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I wish to fire the trees of all these forrests
I give the sunne a last farewell each evening
I curse the fidling finders out of musicke
With envie I doo hate the loftie mountaines
And with despise the humble vallies
I doo detest night, evening, day, and morning

For she, whose parts maintained a perfect musique
Whose beawties shin'de more then the blushing morning
Who much did passe in state the stately mountaines
In straightnes past the cedars of the forrests
Hath cast me wretch into eternall evening
By taking her two sunnes from these darke vallies

Curse to my selfe my prayer 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 whom 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 spoyled forrests
Turning to desarts our best pastur'de mountaines

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