Catherine Bott - Don Quixote - From Rosy Bowers - Henry Purcell Z. 578 No. 9 | Текст песни

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• Catherine Bott
• Don Quixote - From Rosy Bowers - Henry Purcell Z. 578 No. 9

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.