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)"]