She With Whom Compard The Alpes Are Vallies Lyrics

She With Whom Compard The Alpes Are Vallies

I wish to fire the trees af all these forrest

I give the Sunne a last
farewell each evening

I curse the fidling finders out of Musicke

With envie i doo hate the loftie mountains

And with despite despise
the humble vallies

I doo detest night, evening, day, and morning



For she, whose parts maintainde a perfect musique

Whose
beawties shin'de more then the blushing morning

Who much did passe in
state the stately mountains

In straightnes past the Cedars of the
forest

Hath cast me wretch into eternally evening

By taking her two
Sunnes from these darke vallies



Curse to my selfe my prayers is,
the morning

My fire is more, then can be made with forrests

My
state more base, then are the basest vallies

I wish no evenings more to
see, each evening

Shamed I hate my selfe in sight of mountaines

And
stoppe mine ears, lest I growe mad with Musicke



For she, with whorm
compar'd, the Alpes are vallies

She, whose lest word brings from the
spheares their musique

At whose approach the Sunne rase in the evening

Who, where she went, bare in her forhead morning

Is gone, is gone from
these our spolyed forrests

Turning to desarts our best pastur'de
mountaines



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