I wish to fire the trees af all these forrest
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I give the Sunne a last farewell each evening
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I curse the fidling finders out of Musicke
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With envie i doo hate the loftie mountains
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And with despite despise the humble vallies
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I doo detest night, evening, day, and morning
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For she, whose parts maintainde a perfect musique
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Whose beawties shin'de more then the blushing morning
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Who much did passe in state the stately mountains
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In straightnes past the Cedars of the forest
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Hath cast me wretch into eternally evening
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By taking her two Sunnes from these darke vallies
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Curse to my selfe my prayers is, the morning
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My fire is more, then can be made with forrests
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My state more base, then are the basest vallies
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I wish no evenings more to see, each evening
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Shamed I hate my selfe in sight of mountaines
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And stoppe mine ears, lest I growe mad with Musicke
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For she, with whorm compar'd, the Alpes are vallies
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She, whose lest word brings from the spheares their musique
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At whose approach the Sunne rase in the evening
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Who, where she went, bare in her forhead morning
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Is gone, is gone from these our spolyed forrests
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Turning to desarts our best pastur'de mountaines
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[Adapted from Sir Philip Sidneys: "The Countesse of pembrokes arcadia (1598)"]
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She With Whom Compar'd The Alpes Are Vallies
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| of The Wand And The Moon |
