She never will say no

Thomas Campian (o Campion; 1567 - 1° marzo 1620): I care not for these ladies, ayre (pubblicato in A Booke of Ayres, 1601). Alfred Deller, controtenore; Desmond Dupré, liuto.

I care not for these ladies
That must be wooed and prayed:
Give me kind Amaryllis,
The wanton country maid.
Nature art disdaineth,
Her beauty is her own.
Her when we court and kiss,
She cries, “Forsooth, let go!”
But when we come where comfort is,
She never will say no.

If I love Amaryllis,
She gives me fruit and flowers:
But if we love these ladies,
We must give golden showers.
Give them gold, that sell love,
Give me the nut-brown lass,
Who, when we court and kiss,
She cries, “Forsooth, let go!”
But when we come where comfort is,
She never will say no.

These ladies must have pillows,
And beds by strangers wrought;
Give me a bower of willows,
Of moss and leaves unbought,
And fresh Amaryllis,
With milk and honey fed;
Who, when we court and kiss,
She cries, “Forsooth, let go!”
But when we come where comfort is,
She never will say no.


Campian - I care not

Woefully arrayed

William Cornysh jr (1465 - 1523): Woefully arrayed, carol a 4 voci su testo attribuito a John Skelton (1460 - 1529). Stile Antico.

Woefully arrayed, my blood, man,
for thee ran it may not be nayed; my body, blo and wan,
Woefully arrayed.
Behold me, I pray thee with all thy whole reason
and be not hard-hearted, and for this encheason,
sith I for thy soul sake was slain in good season.
Beguiled and betrayed by Judas’ false treason,
unkindly entreated
with sharp cord sore fretted,
the Jews me threated.
They mowed, they grinned, they scorned me,
condem’d to death as thou may’st see.
Woefully arrayed.

Thus naked am I nailed, O man, for thy sake.
I love thee, then love me. Why sleepst thou? Awake,
remember my tender heartroot for thee brake.
With pains my veins constrained to crake.
Thus tugged to and fro,
Thus wrapped all in woe,
whereas never man was so
entreated. Thus, in most cruel wise,
was like a lamb offer’d in sacrifice.
Woefully arrayed.

Of sharp thorn I have worn a crown on my head.
So pained, so strained, so rueful, so red.
Thus bobbed, thus robbed, thus for thy love dead;
unfeigned, not deigned my blood for to shed.
My feet and handes sore
the sturdy nailes bore,
what might I suffer more
than I have done, O man, for thee?
Come when thou list, welcome to me!
Woefully arrayed.