时间：1999-11-05
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She With Whom Compar'd The Alpes Are Vallies - Of The Wand And The Moon
I wish to fire the trees of all these forests
I give the Sunne a last farewell each evening
I curse the fidling finders out of Musicke
With envie i do hate the loftie mountains
And with despite despise the humble vallies
I do detest night evening day and morning
For she whose parts maintainde a perfect musique
Whose beauties shin'de more than the blushing morning
Who much did passe in state the stately mountains
In straightnes past the Cedars of the forests
Hath cast me wretch into eternally evening
By taking her to Sunnes from these dark vallies
Curse to my self my prayers is the morning
My fire is more than can be made with forests
My state more base than are the basest vallies
I wish no evenings more to see each evening
Shamed I hate my self in sight of mountains
And stop my ears lest I grow mad with Musicke
For she with whom compar'd the Alpes are vallies
She whose lest word brings from the spheares their musique
At whose approach the Sunne raise in the evening
Who where she went bare in her forhead morning
Is gone is gone from these our spolyed forests
Turning to desarts our best pastur'de mountains
