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James Oswald
(1710 - 1769)
If the sweet name
(S./T.Vn.Continuo)
Score, part(s) and cover page (PDF), €0.00 for bundled copies Download this item(1710 - 1769)
If the sweet name
(S./T.Vn.Continuo)
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Published in "The Musical Magazine", London c.1760.
Lyrics: Anon
If the sweet name of love my fair Iris affright,
I'll pretend 'tis in friendship I dote on her sight;
But the friendship so warm and so tender will prove,
That my Iris may one day mistake it for love.
When I gaze on her eyes, or am charm'd with her hair,
I'll say 'tis with pride that my friend is so fair;
But the pride with such transports my bosom will move,
That my Iris may fancy it flutters with love.
When charm'd with her wit I repeat the gay jest,
I'll swear I applaud it because 'tis the best;
But the warmth of my praise she may chance to reprove,
And say 'tis to show she deserves I should love.
When I dote on her hand as it strikes the guittar,
I'll swear 'tis the music that transports me so far;
But alas! my fix'd eyes, she may tell me, had strove
To show I would hide my distraction and love.
When I stand in amaze, her whole form to behold,
And laugh at the Venus they figur'd of old,
I'll say 'tis all wonder her dread to remove,
But my Iris may fancy at last it is love.
O fairer than Venus, thy fears overcome;
While, scar'd like thyself, I stand waiting my doom.
From that delicate terror some little abate;
For, rather than fright thee, I'll swear 'tis all hate.
If the sweet name of love my fair Iris affright,
I'll pretend 'tis in friendship I dote on her sight;
But the friendship so warm and so tender will prove,
That my Iris may one day mistake it for love.
When I gaze on her eyes, or am charm'd with her hair,
I'll say 'tis with pride that my friend is so fair;
But the pride with such transports my bosom will move,
That my Iris may fancy it flutters with love.
When charm'd with her wit I repeat the gay jest,
I'll swear I applaud it because 'tis the best;
But the warmth of my praise she may chance to reprove,
And say 'tis to show she deserves I should love.
When I dote on her hand as it strikes the guittar,
I'll swear 'tis the music that transports me so far;
But alas! my fix'd eyes, she may tell me, had strove
To show I would hide my distraction and love.
When I stand in amaze, her whole form to behold,
And laugh at the Venus they figur'd of old,
I'll say 'tis all wonder her dread to remove,
But my Iris may fancy at last it is love.
O fairer than Venus, thy fears overcome;
While, scar'd like thyself, I stand waiting my doom.
From that delicate terror some little abate;
For, rather than fright thee, I'll swear 'tis all hate.