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

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==Music files==
==Music files==
{{#Legend:}}
{{#Legend:}}
*{{CPDLno|18308}} [[Media:HarkeHarke.pdf|{{pdf}}]] [[Media:HarkeHarke.mid|{{mid}}]] [[Media:HarkeHarke.ly|{{ly}}]]
*{{CPDLno|18308}} [[Media:HarkeHarke.pdf|{{pdf}}]] [[Media:HarkeHarke.mid|{{mid}}]] [[Media:HarkeHarke.ly|{{ly}}]]
{{Editor|Andreas Stenberg|2008-11-18}}{{ScoreInfo|A4|5|245}}{{Copy|CPDL}}
{{Editor|Andreas Stenberg|2008-11-18}}{{ScoreInfo|A4|5|245}}{{Copy|CPDL}}
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{{Language|English}}
{{Language|English}}
{{Instruments| three part singing with Lute}}
{{Instruments| three part singing with Lute}}
{{Published|1609}}
{{Pub|1|1609|in ''{{NoCo|A Musicall Dreame}}''|no=5}}


'''Description:''' Lute song from A Musicall Dreame or the fourt booke of Ayres
'''Description:''' Lute song from A Musicall Dreame or the fourt booke of Ayres


'''External websites:'''  
'''External websites:'''


==Original text and translations==
==Original text and translations==

Revision as of 20:49, 23 October 2019

Music files

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  • CPDL #18308:       
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: SecularLute 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.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.