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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 1 of 3
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Pastoral

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

n.
II. A person or thing associated with the tending of livestock.
3. a. A literary work portraying rural life or the life of shepherds, esp. in an idealized or romantic form.
5. Pastoral poetry as a form or style of literary composition.

adj.
 2. a. Of poetry, music, pictures, etc.: portraying rural life or characters, esp. in an idealized or romantic manner; bucolic.
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Edmund Spenser

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