What is our life? (Orlando Gibbons)
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- CPDL #26156: What_is_our_life.pdf What_is_our_life.mid What_is_our_life.cap
- Editor: James Gibb (submitted 2012-05-12). Score information: A4, 7 pages, 68 kB Copyright: CPDL
- Edition notes:
- Editor: Brian Russell (submitted 2006-02-28). Score information: A4, 8 pages, 73 kB Copyright: GnuGPL
- Edition notes: NoteWorthy Composer file may be viewed and printed with NoteWorthy Composer Viewer.
- Editor: Vince M. Brennan (submitted 2005-11-26). Score information: Letter, 11 pages, 114 kB Copyright: Personal
- Edition notes: Copyright (c) 2004 by V. M. Brennan.
- 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.
- 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: Secular, Madrigal
Language: English
Instruments: A cappella
{{Published}} is obsolete (code commented out), replaced with {{Pub}} for works and {{PubDatePlace}} for publications.
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 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.