth best and soonest growe.

Gods spice I was, and poundinge was my due;
In fadinge breath my incense favoured best;
Death was my meane my kernell to renewe;
By loppinge shott I upp to heavenly rest.

Some thinges more perfit are in their decaye,
Like sparke that going out geeves clerest light:
Such was my happe, whose dolefull dying daye
Begane my joye and termed fortunes spight.

Alive a Queene, now dead I am a Saint;
Once Mary cald, my name now Martyr is;
From earthly raigne debarred by restrainte,
In liew wherof I raigne in heavenly blis.

My life, my griefe, my death, hath wrought my joye;
My freendes, my foyle, my foes, my weale procurd,
My speedie death hath scorned longe annoye,
And losse of life an endles life assurd.

My scaffolde was the bedd where ease I fownde;
The blocke a pillowe of eternall rest.
My headman cast mee in in blesfull sownde;
His axe cutt of my cares from combred brest.

Rue not my death, rejoyce at my repose;
It was no death to mee but to my woe,
The budd was opened to let owt the rose,
The cheynes unloosed to let the captive goe.

A Prince by birth, a prisoner by mishappe,
From crowne to crosse from throne to thrall I fell.
My right my ruth, my tytles wrought my trapp;
My weale my woe, my worldly heaven my hell.

By death from prisoner to a prince enhaunced;
From crosse to crowne from thrall to throne againe,
My ruth my righte, my trappe my styll advaunced
From woe to weale, from hell to heavenly raigne.