“I will be happy to accommodate your request,” I said with a smile and a bow. Exchanging places with Muddy and Sissy, I positioned myself in the center of the room, while my loved ones arranged themselves on the settee. For several moments, I stood in silent rumination. At length, I gazed at my auditors and announced: “Ladies and gentleman. For your pleasure and edification, I shall recite one of the most powerful and poignant poems in our language. It was composed in 1586 by a young Englishman named Chidiock Tichborne. A Catholic noble who plotted to replace Queen Elizabeth with a monarch of his own faith, Tichborne was sent to the dreaded Tower of London to await execution for treason. On the night prior to his beheading, he composed a moving letter of farewell to his devoted young wife, Agnes, enclosing the following stanzas. These were later set to music and published in a widely distributed collection of madrigals. The poem, which has come to be known as ‘Tichborne’s Elegy,’ goes thusly.”

Placing one hand upon my bosom and raising the other aloft, I directed my gaze towards the ceiling and proceeded to declaim the following verses:

“My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
And all my good is but vain hope of gain;
The day is past, and yet I saw no sun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

“My tale was heard and yet it was not told,
My fruit is fallen and yet my leaves are green,
My youth is spent and yet I am not old,
I saw the world and yet I was not seen;
My thread is cut and yet it is not spun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

“I sought my death and found it in my womb,
I looked for life and saw it was a shade,
I trod the earth and knew it was my tomb,
And now I die, and now I was but made;
My glass is full, and now my glass is run,
And now I live, and now my life is done.”

Having enunciated the final words, I maintained my position for a moment while awaiting the expected ovation. To my surprise, however, my performance was greeted, not by a burst of applause, but by a heavy—protracted—and absolute—silence. Gazing at my auditors, I saw that both Muddy and Sissy were staring at me with expressions that were nothing short of stricken.

“Oh, Eddie,” cried Sissy. “That was so dreadfully sad! Did you say that Mr. Tichborne was killed after writing that poem?”

I nodded. “He was led to the block early the next morning and beheaded.”

Sissy gasped and raised a hand to her throat.

“And the poem was written to his wife?” inquired Muddy in a tremulous voice.