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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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His clownish gifts

His clownish gyfts) imitateth Virgils verse,

Rusticus es Corydon, nec munera curat Alexis.
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The Shepheardes Calender: January    Edmund Spenser    EK's gloss

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