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

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

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

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

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