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Scalar Milton

Evan Thomas, Milton Group8, Milton Group7, Milton Group6, Milton Group5, Milton Group4, Milton Group3, Milton Group2, Milton Group1, Milton Group9, Authors

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And am forlorne, (alas why am I lorne?)

and I am sad, why am I alone?
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Teaching notes, 10 Sept. 2014  View all tags
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The Shepheardes Calender: January    Edmund Spenser

Related:  Ah God, that loue should breede both ioy and payne.,  So broke his oaten pype, and downe dyd lye.,  The Shepheardes Calender: January,  Shepheards deuise she hateth as the snake,,  And from mine eyes the drizling teares descend,,  With breathed sighes is blowne away, & blasted,,  neighbour towne,  auaile,  Colin clout,  As on your boughes the ysicles depend.,  Thy mantle mard, wherein thou mas-kedst late.,  EK's gloss,  Colins Embleme.,  Art made a myrrhour, to behold my plight:,  Wherein I sawe so fayre a sight, as shee.,  His kiddes, his cracknelles, and his early fruit.,  Yet all for naught: [such] sight hath bred my bane.,  Whilome thy fresh spring flowrd, and after hasted,  Yet for thou pleasest not, where most I would:,  My timely buds with wayling all are wasted:,  And thou vnlucky Muse, that wontst to ease,  A thousand sithes I curse that carefull hower,,  Hobbinol,  Thy sommer prowde with Daffadillies dight.,  And now is come thy wynters stormy state,,  Colin them gives to Rosalind againe.,  overhaile,  Wherefore my pype, albee rude Pan thou please,,  His clownish gifts and curtsies I disdaine,,  I loue thilke lasse, (alas why doe I loue?),  Albee my loue he seeke with dayly suit:,  Sere,  Both pype and Muse, shall sore the while abye.,  John Milton,  Edmund Spenser,  And laughes the songes, that Colin Clout doth make.,  Teaching notes, 10 Sept. 2014,  vnnethes,  couth,  Pastoral,  My musing mynd, yet canst not, when thou should:,  Shee deignes not my good will, but doth reproue,,  And eke tenne thousand sithes I blesse the stoure,,  I loue,  The blossome, which my braunch of youth did beare,,  And of my rurall musick holdeth scorne.,  Stoure,  Thou barrein ground, whome winters wrath hath wasted,,  Rosalind,  It is not Hobbinol, wherefore I plaine,,  Ah foolish Hobbinol, thy gyfts bene vayne:,  Wherein I longd the neighbour towne to see:,  His clownish gifts,  sithes,  Virgil,  All so my lustfull leafe is drye and sere,  Epic