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 each evening
I the fidling finders out of Musicke
With i doo hate the loftie mountains
And with despite the humble vallies
I doo detest night, evening, day, and

For she, whose maintainde a perfect musique
Whose beawties shin'de more the blushing morning
Who much did passe in state the stately
In straightnes past the Cedars of the
Hath cast me into eternally evening
By taking her two Sunnes from these vallies

Curse to my selfe my is, the morning
My fire is more, then can be made with
My state more base, then are the vallies
I wish no more to see, each evening
Shamed I hate my selfe in 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 in the evening
Who, she went, bare in her forhead morning
Is gone, is from these our spolyed forrests
to desarts our best pastur'de mountaines

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