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 finders out of Musicke
With envie i doo hate the loftie
And with despite despise the vallies
I doo night, evening, day, and morning

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

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

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

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