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