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