Sere

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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Sere

Sere) withered.

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The Shepheardes Calender: January Edmund Spenser EK's gloss

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