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