The Beauty Stone
Song No. 8 - Act I
 
Songs of the Competitors
Sung by Saida, Loyse, Barbe, Isabeau, Philip, Nicholas, The Devil, and Chorus.

MIDI Icon MIDI File 5 min. 49 seconds. CD 1
Track 9

NICHOLAS.

Know ye all, both great and small,
That, by lord Philip's sweet command,
This day within our City wall
By summons we have bidden all
The fairest maidens in our land!
Then note them well, for here they stand -
Loyse, the fair, from St. Denis,
And Isabeau from far Florennes,
With Barbe who comes from Bovigny
To feast the eyes of greedy men;
And Gabrielle, the chosen maid
From that sweet city, St. Hubert,
And Colinette from Lenalède,
Who counts herself the fairest there;
With many more who fain would own
Yon budding wreath and silver zone.

PHILIP.
Peace! Let us be on, or ere the day be flown
Our budding roses shall be overblown.

NICHOLAS.
Sir, by your leave! Sweet maid, I call on thee!

LOYSE.
I am Loyse from St. Denis:
Fairest there beyond compare,
So men say.

CHORUS.
So men say!
So men say!
So men say!
So men say!

LOYSE.
Yet their praise is naught to me,
If to-day
Philip, Lord of Mirlemont, deems another maid more fair.
Thou alone canst tell me true,
Thou canst answer yea or nay,
Are mine eyes of that deep blue
The rains of April grant to May;
Shines my hair like ripened wheat;
Can it be my red lips meet
Like coral laid on ivory,
Aye, and that my little feet
Move so very daintily?
For this and more do all men say,
Men who dwell at St. Denis,
Else I might not dare to pray
That to-day, to-day,
Beauty's crown should fall on me, should fall on me.

CHORUS.
And what if it be true that her eyes are softest blue,
And her lips like winter berries shyly peeping through the snow,
That she wears a smaller shoe than some other maidens do?
Yet for all she is not fairest; therefore, prithee, let her go
let her go, let her go, let her go, let her go, let her go
So prithee let her go.

SAIDA.
Aye, let her go! We waste the sunny hours
Seeking a rose amid these wind-sown flowers.

PHILIP.
Rise, little maid, for one and one alone
Shall win the wreath of roses and wear this silver zone.

CHORUS.
Vainly on thy bended knee
Thou shalt pray
Here today
Here today
Wreaths and crowns are not for thee.
Haste away and get thee home to St. Denis,
Haste, haste, haste,
Where they count thee fair to see!

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Page created 17 June 2001