O dive custos auriacae domus
Et spes labantis certior imperi;
O rebus adversis vocande,
O superum decus in secundis!
Seu te fluentem pronus ad Isida
In vota fervens Oxonidum chorus,
Seu te precantur, quos remoti
Unda lavat properata Cami,
Descende caelo non ita creditas
Visurus aedes praesidiis tuis,
Descende visurus penates
Caesaris, et penetrale sacrum.
Maria musis flebilis occidit,
Maria, gentis deliciae brevis;
O flete Mariam! flete, Camoenae!
O flete, Divae, dea moriente.
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O God, guardian of the House of Orange,
and surer hope of fleeting power,
O you who should be invoked in adversity,
O divine ornament in prosperity –
whether the eager choir of Oxford
by the river Isis calls
on you in prayer of they who are washed
by the swift stream of the distant Cam –
come down from heaven to visit with your help
the palace not thus entrusted,
come down and visit the chapel of our Monarch
and the sacred chamber.
Mary is dying, lamented by the Muses,
short-lived darling of her people,
O weep for Mary, O weep you Muses,
O weep you Goddesses,
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Henry Parker, trans. Oliver Taplin
I attempt from Love’s sickness
I attempt from love's sickness to fly in vain,
Since I am myself my own fever and pain.
No more now, fond heart, with pride no more swell;
Thou canst not raise forces enough to rebel.
I attempt from love's sickness to fly in vain,
Since I am myself my own fever and pain.
For love has more power and less mercy than fate,
To make us seek ruin and love those that hate.
I attempt from love's sickness to fly in vain,
Since I am myself my own fever and pain
From The Indian Queen, John Dryden and Sir Robert Howard
O Solitude
solitude, my sweetest choice:
Places devoted to the night,
Remote from tumult and from noise,
How ye my restless thoughts delight!
O solitude, my sweetest choice.
O heav'ns, what content is mine
To see these trees, which have appear'd
From the nativity of time,
And which all ages have rever'd,
To look today as fresh and green
As when their beauties first were seen.
O, how agreeable a sight
These hanging mountains do appear,
Which th' unhappy would invite
To finish all their sorrows here,
When their hard fate makes them endure
Such woes as only death can cure.
O, how I solitude adore!
That element of noblest wit,
Where I have learnt Apollo's lore,
Without the pains to study it.
For thy sake I in love am grown
With what thy fancy does pursue;
But when I think upon my own,
I hate it for that reason too,
Because it needs must hinder me
From seeing and from serving thee.
O solitude, O how I solitude adore!
Antoine Girard de Saint Amant, trans. Katherine Philips
Man is for the Woman Made
Man is for the woman made,
And the woman made for man;
As the spur is for the jade,
As the scabbard for the blade,
As for digging is the spade,
As for liquor is the can,
So man is for the woman made,
And the woman made for man.
As the scepter to be sway'd,
As for night's the serenade,
As for pudding is the pan,
And to cool us is the fan,
So man is for the woman made,
And the woman made for man.
Be she widow, wife or maid,
Be she wanton, be she stayed,
Be she well or ill array'd,
Whore, bawd or harridan,
Yet man is for the woman made,
And the woman made for man
From The Mock Marriage, Peter Anthony Motteux
Diologo di Ninfa e Pastore
Nymph: Bel pastor, dal cui bel guardo Spira foco ond’io tutt’ardo, M’ami tu com’io desio?
Shepherd: Sì, cor mio.
N: Dimmi quanto
S: Tanto, tanto!
N: Come che?
S: Come te, Pastorella Tutta bella.
N: Questi vezzi e questo dire Non fan pago il mio desire. Se tu m’ami, o mio bel foco, Dimmi ancor, ma fuor di gioco, Come che?
S: Come te, Pastorella Tutta bella.
N: Vie più lieto udito havrei, “T’amo al par de gl’occhi miei”.
S: Come rei del mio cordoglio Questi lumi amar non voglio, Di mirar non sazi ancora La beltà che sì m’accora.
N: Come che?
S: Come te, Pastorella Tutta bella.
N: Fa’ sentirmi altre parole, Se pur vuoi ch’io mi console. M’ami tu come la vita?
S: No, ch’afflitta e sbigottita, D’odio è degna e non d’amore, Fatta albergo di dolore Per mirar due vaghe Per due luci, anzi due stelle, Troppo crude e troppo belle.
N: Come che?
S: Come te, Pastorella Tutta bella.
N: Non mi dir più, “Come te”. Dimmi, “Io t’amo come me”.
S: No, ch’io stesso odio me stesso.
N: Deh, se m’ami, dimmi espresso
S: Sì, cor mio.
N: Com’io desio?
S: Sì, cor mio.
N: Dimmi quanto.
S: Tanto, tanto!
N: Quanto, quanto!
S: O, tanto, tanto!
N: Come che?
S: Come te, Pastorella Tutta bella
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Nymph: Handsome Shepherd, from whose fine eyes Bursts forth flame in which I burn,
Do you love me as I desire?
Shepherd: Yes, my beloved.
N: Tell me how much.
S: So much, so much!
N: How do you love me?
S: As yourself, My S girl So beautiful.
N: These wiles and these words Do not satisfy my desire. If you love me, oh my fine fire, Tell me again, but without mockery, How do you love me?
S: As yourself, My Shepherd girl So beautiful.
N: Much more happily would I have heard “I love you as much as I do my own eyes.”
S: Since they are the cause of my suffering, I cannot love these eyes of mine, Which are still not satisfied with gazing On that beauty which so wounds my heart.
N: How do you love me?
S: As yourself, My Shepherd girl so beautiful.
N: Let me hear other words, If you really want me to be consoled. Do you love me as you do your life?
S: No, for stricken and bewildered, it merits hatred and not love. It has become the haunt of sorrow Through gazing at two lovely Because of two bright eyes, or rather two stars, too cruel and too beautiful.
N: How do you love me?
S: As yourself, My S girl so beautiful.
N: Say no more to me, “As yourself”. Say, “I love you as much as I love myself”.
S: No, for I myself do hate myself.
N: Come, if you love me, tell me clearly
S: Yes, my beloved.
N: As I desire?
S: Yes, my beloved.
N: Tell me how much.
S: So much, so much!
N: How much, how much?
S: Oh, so much, so much!
N: How do you love me?
S: As yourself, My Shepherd girl So beautiful.
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Ottavio Rinuccini, trans. G. W. Slowey
Sweeter than Roses
Sweeter than roses, or cool evening breeze
On a warm flowery shore, was the dear kiss,
First trembling made me freeze,
Then shot like fire all o’er.
What magic has victorious love!
For all I touch or see since that dear kiss,
I hourly prove, all is love to me
From Pausanius, Anon.
If Music be the food of love
If music be the food of love,
sing on till I am fill'd with joy;
for then my list'ning soul you move
with pleasures that can never cloy,
your eyes, your mien, your tongue declare
that you are music ev'rywhere.
Pleasures invade both eye and ear,
so fierce the transports are, they wound,
and all my senses feasted are,
tho' yet the treat is only sound.
Sure I must perish by our charms,
unless you save me in your arms.
Henry Heveningham
Crown the Altar
Crown the Altar, deck the Shrine;
Behold the Bright Seraphic throng
Prepare our Harmony to join.
From Celebrate this Festival – Birthday Ode for Queen Mary, Nahum Tate
Herr, Ich hoffe darauf
Herr, ich hoffe darauf, daß du so gnädig bist,
mein Herz freuet sich, daß du so gerne hilfst.
Ich will dem Herren singen,
daß er so wohl an mir tut.
Alleluja
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Lord, my hope is in your benevolence,
my heart is pleased that you help so gladly.
I want to sing to the Lord,
that he does so well for me.
Alleluia.
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