 Double Cestina Ye Goat-Heard Gods by Philip Sidney Read for LibriVox.org by Brian Dirks Strafon You Goat-Heard Gods that love the grassy mountains You nymphs that haunt the springs in pleasant valleys You satyrs joyed with free and quiet forests Vouch safe your silent ears to planning music Which to my woes gives still an early morning And draws the doler on till wary evening Clius, O Mercury, foregoer to the evening O heavenly huntress of the savage mountains O lovely starry entitled of the morning While that my voice doth fill these woeful valleys Vouch safe your silent ears to planning music Which oft hath Echo tired in secret forests I that was once free Burgess of the forests Where shade from sun and sports I sought at evening I that was once esteemed for pleasant music And banished now among the monstrous mountains Of huge despair and foul afflictions valleys And grown a shriek owl to myself each morning I that was once delighted every morning Hunting the wild inhabitors of forests I that was once the music of these valleys So darkened am I that all my day is evening Heartbroken so I that molehills seem high mountains And fill the veils with cries instead of music Long since alas my deadly swanish music Hath made itself a crier of the morning And hath with wailing strength climbed highest mountains Long since my thoughts more desert be than forests Long since I see my joys come to their evening And stay thrown down to overtrodden valleys Long since the happy dwellers of these valleys Have prayed me leave my strange exclaiming music Which troubles their day's work and joys of evening Long since I hate the night more hate the morning Long since my thoughts chase me like beasts in forests And make me wish myself laid under mountains Me seems I see the high and stately mountains Transform themselves to low-digetted valleys Me seems I hear in these ill-changed forests The nightingales do learn of owls their music Me seems I feel the comfort of the morning Turn to the mortal serene of an evening Me seems I see a filthy cloudy evening As soon as sun begins to climb the mountains Me seems I feel a noisome scent the morning When I do smell the flowers of these valleys Me seems I hear when I do hear sweet music The dreadful cries of murdered men in forests I wish to fire the trees of all these forests I give the sun a last farewell each evening I curse the fiddling finders out of music With envy I do hate the lofty mountains And with despite despise the humble valleys I do detest night, evening day, and morning Cursed to myself my prayer is the morning My fire is more than can be made with forests My state more base than are the basest valleys I wish no evening more to see each evening Shame I have myself in sight of mountains And stop mine ears lest I grow mad with music For she whose parts maintained a perfect music Whose beauty shined more than the blushing morning Whom much did pass in state the stately mountains And straightness passed the cedars of the forests Hath cast me wretch into eternal evening By taking her two sons from these dark valleys For she to whom compared the Alps are valleys She whose last word brings from the spheres their music At whose approach the sun rose in the evening Who where she went bare in her forehead morning Is gone, is gone from these our spoiled forests Turning to deserts our best pastured mountains These mountains witness shall, so shall these valleys These forests eek made ruchid by our music Our morning hymn is this, and song at evening End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Double Cestina, ye goat-herd gods, by Philip Sidney Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kechuk Strafen, ye goat-herd gods, that love the grassy mountains Ye nymphs that haunt the springs in pleasant valleys Ye satters joyed with free and quiet forests Vout safe your silent hears to plaining music Which to my woes give still an early morning And draws the doler on till weary evening Cleus, O Mercury, forgoer to the evening O heavenly huntress of the savage mountains O lovely star, entitled of the morning While that my voice doth fill these woeful valleys Vout safe your silent ears to plaining music Which oft hath echo-tired in secret forests Aye, that was one's free burges of the forests Where shade from sun and sports I sought at evening Aye, that was one's esteemed for pleasant music I'm banished now among the monstrous mountains Of huge despair and foul afflictions' valleys And grown a screech-ow to myself each morning Aye, that was one's delighted every morning Hunting the wild inhabitants of forests Aye, that was one's the music of these valleys So darkened am that all my day is evening Heart broken so that mole-hills seem high mountains And fill the veils with cries instead of music Long since alas my deadly swanish music Hath made itself a crier of the morning And hath with wailing strength climbed highest mountains Long since my thoughts more desert be than forests Long since I see my joys come to their evening And state thrown down to overtrodden valleys Long since the happy dwellers of these valleys Have prayed me leave my strange exclaiming music Which troubles their day's work and joys of evening Long since I hate the night more hate the morning Long since my thoughts chase me like beasts in forests And make me wish myself laid under mountains Me seems I see the high and stately mountains Transform themselves to low-dejected valleys Me seems I hear in these ill-changed forests The nightingales do learn of owls their music Me seems I feel the comfort of the morning Turned to the mortal serene of an evening Me seems I see a filthy, cloudy evening As soon as sun begins to climb the mountains Me seems I feel a noisome scent The morning when I do smell the flowers of these valleys Me seems I hear when I do hear sweet music The dreadful cries of murdered men in forests I wish to fire the trees of all these forests I give the sun a last farewell each evening I curse the fiddling finders out of music With envy I do hate the lofty mountains And with, despite, despise the humble valleys I do detest night, evening, day, and morning Curse to myself my prayer is the morning My fire is more than can be made with forests My state more base than are the basest valleys I wish no evenings more to see each evening Shame'd I have myself in sight of mountains And stop mine ears lest I grow mad with music For she whose parts maintained a perfect music Whose beauty shined more than the blushing morning Who much did pass in state the stately mountains In straightness passed the cedars of the forests Hath cast me wretch into eternal evening By taking her two sons from these dark valleys For she to whom compared the Alps are valleys She whose lest word brings from the spheres their music At whose approach the sun rose in the evening Who, where she went, bare in her forehead mourning Is gone, is gone from these, our spoiled forests Turning to deserts, our best pastured mountains These mountains witness shall, so shall these valleys These forests, eek, made wretched by our music Our mourning hymn is this, and song at evening And a poem, this recording is in the public domain Ye goat-herd gods by Philip Sidney Read for LibriVox.org by Kevin S. as Stryphon And Campbell Shelp as Clius Ye goat-herd gods that love the grassy mountains Enimps which haunt the springs and pleasant valleys Ye satters joy'd with free and quiet forests Thou'd safe your silent ears to plaining music Which to my woes give still an early morning And draws the DeLore on till weary evening O Mercury, forgoer to the evening O heavenly huntress of the savage mountains O lovely star entitled of the morning While that my voice doth fail these woeful valleys Vouch safe your silent ears to plaining music Which oft hath echo-tired in secret forests I that was once free bergus of the forests Were shade from sun and sport I saw'd in evening I that was once esteemed for pleasant music And banished now among the monstrous mountains Of huge despair in foul afflictions valleys And grown as scree-chow'd to myself each morning I that was once delighted every morning Hunting the wild inhabitants of forests I that was once the music of these valleys So darkened am that all my day's evening Heart-broken so that molehills seem high mountains And fail the veils with cries instead of music Long since alas my deadly swanish music Had made itself a crier of the morning In hath with wailing strength clarn'd highest mountains Long since my thoughts more desert be than forests Long since I see my joys come to their evening In state thrown down to overtrodden valleys Long since the happy dwellers of these valleys Have prayed me leave my strange exclaiming music Which troubles their day's work and joys of evening Long since I hate the night more hate the morning Long since my thoughts chase me like beasts and forests And make me wish myself laid under mountains Me seems I see the high and stately mountains Transform themselves to low, dejected valleys Me seems I hear in these ill-changed forests The nightingales do learn of owls their music Me seems I feel the comfort of the morning Turn to the mortal serene of an evening Me seems I see a filthy cloudy evening As soon as sun begins to climb the mountains Me seems I feel a noisome scent the morning When I do smell the flowers of these valleys Me seems I hear when I do hear sweet music The dreadful cries of murdered men in forests I wish to fire the trees of all these forests I give the sun a last farewell each evening I curse the fiddling finders out of music With envy I do hate the lofty mountains And with despite despise the humble valleys I do detest night, evening, day, and morning Cursed to myself my prayer is, the morning My fire is more than can be made with forests My state more base than are the basest valleys I wish no evenings more to see each evening Shameless I have myself in sight of mountains And stop mine ears lest I grow mad with music For she whose parts maintain the perfect music Whose beauty shine more than the blushing morning Whom much did pass in state the stately mountains In straightness past the cedars of the forests Hath cast me wretch into eternal evening By taking her two sons from these dark valleys For she with whom compares the Alps are valleys She whose least word brings from the spheres their music At whose approach the sun rose in the evening Who where she went bare in her forehead mourning Is gone, is gone from these are spoiled forests Turning to deserts are best pastured mountains These mountains witness shall, so shall these valleys These forests ache made wretched by our music A morning hymn this is, and song at evening, and of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Double Cistina, Ye Goat Heard Gods by Philip Sidney Read for LibberVox.org by William Jones Streffan, Ye Goat Heard Gods that love the grassy mountains Ye nymphs which haunt the springs in pleasant valleys Ye satyrs, joyed with free and quiet forests Vought safe your silent ears to plaining music Which to my woes give still an early morning And draws the duller on till weary evening. Clayas, O Mercury, for gore to the evening O heavenly huntress of the savage mountains O lovely star entitled of the morning While that my voice doth fill these woeful valleys Vought safe your silent ears to plaining music Which oft hath echo tired in secret forests. I, that was once free birches of the forests, Horshade from sun and sport I sawed in evening, I, that was once esteemed for pleasant music And banished now among the monstrous mountains Of huge despair, and foul afflictions, Valleys am grown a scree-child to myself Each morning. I, that was once delighted every morning Hunting the wild inhabitants of forests, I, that was once the music of these valleys So darkened am that all my day is evening Heartbroken so that mole-hills seem high mountains And fill the veils with cries instead of music. Long since alas my deadly swanish music Hath made itself a crier of the morning And hath with wailing strength climbed highest mountains. Long since my thoughts more desert be than forests. Long since I see my joys come to their evening And state thrown down to overtrodden valleys. Long since the happy dwellers of these valleys Have prayed me leave my strange exclaiming music Which troubles their day's work and joys of evening. Long since I hate the night more hate the morning. Long since my thoughts chase me like beasts in the forests And make me wish myself laid under mountains. Be seams I see the high and stately mountains Transform themselves to low-dejected valleys. Be seams I hear in these ill-changed forests The nightingales do learn of owls their music. Be seams I feel the comfort of the morning Return to the mortal serene event evening. Be seams I see a filthy cloudy evening As soon as sun begins to climb the mountains. Be seams I feel a noisome scent the morning When I do smell the flowers of these valleys. Be seams I hear when I do hear of sweet music The dreadful cries of murdered men in forests. I wish to fire the trees of all these forests. I give the sun a last farewell each evening. I curse the fiddling finders out of music. With envy do I hate the lofty mountains, And with, despite, despise the humble valleys. I do detest night, evening, day, and morning. Cursed to myself my prayer is the morning. My fire is more than can be made with forests. My state more base than are the basest valleys. I wish no evenings more to see each evening. Shamed, I hate myself inside of the mountains, And stop my nears lest I grow mad with music. For she whose parts maintained a perfect music, Whose beauties shined more than the blushing morning, Who much did pass in state the stately mountains, In straightness passed the cedars of the forests, That cast me wretch into eternal evening, By taking her two sons from these dark valleys. For she with whom compared the Alps or valleys, She whose least word brings from the spheres their music, And whose approach the sun rose in the evening, Who, where she went bore in her forehead morning, Is gone, is gone, Of these are spoiled forests. Turning to deserts are best pastured mountains. These mountains witness shell, so shell these valleys. These forests eke made wretched by our music. Our morning hymn is this, and song at evening. This recording is in the public domain.