She With Whom Compar'd The Alpes Are Vallies lyrics |
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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)"] |
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Of The Wand And The Moon song lyrics
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