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

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

For she, whose parts maintainde a musique
Whose beawties shin'de then the blushing morning
Who much did passe in the stately mountains
In straightnes the Cedars of the forest
cast me wretch into eternally evening
By taking her two Sunnes from these darke

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

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

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