| Lyrics: | 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)"] |
