She With Whom Compar`d The Alpes Are Vallies Lyrics

She With Whom Compar`d 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)"]