music news/events bio contact recordings
Eccho and Narcissus
1995
vocal quartet
duration 5'
SCORE
TEXT
Now, he to fifteene added had a yeare:
Now in his looks both boy and man appeare.
Many a love-sick Youth did him desire;
And many a Maid his beauty set on fire:
Yet, in his tender age his pride was such,
That neither youth nor Mayden might him touch.
The vocall Nymph, this lovely Boy did spy
(She could not proffer speech, nor not reply)
When busie in persuit of salvage spoyles,
He drave the Deere into his corded toyles.
Eccho was then a body, not a Voyce:
Yet then, as now, of words she wanted choyce;
But only could reiterate the close
Of every speech. . .
Narcissus seene, intending thus the chace;
She forth-with glowes, and with a noyselesse pace
His steps persues; the more she did persew,
More hot (as neerer to her fire) she grew:
And might be likened boa sulp'rous match;
Which instantly th' approached flame doth catch.
The Boy, from his companions parted, said;
Is any nigh? I, Eccho answere made.
He, round about him gazed (much appal'd)
And cry'd out, Come. She him, who called, call'd.
Then looking back; and seeing none appear'd,
Why shunst thou mee? The selfe-same voyce he heard,
Deceived by the Image of his words;
Then let us joyne, said he: no sound accords
More to her wish: her faculties combine
In deare consent; who answer'd, let us joyne!
Flattering her selfe, out of the woods she sprung;
And would about his struggling neck have hung.
Thrust back; he said, Life shall this breast forsake,
Ere thou, light Nymph, on me thy pleasure take.
On me thy pleasure take, the Nymph replyes
To that disdainefull Boy, who from her flyes.
Despis'd; the wood her sad retreat receaves;
Who covers her ashamed face with leaves;
And sculks in desert caves. Love still possest
Her soule; through griefe of her repulse, increast.
Her wretched body pines with sleeplesse care:
Her skinne contracts: her blood converts to ayre.
Nothing was left her now but voyce and bones:
The voyce remaynes, the other turne to stones.
Conceal'd in Woods, in Mountaines never found,
Yet heard in all: and all is but a Sound.
Ovid, trans. George Sandys (1578–1644)