Stay Till the Rosy Morn

English Restoration baroque cantata, Purcellian dramatic scena, falsetto male singer countertenor clear diction restrained vibrato, theatrical recitative and aria structure, expressive English declamation, ground bass lament technique, descending tetrachord bass, thorow-bass continuo foundation, harpsichord continuo realization, theorbo and lute continuo color, viola da gamba bass reinforcement, chamber violins and viol consort texture, oboe obbligato sighing woodwind figures, sparse organ pedal gravity, prepared suspensions expressive dissonance, rhetorical word-painting, melismatic lament gestures, rising heroic intervals for declamation, intimate candlelit chamber acoustics, small ensemble historically informed performance, natural room resonance, dramatic recitative pacing, lament aria repeating bass cycle, Restoration theatre emotional rhetoric, Picardy-third major resolution, late-17th-century harmonic language, modal minor with emerging tonal cadence, ‑italianate diction, ‑italian operatic pronunciation, ‑rolled r consonants, ‑trilled r consonants, ‑modern orchestral strings, ‑romantic swells, ‑cinematic climax arcs, ‑film-score dynamics, ‑Hollywood orchestration, ‑large symphonic ensemble, ‑modern violin vibrato, ‑bel canto vibrato, ‑operatic grand voice production, ‑romantic harmonic language, ‑nineteenth-century functional tonality, ‑chromatic Wagnerian harmony, ‑lush legato string pads, ‑brass fanfare texture, ‑trumpet or trombone solos, ‑percussion sections, ‑timpani rolls, ‑drum kit, ‑snare drums, ‑electronic synthesis, ‑synthesizers, ‑ambient pads, ‑sub-bass drones, ‑cinematic sub-bass, ‑EDM elements, ‑pop production, ‑rock instrumentation, ‑electric guitars, ‑distorted guitars, ‑bass guitar, ‑verse-chorus pop structure, ‑modern singer-songwriter phrasing, ‑contemporary musical theatre style, ‑dense Franco-Flemish equal polyphony, ‑renaissance madrigal full SATB texture, ‑large choral mass writing, ‑cinematic reverberation, ‑stadium acoustics

’Tis three of the clock again this night.
The whirling vane above me turns and turns,
As though it knew some counsel I know not.

Upon the bed’s cold edge I sit alone,
A livid gleam attends my restless hand,
Whilst others’ fortunes pass before mine eyes,
Who seem to have out-walk’d the storms of life.

My breast is bound as though with borrowed breath,
As if this life were not by right my own.
Each thought returns with sharpen’d whisper’d edge,
And bids me hence, and bids me quit the stage.

O weary strife within my troubled breast,
How long must I contend with mine own mind?
I faint beneath the weight of inward war,
And fear myself the author of this grief.

I would not die...
Yet cannot bear this wound of heart.
I would not languish in the shade,
But crave to know I yet have part.

If through this night I still endure,
If through the inward storm I stand,
Perchance the sun shall rise once more,
And life remain within my hand.

Before the glass I meet a stranger’s gaze,
These swollen eyes confess the watchful hours.
The hopes that once did warm my youthful breast
Now wander lost like pilgrims misled.

A voice within persuades a gentler end,
As though such silence were an act of grace.
Yet well I know this counsel speaks in fraud,
A storm that dares to wear a false vizard.

I am not frail for dissolving into tears,
Nor wrong for feeling drown’d in sorrow’s tide.
Yet near the brink I feel the pulling dark,
That would persuade my steps to wander there.

This is not writ to mark my final breath!
No stone shall bear the measure of mine end!
I am no tale, nor warning to the world!

Thou treacherous voice that haunts my secret thought,
Thou shalt not claim an empire o’er my soul!

One moment more.
One breath remain’d.
One step retrac’d
From death’s cold hand.

Perhaps I ask not endless years,
But only strength to pass this night.
Perhaps I seek not all the truth,
But only courage for the fight.

If I may reach the Rosy Morn,
If dawn should grant its gentle grace,
Then may it prove this hour of dread
Was not my end, but trial’s place.

I would not die...
But live to see this anguish cease.
If yet I stand another hour,
Hope may return and grant me peace.

If through the dark I still remain,
If one kind eye should look on me,
Then reason yet may find her voice,
And set my struggling spirit free.

’Tis three of the clock still.

Yet see...
The eastern sky grows pale with light.

[Purcellian-era lyrics by Noizgenie based on Stray Cat's original lyrics.]
[Remix by Noizgenie of original by Stray Cat.]
[Cover Art Direction by Noizgenie in homage to Stray Cat original.]

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’Tis three of the clock again this night. The whirling vane above me turns and turns, As though it knew some counsel I know not. Upon the bed’s cold edge I sit alone, A livid gleam attends my restless hand, Whilst others’ fortunes pass before mine eyes, Who seem to have out-walk’d the storms of life. My breast is bound as though with borrowed breath, As if this life were not by right my own. Each thought returns with sharpen’d whisper’d edge, And bids me hence, and bids me quit the stage. O weary strife within my troubled breast, How long must I contend with mine own mind? I faint beneath the weight of inward war, And fear myself the author of this grief. I would not die... Yet cannot bear this wound of heart. I would not languish in the shade, But crave to know I yet have part. If through this night I still endure, If through the inward storm I stand, Perchance the sun shall rise once more, And life remain within my hand. Before the glass I meet a stranger’s gaze, These swollen eyes confess the watchful hours. The hopes that once did warm my youthful breast Now wander lost like pilgrims misled. A voice within persuades a gentler end, As though such silence were an act of grace. Yet well I know this counsel speaks in fraud, A storm that dares to wear a false vizard. I am not frail for dissolving into tears, Nor wrong for feeling drown’d in sorrow’s tide. Yet near the brink I feel the pulling dark, That would persuade my steps to wander there. This is not writ to mark my final breath! No stone shall bear the measure of mine end! I am no tale, nor warning to the world! Thou treacherous voice that haunts my secret thought, Thou shalt not claim an empire o’er my soul! One moment more. One breath remain’d. One step retrac’d From death’s cold hand. Perhaps I ask not endless years, But only strength to pass this night. Perhaps I seek not all the truth, But only courage for the fight. If I may reach the Rosy Morn, If dawn should grant its gentle grace, Then may it prove this hour of dread Was not my end, but trial’s place. I would not die... But live to see this anguish cease. If yet I stand another hour, Hope may return and grant me peace. If through the dark I still remain, If one kind eye should look on me, Then reason yet may find her voice, And set my struggling spirit free. ’Tis three of the clock still. Yet see... The eastern sky grows pale with light. [Purcellian-era lyrics by Noizgenie based on Stray Cat's original lyrics.] [Remix by Noizgenie of original by Stray Cat.] [Cover Art Direction by Noizgenie in homage to Stray Cat original.]

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