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

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==Original text and translations==
 
==Original text and translations==
{{NoText}}
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{{Text|English|
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To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
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For as you were when first your eye I ey'd,
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Such seems your beauty still.  Three winters cold
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Have from the forests shook three summer's pride,
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Three beauteous springs to yellow Autumn turn'd
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In process of the seasons have I seen,
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Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd
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Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
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Ah! Yet doth beauty like a dial-hand,
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Steal from his figure and no pace preceiv'd;
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So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand
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Hath motion and my eye may be deceiv'd:
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  For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred:
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  Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.
 +
 
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''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{{Published}} is obsolete (code commented out), replaced with {{Pub}} for works and {{PubDatePlace}} for publications.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)