To me, fair friend, you never can be old (Michael Gray): Difference between revisions
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*{{PostedDate|2018-12-09}} {{CPDLno|52570}} [[Media:BoS_104_To_Me_SABpn_Final.pdf|{{pdf}}]] | *{{PostedDate|2018-12-09}} {{CPDLno|52570}} [[Media:BoS_104_To_Me_SABpn_Final.pdf|{{pdf}}]] | ||
{{Editor|Michael Gray|2018-12-09}}{{ScoreInfo|Letter (landscape)|8|258}}{{Copy|Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial No Derivatives}} | {{Editor|Michael Gray|2018-12-09}}{{ScoreInfo|Letter (landscape)|8|258}}{{Copy|Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial No Derivatives}} | ||
==General Information== | ==General Information== | ||
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{{Language|English}} | {{Language|English}} | ||
{{Instruments|Piano}} | {{Instruments|Piano}} | ||
{{ | {{Pub|1|2018}} | ||
'''Description:''' | '''Description:''' Part of a collection in progress, "Book of Sonnets" | ||
'''External websites:''' http://www.graymichael.com | '''External websites:''' http://www.graymichael.com |
Revision as of 11:37, 17 October 2019
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- Editor: Michael Gray (submitted 2018-12-09). Score information: Letter (landscape), 8 pages, 258 kB Copyright: CC BY NC ND
General Information
Title: To me, fair friend, you never can be old
Composer: Michael Gray
Lyricist: William Shakespeare
Number of voices: 3vv Voicing: SAB
Genre: Secular, Partsong
Language: English
Instruments: Piano
First published: 2018
Description: Part of a collection in progress, "Book of Sonnets"
External websites: http://www.graymichael.com
Original text and translations
English text
To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I ey'd,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
Have from the forests shook three summer's pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow Autumn turn'd
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
Ah! Yet doth beauty like a dial-hand,
Steal from his figure and no pace preceiv'd;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand
Hath motion and my eye may be deceiv'd:
For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred:
Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.
William Shakespeare (Sonnet CIV)