Skip directly to:Main content Main navigation

University of Virginia Library

The first set of English madrigales

to 3. 4. 5. and 6. voices. Newly composed by Thomas Bateson

Bateson, Thomas

collapse section

Songs to 3. voices

[When Oriana Walkt to take the aier]

I.

[I. Beautie is a louely sweet]

II.

[II. Loue would discharge the dutie of his hart]

III.

[III. The Nightingale, so soone as Aprill bringeth]

IIII.

[IIII. Aye mee, my mistris scorns my loue]

V.

[V. Come follow mee faire Nymphs]

VI.

[VI. Your shining eies & gowlden haire]

collapse section

Songs to 4. voices

VII.

[VII. Whether so fast, see how the kindly flow'rs]

VIII.

[VIII. Dame Venus hence to Paphos goe]

IX.

[IX. Downe from aboue falls Ioue in rayne]

X.

[X. A dew, sweet loue, a dew]

XI.

[XI. If loue be blind, how hath he then the sight]

XII.

[XII. Phillis farewell, I may no longer liue]

collapse section

Song to 5. voices

XIII.

[XIII. Those sweet delightful Lillies]

XIIII.

[XIIII. And must I needs depart then]

XV.

[XV. Sweet Gemma, when I first beheld]

XVI.

[XVI. Yet stay alway, bee chained to my heart]

XVII.

[XVII. Strange were the life, that eu'rie man would like]

XVIII.

[XVIII. Alas, alas, where is my Loue? where is my sweeting?]

XIX.

[XIX. O flie not Loue, O flie not mee]

XX.

[XX. Who prostate lies at Womens feete]

XXI.

[XXI. Sister awake close not your eies]

XXII.

[XXII. Hark, heare you not a heauenly harmony]

collapse section

Songs to 6. voices

XXIII.

[XXIII. Deare if you wish, my dying]

XXIIII.

[XXIIII. Faire Hebe, when dame Flora meets]

XXVI.

[XXVI. Thirsis, Thirsis, on his faire Phillis brest reposing]

XXVII.

[XXVII. Merely my loue & I]

XXVIII.

[XXVIII. Mvsicke some think no Musick is]

collapse section

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

[VIII. Dame Venus hence to Paphos goe]

Dame Venus hence to Paphos goe

Dame Venus hence to Paphos goe, for Mars is gon toth' field: he cannot tend sweet loues embrace, in hād with spear & shield. Dame Venus hence to Paphos goe, for Mars is gon toth' field, he cannot tend sweet loues embrace, in hand with speare & shield, The roaring Canons thunder out, such terrours as not fit: a tender Impe of your regard, which dalling still doth sit.