Love, love (Robert Jones): Difference between revisions

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==Music files==
==Music files==
{{Legend}}
{{#Legend:}}


*{{CPDLno|11336}} [[Media:LoveLove.pdf|{{pdf}}]] [[Media:LoveLove.mid|{{mid}}]]
*{{CPDLno|11336}} [[Media:LoveLove.pdf|{{pdf}}]] [[Media:LoveLove.mid|{{mid}}]]

Revision as of 22:47, 24 February 2017

Music files

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  • CPDL #11336:     
Editor: Rob Durk (submitted 2006-03-27).   Score information: A4, 2 pages, 67 kB   Copyright: CPDL
Edition notes: Original note values and barring. Lute part in modern score notation, but otherwise unchanged. Spelling modernised.

General Information

Title: Love, love
Composer: Robert Jones

Number of voices: 1v   Voicing: Soprano solo

Genre: SecularMadrigal

Language: English
Instruments: Lute, bass viol

{{Published}} is obsolete (code commented out), replaced with {{Pub}} for works and {{PubDatePlace}} for publications.

Description: The lute parts of A Musicall Dreame and The Muses Gardin for Delights are, in places, crude and dissonant. It has been suggested that, in these cases, Jones is only responsible for the melody and bass lines, but there is little external evidence to support this.

External websites: Texts of five of Jones' publications, including 'The Muses Gardin for Delights', with some midi files (copyright)

Original text and translations

English.png English text

Original spelling, modern orthography

1. Loue Is a prettie Frencie,
a melancholy fire,
begot by lookes, maintain'd with hopes,
and hey th'end, by desire.

2. Love is a pretie Tyrant,
By our affections armed,
Take them away, none lives this day,
The Coward boy hath harmed.

3. Love is a pretie Idole,
Opinion did devise him,
His votaries is slouth and lies,
The Robes that doe disguise him.

4. Love is a pretie Painter,
And counterfeiteth passion,
His shadow'd lies, makes fancies rise,
To set beliefe in fashion.

5. Love is a pretie Pedlar,
Whose Packe is fraught with sorrowes,
With doubts with fears, with sighs with teares,
Some joyes, but those he borrowes.

6. Love is a pretie nothing,
Yet what a quoile it keepes,
With thousand eyes of jealousies,
Yet no one ever sleepes.