Click here for the texts for Handel's Alexander's Feast.
9
Can she excuse my wrongs with virtue's cloak?
shall I call her good when she proves unkind?
Are those clear fires which vanish into smoke?
must I praise the leaves where no fruit I find?
No, no: where shadows do for bodies stand,
thou may'st be abused if thy sight be dim.
Cold love is like to words written on sand,
or to bubbles which on the water swim.
Wilt thou be thus abused still,
seeing that she will right thee never?
if thou canst not overcome her will,
thy love will be thus fruitless ever.
Was I so base, that I might not aspire
unto those high joys which she holds from me?
As they are high, so high is my desire:
if she this deny what can granted be?
If she will yield to that which reason is,
it is reasons will that love should be just.
Dear make me happy still by granting this,
or cut off delays if that I die must.
Better a thousand times to die,
then for to live thus still tormented:
Dear but remember it was I
Who for thy sake did die contented.
11
Of all the birds that I do know,
Philip my sparrow hath no peer.
For sit she high, or sit she low,
be she far off, or be she near,
there is no bird so fair, so fine,
nor yet so fresh as this of mine;
For when she once hath felt the fit,
Philip will cry still:
yet, yet, yet, yet, yet, yet, yet,
yet, yet, yet, yet, yet, yet, yet.
She never wanders far abroad,
but is at home when I do call;
if I command she lays on low
with lips, with teeth, with tongue and all.
She chants, she chirps, she makes such cheer,
that I believe she hath no peer.
For when she once…
And to tell truth he were to blame,
having so fine a bird as she,
to make him all this goodly game,
without suspect or jealousy,
He were a churl, and knew no good,
would see her faint for lack of food.
13
If my complaints could passions move,
Or make Love see wherein I suffer wrong:
My passions were enough to prove,
That my despairs had govern'd me too long.
O Love, I live and die in thee,
Thy grief in my deep sighs still speaks:
Thy wounds do freshly bleed in me,
My heart for thy unkindness breaks:
Yet thou dost hope when I despair,
And when I hope, thou mak'st me hope in vain.
Thou say'st thou canst my harms repair,
Yet for redress, thou let'st me still complain.
Can Love be rich, and yet I want?
Is Love my judge, and yet am I condemn'd?
Thou plenty hast, yet me dost scant:
Thou made a God, and yet thy power contemn'd.
That I do live, it is thy power:
That I desire it is thy worth:
If Love doth make men's lives too sour,
Let me not love, nor live henceforth.
Die shall my hopes, but not my faith,
That you that of my fall shall hearers be
May here despair, which truly saith,
I was more true to Love than Love to me.
15
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.
17
Pour down, pour down you powers divine
on her poor wretch and silly made some hope
some hope, some hap of him to have a heavy heart to aid.
Pandolpho, Pandolpho, some pity Pandolpho, some pity Pandolpho!
Frame else with fiery fiends to force on me your furious fates,
Unless my hurled heart hath help my hopes are but my hates.
Pandolpho, Pandolpho…
Thus restless will I rest in ruth respecting what remaines,
if pitiless then plesureless, if pitiful no pain.
Pandolpho, Pandolpho…
No grief, no grief is like to mine, which naught but death can 'suage.
My help is hurt; my weal is woe; my rest is ruthless rage.
My comfort is my care; my safety shipwreck is.
My med'cine is my misery, and bale is all my bliss.
My med'cine is my misery, and bale is all my bliss.
Farewell, farewell, my friendly foe! Pandolpho, Pandolpho proud, farewell!
Farewell the causer of my woe!
I love, and loathe to live, I live and long to die.
Come death, come death, come death,
Dispatch her life, her life, her life, her life, she yields to die;
Come death, come death, come death,
Dispatch her life, her life, her life, her life, she doth desire to die.
19
From silent night, true register of moans,
from saddest soul consum'd with deepest sins,
from heart quite rent with sighs, with sighs and heavy groans,
my wailing Muse her woeful work begins.
And to the world brings tunes of sad despair,
sounding nought else but sorrow, grief and care.