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

I to fire the trees af all these forrest
I give the Sunne a last farewell each
I curse the fidling 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 parts maintainde a musique
Whose beawties shin'de more then the blushing
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 these darke vallies

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

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

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