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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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Both pype and Muse, shall sore the while abye.

Both wind instrument and Muse, shall traverse the open ground the while obtain.
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Teaching notes, 10 Sept. 2014  View all tags
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The Shepheardes Calender: January    Edmund Spenser

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