Phoebe (Charles Villiers Stanford): Difference between revisions
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==Original text and translations== | ==Original text and translations== | ||
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<poem> | |||
Phoebe sat | |||
Sweet she sat, | |||
Sweet sat Phoebe when I saw her, | |||
White her brow, | |||
Coy her eye: | |||
Brow and eye how much you please me? | |||
Words I spent, | |||
Sighs I sent, | |||
Sighs and words could never draw her. | |||
Oh my love | |||
Thou art lost, | |||
Since no sight could ever ease thee. | |||
Phoebe sat | |||
By a fount; | |||
Sitting by a fount I spied her: | |||
Sweet her touch, | |||
Rare her voice; | |||
Touch and voice what may distain you? | |||
As she sung, | |||
I did sigh, | |||
And by sighs whilst that I tried her, | |||
Oh mine eyes | |||
You did lose | |||
Her first sight whose want did pain you. | |||
Phoebe's flocks | |||
White as wool, | |||
Yet were Phoebe's locks more whiter. | |||
Phoebe's eyes, | |||
Dove-like mild, | |||
Dove-like eyes both mild and cruel. | |||
Montan swears, | |||
In your lamps | |||
He will die for to delight her. | |||
Phoebe yield, | |||
Or I die; | |||
Shall true hearts be fancy's fuel? | |||
</poem> | |||
[[Category:Sheet music]] | [[Category:Sheet music]] | ||
[[Category:Madrigals]] | [[Category:Madrigals]] | ||
[[Category:Early 20th century music]] | [[Category:Early 20th century music]] |
Revision as of 15:32, 7 April 2009
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CPDL #15829:
- Editor: Robin Doveton (submitted 2008-01-24). Score information: A4, 5 pages, 203 kbytes Copyright: CPDL
- Edition notes:
General Information
Title: Phoebe
Composer: Charles Villiers Stanford
Number of voices: 4vv Voicing: SATB
Genre: Secular, Madrigal
Language: English
Instruments: a cappella
Published: August, 1892
Description:
External websites:
Original text and translations
English text
Phoebe sat
Sweet she sat,
Sweet sat Phoebe when I saw her,
White her brow,
Coy her eye:
Brow and eye how much you please me?
Words I spent,
Sighs I sent,
Sighs and words could never draw her.
Oh my love
Thou art lost,
Since no sight could ever ease thee.
Phoebe sat
By a fount;
Sitting by a fount I spied her:
Sweet her touch,
Rare her voice;
Touch and voice what may distain you?
As she sung,
I did sigh,
And by sighs whilst that I tried her,
Oh mine eyes
You did lose
Her first sight whose want did pain you.
Phoebe's flocks
White as wool,
Yet were Phoebe's locks more whiter.
Phoebe's eyes,
Dove-like mild,
Dove-like eyes both mild and cruel.
Montan swears,
In your lamps
He will die for to delight her.
Phoebe yield,
Or I die;
Shall true hearts be fancy's fuel?