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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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sithes

Sythe) time.
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The Shepheardes Calender: January    Edmund Spenser    EK's gloss

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