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

I to fire the trees af all these forrest
I the Sunne a last farewell each evening
I the fidling finders out of Musicke
With i doo hate the loftie mountains
And with despite the humble vallies
I doo night, evening, day, and morning

For she, whose maintainde a perfect musique
Whose shin'de more then the blushing morning
Who much did in state 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, can be made with forrests
My state more base, then are the vallies
I wish no evenings to see, each evening
Shamed I my selfe in sight of mountaines
And mine ears, lest I growe mad with Musicke

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

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