Away with these self-loving lads (John Dowland)

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• CPDL #15992: MIDI and NoteWorthy Composer files

Editor: Brian Russell (submitted 2008-02-15).   Copyright: CPDL

Edition notes: Files listed alphabetically by nationality and composer. Some composers have separate pages available from their country of origin page. NoteWorthy Composer file may be viewed and printed with NoteWorthy Composer Viewer.

• CPDL #5488: PDF, MIDI and Capella 4 files

Editor: Ulrich Alpers (submitted 2003-08-18).   Score information: A4   Copyright: Personal

Edition notes:

• CPDL #2997: PDF, MIDI, LilyPnd and ABC files

Editor: Laura Conrad (submitted 2001-09-11).   Copyright: GnuGPL

Edition notes: in partbook format.

• CPDL #2716: Finale 2001

Editor: Suzi Nassen Stefl (submitted 2001-05-25).   Score information: Letter, 2 pages, 44 kbytes   Copyright: CPDL

Edition notes: Finale file is zipped.

General Information

Title: Away with these self-loving lads
Composer: John Dowland

Number of voices: 4vv   Voicing: SATB
Genre: Secular, Lute song

Language: English
Instruments: Lute
Published: The First Booke of Songs or Ayres (1597), no.21

Description:

External websites:

Original text and translations

English text

Away with these self-loving lads,
Whom Cupids arrow never glads,
Away, poor souls that sigh and weep
In love of those that lie and sleep,
For Cupid is a meadow god,
And forceth none to kiss the rod.

God Cupids shaft, like destiny,
Doth either good or ill decree,
Desert is born out of his bow,
Reward upon his foot doth go
What fools are they that have not known
That love like no laws but his own!

My songs that be of Cynthia's praise
I wear her rings on holidays,
On every tree I write her name,
And ev'ry day I read the same,
Where honour Cupid's rival is
There miracles are seen of his.

If Cynthia crave her ring of me,
I blot her name out of a tree,
If doubt do darken things held dear,
Then well fare nothing once a year!
For many run but one must win,
Fools only hedge the cuckoo in.

The worth that worthiness move is love,
Which is the bow of love,
And love as well the foster can
As can the mighty noble man,
Sweet saint, 'tis true you worhty be,
Yet without love naught worth to me.