She With Whom Compar'd The Alpes Are Vallies Lyrics - Singles - Of The Wand And The Moon

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