Henry Purcell
How blest are shepherds
How blest are shepherds, How happy their lasses While drums and trumpets are sound alarms.
I attempt from love’s sickness to fly
I attempt from love’s sickness to fly in vain, Since I am myself my own fever and pain.
The Queen’s Epicedium (Elegy on the death of Queen Mary, 1695)
Incassum Lesbia, incassum rogas
In the black dismal dungeon of despair
In the black dismal dungeon of despair, Pined with tormenting care, Wrack’d with my fears, Drown’d in my tears, With dreadful expectation of my doom And certain horrid judgement soon to come: Lord, here I lie …
A Morning Hymn
Thou wakeful Shepherd, that does Israel keep, Raised by thy goodness from the bed of sleep, To thee I offer up this Hymn …
Evening Hymn
Now that the sun hath veil’d his light, And bid the world goodnight, To the soft bed my body I dispose, But where shall my soul repose? Dear God, even in thy arms.