Not mine own fears (Michael Gray): Difference between revisions
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==Original text and translations== | ==Original text and translations== | ||
{{ | {{Text|English| | ||
Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul | |||
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come, | |||
Can yet the lease of my true love control, | |||
Supposed as forfeit to a confin'd doom. | |||
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd, | |||
And the sad augurs mock their own presage; | |||
Incertainties now crown themselves assur'd, | |||
And peace proclaims olives of endless age. | |||
Now with the drops of this most balmy time, | |||
My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes, | |||
Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rime, | |||
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes: | |||
And thou in this shalt find thy monument, | |||
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.}} | |||
''William Shakespeare (Sonnet CVII)'' | |||
[[Category:Sheet music]] | [[Category:Sheet music]] | ||
[[Category:Modern music]] | [[Category:Modern music]] |
Revision as of 03:13, 19 September 2017
Music files
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- Editor: Michael Gray (submitted 2017-09-19). Score information: Letter (landscape), 7 pages, 200 kB Copyright: CC BY NC ND
- Edition notes:
General Information
Title: Not mine own fears
Composer: Michael Gray
Lyricist: William Shakespeare
Number of voices: 3vv Voicing: SAB
Genre: Secular, Partsong
Language: English
Instruments: Piano
{{Published}} is obsolete (code commented out), replaced with {{Pub}} for works and {{PubDatePlace}} for publications.
Description: Part of a collection in progress, "Book of Sonnets."
External websites: http://www.graymichael.com
Original text and translations
English text
Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Supposed as forfeit to a confin'd doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd,
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assur'd,
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time,
My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,
Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rime,
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes:
And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.
William Shakespeare (Sonnet CVII)