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 each
I curse the finders out of Musicke
envie i doo hate the loftie mountains
And with despite the humble vallies
I doo night, evening, day, and morning

For she, whose parts a perfect musique
Whose beawties more then the blushing morning
Who much did passe in the stately mountains
In straightnes past the of the forest
Hath me wretch into eternally evening
By taking her two Sunnes from these darke

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

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

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