Phoebe (Charles Villiers Stanford): Difference between revisions

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==Music files==
==Music files==
{{Legend}}
{{#Legend:}}
 
*{{PostedDate|2008-01-24}} {{CPDLno|15829}} [[Media:StanfordPhoebeSat.pdf|{{pdf}}]]
*{{CPDLno|15829}} [http://dovetonmusic.com/Cat_Glees_&_Partsongs.html {{net}}]
{{Editor|Robin Doveton|2008-01-24}}{{ScoreInfo|A4|5|203}}{{Copy|CPDL}}
{{Editor|Robin Doveton|2008-01-24}}{{ScoreInfo|A4|5|203}}{{Copy|CPDL}}
:'''Edition notes:'''
:{{EdNotes|}}


==General Information==
==General Information==
'''Title:''' ''Phoebe''<br>
{{Title|''Phoebe''}}
{{Composer|Charles Villiers Stanford}}
{{Composer|Charles Villiers Stanford}}


{{Voicing|4|SATB}}<br>
{{Voicing|4|SATB}}
{{Genre|Secular|Partsongs}}
{{Genre|Secular|Partsongs}}
{{Language|English}}
{{Language|English}}
{{Instruments|A cappella}}
{{Instruments|A cappella}}
{{Published|}} August, 1892
{{Pub|1|August, 1892}}
 
{{Descr| }}
'''Description:'''
{{#ExtWeb:}}
 
'''External websites:'''
 
==Original text and translations==
==Original text and translations==
{{Text|English|
{{Text|English|

Revision as of 03:02, 28 July 2021

Music files

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  • (Posted 2008-01-24)  CPDL #15829:   
Editor: Robin Doveton (submitted 2008-01-24).   Score information: A4, 5 pages, 203 kB   Copyright: CPDL
Edition notes:

General Information

Title: Phoebe
Composer: Charles Villiers Stanford

Number of voices: 4vv   Voicing: SATB
Genre: SecularPartsong

Language: English
Instruments: A cappella

First published: August, 1892
Description: 

External websites:

Original text and translations

English.png English text

Phoebe sat
Sweet she sat,
Sweet sat Phoebe when I saw her,
White her brow,
Coy her eye:
Brow and eye how much you please me?

Words I spent,
Sighs I sent,
Sighs and words could never draw her.
Oh my love
Thou art lost,
Since no sight could ever ease thee.

Phoebe sat
By a fount;
Sitting by a fount I spied her:
Sweet her touch,
Rare her voice;
Touch and voice what may distain you?

As she sung,
I did sigh,
And by sighs whilst that I tried her,
Oh mine eyes
You did lose
Her first sight whose want did pain you.

Phoebe's flocks
White as wool,
Yet were Phoebe's locks more whiter.
Phoebe's eyes,
Dove-like mild,
Dove-like eyes both mild and cruel.

Montan swears,
In your lamps
He will die for to delight her.
Phoebe yield,
Or I die;
Shall true hearts be fancy's fuel?