The amorose songes, sonets, and elegies: of M. Alexander Craige, Scoto-Britane

CODRVS Complaint and Farewell to Ralatibia.

A Shepheard poore with store of pains opprest Beneath the branches of a leauie tree, With Lute in hand deliuered his vnrest, When none was nie but Satyrs, Fauns, and hee•• And hauing tund his base and treble string, Hee sigh'd, hee sob'd, and thus began ro sing.

Why am I banisht from those blessed bounds Where I was wont with pleasure to repaire? What cruell doome my comfort so confounds, And casts mee in the confins of dispaire? What haue I done, sayd, thought (allace the while) that can procure proscription and exile?

I am condem'd, and no inditment heard: There is no grace nor mercie in her eyes. I plead for peace, and presence is debard: I loue, she loath's; I follow, and she flies: All modest means that may be, I haue vs'd, My Songs, my selfe, my friends, are all refus'd.

Why, was I borne to be the poynt of paine, The scorne of Time, the obloquie of Fame? My fellow Shepheards frollicke ouer the plaine, They feed their flocks, & court the countrie Dame On Holidayes their Sonets sweet thy sing, And to their Loues their best oblations bring.

But I exild from Kalatibia's eyes By her decret, whom I shall ay adore: Must sacrifice, sigh, tears, plaints, gro••s, and cryes: But all in vaine, and woe is mee therefore: I long, I loue, I fry, I freeze, I pine, No punishment can be compard to mine.

Allace, allace, my flocks both starue and stray, quit macerat to want their maisters eye: Which with Liciscais harmles Barke would stay, And turne againe from neighbour corns to mee: My litle Lambs, my faire and fertill Ewes, With sad reports their plaints for mee renewes.

What madnes mooues remorsles faire, thy mind, Since neither plaints nor prayers can haue place? Hast thou concluded still to kythe vnkind,

And day by day delight in my disgrace? O bee it so! if needs it must be so, For I am armd for euerie kind of woe.

Since I am thus proscrib'd, I pray thee take (Faire Kalatihia) this inforc'd fareweale. Since Fortune, Loue, and weerds, auow my wrake, To whom shall I (despised soule) appeale? O loue no more, nor leue no more a thrall, Die Codrus die, end loue and life and all.

But Pusillany me poore and hartles man, Why wouldst thou die to please so proud a Dame? Though thou be banisht for a while, what than, Shee's not so cruell but shee may reclame? Yet flie, be gone; let good or bad befall thee. And care no more, suppose she neuer recall thee

And thus poore soule, from out the Groue he goes, And leaues (allace) both Lines and Lute behind: Which I (the true Secretar to his woes. And fellow of his fortun••) did foorth find: And for his sake I sigh, sing, say, & show them that cruel she, whō they concern may know thē.