Sign in or register
for additional privileges

Scalar Milton

Evan Thomas, Milton Group8, Milton Group7, Milton Group6, Milton Group5, Milton Group4, Milton Group3, Milton Group2, Milton Group1, Milton Group9, Authors

You appear to be using an older verion of Internet Explorer. For the best experience please upgrade your IE version or switch to a another web browser.

Stoure

Stoure) a fitt.
Comment on this page
  • Local Discussion
    •
  • Popout
    •
 

Discussion of "Stoure"

Add your voice to this discussion.

Checking your signed in status ...

The Shepheardes Calender: January    Edmund Spenser    EK's gloss

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