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

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

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

to my selfe my prayers is, the morning
My fire is more, then can be made with
My state more base, then are the basest
I wish no evenings 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 lest word brings from the their musique
At whose the Sunne rase in the evening
Who, she went, bare in her forhead morning
Is gone, is gone these our spolyed forrests
Turning to desarts our best pastur'de

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