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

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

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

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

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