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Frankie

Cast: Marisa Tomei, Greg Kinnear, Brendan Gleeson, Isabelle Huppert, Vinette Robinson, Ariyon Bakare, Jérémie Renier, Sennia Nanua

trailer for Frankie, directed by Ira Sachs (2019)
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Ælla, A Tragical Interlude - Act I

SCENE I.
CELMONDE, att BRYSTOWE.
Before yonne roddie sonne has droove hys wayne
Throwe halfe hys joornie, dyghte yn gites of goulde,
Mee, happeless mee, hee wylle a wretche behoulde,
Mieselfe, and al that's myne, bounde ynn myschaunces chayne.
Ah! Birtha, whie dydde Nature frame thee fayre?
Whie art thou all thatt poyntelle canne bewreene ?
Whie art thou nott as coarse as odhers are?--
Butte thenn thie soughle woulde throwe thy vysage sheene,
Yatt shemres onn thie comelie semlykeene,
Lyche nottebrowne cloudes, whann bie the sonne made redde,
Orr scarlette, wythe waylde lynnen clothe ywreene ,
Syke would thie spryte uponn thie vysage spredde.
Thys daie brave Ælla dothe thyne honde and harte
Clayme as hys owne to be, whyche nee from hys moste parte.
And cann I lyve to see herr wythe anere?
Ytt cannotte, muste nott, naie, ytt shalle not bee.
Thys nyghte I'll putte stronge poysonn ynn the beere,
And hymm, herr, and myselfe, attenes wyll slea.
Assyst mee, Helle! lett Devylles rounde mee tende,
To slea mieself, mie love, & eke mie doughtie friende.

SCENE II.
ÆLLA, BIRTHA.
ÆLLA.
Notte, whanne the hallie prieste dyd make me knyghte,
Blessynge the weaponne, tellynge future dede,
Howe bie mie honde the prevyd Dane should blede,
Howe I schulde often bee, and often wynne, ynn fyghte;
Notte, whann I fyrste behelde thie beauteous hue,
Whyche strooke mie mynde, and rouzed mie softer soule;
Nott, whann from the barbed horse yn fyghte dyd viewe
The flying Dacians oere the wyde playne roule,
Whan all the troopes of Denmarque made grete dole,
Dydd I fele joie wyth syke reddoure as nowe,
Whan hallie preest, the lechemanne of the soule,
Dydd knytte us both ynn a caytysnede vowe:
Now hallie Ælla's selynesse ys grate;
Shap haveth nowe ymade hys woes for to emmate .
BIRTHA.
Mie lorde, and husbande, syke a joie ys myne;
Botte mayden modestie moste ne soe saie,
Albeytte thou mayest rede ytt ynn myne eyne,
Or ynn myne harte, where thou shalte be for aie;
Inne sothe, I have butte meeded oute thie faie;
For twelve tymes twelve the mone hathe bin yblente,
As manie tymes hathe vyed the Godde of daie,
And on the grasse her lemes of sylverr sente,
Sythe thou dydst cheese mee for thie swote to bee,

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poem by Thomas Chatterton
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Ælla, A Tragical Interlude - Act III

SCENE I.
BRISTOWE.
BIRTHA.
Gentle Egwina, do notte preche me joie;
I cannotte joie ynne anie thynge botte weere .
Oh! yatte aughte schulde oure selynesse destroie,
Floddynge the face wythe woe, and brynie teare!
EGWINA.
You muste, you muste endeavour for to cheere
Youre harte unto somme cherisaunied reste.
Youre loverde from the battelle wylle appere,
Ynne honnoure, and a greater love, be dreste:
Botte I wylle call the mynstrelles roundelaie;
Perchaunce the swotie sounde maie chase your wiere awaie.

MYNSTRELLES SONGE.
O! synge untoe mie roundelaie,
O! droppe the blynie teare wythe mee,
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,
Lycke a reyneynge ryver bee;
Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
Blacke hys cryne as the wynter nyghte,
Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe,
Rodde hys face as the morning lyghte,
Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe;
Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
Swote hys tynge as the throstles note,
Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee,
Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote,
O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree:
Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Alle underre the wyllowe tree.
Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge,
In the briered delle belowe;
Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge,
To the nyghte-mares as heie goe;
Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie;
Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude;
Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie,
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude;
Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys deathe-bedde,

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poem by Thomas Chatterton
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Ælla, A Tragical Interlude - Act II

SCENE I
MAGNUS, HURRA, and HIE PREESTE, wyth the ARMIE, neare Watchette.
MAGNUS.
Swythe lette the offrendes to the Goddes begynne,
To knowe of hem the issue of the fyghte.
Potte the blodde-steyned sword and pavyes ynne;
Spreade swythyn all arounde the hallie lyghte.
HIE PREESTE syngeth.
Yee, who hie yn mokie ayre
Delethe seasonnes foule or fayre,
Yee, who, whanne yee weere agguylte,
The mone yn bloddie gytelles hylte,
Mooved the starres, and dyd unbynde
Everyche barriere to the wynde;
Whanne the oundynge waves dystreste,
Storven to be overest,
Sockeynge yn the spyre-gyrte towne,
Swolterynge wole natyons down;
Sendynge dethe, on plagues astrodde,
Moovynge lyke the erthys Godde;
To mee send your heste dyvyne,
Lyghte eletten all myne eyne,
Thatt I maie now undevyse
All the actyonnes of th'emprize.

Thus sayethe the Goddes; goe, yssue to the playne;
Forr there shall meynte of mytte menn be slayne.
MAGNUS.
Whie, soe there evere was, whanne Magnus foughte.
Efte have I treynted noyance throughe the hoaste,
Athorowe swerdes, alyche the Queed dystraughte,
Have Magnus pressynge wroghte hys foemen loaste.
As whanne a tempeste vexethe soare the coaste,
The dyngeynge ounde the sandeie stronde doe tare,
So dyd I inne the warre the javlynne toste,
Full meynte a champyonnes breaste received mie spear.
Mie sheelde, lyche sommere morie gronfer droke,
Mie lethalle speere, alych a levyn-mylted oke.
Thus sayethe the Goddes; goe, yssue to the playne;
Forr there shall meynte of mytte menn be slayne.
MAGNUS.
Whie, soe there evere was, whanne Magnus foughte.
Efte have I treynted noyance throughe the hoaste,
Athorowe swerdes, alyche the Queed dystraughte,
Have Magnus pressynge wroghte hys foemen loaste.
As whanne a tempeste vexethe soare the coaste,
The dyngeynge ounde the sandeie stronde doe tare,
So dyd I inne the warre the javlynne toste,
Full meynte a champyonnes breaste received mie spear.
Mie sheelde, lyche sommere morie gronfer droke,

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poem by Thomas Chatterton
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Ælla, A Tragical Interlude - Act IV

SCENE I.
AT BRYSTOWE.
ÆLLA AND SERVITOURES.
AELLA.
TYS nowe fulle morne; I thoughten, bie laste nyghte
To have been heere; mie stede han notte mie love;
Thys ys mie pallace; lette mie hyndes alyghte,
Whylste I goe oppe, & wake mie slepeynge dove.
Staie here, mie hyndlettes; I shal goe above.
Nowe, Birtha, wyll thie loke enhele mie spryte,
Thie smyles unto mie woundes a baulme wylle prove;
Mie ledanne boddie wylle bee sette aryghte.
Egwina, haste, & ope the portalle door;
Yatte I on Birtha's breste maie thynke of ware nemore.

EGWINA.
Oh Ælla!
ÆLLA.
Ah! that semmlykeene to mee
Speeketh a legendary tale of woe.
EGWINA.
Birtha is --
ÆLLA.
Whatt? where? how? saie, whatte of shee?
EGWINA
Gone --
ÆLLA.
Gone! ye goddes!
EGWINA.
Alas! ytte ys toe true.
Yee seynctes, hee dies awaie wythe myckle woe!
Ælla! what? Ælla! oh! hee lyves agen.
ÆLLA.
Cal mee notte Ælla; I am hymme ne moe.
Where ys shee gon awaie? ah! speake! how? when?
EGWINA.
I will.
ÆLLA.
Caparyson a score of stedes; flie, flie.
Where ys shee? swythynne speeke, or instante thou shalte die.
EGWINA.
Stylle thie loud rage, & here thou whatte I knowe.
ÆLLA.
Oh! speek.
EGWINA.
Lyche prymrose, droopynge wythe the heavie rayne,
Laste nyghte I lefte her, droopynge wythe her wiere,
Her love the gare, thatte gave her harte syke peyne --
ÆLLA.
Her love! to whomme?

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poem by Thomas Chatterton
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Goddwyn; A Tragedie

PERSONS REPRESENTED.
HAROLDE, bie T. Rowleie, the Aucthoure.
GODDWYN, bie Johan de Iscamme.
ELWARDE, bie Syrr Thybbot Gorges.
ALSTAN, bie Syrr Alan de Vere.
KYNGE EDWARD; bie Mastre Wilyam Canynge.
Odhers bie Knyghtes Mynnstrells.

PROLOGUE
WHYLOMME bie pensmenne moke ungentle name
Have upon Goddwynne Erle of Kente bin layde,
Dherebie benymmynge hymme of faie and fame;
Unliart divinistres haveth saide,
Thatte he was knowen toe noe hallie wurche ;
Botte thys was all hys faulte, he gyfted ne the churche.
The aucthoure of the piece whiche we enacte,
Albeytte a clergyon trouthe wyll wrytte.
Inne drawynge of hys menne no wytte ys lackte;
Entyn a kynge mote bee full pleased to nyghte.
Attende, and marcke the partes nowe to be done;
Wee better for toe doe do champyon anie onne.

GODDWYN; A TRAGEDIE.
ACT I.
GODDWYN AND HAROLDE.
GODDWYN.
HAROLDE!
HAROLDE.
M ie loverde!
GODDWYN.
O! I weepe to thyncke,
What foemen riseth to isrete the londe.
Theie batten onne her fleshe, her hartes bloude dryncke,
And all ys graunted from the roieal honde.
HAROLDE.
Lette notte this agreme blyn ne aledge stonde;
Bee I toe wepe, I wepe in teres of gore.
Am I betrassed , syke shulde mie burlie bronde
Depeyncte the wronges on hym from whom I bore.
GODDWYN.
I ken thie spryte ful welle; gentle thou art,
Stringe , ugsomme rou as smethynge armyes seeme;
Yett efte , I feare, thie chefes toe grete a parte,
And that thie rede bee efte borne downe bie breme .
What tydynges from the kynge?
HAROLDE.
His Normans know.
I make noe compheeres of the shemrynge trayne.
GODDWYN.
Ah Harolde! tis a syghte of myckle woe,

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poem by Thomas Chatterton
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Eclogues

Eclogue the First.

Whanne Englonde, smeethynge from her lethal wounde,
From her galled necke dyd twytte the chayne awaie,
Kennynge her legeful sonnes falle all arounde,
(Myghtie theie fell, 'twas Honoure ledde the fraie,)
Thanne inne a dale, bie eve's dark surcote graie,
Twayne lonelie shepsterres dyd abrodden flie,
(The rostlyng liff doth theyr whytte hartes affraie,)
And whythe the owlette trembled and dyd crie;
Firste Roberte Neatherde hys sore boesom stroke,
Then fellen on the grounde and thus yspoke.

Roberte.
Ah, Raufe! gif thos the howres do comme alonge,
Gif thos wee flie in chase of farther woe,
Oure fote wylle fayle, albeytte wee bee stronge,
Ne wylle oure pace swefte as oure danger goe.
To oure grete wronges we have enheped moe,
The Baronnes warre! oh! woe and well-a-daie!
I haveth lyff, bott have escaped soe
That lyff ytsel mie senses doe affraie.
Oh Raufe, comme lyste, and hear mie dernie tale,
Comme heare the balefull dome of Robynne of the dale.

Raufe.
Saie to mee nete; I kenne thie woe in myne;
O! I've a tale that Sabalus mote telle.
Swote flouretts, mantled meedows, forestes dynge;
Gravots far-kend around the Errmiets cell;
The swote ribible dynning yn the dell;
The joyous dauncynge ynn the hoastrie courte;
Eke the highe songe and everych joie farewell,
Farewell the verie shade of fayre dysporte;
Impestering trobble onn mie dernie tale,
Ne one kynde Seyncte to warde the aye encreasynge dome.

Roberte.
Oh! I could waile mie kynge-coppe-decked mees,
Mie spreedynge flockes of shepe of lillie white,
Mie tendre applynges; and embodyde trees,
Mie Parker's Grange, far spreedynge to the syghte,
Mie cuyen kyne, mie bullockes stringe yn fyghte,
Mie gorne emblaunched with the comfreie plante,
Mie floure Seyncte Marie shottyng wythe the lyghte,
Mie store of all the blessynges Heaven can grant.
I amm duressed unto sorrowes blowe,
I hantend to the peyne, will lette ne salte teare flowe.

Raufe.

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poem by Thomas Chatterton
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Ælla, a Tragical Interlude (excerpt)

FYRSTE MYNSTRELLE...

The boddynge flourettes bloshes atte the lyghte;
The mees be sprenged wyth the yellowe hue;
Ynn daiseyd mantels ys the mountayne dyghte;
The nesh yonge coweslepe bendethe wyth the dewe;
The trees enlefed, yntoe Heavenne straughte,
Whenn gentle wyndes doe blowe to whestlyng dynne ys broughte.

The evenynge commes, and brynges the dewe alonge;
The roddie welkynne sheeneth to the eyne;
Arounde the alestake Mynstrells synge the songe;
Yonge ivie rounde the doore poste do entwyne;
I laie mee onn the grasse; yette, to mie wylle,
Albeytte alle ys fayre, there lackethe somethynge stylle.SECONDE MYNSTRELLE

So Adam thoughtenne, whann, ynn Paradyse,
All Heavenn and Erthe dyd hommage to hys mynde;
Ynn Womman alleyne mannes pleasaunce lyes;
As Instruments of joie were made the kynde.
Go, take a wyfe untoe thie armes, and see
Wynter and brownie hylles wyll have a charme for thee.THYRDE MYNSTRELLE

Whanne Autumpne blake and sonne-brente doe appere,
With hys goulde honde guylteynge the falleynge lefe,
Bryngeynge oppe Wynterr to folfylle the yere,
Beerynge uponne hys backe the riped shefe;
Whan al the hyls wythe woddie sede ys whyte;
Whanne levynne-fyres and lemes do mete from far the syghte;

Whann the fayre apple, rudde as even skie,
Do bende the tree unto the fructyle grounde;
When joicie peres, and berries of blacke die,
Doe daunce yn ayre, and call the eyne arounde;
Thann, bee the even foule or even fayre,
Meethynckes mie hartys joie ys steynced wyth somme care....MYNSTRELLES SONGE

O! synge untoe mie roundelaie,
O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,
Lycke a reynynge ryver bee;
Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Black hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte,

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poem by Thomas Chatterton
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Eclogue The First

WHANNE Englonde, smeethynge from her lethal wound;
From her galled necke dyd twytte the chayne awaie,
Kennynge her legeful sonnes falle all arounde,
(Myghtie theie fell, 'twas Honoure ledde the fraie,)
Thanne inne a dale, bie eve's dark surcote graie
Twayne lonelie shepsterres dyd abrodden flie,
(The rostlyng liff doth theyr whytte hartes affraie ,)
And wythe the owlette trembled and dyd crie;
Firtse Roberte Neatherde hys sore boesom stroke,
Then fellen on the grounde and thus yspoke.
ROBERTE.
Ah, Raufe! gif thos the howres do comme alonge,
Gif thos wee flie in chase of farther woe,
Oure fote wylle fayle, albeytte wee bee stronge,
Ne wylle oure pace swefte as oure danger goe.
To oure grete wronges we have enheped moe,
The Baronnes warre! oh! woe and well-a-daie!
I haveth lyff, bott have escaped soe,
That lyff ytsel mie Senses doe affraie.
Oh Raufe, comme lyste, and hear mie dernie tale,
Comme heare the balefull dome of Robynne of the Dale.
RAUFE.
Saie to mee nete; I kenne this woe in myne;
O! I've a tale that Sabalus mote telle.
Swote flouretts, mantled meedows, forestes dygne ;
Gravots far-kend arounde the Errmiets cell;
The swote ribible dynning yn the dell;
The joyous daunceynge ynn the hoastrie courte;
Eke the highe songe and everych joie farewell,
Farewell the verie shade of fayre dysporte :
Impestering trobble onn mie heade doe comme,
Ne on kynde Seyncte to warde the aye encreasynge dome.
ROBERTE.
Oh! I coulde waile mie kynge-coppe-decked mees
Mie spreedynge flockes of shepe of lillie white,
Mie tendre applynges , and embodyde trees,
Mie Parker's Grange far spreedynge to the syghte,
Mie cuyen kyne , mie bullockes stringe yn fighte,
Mie gorne emblaunched with the comfreie plante,
Mie floure Seyncte Marie shotteyng wythe the lyghte,
Mie store of all the blessynges Heaven can grant.
I amm duressed unto sorrowes blowe,
Ihanten'd to the peyne, will lette ne salte teare flowe.
RAUFE.
Here I wille obaie untylle Dethe doe 'pere,
Here lyche a foule empoysoned leathel tree,
Whyche sleaeth everichone that commeth nere,
Soe wille I fyxed unto thys place gre .
I to bement haveth moe cause than thee;
Sleene in the warre mie boolie fadre lies;

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poem by Thomas Chatterton
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The Tournament. An Interlude

HERAWDE
THE Tournament begynnes; the hammerrs sounde;
The courserrs lysse about the mensuredd fielde;
The shemrynge armoure throws the sheene arounde;
Quayntyssed fons depictedd onn eche sheelde.
The feerie heaulmets, wythe the wreathes amielde ,
Supportes the rampynge lyoncell orr bear;
Wythe straunge depyctures , Nature maie nott yeelde,
Unseemelie to all orderr doe appere,
Yett yatte
Makes knowen thatt the phantasies unryghte.
of her joies,
Muste swythen goe to yeve the speeres around;
Wythe advantayle & borne I meynte emploie,
Who withoute mee woulde fall untoe the grounde.
Soe the tall oake the ivie twysteth rounde;
Soe the neshe flowerr grees ynne the woodeland shade.
The woride bie diffraunce ys ynne orderr founde;
Wydhoute unlikenesse nothynge could bee made.
As ynn the bowke nete alleyn cann bee donne,
Syke ynn the weal of kynde all thynges are partes of onne.

Herawde , bie heavenne these tylterrs staie too long.
Mie phantasie ys dyinge forr the fyghte.
The mynstrelles have begonne the thyrde warr songe,
Yett notte a speere of hemm hath grete mie syghte.
I feere there be ne manne wordhie mie myghte.
I lacke a Guid , a Wyllyamm to entylte.
To reine anente a fele embodiedd knyghte,
Ytt getts ne rennome gyff hys blodde bee spylte.
Bie heavenne & Marie ytt ys tyme they're here;
I lyche nott unthylle thus to wielde the speare.
HERAWDE
Methynckes I heare yer slugghornes dynn fromm farre.
BOURTONNE
Ah! swythenn mie shielde & tyltynge launce bee bounde .
Eftsoones beheste mie Squyerr to the warre.

HERAWDE
Thie valourous actes woulde meinte of menne astounde;
Harde bee yer shappe encontrynge thee ynn fyghte;
Anenst all menne thou berest to the grounde,
Lyche the hard hayle dothe the tall roshes pyghte .
As whanne the mornynge sonne ydronks the dew,
Syche dothe thie valourous actes drocke eche knyghte's hue.
THE LYSTES. THE KYNGE. SYRR SYMONNE DE BOURTONNE, SYRR HUGO FERRARIS, SYRR RANULPH NEVILLE, SYRR LODOVICK DE CLYNTON, SYRR JOHAN DE BERGHAMME, AND ODHERR KNYGHTES, HERAWDES, MYNSTRELLES, AND SERVYTOURS .
KYNGE
The barganette ; yee mynstrelles tune the strynge,
Somme actyonn dyre of auntyante kynges now synge.
MYNSTRELLES.

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poem by Thomas Chatterton
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The Storie Of William Canynge

ANENT a brooklette as I laie reclynd,
Listeynge to heare the water glyde alonge,
Myndeynge how thorowe the grene mees yt twynd,
Awhilst the cavys respons'd yts mottring songe,
At dystaunt rysyng Avonne to he sped,
Amenged wyth rysyng hylles dyd shewe yts head;
Engarlanded wyth crownes of osyer weedes
And wraytes of alders of a bercie scent,
And stickeynge out wyth clowde agested reedes,
The hoarie Avonne show'd dyre semblamente,
Whylest blataunt Severne, from Sabryna clepde,
Rores flemie o'er the sandes that she hepde.
These eynegears swythyn bringethe to mie thowghte
Of hardie champyons knowen to the floude,
How onne the bankes thereof brave Ælle fought;
Ælle descended from Merce kynglie bloude,
Warden of Brystowe towne and castel stede,
Who ever and anon made Danes to blede.
Methoughte such doughtie menn must have a sprighte
Dote yn the armour brace that Mychael bore,
Whan he wyth Satan kynge of helle dyd fyghte,
And earthe was drented yn a mere of gore;
Orr, soone as theie dyd see the worldis lyghte,
Fate had wrott downe, thys mann ys borne to fyghte.
Ælle, I sayd, or els my mynde dyd saie,
Whie ys thy actyons left so spare yn storie?
Were I toe dispone, there should lyvven aie
In erthe and hevenis rolles thie tale of glorie
Thie actes soe doughtie should for aie abyde,
And bie theyre teste all after actes be tryde.
Next holie Wareburghus fylld mie mynde,
As fayre a sayncte as anie towne can boaste,
Or bee the erthe wyth lyghte or merke ywrynde,
I see hys ymage waulkeyng throwe the coaste.
Fitz Hardynge, Bithrickus, and twentie moe
Ynn visyonn fore mie phantasie dyd goe.
Thus all mie wandrynge faytour thynkeynge strayde
And eche dygne buylder dequac'd onn mie mynde,
Whan from the distaunt streeme arose a mayde,
Whose gentle tresses mov'd not to the wynde;
Lyche to the sylver moone yn frostie neete,
The damoiselle dyd come soe blythe and sweete.
Ne browded mantell of a scarlette hue,
Ne shoone pykes plaited o'er wyth ribbande geere,
Ne costlie paraments of woden blue,
Noughte of a dresse, but bewtie dyd shee weere;
Naked shee was, and loked swete of youthe,
All dyd bewryen that her name was Trouthe.
The ethie ringletts of her notte-browne hayre
What ne a manne should see dyd swotelie hyde,

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Chatterton
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Aspects Of Robinson

Robinson at cards at the Algonquin; a thin
Blue light comes down once more outside the blinds.
Gray men in overcoats are ghosts blown past the door.
The taxis streak the avenues with yellow, orange, and red.
This is Grand Central, Mr. Robinson.

Robinson on a roof above the Heights; the boats
Mourn like the lost. Water is slate, far down.
Through sounds of ice cubes dropped in glass, an osteopath,
Dressed for the links, describes an old Intourist tour.
—Here’s where old Gibbons jumped from, Robinson.

Robinson walking in the Park, admiring the elephant.
Robinson buying the Tribune, Robinson buying the Times. Robinson
Saying, “Hello. Yes, this is Robinson. Sunday
At five? I’d love to. Pretty well. And you?”
Robinson alone at Longchamps, staring at the wall.

Robinson afraid, drunk, sobbing Robinson
In bed with a Mrs. Morse. Robinson at home;
Decisions: Toynbee or luminol? Where the sun
Shines, Robinson in flowered trunks, eyes toward
The breakers. Where the night ends, Robinson in East Side bars.

Robinson in Glen plaid jacket, Scotch-grain shoes,
Black four-in-hand and oxford button-down,
The jeweled and silent watch that winds itself, the brief-
Case, covert topcoat, clothes for spring, all covering
His sad and usual heart, dry as a winter leaf.

poem by Weldon Kees
Added by Poetry Lover
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Tu Che Ne Sai

(pallavicini / amurri / f pisano)
Tu che ne sai
Delle volte che ho pianto per te
Un amore non pu? venir quando un amor ? cos? non dirmi pi? di rifarmi una vita sei tu
Questa sera mi fai morir
Mi fai morir di dolor
What do you know
About the times Ive cried over you?
There cant be love when its a love like this
Stop telling me to start a new life - its you
This evening you are killing me
Making me die of pain
A chi dar? le mie lacrime, yeah
A chi dar? le mie lacrime
Chi le vorr? le mie lacrime chi le vorr?
Who will I give my tears to? , yeah
Who will I give my tears to?
Who will want my tears, who will want them?
Non hai capito
Mi stai lasciando
E proprio quando, quando
Ho bisogno di te di te
You dont understand
Youre leaving me
Just when, just when
I need you, you
Ma tu che ne sai
Delle volte che ho pianto per te
Ora va non ti voglio pi? tu che ne sai del mio amor
But what do you know
About the times Ive cried over you?
Now go, I dont want you anymore
What do you know about my love?
A chi dar? le mie lacrime, yeah
A chi dar? le mie lacrime
Chi le vorr? le mie lacrime chi le vorr?
Ma chi le vorr? ma chi le vorr?
Who will I give my tears to? , yeah
Who will I give my tears to?
Who will want my tears, who will want them?
Who will want them?
Who will want them?
A chi dar? le mie lacrime, yeah
A chi dar? le mie lacrime, yeah
Chi le vorr? le mie lacrime chi le vorr?
Ma chi le vorr? yeah
Ma chi le vorr? ma chi le vorr? ma chi le vorr? yeah
Ma chi le vorr?
Ma chi le vorr? yeah
Ma chi le vorr? yeah

[...] Read more

song performed by Dusty Springfield
Added by Lucian Velea
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Eclogue The Second

SPRYTES of the bleste, the pious Nygelle sed,
Poure owte yer pleasaunce onn mie fadres hedde.
Rycharde of Lyons harte to fyghte is gon,
Uponne the brede sea doe the banners gleme ;
The amenused nationnes be aston ,
To ken syke large a flete, syke fyne, syke breme .
The barkis heafods coupe the lymed streme;
Oundes synkeynge oundes upon the hard ake riese;
The water slughornes wythe a swotye cleme
Conteke the dynnynge ayre, and reche the skies.
Sprytes of the bleste, on gouldyn trones astedde ,
Poure owte yer pleasaunce onn mie fadres hedde.
The gule depeyncted oares from the black tyde,
Decorn wyth fonnes rare, doe shemrynge ryse;
Upswalynge doe heie shewe ynne drierie pryde,
Lyche gore-red estells in the eve -merk skyes;
The nome-depeyncted shields, the speres aryse,
Alyche talle roshes on the water syde;
Alenge from bark to bark the bryghte sheene flyes;
Sweft-kerv'd delyghtes doe on the water glyde.
Sprites of the bleste, and everich Seyncte ydedde,
Poure owte youre pleasaunce on mie fadres hedde.
The Sarasen lokes owte: he doethe feere,
That Englondes brondeous sonnes do cotte the waie.
Lyke honted bockes, theye reineth here and there,
Onknowlachynge inne whatte place to obaie
The banner glesters on the beme of daie;
The mittee crosse Jerusalim ys seene;
Dhereof the fyghte yer corrage doe affraie
In baleful dole their faces be ywreene.
Sprytes of the bleste, and everich Seyncte ydedde,
Poure owte your pleasaunce on mie fadres hedde.
The bollengers and cottes , soe swyfte yn fyghte,
Upon the sydes of everich bark appere;
Foorthe to his offyce lepethe everych knyghte,
Eftsoones hys squyer, with hys shielde and spere.
The jynynge shieldes doe shemre and moke glare
The dotheynge oare doe make gemoted dynne;
The reynyng foemen , thynekeynge gif to dare,
Boun the merk swerde, theie seche to fraie theie blyn .
Sprytes of the bleste, and everyche Seyncte ydedde,
Powre oute yer pleasaunce onn mie fadres hedde.
Now comm the warrynge Sarasyns to fyghte;
Kynge Rycharde, lyche a lyoncel of warre,
Inne sheenynge goulde, lyke feerie gronfers dyghte
Shaketh alofe hys honde, and seene afarre.
Syke haveth I espyde a greter starre
Amenge the drybblett ons to sheene fulle bryghte;
Syke sunnys wayne wyth amayl'd beames doe barr
The blaunchie mone or estells to gev lyghte.

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Chatterton
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The Gouler's Requiem

Mie boolie entes, adiewe: ne more the syghte
Of guilden merke shalle mete mie joieous eyne;
Ne moe the sylver noble sheenynge bryghte,
Shalle fylle mie hande wythe weighte to speke ytte fyne;
Ne moe, ne moe, alas, I calle you myne;
Whyder must you, ah! whydder moste I goe?
I kenne not either! Oh mie emmers dygne,
To parte wythe you wyll wurche me myckle woe.
I must begon, butte where I dare nott telle,
O storthe unto mie mynde! I goe to helle.
Soone as the morne dyd dyghte the roddie sunne,
A shade of theves eache streacke of lyghte dyd seeme;
Whan yn the Heaven full half hys course was ronne,
Eche styrrynge nayghbour dyd mie harte afleme;
Thie Losse, or quyck or slepe, was aie mie dreme;
For thee, O goulde, I did the lawe ycrase,
For thee I gotten or bie wiles or breme;
Ynn thee I all mie joie and goode dyd place;
Botte nowe to mee thie pleasaunce ys ne moe,
I kenne notte botte for thee I to the quede muste goe.

poem by Thomas Chatterton
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La Chronique Ascendante des Ducs de Normandie

Mil chent et soisante anz out de temps et d'espace
puiz que Dex en la Virge descendi par sa grace,
quant un clerc de Caen, qui out non Mestre Vace,
s'entremist de l'estoire de Rou et de s'estrasce,
qui conquist Normendie, qui qu'en poist ne qui place,
contre l'orgueil de France, qui encor les menasce,
que nostre roi Henri la congnoissë et sace.
Qui gaires n'a de rentes ne gaires n'en porcache ;
mez avarice a frait a largesce sa grace,
ne peut lez mainz ouvrir, plus sont gelez que glace, .
ne sai ou est reposte, ne truiz train ne trace;
qui ne soit losengier ne encort liu ne place,
a plusors i fait on la cue lovinace.
Ce ne fu mie el temps Virgile ne Orace
ne el temps Alixandre ne Cesar ne Estace,
lores avoit largesce vertu et efficace.
Du roi Henri voil faire ceste premiere page,
qui prist Alianor, dame de haut parage,
Dex doinst a ambedeuls de bien faire courage!
Ne me font mie rendre a la court le musage,
de dons et de pramesses chascun d' euls m' asouage ;
mez besoing vient souvent qui tost sigle et tost nage,
et souvent me fait meitre le denier et le gage.
France est Alienor et debonnaire et sage ;
roÿne fu de France en son premier aage,
Looÿs l' espousa qui out grant mariage;
en Jerusalem furent en lonc pelerinage,
assez y traist chescun travail et ahanage,
Quant reparriez s' en furent, par conseil du barnage
s' em parti la roÿne o riche parentage;
de cele departie n'out elle nul damage ;
a Poitiers s'en ala, son naturel manage,
n'i out plus prochain heir qu'el fu de son lignage.
Li roiz Henri la prist o riche mariage,
cil qui tint Engleterre et la terre marage
entre Espaingne et Escosce, de rivage en rivage ;
grant parole est de lui et de son vasselage,
des felons qu'il destraint comme oysel clos en cage ;
n' a baron en sa terre o si grant herbergage
qui ost le pais enfraindre em plein ne en boscage,
se il peut estre ataint, n'et des membres hontage,
ou qu'il n'i lest le cors ou l' ame en ostage.

La geste voil de Rou et dez Normanz conter,
lors faiz et lor proësce doi je bien recorder.
Les boisdies de France ne font mie a celer,
tout tens voudrent Franchoiz Normanz desheriter
et tout tens se penerent d' euls vaincre et d'els grever,
et quant Franceiz nes porent par force sormonter
par plusors tricheries lez soulent agraver ;

[...] Read more

poem by Wace
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My Name Is Not Cheek Turner or NockMee Tu Mie-Neese

I am not trying to suppress,
Or will hide my being upset...
Not at all.
When and if that should happen.
Instant feedback I deliver.

I witness others doing that.
With tremendous success.
To receive pats on their backs.
And their butts rubbed...
Or gently smacked.
I am not humored by that!
Not at all.

I am not impressed,
By those who express a lack of concern.
And those who valiantly shoulder their burdens...
In the quietness of their non-protest?
I give them my respect!
Since I know I'd be arrested.
No burdens do I shoulder,
Placed there by someone else.
I am not a product of my delusions.

And I am certainly not the one,
To cross my fingers behind my back.
As someone wishes me 'good luck'...
After attacking my character for fun and fast chat.
While dumping trash upon my path!
To have me pass along my rage and anger.

My name is not Cheek Turner!
Or NockMee Tu Mie-Neese.
I speak English fluently.
And if someone steps on my toes...
They will know without an interpretor,
Where to go and 'how' I intend...
To implant my right foot.
And I don't mind standing patiently on my left,
For balance and support.

'Slap me out some rhythm on those 'keys', Maybelle! '

My name is not Cheek Turner or NockMee Tu Mie-Neese.
My name is 'not'
Cheek Turner.
Or NockMee Tu Mie-Neese.
My name is not Cheek Turner or NockMee Tu Mie-Neese.
You play with this fire...
You'll get burned.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Mrs. Robinson

And heres to you Mrs. Robinson,
Jesus loves you more than you will know
Whoa Whoa Whoa
God bless you sweet Mrs. Robinson,
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
Hey Hey Hey
Hey Hey Hey
We'd like to now a little bit about you for our files
We'd like to help you learn to help yourself
Look around you, all you see are sympathetic eyes
Stroll around the grounds until you feel at home
And here's to you Mrs. Robinson,
Jesus loves you more than you will know
Whoa Whoa Whoa
God bless you sweet Mrs. Robinson,
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
Hey Hey Hey
Hide it in a hiding place where no one ever goes,
Put it in your pantry with your cupcakes
It' a little secret, just a Robinson affair,
But most of all you got to hide it from the kids
Koo Koo Ka-chu Mrs. Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know
Whoa Whoa Whoa
God Bless you sweet Mrs. Robinson,
Heaven holds a place for those who pray,
Hey Hey Hey
Hey Hey Hey
Sitting on a sofa on a Sunday afternoon,
Going to a candidate's debate
Laugh about it, shout about it when you got to choose,
Every way you look at it you'll lose
Where have you gone Joes D'Maggio?
Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you
Woo Woo Woo
What's that you say Mrs. Robinson?
You told me Joe has left and gone away
Hey Hey Hey
Hey Hey Hey

song performed by Weezer
Added by Lucian Velea
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Salvation Boulevard

Cast: Jennifer Connelly, Pierce Brosnan, Isabelle Fuhrman, Marisa Tomei, Ed Harris, Greg Kinnear, Howard Hesseman, Jim Gaffigan, Yul Vazquez

trailer for Salvation Boulevard, directed by George Ratliff (2011)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Mrs. Robinson

and here's to you Mrs. Robinson
jesus loves you more than you will know wuwuwu
god bless you please Mrs. Robinson
heaven holds a place for those who pray
hey hey hey...hey hey hey
we like to know a little bit about you for our files
we like to help you learn to help yourself
look around youu all you see are sympathetic lies
stroll around the grounds until you feel at home
and here's to you Mrs. Robinson
jesus loves you more than you will know wuwuwu
god bless you please Mrs. Robinson
heaven holds a place for those who pray
hey hey hey...hey hey hey
Hide it in a hiding place where no one ever goes
Put it in your pantry with your cupcakes
It's a little secret, just the Robinsons' affair
Most of all, you've got to hide it from the kids
Coo, coo, ca-choo, Mrs Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know (Wo, wo, wo)
God bless you please, Mrs. Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
(Hey, hey, hey...hey, hey, hey)
sitting on a sofa on a sunday afternoon
Going to the candidates debate
Laugh about it, shout about it
When you've got to choose
Ev'ry way you look at it, you lose
where have you gone Joe Damajiou
A nation turns its lonely eyes to you wuwuwu
what's that you say
Mrs. robinson
Joe Damajiou has long left and gone away
hey hey hey hey hey hey

song performed by Beatles
Added by Lucian Velea
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Mrs. Robinson

And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know (Wo, wo, wo)
God bless you please, Mrs. Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
(Hey, hey, hey...hey, hey, hey)
We'd like to know a little bit about you for our files
We'd like to help you learn to help yourself
Look around you, all you see are sympathetic eyes
Stroll around the grounds until you feel at home
And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know (Wo, wo, wo)
God bless you please, Mrs. Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
(Hey, hey, hey...hey, hey, hey)
Hide it in a hiding place where no one ever goes
Put it in your pantry with your cupcakes
It's a little secret, just the Robinsons' affair
Most of all, you've got to hide it from the kids
Coo, coo, ca-choo, Mrs Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know (Wo, wo, wo)
God bless you please, Mrs. Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
(Hey, hey, hey...hey, hey, hey)
Sitting on a sofa on a Sunday afternoon
Going to the candidates debate
Laugh about it, shout about it
When you've got to choose
Ev'ry way you look at it, you lose
Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio
A nation turns its lonely eyes to you (Woo, woo, woo)
What's that you say, Mrs. Robinson
Joltin' Joe has left and gone away
(Hey, hey, hey...hey, hey, hey)

song performed by Bon Jovi
Added by Lucian Velea
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