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Don Quixote

Word count: 541

Song Cycle by Henry Purcell (1658/9 - 1695)

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3. Let the dreadful engines [ sung text checked 1 time]

Language: English

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Let the dreadful engines of eternal will,
The thunder roar and crooked lightning kill,
My rage is hot as theirs, as fatal too,
And dares as horrid  execution do.
Or let the frozen North its rancour show,
Within my breast far greater tempests grow;
Despair's more cold than all the winds can blow.

Can nothing, nothing warm me?
Yes, yes, Lucinda's eyes.
There Etna, there,
There, there Vesuvio lies,
To furnish Hell with flames
That mounting reach the skies.

Ye powers, I did but use her name,
And see how all the meteors flame;
Blue lightning flashes round the court of Sol,
And now the globe more fiercely burns
Than once at Phaeton's fall.

Ah, where are now those flow'ry groves
Where Zephyr's fragrand winds did play?
Where guarded by a troop of Loves,
The fair Lucinda sleeping lay:
There sung the nightingale and lark,
Around us all was sweet and gay;
We ne'er grew sad till it grew dark,
Nor nothing feared but short'ning day.

I glow, I glow but 'tis with hate
Why must I burn for this ingrate?
Cool, cool it then and rail,
Since nothing, nothing will prevail.

When a woman love pretends,
'Tis but till she gains her ends,
And for better and for worse
Is for marrow of the purse,
Where she jilts you o'er and o'er,
Proves a slattern or a whore,
This hour will teaze and vex,
And will cuckold ye the next,
They were all contrived in spite,
To torment us, not delight;
But to scold and scratch and bite,
And not one of them proves right,
But all, all are witches by this light.
And so I fairly bid 'em, and the world, Good Night.


Submitted by Emily Ezust [Administrator]

9. From rosy bow'rs [ sung text checked 1 time]

Language: English

Translation(s): FRE

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Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):

  • FRE French (Fran├žais) (Guy Laffaille) , "Des berceaux de roses où dort le dieu d'amour", copyright © 2010, (re)printed on this website with kind permission


From rosy bow'rs where sleeps the god of Love,
Hither, ye little waiting Cupids, fly:
Teach me in soft, melodious songs to move,
With tender passion, my heart's darling joy.
Ah! let the soul of music tune my voice,
To win dear Strephon, who my soul enjoys.

Or if more influencing
Is to be brisk and airy,
With a step and a bound,
And a frisk from the ground,
I will trip like any fairy.

As once on Ida dancing,
Were three celestial bodies,
With an air and a face,
And a shape, and a grace,
Let me charm like Beauty's goddess.

Ah! 'tis all in vain,
Death and despair must end the fatal pain,
Cold despair, disguis'd, like snow and rain,
Falls on my breast!

Bleak winds in tempests blow,
My veins all shiver and my fingers glow,
My pulse beats a dead march for lost repose,
And to a solid lump of ice, my poor fond heart is froze.

Or say, ye Pow'rs, my peace to crown,
Shall I thaw myself or drown?
Amongst the foaming billows,
Increasing all with tears I shed,
On beds of ooze and crystal pillows,
Lay down my lovesick head.
Say, say, ye Pow'rs, my peace to crown,
Shall I thaw myself or drown?

No, I'll straight run mad,
That soon my heart will warm;
When once the sense is fled,
Love has no pow'r to charm.

Wild thro' the woods I'll fly,
Robes, locks shall thus be tore;
A thousand deaths I'll die
Ere thus in vain adore.


Submitted by Virginia Knight

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