Harke, harke wot yee wat (Robert Jones): Difference between revisions
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<poem> | |||
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. | |||
</poem> | |||
[[Category:Sheet music]] | [[Category:Sheet music]] |
Revision as of 16:02, 20 March 2009
Music files
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CPDL #18308: LilyPond
- Editor: Andreas Stenberg (submitted 2008-11-18). Score information: A4, 5 pages, 245 kbytes 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
Published: 1609
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.