You see this dog. It was but yesterday I mused forgetful of his presence here Till thought on thought drew downward tear on tear, When from the pillow where wet-cheeked I lay, A head as hairy as Faunus thrust its way Right sudden against my face, - two golden-clear Great eyes astonished mine, - a drooping ear Did flap me on either cheek to dry the spray! I started first as some Arcadian Amazed by goatly god in twilight grove, But as the bearded vision closelier ran My tears off, I knew Flush, and rose above Surprise and sadness, - thanking the true Pan Who, by low creatures, leads to heights of love.
Strange Attractors
Song Cycle by John C. Mucci
1. Flush or Faunus?  [sung text not yet checked]
Authorship:
- by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806 - 1861), "Flush or Faunus"
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]2. The Passionate Pilgrim [sung text checked 1 time]
Note: this is a multi-text setting
Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn, And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade, When Cytherea, all in love forlorn, A longing tarriance for Adonis made Under an osier growing by [a brook]1, A brook where Adon used to cool his spleen: Hot was the day; she hotter that did look For his approach, that often there had been. Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by, And stood stark naked on the brook's green brim; The sun look'd on the world with glorious eye, Yet not so wistly as the queen on him: He spying her, bounc'd in, whereas he stood: O Jove,' quoth she, 'why was I not a flood!'
Authorship:
- by Anonymous / Unidentified Author, no title, appears in The Passionate Pilgrim, no. 6, first published 1599
- sometimes misattributed to William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)
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Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- FRE French (Français) (François-Victor Hugo)
1 Mucci: "the brock"
Researcher for this page: John Mucci
[Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle; Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty; Brighter than glass, and yet, as glass is, brittle; Softer than wax, and yet, as iron, rusty: A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her, None fairer, nor none falser to deface her. Her lips to mine how often hath she joined, Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing! How many tales to please me hath she coined, Dreading my love, the loss thereof still fearing! Yet in the midst of all her pure protestings, Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were jestings.]1 She burn'd with love, as straw with fire flameth; She burn'd out love, as soon as straw outburneth; [She framed the love, and yet she foil'd the framing; She bade love last, and yet she fell a-turning. Was this a lover, or a lecher whether? Bad in the best, though excellent in neither.]1
Authorship:
- by Anonymous / Unidentified Author, no title, appears in The Passionate Pilgrim, no. 7
- sometimes misattributed to William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)
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Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- FRE French (Français) (François-Victor Hugo)
1 omitted by Mucci
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
3. The Regret of the Ranee in the Hall of the Peacocks  [sung text not yet checked]
This man has taken my Husband's life And laid my Brethren low, No sister indeed, were I, no wife, To pardon and let him go. Yet why does he look so young and slim As he weak and wounded lies? How hard for me to be harsh to him With his soft, appealing eyes. His hair is ruffled upon the stone And the slender wrists are bound, So young! and yet he has overthrown His scores on the battle ground. Would I were only a slave to-day, To whom it were right and meet To wash the stains of the War away, The dust from the weary feet. Were I but one of my serving girls To solace his pain to rest! Shake out the sand from the soft loose curls, And hold him against my breast! Have we such beauty about our Throne? Such lithe and delicate strength? Would God that I were the senseless stone To support his slender length! I hate those wounds that trouble my sight, Unknown! how I wish you lay, Alone in my silken tent to-night While I charmed the pain away. I would lay you down on the Royal bed, I would bathe your wounds with wine, And setting your feet against my head Dream you were lover of mine. My Crown is heavy upon my hair, The Jewels weigh on my breast, All I would leave, with delight, to share Your pale and passionate rest! But hands grow restless about their swords, Lips murmur below their breath, "The Queen is silent too long!" "My Lords, --Take him away to death!"
Authorship:
- by Adela Florence Nicolson (1865 - 1904), "The Regret of the Ranee in the Hall of Peacocks", appears in India's Love Lyrics [later Garden of Kama and Other Love Lyrics from India]
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]