Luyện nghe bài hát She With Whom Compar'd The Alpes Are Vallies

I wish to fire the trees af all forrest
I give the Sunne a last farewell evening
I curse the fidling finders out of
With envie i doo hate the loftie
And with despite despise the humble
I doo detest night, evening, day, and

For she, whose parts maintainde a perfect
Whose beawties shin'de then the blushing morning
Who much did passe in the stately mountains
In straightnes past the Cedars of the
Hath cast me wretch eternally evening
By taking her two Sunnes from darke vallies

Curse to my my prayers is, the morning
My is more, then can be made with forrests
My more base, then are the basest vallies
I no evenings more to see, each evening
Shamed I hate my selfe in sight of
And stoppe mine ears, lest I growe mad with

For she, whorm compar'd, the Alpes are vallies
She, whose word brings from the spheares their musique
At whose approach the Sunne rase in the
Who, where she went, bare in her morning
Is gone, is gone from our spolyed forrests
Turning to desarts our best pastur'de

[Adapted from Sir Sidneys: "The Countesse of pembrokes arcadia (1598)"]