Classic Poem

G OD'S spice I was, and pounding was my due,
In fading breath my incense savoured best;
Death was my mean my kernel to renew,
By lopping shot I up to heavenly rest.

Some things more perfect are in their decay,
Like spark that going out gives clearest light;
Such was my hap whose doleful dying day
Began my joy and termèd Fortune's spite.

Alive a Queen, now dead I am a Saint;
Once Mary called, my name now Martyr is;
From earthly reign debarrèd by restraint,
In lieu whereof I reign in heavenly bliss.

My scaffold was the bed where ease I found,
The block a pillow of eternal rest;
My headman cast me in a blissful swound,
His axe cut off my cares from cumberd breast.