Harke, harke wot yee wat (Robert Jones): Difference between revisions
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*{{NewWork|2008-11-18}} '''CPDL #18308:''' [{{filepath:HarkeHarke.pdf}} {{pdf}}] [{{filepath:HarkeHarke.mid}} {{mid}}] [{{filepath:HarkeHarke.ly}} LilyPond] | *{{NewWork|2008-11-18}} '''CPDL #18308:''' [{{filepath:HarkeHarke.pdf}} {{pdf}}] [{{filepath:HarkeHarke.mid}} {{mid}}] [{{filepath:HarkeHarke.ly}} LilyPond] | ||
{{Editor|Andreas Stenberg|2008-11-18}}'''Score information: '''A4, 5 pages, 245 kbytes | {{Editor|Andreas Stenberg|2008-11-18}}'''Score information: '''A4, 5 pages, 245 kbytes {{Copy|CPDL}} | ||
:'''Edition notes:''' A quasi diplomatic edition with original baring from first part and lute part orig mensural signs etc. Lute tabulature included | :'''Edition notes:''' A quasi diplomatic edition with original baring from first part and lute part orig mensural signs etc. Lute tabulature included | ||
Revision as of 15:41, 13 November 2010
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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.