UK tour 2026
Summer Tour 2026
TEXTS
The silver swan, who living had no note,
When death approached, unlocked her silent throat;
Leaning her breast against the reedy shore,
Thus sung her first and last, and sung no more:
“Farewell, all joys; Oh death, come close mine eyes;
More geese than swans now live, more fools than wise.”
Author of light, revive my dying sprite;
Redeem it from the snares of all confounding night.
Lord, light me to thy blessed way:
For blind with worldly vain desires,
I wander as a stray:
Sun and moon, stars and underlights I see.
But all their glorious beams
Are mists and darkness being compared to thee.
Fountain of health, my soul’s deep wounds recure;
Sweet showers of pity rain, wash my uncleanness pure.
One drop of thy desired grace,
The faint and fading heart can raise
And in joy’s bosom place.
Sin and death, hell and tempting fiends may rage;
But God his own will guard,
And their sharp pains and grief in time assuagе.
Dainty fine bird that art encaged there,
Alas how like thine and my fortunes are.
Both prisoners be; and both singing, thus
Strive to please her that hath imprisoned us.
Only thus we differ, thou and I,
Thou livest singing, but I sing and die.
Yet if that age had frosted o’er his head,
Or if his face had furrow’d been with years,
I would not so bemoan that he is dead,
I might have been begrudging of my tears;
But O the sun new-rose is gone to bed,
And lilies in their springtime hang their head.
My mistress had a little dog whose name was Pretty Royal
Who neither hunted sheep nor hog, but was without denial
A tumbler fine, that might be seen to wait upon a fairy queen.
Upon his mistress he would wait in courteous wise and humble,
And with his craft and false deceit, when she would have him tumble,
Of coneys in the pleasant prime, he would kill twenty at a time.
The goddess which Diana hight among her beagles dainty
Had not a hound so fair and white, nor graced with such beauty;
And yet his beauty was not such, but his conditions were as rich.
But out, alas? I’ll speak no more. My heart with grief doth shake;
This pretty dog was wounded sore e’en for his mistress sake:
A beastly man or manly beast knock’d out his brains and so I rest.
A trial royal, royal a trial, a trial! O yes!
Ye hounds and beagles all, if ye sat in Appleton Hall:
Would you not judge that out of doubt Tyburn were fit for such a lout?
Trust not too much, fair youth, unto thy feature;
Be not enamoured of thy blushing hue.
Be gamesome whilst thou art a goodly creature;
The flowers will fade that in thy garden grew.
Sweet Violets are gathered in their spring,
White Primit falls withouten pitying.
Delight is dead, what now for me remains?
Delight is dead; should worldly glories give?
Delight is dead: the purchase of my pains;
Delight is dead: and I alas, do live
A life in strife that dies ten times a day,
And yet no whit such dying dare bewray.
Lift up, my lute, thy sacred silver sound;|
Ring out her knell, for my delight is dead.
One silly frown it was that gave the wound,
With pen perverse, whereby her bane was bred.
Ring out, ring out: cease passing bell to toll:
Bereft hath left to me a mourning soul.
Farewell all joys, O Hell,
Now restless cares my pillow
Sweet myrtle shades, farewell
Now come sad cypress, and forlorn, Love’s willow
She smiles, she laughs, she joys at my tormenting,
Break then, poor heart. Tossed on despair’s black billow,
O let me die lamenting.
Flow, my tears, fall from your springs!
Exiled for ever, let me mourn;
Where night’s black bird her sad infamy sings,
There let me live forlorn.
Down vain lights, shine you no more!
No nights are dark enough for those
That in despair their lost fortunes deplore.
Light doth but shame disclose.
Never may my woes be relieved,
Since pity is fled;
And tears and sighs and groans my weary days
Of all joys have deprived.
From the highest spire of contentment
My fortune is thrown;
And fear and grief and pain for my deserts
Are my hopes, since hope is gone.
Hark! you shadows that in darkness dwell,
Learn to contemn light.
Happy, happy they that in hell
Feel not the world’s despite.
Ye sacred Muses, race of Jove,
whom Music’s lore delighteth,
Come down from crystal heav’ns above
to earth where sorrow dwelleth,
In mourning weeds, with tears in eyes:
Tallis is dead, and Music dies.
What is our life? A play of passion.
Our mirth the music of division.
Our mothers wombs the tyring houses be,
where we are dressed for this short comedy.
Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is,
that sits and marks still who doth act amiss.
Our graves, that hide us from the searching sun
are like drawn curtains when the play is done.
Thus march we, playing to our latest rest;
Only we die in earnest, that’s no jest.
Weep, weep, mine eyes, my heart can take no rest.
Weep, weep, my heart, mine eyes shall ne’er be blest.
Weep eyes, weep heart, and both this accent cry:
A thousand deaths I die, Flaminia.
Ay me, ah cruel Fortune! Ay me!
Now, Leander, to die I fear not.
Death, do thy worst, I care not!
I hope when I am dead in Elysian plain
To meet, and there with joy we’ll love again.
Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore.
Never tired pilgrim’s limbs affected slumber more,
Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast:
O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest.
Ever blooming are the joys of Heaven’s high Paradise.
Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims our eyes:
Glory there the sun outshines whose beams the blessed only see:
O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to thee!
Sofia Pedro 