The sea hath many a thousand sands (Charles Hubert Hastings Parry): Difference between revisions

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{{Title|''The sea hath many a thousand sands''}}
{{Title|''The sea hath many a thousand sands''}}
{{Composer|Charles Hubert Hastings Parry}}
{{Composer|Charles Hubert Hastings Parry}}
{{Lyricist|}}


{{Voicing|4|SATB}}<br>
{{Voicing|4|SATB}}<br>
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{{Language|English}}
{{Language|English}}
{{Instruments|A cappella (keyboard reduction ad lib.)}}
{{Instruments|A cappella (keyboard reduction ad lib.)}}
{{Pub|1|1897}}
{{Pub|1|1897|in {{NoComp|Six Lyrics from an Elizabethan Song Book|Charles Hubert Hastings Parry}}|no=5}}
 
{{Descr|}}
'''Description:''' ''Six Lyrics from an Elizabethan Song Book (1897):'' No. 5
{{#ExtWeb:}}
# ''Follow your saint'' (Thomas Campion)
# [[Love is a sickness (Charles Hubert Hastings Parry)|Love is a sickness]]
# ''Turn all thy thoughts to eyes'' (Thomas Campion)
# ''Whether men do laugh or weep'' (From an Elizabethan Song Book)
# [[The sea hath many a thousand sands (Charles Hubert Hastings Parry)|The sea hath many a thousand sands]]
# ''Tell me, O love'' (From an Elizabethan Song Book)
 
'''External websites:'''
 
==Original text and translations==
==Original text and translations==
{{Text|English|
{{Text|English|

Revision as of 00:41, 8 April 2021

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  • (Posted 2011-12-11)  CPDL #25133:        (Sibelius 6)
Editor: Ian Haslam (submitted 2011-12-11).   Score information: A4, 5 pages, 64 kB   Copyright: CPDL
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General Information

Title: The sea hath many a thousand sands
Composer: Charles Hubert Hastings Parry
Lyricist:

Number of voices: 4vv   Voicing: SATB

Genre: Secular, Partsong

Language: English
Instruments: A cappella (keyboard reduction ad lib.)

First published: 1897 in Six Lyrics from an Elizabethan Song Book, no. 5
Description: 

External websites:

Original text and translations

English.png English text

The sea hath many thousand sands,
The sun hath motes as many;
The sky is full of stars, and Love
As full of woes as any;
Believe me, that do know the elf,
And make no trial by thyself.

It is in truth a pretty toy
For babes to play withal;
But O, the honies of our youth
Are oft our age's gall:
Self-proof in time will make thee know
He was a prophet told you so.

A prophet that, Cassandra-like,
Tells truth without belief;
For head strong Youth will run his race,
Although his goal be grief,
Love's martyr, when his heat is past,
Proves Care's confessor at the last.

 

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