What is our life? (Orlando Gibbons): Difference between revisions

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{{Composer|Orlando Gibbons}}
{{Composer|Orlando Gibbons}}


'''Number of voices:''' 5vv&nbsp;&nbsp;'''Voicing:''' SAATB<br>
'''Number of voices:''' 5vv &nbsp; '''Voicing:''' SAATB<br>
{{Genre|Secular|Madrigals}}
{{Genre|Secular|Madrigals}}
{{Language|English}}
{{Language|English}}

Revision as of 05:54, 6 February 2012

Music files

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Editor: Brian Russell (submitted 2006-02-28).   Score information: A4, 8 pages, 73 kB   Copyright: GnuGPL
Edition notes: Nwc.png
  • CPDL #10242:  Network.png
Editor: Vince M. Brennan (submitted 2005-11-26).   Score information: Letter, 1 page, 114 kB   Copyright: Personal
Edition notes: Copyright (c) 2004 by V. M. Brennan.
  • CPDL #06752:  Network.png
Editor: John D. Smith (submitted 2004-02-20).   Score information: A4, 7 pages   Copyright: Personal
Edition notes: Scores listed alphabetically by composer. All scores available in Scorch format, some are also available as PDF files.
  • CPDL #00148:  Icon_pdf.gif
Editor: Gordon J. Callon (submitted 1999-03-15).   Score information: Letter, 12 pages, 652 kB   Copyright: CPDL
Edition notes:

General Information

Title: What is our life?
Composer: Orlando Gibbons

Number of voices: 5vv   Voicing: SAATB
Genre: SecularMadrigal

Language: English
Instruments: a cappella
Published:

Description: This five-part madrigal is Orlando Gibbons's setting of Sir Walter Raleigh's sonnet of the same title, a somber lament written while awaiting execution in the Tower of London. The resulting posthumous collaboration, a concise musical statement of great intensity and concentration, is one of the masterpieces of the English madrigal repertoire.

External websites:

Original text and translations

English.png English text

What is our life, our life? A play of passion.
Our mirth the music of division.
Our mother's wombs the 'tiring houses be,
where we are dress'd for this short comedy.
Heav'n the judicious sharp spectator is,
that sits and marks still who doth act amiss.
Our graves, that hide us from the searching sun
are like drawn curtains when the play is done.
Thus march we, playing to our latest rest;
Only we die in earnest, that's no jest.