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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
Virgil, page 3 of 3
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Epic

"epic, adj. and n." OED Online. Oxford University Press, September 2014. Web. 9 September 2014.

adj.
1. Pertaining to that species of poetical composition (see epos n.), represented typically by the Iliad and Odyssey, which celebrates in the form of a continuous narrative the achievements of one or more heroic personages of history or tradition.
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Previous page on path Virgil, page 3 of 3 Path end, return home
Edmund Spenser

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