Of The Wand And The Moon
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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)"]


Mirror lyrics:

of pembrokes arcadia (1598)"]
[Adapted from Sir Philip Sidneys: "The Countesse



Turning to desarts our best pastur'de mountaines

Is gone, is gone from these our spolyed forrests

Who, where she went, bare in her forhead morning

At whose approach the Sunne rase in the evening

She, whose lest word brings from the spheares their musique

For she, with whorm compar'd, the Alpes are vallies



And stoppe mine ears, lest I growe mad with Musicke

Shamed I hate my selfe in sight of mountaines

I wish no evenings more to see, each evening

My state more base, then are the basest vallies

My fire is more, then can be made with forrests

Curse to my selfe my prayers is, the morning



By taking her two Sunnes from these darke vallies

Hath cast me wretch into eternally evening

In straightnes past the Cedars of the forest

Who much did passe in state the stately mountains

Whose beawties shin'de more then the blushing morning

For she, whose parts maintainde a perfect musique



I doo detest night, evening, day, and morning

And with despite despise the humble vallies

With envie i doo hate the loftie mountains

I curse the fidling finders out of Musicke

I give the Sunne a last farewell each evening

I wish to fire the trees af all these forrest


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