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)"]