Harke, harke wot yee wat (Robert Jones): Difference between revisions

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==Original text and translations==
==Original text and translations==
{{NoText}}
{{Text|English}}
<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: Icon_pdf.gif Icon_snd.gif 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.png 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.