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

I wish to the trees af all these forrest
I give the a last farewell each evening
I the fidling finders out of Musicke
envie i doo hate the loftie mountains
And with despite despise the vallies
I doo detest night, evening, day, and

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

to my selfe my prayers is, the morning
My fire is more, then can be made 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 stoppe mine ears, I growe mad with Musicke

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

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