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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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I loue

I loue) a prety Epanorthosis in these two verses, and withall a Paronomasia or playing with the word, where he sayth (I loue thilke lasse (alas &c.
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Related:  vnnethesThe Shepheardes Calender: JanuaryHis kiddes, his cracknelles, and his early fruit.Wherein I longd the neighbour towne to see:overhaileIt is not Hobbinol, wherefore I plaine,And thou vnlucky Muse, that wontst to easeSereRosalindThy sommer prowde with Daffadillies dight.His clownish gifts and curtsies I disdaine,Art made a myrrhour, to behold my plight:Wherein I sawe so fayre a sight, as shee.And of my rurall musick holdeth scorne.HobbinolColin cloutauaileThy mantle mard, wherein thou mas-kedst late.EK's glossAs on your boughes the ysicles depend.His clownish giftsYet all for naught: [such] sight hath bred my bane.Wherefore my pype, albee rude Pan thou please,Teaching notes, 10 Sept. 2014couthColin them gives to Rosalind againe.All so my lustfull leafe is drye and sereneighbour towneI loue thilke lasse, (alas why doe I loue?)sithesAnd laughes the songes, that Colin Clout doth make.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,Yet for thou pleasest not, where most I would:Shee deignes not my good will, but doth reproue,VirgilMy musing mynd, yet canst not, when thou should:Ah God, that loue should breede both ioy and payne.Colins Embleme.With breathed sighes is blowne away, & blasted,Thou barrein ground, whome winters wrath hath wasted,My timely buds with wayling all are wasted:StoureEpicAnd am forlorne, (alas why am I lorne?)Ah foolish Hobbinol, thy gyfts bene vayne:So broke his oaten pype, and downe dyd lye.PastoralWhilome thy fresh spring flowrd, and after hastedAlbee my loue he seeke with dayly suit:Shepheards deuise she hateth as the snake,And now is come thy wynters stormy state,And from mine eyes the drizling teares descend,And eke tenne thousand sithes I blesse the stoure,John MiltonEdmund Spenser