To me, fair friend, you never can be old (Michael Gray): Difference between revisions

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==Original text and translations==
==Original text and translations==
{{NoText}}
{{Text|English|
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)''}}


[[Category:Sheet music]]
[[Category:Sheet music]]
[[Category:Modern music]]
[[Category:Modern music]]

Revision as of 23:23, 9 December 2018

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  • (Posted 2018-12-09)  CPDL #52570:   
Editor: Michael Gray (submitted 2018-12-09).   Score information: Letter (landscape), 8 pages, 258 kB   Copyright: CC BY NC ND
Edition notes: Part of a collection in progress, "Book of Sonnets"

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: SecularPartsong

Language: English
Instruments: Piano

{{Published}} is obsolete (code commented out), replaced with {{Pub}} for works and {{PubDatePlace}} for publications.

Description:

External websites: http://www.graymichael.com

Original text and translations

English.png 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)