Stoure

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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Stoure

Stoure) a fitt.

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The Shepheardes Calender: January Edmund Spenser EK's gloss

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