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)"]