John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
John Wilbye
My throat is sore, my voice is hoarse with skriking
My rests are sighs, deep from the heart’s root fetched;
My song runs all on sharps, and with oft striking
Time on my breast, I shrink with hands outstretched;
Thus still, and still I sing, and ne’er am linning
For still the close points to my first beginning
My throat is sore was written by John Wilbye.