Harke, harke wot yee wat (Robert Jones): Difference between revisions
m (Text replacement - "\*\{\{CPDLno\|([0123456789]*)\}\} (.*) \{\{Editor\|(.*)\|(.*)\}\}" to "*{{PostedDate|$4}} {{CPDLno|$1}} $2 {{Editor|$3|$4}}") |
m (Text replacement - " \'\'\'Description\:\'\'\' (.*) \'\'\'External" to "{{Descr|$1}} '''External") |
||
Line 14: | Line 14: | ||
{{Instruments| three part singing with Lute}} | {{Instruments| three part singing with Lute}} | ||
{{Pub|1|1609|in ''{{NoCo|A Musicall Dreame}}''|no=5}} | {{Pub|1|1609|in ''{{NoCo|A Musicall Dreame}}''|no=5}} | ||
{{Descr|Lute song from A Musicall Dreame or the fourt booke of Ayres}} | |||
'''External websites:''' | '''External websites:''' | ||
Revision as of 01:16, 15 March 2021
Music files
ICON | SOURCE |
---|---|
Midi | |
LilyPond | |
File details | |
Help |
- Editor: Andreas Stenberg (submitted 2008-11-18). Score information: A4, 5 pages, 245 kB Copyright: CPDL
- Edition notes: A quasi diplomatic edition with original baring from first part and lute part orig mensural signs etc. Lute tabulature included
General Information
Title: Harke, harke wot yee wat
Composer: Robert Jones
Number of voices: 3vv Voicing: SAB
Genre: Secular, Lute song
Language: English
Instruments: three part singing with Lute
First published: 1609 in A Musicall Dreame, no. 5
Description: Lute song from A Musicall Dreame or the fourt booke of Ayres
External websites:
Original text and translations
English text
Harke, harke wot you what, nay faith and shall I tell
I am afraide to die a maid and so lead apes in hell.
Oh it makes me sigh and sob with inward griefe,
but if I can but get a man, heele yeeld me some reliefe.
O it is strange how nature works with me,
My body is spent and I lament my own great folly,
O it makes me sigh and powre forth flouds of teares,
Alas poore else none but thy selfe would live,
having such cares
O now I see that fortune frownes on me
By this good light I have beene ripe,
O it makes me sigh and sure it will me kill,
When I should sleepe I lie and weepe,
feeding on sorowes still.
I must confesse as maides have vertu store,
Live honest still against our wils,
more fooles weare therfore:
O it makes me sigh, yet hope doth still me good,
For if I can but get a man, with him
I spend my blood.