Difference between revisions of "Who will believe my verse? (Michael Gray)"

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(Original text and translations)
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==Original text and translations==
 
==Original text and translations==
{{NoText}}
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{{Text|English|
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Who will believe my verse in time to come,
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If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
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Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb
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Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.
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If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
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And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
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The age to come would say "This poet lies;
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Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces."
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So should my papers, yellow'd with their age,
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Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue,
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And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
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And stretched meter of an antic song:
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  But were some some child of yours alive at that time,
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  You should live twice, --in it, and in my rhyme.
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''-Wm. Shakespeare (Sonnet XVII)''}}
  
 
[[Category:Sheet music]]
 
[[Category:Sheet music]]
 
[[Category:Modern music]]
 
[[Category:Modern music]]

Revision as of 03:58, 5 November 2018

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  • (Posted 2018-11-05)   CPDL #51710:   
Editor: Michael Gray (submitted 2018-11-05).   Score information: Letter (landscape), 11 pages, 260 kB   Copyright: CC BY NC ND
Edition notes: Who will believe my verse by Michael A. Gray is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 4.0 International License.

General Information

Title: Who will believe my verse?
Composer: Michael Gray
Lyricist: William Shakespeare

Number of voices: 3vv   Voicing: SAB
Genre: SecularPartsong

Language: English
Instruments: Piano


Obsolete template (code commented out), replaced with {{Pub}} for works and {{PubDatePlace}} for publications. </noinclude>

Description: Part of an on-going project called "Book of Sonnets"

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

Original text and translations

English.png English text

Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say "This poet lies;
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces."
So should my papers, yellow'd with their age,
Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched meter of an antic song:
  But were some some child of yours alive at that time,
  You should live twice, --in it, and in my rhyme.

-Wm. Shakespeare (Sonnet XVII)