My spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung;
The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green;
My youth is past, and yet I am but young;
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 for death, and found it in the wombe;
I lookt for life, and yet it was a shade;
I trode the ground, and knew it was my tombe,
And now I dye, and now I am but made. 
The glass is full, and yet my glass is run;
And now I live, and now my life is done.

Little used to poetry, these lines made the good man’s eyes fill with tears as he looked at the two goodly young men about to be cut off so early—­one indeed guilty, but the victim of an iniquitous act of deliberate treachery.

He asked if Mr. Tichborne wished to entrust to him aught that could be done by word of mouth, and a few commissions were given to him.  Then Antony bethought him of thanks to Lord and Lady Shrewsbury for all they had done for him, and above all for sending Mr. Talbot; and a message to ask pardon for having so belied the loyal education they had given him.  The divided religion of the country had been his bane:  his mother’s charge secretly to follow her faith had been the beginning, and then had followed the charms of stratagem on behalf of Queen Mary.

Perhaps, after all, his death, as a repentant man still single minded, saved him from lapsing into the double vileness of the veteran intriguers whose prey he had been.

“I commend me to the Mercy Master Who sees my heart,” he said.

Herewith the warder returned, and at his request summoned Gillingham, a sturdy grizzled fellow, looking grim with grief.  Babington told him of the arrangement made, and that he was to leave London early in the morning with Mr. Talbot, but the man immediately dropped on his knees and swore a solemn oath that nothing should induce him to leave the place while his master breathed.

“Thou foolish knave,” said Antony, “thou canst do me no good, and wilt but make thyself a more piteous wretch than thou art already.  Why, ’tis for love of thee that I would have thee spared the sight.”

“Am I a babe to be spared?” growled the man.  And all that he could be induced to promise was that he would repair to Bridgefield as soon as all was over—­“Unless,” said he, “I meet one of those accursed rogues, and then a halter would be sweet, if I had first had my will of them.”

“Hush, Harry, or Master Warder will be locking thee up next,” said Antony.

And then came the farewell.  It was at last a long, speechless, sorrowful embrace; and then Antony, slipping from it to his knees, said—­“Bless me!  Oh bless me:  thou who hast been mine only true friend.  Bless me as a father!”

“May God in Heaven bless thee!” said Richard, solemnly laying his hand on his head.  “May He, Who knoweth how thou hast been led astray, pardon thee!  May He, Who hath felt the agonies and shame of the Cross, redeem thee, and suffer thee not for any pains of death to fall from Him!”