Son quel troncho senza foglia (Anonymous)

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• (Posted 2025-05-01)  CPDL #84671:           

Editor: Andreas Stenberg (submitted 2025-05-01).   Score information: A4, 8 pages, 121 kB   Copyright: CPDL

Edition notes: A double edition, A diplomatic score in mensural notation, A practical score with note-values halved.

General Information

Title: Son quel troncho senza foglia
Composer: Anonymous
Lyricist:
Number of voices: 4 vv   Voicing: SATB
Genre: Secular, Madrigal

Language: Italian
Instruments: A cappella

First published: 1505 in Frottole libro 2 (Petrucci, Venice), no. 4
Description: A Frottola.

Original text and translations

Italian text   Son quel troncho senza foglia   Steril fructo per tempessta   Nulla cosa piu mi resta   Perso ol tempo e poi la spoglia   Son quel troncho senza foglia   Steril fructo per tempesta,   per tempesta.   Venti e piogie in un momento   In tal stato mhan converso   Se fugia felice or stento   Che ibei fiori e fructi ho perso   Cosi vol el ciel perverso   Cosi piace alimpio fato   Cosi sempre e destinato   Cogni ben presto si soglia   Stava mal senza soccoroso   Contra me vegio infelice   Presto muto el primo corso   Che se ardisce ad ir felice   Feccho el legno e la radice   Ove me prendea conforto   El mio viver ferra corto   Fe non che el mal mi toglia   Mentre fui floride e verde   Aciascun fu grato amico   Or chel mio ben se perde   Iace qui pover mendico   Nulla penso al stato antiquo   Son condutto a cotal forte   la mia speme iace in morte   Poi che ognun muta sua voglia.

English translation   I am like a leafless log   Made Sterile, without fruit by the tempest   Nothing more remains to me   Lost to time and then barren   I am that leafless log   Made Sterile, without fruit by the tempest   by the storm.   Winds and rains that came in a moment,   In such a state they have twisted me.   My happines did fly, now I'm struggling.   That fair flowers and fruit I have lost.   So wills the perverse heavens.   So pleases my fate.   So it was ever destined.   Everything have come clear.   I'm ill without succour,   All are against me, I see myself unhappy   To suddenly go mute is the first course   If he dares to go away happy   He makes me the wood and the root   Where I took comfort   My life is short-lived   Not that evil should take me away   While I was florid and green   Each one was a grateful friend.   Now that my good is lost   I stand here as a poor beggar.   I think not of my old state.   I am condemned to such hardship.   My hopefully pleads for death.   That all might change their will.