The amorose songes, sonets, and elegies: of M. Alexander Craige, Scoto-Britane
Craig, Alexander, 1567?-1627.
Page [unnumbered]
Elegie to KALA.
REed this, and then no more,
this shalbe last of all,
And should been first, if now I could,
my publisht Rymes recall,
But they are gone abrod
vpon the winges of Fame:
Na, can the glyding Ocean waues
put bounds vnto the same:
The spacious Continent,
Nor yet the bordering mane,
Can neither h•ld the woes nor vowes
of my vnquiet vane.
Nor prayers, nor the prayse
which I haue pend for thee,
Which makes me thus for to be pind,
and thee so proud to bee.
This then shall be the last,
since first it can not bee;
For I haue waird alreadie els
a world of words on thee:
But worlds Democrit said,
were infinite, and so
Page [unnumbered]Thou looks to find infinites
of worlds of words, or moe:
No no; my Poyems haue
proclaymd thy prid, my paine,
And I am wo that I haue waitd
so many words in vaine.
For I haue dryd the braine
of my inuention quit,
And neither conquered my desire,
nor purchast thy delight.
Lo then how I was led
with Loue, that Lordly elff,
That bred no pleasure vnto thee,
nor profet to my selff:
But as Phaeneus poore
for Phisick sought in vaine,
And by his foe was cur'd, when as
hee hop'd hee had been slaine.
So thy disdains haue cur'd
my hurt and vlcerd hart,
And I am weell against thy will,
but sense of old-felt smart.
To Sea with sweetest streams
flows Hypanis the flood,
Page [unnumbered]But Exampeus poysning well,
maks bad which erst was good.
And thus vnlike it selfe
grow's Hypanis: euen so
Thy coy disdaine hath changd a friend,
into a fremmed so.
Thou sawst my dwining looks,
my scalding sighs and sobs:
Thou sawst my teare swolne eyes were full
of liquid pearlie globs.
And yet, as Nero proud,
when Rome was burnd, did grow
As glad as at a Comick sport,
and laugh to see the low.
So thou fals Tyran, thou
from turret of thy prid,
Thou smild at my mishaps as proud,
as braue as Neptuns brid.
But woorthy Phocion
a Captaine braue and stout,
For these vnkind Athenians,
fought fourtie Batels out,
And yet was slaine by them:
and when he died, 'tis told
Page [unnumbered]Hee pray'd his Sone for to forgiue
his death, for kindnes old.
So though I be in poynt
by thy disdaine to die,
My heart shall charge my houering hand,
to write no ill of thee:
For like Themistocles,
I rather drinke the Gall,
Then fight against my once good friend,
though now my loue be small.
Then sometime friend, farewell;
this is my most reuenge,
To thinke no good, to write no ill,
but last of all to change.
