Stript of their green (Henry Purcell)
- Editor: James Gibb (submitted 2014-12-01). Score information: A4, 4 pages, 101 kB Copyright: CPDL
- Edition notes:
First published: 1692
Original text and translations
Stript of their green our groves appear,
Our vale lie buried deep in snow;
The blowing north controls the air,
A nipping cold chills all below.
The frost has glaz'd our deepest streams,
Phoebus withdraws his kindly beams.
Yet Winter, blest be thy return,
Thou'st brought the swain for whom I us'd to mourn,
And in thy ice with pleasing flames we burn.
Too soon the sun's reviving heat
Will thaw thy ice and melt thy snow;
Trumpets will sound and drums will beat,
And tell me the dear youth must go.
Then must my weak, unwilling arms
Resign him up to stronger charms.
What flowers, what sweets, what beauteous thing
when Damon's gone, can ease or pleasure bring?
winter brings Damon, Winter is my Spring.