Wilt Thou Unkind Thus Reave Me

Off "Songs From the Labyrinth," this song was written by John Dowland.

As long as you’re being mean, you might as well plunder my heart and leave me. Did you get that or do I need to say it again?

So long. Goodbye. It would be cruel if we parted so kiss me, my multi-faceted one.

My contempt for hope is not happy. Fear loves and love fears Your matchless beauty

Adios. Sayonara. It would be painful if we parted so let’s caress with the lips, my sweet precious stone.

If I cannot convince you otherwise, life will be over for me—I’ll just die And keep on loving you even then

Adieux. Addio. It would be mean if we parted so let’s touch lips, my gem.

But remember—heat and fire will always be locked together in effect and cause or cause and effect

See ya. Ta ta. It would be creepy if we parted so let’s smooch, charming gemstone.

True love remains true love even when it seems more like a barren desert than something more delightful.

I’m out of here. I’m taking off. I don’t like parting, so why not osculate, engaging sparkler.

Music—when soft voices fade Vibrates in the memory I sighed for you Lingering like an unloved guest And noon—lay heavy on flower and tree When I arose and saw the dawn I sighed for you

The sweet child. Sleep—the filmy eyed Murmured like a noontime bee Lost echo—sits amid the vociferous mountains Afar, the melancholy thunder moaned Pale ocean, in unquiet slumber lay And the wild winds flew around Sobbing their dismay

She rose like an autumnal night that springs Out of her secret paradise, she sped As silent lightning leaves the starless night And all of the dreams watched her eyes And all of the echoes sang their sister’s song Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought With veiled eyes And listening echoes In her paradise She sat while one with soft enamored breath Rekindled all the fading memories

My spirit’s sister The lone nightingale Grief had made the young spring wild And she threw down her love As if she were autumn

Percy Bysshe Shelley [paraphrased]

Throughout [Songs From the Labyrinth], extracts from Dowland's fearful letter to Sir Robert Cecil are read by Sting in a guarded, conspiratory whisper, and give an insight into Dowland's mindset while he was away in Europe. They show a man wounded at not getting the job he desired and being surprisingly frank in saying that he felt this was because of his religion. But the deferential tone of the letter is such that you are left in doubt that this was an age when careless talk to the wrong person could have fatal consequences.

[sting.com]