Marie Magdalens funeral teares

Marie Magdalens funeral teares

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To the worshipfull and vertuous Gentlewoman, Mistres D. A.

To the Reader.

MARY MAGDALENS Funerall Teares.

Faults escaped in the Printing.

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MARY MAGDALENS Funerall Teares.

EMONGST other mourneful accidents of the passion of Christ, that loue presenteth it selfe to my memory, with which the blessed Mary Magdelen louing our Lord more then her life, followed him in his iourney to his death, attending vppon him when his Disciples fledde, and being more willing to die with him, then they to liue without him. But not finding the fauour to accompany him in death, and loathing after him to remaine in life, the fire of her true affection enflamed her heart, and [Page] her enflamed hart resolued into vncessant teares, so that burning and bathing betwéen loue and griefe, shee led a life euer dying, and felt a death neuer ending. And when hee by whome shée liued was dead, and shée for whom he died enforcedly left aliue, shée praised the dead more then the liuing, and hauing lost that light of her life, shee desired to dwell in darkenesse, and in the shadow of death, choosing Christs Tombe for her best home, and his corse for her chiefe comfort. For Mary (as the Euangelist saith) Stoode Iohn 20. without at the Tombe weeping.

But alas how vnfortunate is this woman, to whome neyther life will afforde a desired farewell, nor death alow any wished welcome. Shée hath abandoned the liuing and chosen the company of the dead, and now it seemeth that euen the dead haue forsaken her, sith the corse shee séeketh is taken away frō her. And this was the cause that loue induced her to stand, and sorrow [Page] enforced her to wéepe. Her eie was watchful to séek, whom her heart most longed to enioy, and her foote in a readinesse to runne, if her eie shoulde chaunce to espy him. And therefore shée standeth to be still stirring, prest to watch euery way, and prepared to goe whether any hope should call her. But shée wept because shée had such occasion of standing, and that which moued her to watch was the motiue of her teares. For as shée watched to finde whom shée had lost, so shée wept for hauing lost whom shée loued, her poore eies being troubled at once with two contrary offices, both to be clear in sight the better to séeke him, and yet cloudy with tears for missing the sight of him.

Yet was not this the entrance but the increase of her griefe, not the beginning but the renewing of her mone. For first shée mourned for the departing of his soule out of his body, and now shée lamented the taking of [Page] his body out of the graue, being punished with two wreckes of her onely welfare, both full of misery, but the last without all comfort. The first originall of her sorrow grew because shée could not enioy him aliue: yet this sorrow had some solace, for that shée hoped to haue enioyed him dead.

But when shée considered that his life was already lost, and now not so much as his body could be found, shee was wholly daunted with dismay, sith this vnhappinesse admitted no helpe. Shee doubted least the loue of her master (the onely portion that her Fortune had left her) would soon languish in her cold brest, if it neither had his wordes to kindle it, nor his presence to cherishe it, nor so much as his dead ashes to rake it vp. Shee had prepared her spices and prouided her ointments, to pay him the last Tribute of Ioan. 19. eternall dueties. And though Ioseph and Nichodemus had already bestowed a hundred pounds of Mirthe and Aloes, [Page] which was in quantity sufficient, in quality of the best, and as well applied as art and deuotion could deuise: yet such was her loue, that shée would haue thought any quantity too little, except hers had béene added, the best in quality too meane except hers were with it, and no diligence in applying it inough, except her seruice were in it. Not that shée was sharpe in censuring that which others had done, but because loue made her so desirous to doe all her selfe, that though all had béene done that shée could deuise, and as wel as shee could wishe, yet vnlesse shee were an Actor it would not suffice, sith loue is as eager to bee vttered in effects, as it is zealous in true affection. Shee came therefore now meaning to enbalme his corps, as shee had before annointed his feet, and to preserue the reliques of his body, as the only remnant of all her blisse. And as in the spring of her felicitie shee had washed his feete with her teares, be wailing [Page] vnto him the death of her own soule: so nowe shee came in the depth of her misery, to shedde them a freshe for the death of his body. But when she saw the graue open, and the body taken out, the labour of embalming was preuented, but the cause of her wéeping increased, and he that was wanting to her obsequies, was not wanting to her teares, and though shée founde not whom to annoint, yet found she whom to lament.

And not without cause did Mary complaine, finding her first anguishe doubled with a second griefe, and being surcharged with two most violent sorrowes in one afflicted heart. For hauing setled her whole affection vppon Christ, and summoned all her desires and wishes into the loue of his goodnes, as nothing could equall his worthes: so was ther not in the whole world, either a greater benefit for her to enioy then himselfe, or any greater domage possible then his losse.

[Page] The murdering in his one death, the life of all lifes, left a general death in all liuing creatures, and his disease not onely disrobed our nature of her most roiall ornaments, but impouerished the world of all highest perfections. What meruaile therefore though her vehement loue to so louely a Lord, being after the wrecke of his life, now also depriued of his dead body, feele as bitter pangues for his losse, as before it tasted ioyes in his presence, and opē as large an issue to teares of sorrowe, as euer heretofore to tears of contentment. And though teares were rather oile then water to her flame, apter to nourish then diminish her grief: yet being now plunged in the depth of paine, shee yéelded her selfe captiue to all discomfort, carrying an ouèrthrowen mind in a more enfeebled body, and still busie in deuising, but euer doubtfull in defining what shée might best doe. For what could a seely woman doe but weepe, that floating in a Sea [Page] of cares, founde neither eare to heare her, nor tongue to direct her, nor hand to helpe her, nor heart to pitty her in her desolate case? True it is that Peter and Iohn came with her to the tombe, and to make triall of her report were both within it: but as they were speedy in comming, and diligent in searching, so were they as quick to depart, and fearefull of farther seeking. And alas, what gained shee by their comming, but two witnesses of her losse, two dismaiers of her hope, and two paterns of a new despaire? Loue moued them to come, but their loue was soone conquered, with such a feare, that it suffered them not to stay. But Mary hoping in dispaire, and perseuering in hope, stood without feare, because shée now thought nothing left that ought to be feared. For shée had lost her maister to whom shée was so entirely deuoted, that hee was the totall of her loues, the height of her hopes, and the vttermost of her feares, and therefore [Page] beside him, shée could neither loue other creature, hope for other comfort, nor feare other losse. The worst shee could feare was the death of her body, and that shée rather desired then feared, sith shée had already lost the life of her soule, without which any other life would be a death, and with which any other death would haue ben a delight. But now shée thought it better to die then to liue, because shée might happely dying finde, whome not dying shee looked not to enioy, and not enioying shée had little will to liue. For nowe shée loued nothing in her life, but her loue to Christ, & if any thing did make her willing to liue, it was onelye the vnwillingnesse that his Image should die with her, whose likenesse loue had limmed in her heart, and treasured vp in her swéetest memories. And had shée not feared to break the Table, and to breake open the closet, to which shée had entrussed this last relique of her lost happinesse, the violence of griefe [Page] would haue melted her heart into inward bleeding teares, and blotted her remembraunce with a fatall obliuion. And yet neuerthelesse, shée is no we in so imperfect a sort aliue, that it is proued true in her that Loue is as strong as Death. For what could death haue done more in Mary then Loue did. Her wittes were astonied, and all her senses so amased, that in the end finding shée did not know, séeing shée could not discern, hearing shée perceiued not, and more then all this, shée was not there where shée was, for shée was wholly where her Maister was, more where shée loued then where shée liued, and lesse in her self then in his body, which notwithstanding, where it was shee could not imagine. For she sought, and as yet found it not, and therefore stood at the Tombe weeping for it, being now altogether giuen to mourning & driuen to misery.

But O Mary, by whose counsaile, vppon what hope, or with what hart, [Page] couldest thou stand alone, when the Disciples were departed? Thou wert there once before they came, thou returnest againe at their comming, and yet now thou staiest when they are gone. Alas that thy Lord is not in the Tombe, thy own eies haue often séen, the Disciples hands haue felt, the empty Sindon doth auouch, and cannot al this winne thée to beléeue it? No no, thou wouldest rather condemne thy owne eies of error, and both their eies and handes of deceite, yea rather suspect all testimonies for untrue, then not looke whom thou hast lost, euen there, where by no diligence he coulde be found. When thou thinkest of other places, and canst not imagine any so likely as this, thou séekest againe in this, and though neuer so often sought, it must still bee a haunt for hope, for when things dearely affected are lost, loues nature is, neuer to be weary of searching euen the oftenest searched corners, being more willing to thinke [Page] that all the senses are mistaken, then to yéelde that hope should quaile. Yet now sith it is so euident, that he is taken away, what should moue thee to remaine here where the perill is apparent, and no profite likely? Can the witof one (and shée a woman) wholly possessed with passion, haue more light to discerne daunger, then two wittes of two men, and both principall fauorites of the parent of all wisedom? Or if (notwithstanding the danger) there had béene iust cause to encounter it, were not two together, being both to Christ sworne companions, each to other affied friends, and to all his ennemies professed foes, more likely to haue preuailed, then one feminine heart, timorous by kinde, and already amased with this dreadfull accident?

But alas why doe I vrge her with reason, whole reason is altered into loue, and that iudgeth it folly to follow such reason, as should any way impair her loue. Her thoughts were arrested [Page] by euery thredde of Christs Sindon, and shée was captiue in so many prisons, as the Tombe had memories of her lost maister, Loue being her Iailor in them all, and nothing able to raunsome her, but the recouery of her Lord. What maruaile then though the Apostles examples drew her not away, whome so violent a loue enforced to remaine, which prescribing lawes both to witte and wil, is guided by no other lawe but it selfe? Shee could not thinke of any fear, nor stand in feare of any force. Loue armed her against all hazardes, and being already wounded with the greatest griefe, shée had not leisure to remember any lesser euill. Yea shée had forgotten all things, and her selfe among al things, onely mindefull of him, whom shée loued aboue all thinges. And yet her loue by reason of her losse, drownev both her mind and memory so déepe in sorrow, and so busied her wittes in the conceite of his absence, that al remembraunce [Page] of his former promises, was diuerted with the throng of present discomforts, and shée séemed to haue forgotten also him besides whome shée remembred nothing. For doubtlesse had she remembred him as she should, shée should not haue now thought the Tombe a fitte place to séeke him, neither would shée mourne for him as dead, and remoued by others force, but ioy in him as reuiued, and risen by his owne power. For hee had often foretold both the manner of his death, and the day of his resurrection. But alas let her heauinesse excuse her, and the vnwontednes of the miracle plead her pardon, sith dread and amazement hath dulled her senses, distempered her thoughts, discouraged her hopes, awaked her passions, and left her no other liberty but onely to wéepe.

Shée wept therefore, being onely able to wéepe. And, As shee was weeping, shee stouped down and looked Iohn 20. into the Monument, and she saw two [Page] Angels in white, sitting one at the head, and an other at the feete, where the body of Iesus had beene layd. They said vnto her, Woman why wepest thou?

O Mary, thy good hap excéedeth thy hope, and where thy last sorrow was bred, thy first succour springeth. Thou diddest séeke but one, and thou hast found two. A dead body was thy errand, and thou hast light vppon two aliue. Thy wéeping was for a man, and thy téars haue obtained Angels. Suppresse now thy sadnes, and refresh thy heart with this good Fortune. These angels inuite thée to a parlée, they séem to take pitty of thy case, and it may be they haue some happy tidinges to tell thée. Thou hast hitherto sought in vaine, as one either vnséene, or vnknown, or at the least vnregarded, sith the party thou séekest, neither tendereth thy teares, nor aunswereth thy cries, nor relenteth with thy lamentings. Either he doth not heare, or hée [Page] will not helpe, he hath peraduenture left to loue thée, and is loath to yéelde thée reliefe, & therefore take such comfort as thou findest, sith thou art not so lucky, as to finde that which thou couldest wish. Remember what they are, where they sitte, from whence they come, and to whom they speake. They are Angels of peace, neither sent with out cause, nor séen but of fauour. They sit in the Tombe, to shew that they are no straungers to thy losse. They come from Heauen, from whence all happy newes descend. They spake to thy selfe, as though they had some speciall Embassage to deliuer vnto thée. Aske them therfore of thy maister, for they are likeliest to returne thée a desired aunswere. Thou knewest him too well, to thinke that hell hath deuoured him, thou hast long sought, and hast not found him in earth, and what place so fit for him as to be in heauen. Aske therefore of those Angels that came newly from thence, and it may be, their [Page] report will highly please thée? Or if thou art resolued to continue thy séeking, who can better helpe thée then they that are as swift as thy thought, as faithfull as thy owne heart, and as louing to thy Lord as thou thy selfe? Take therefore thy good hap, least it be taken away from thée, and content thée with Angels sith thy maister hath giuen thée ouer.

But alas what meaneth this change, & how happeneth this strange alteration? The time hath béene that fewer teares would haue wrought greater effecte, shorter séeking haue sooner found, and lesse paine haue procured more pitty. The time hath ven that thy annointing his féete, was accepted and praised, thy washing them with teares highly commended, and thy wyping them with thy haire, most curteously construed. How then doth it now fall out, that hauing brought thy swéete oiles, to annoint his whole body, hauing shed as many teares, as [Page] would haue washed more then his féet, and hauing not only thy haire but thy heart ready to serue him, he is not moued with all these duties, so much as once to affoorde thée his sight. Is it not he that reclaimed thee from thy wandring courses, that dispossessed thee of thy damned inhabitants, and from the wildes of sinne, recouered thee into the folde and family of his flocke? was not thy house his home, his loue thy life, thy selfe his Disciple? did not hee defend thée against the Pharisee, pleade for thée against Iudas, and excuse thée to thy sister? In summe, was not hee thy patron and protector in all thy necessities.

O good Iesu what hath thus estranged thée from her? Thou hast heretofore so pittied her teares, that séeing them thou couldest not refraine thine. In one of her greatest agonies for loue of her, that so much loued thée, thou diddest recall her dead brother to life, turning her complaint into vnexpected [Page] contentment. And we knowe that thou doest not vse to alter course without cause, nor to chastice without desert. Thou art the first that inuitest, and the last that forsakest, neuer leauing but first left, and euer offering, til thou art refused. How then hath shée forfaited thy fauour? Or with what trespasse hath shée earned thy ill will? That shée neuer left to loue thée, her heart will depose, her hand will subscribe, her tongue will protest, her teares wil testify, and her séeking doth assure. And alas is her particular case so farre from all example, that thou shouldest rather alter thy nature, then shée better her Fortune, and be to her as thou art to no other? For our parts since thy last shew of liking towardes her, we haue found no other faulte in her, but that shée was the eareliest vp to séeke thée, readiest to annoint thée, and when shée saw that thou wert remoued, shée forthwith did wéepe for thée, and presently went for helpe to [Page] finde thée. And whereas those two that shée brought, being lesse careful of thée, then fearefull of themselues, when they had séene what shée had sayd, sodainely shrunke away, behold shée stil staieth, shée still séeketh, shée still wéepeth. If this be a fault, we cannot deny but this shée doth and to this shée perswadeth, yea this she neither meaneth to amend, nor requesteth thée to forgiue: if therfore thou reckōnest this as punishable, punished shée must be, sith no excuse hath effect wher the fact pleadeth guilty. But if this import not any offence but a true affection, and be rather a good desire then an euil desert, why art thou so hard a Iudge to so soft a creature, requiting her loue with thy losse, and suspending her hopes in this vnhappinesse? Are not those thy wordes? I loue those that loue mee, and who watcheth earely for me shall finde mee. Why then doth not this woman finde thée, that was vp so early to watch for thée? Why doest thou [Page] not with like repay her, that bestoweth vppon thée her whole loue, sith thy word is her warrant, and thy promise her due debt? Art thou lesse moued with these tears that shée sheddeth for thée her onely Maister, then thou wert with those that shée shed before thée for her deceased brother? Or doth her loue to thy seruaunt more please thée then her loue to thy selfe? Our loue to others must not be to them but to thée in them. For he loueth thée so much the lesse, that loueth anything with thée, that he loueth not for thée. If therefore shée then deserued wel for louing thée in an other, shée deserueth better now for louing thée in thy selfe, and if in déede thou louest those that loue thée, make thy worde good to her, that is so far in loue with thée. Of thy selfe thou hast sayd, that thou art The way, the truth and the life, If then thou art a way easie to find & neuer erring, how doth shée misse thée? If a life giuing life and neuer ending, why is [Page] shée ready to die for thée? If a true promising truth & neuer failing, howe is shée bereaued of thée? For if what thy tongue did speake, thy truth will auerre, shée will neuer aske more to make her most happy. Remember that thou saidst to thy sister, that Mary had chosen the best part which should not be takē from her. That shée choose the best part is out of question, sith shée made choise of nothing but onelye of thée. But how can it be verified, that this part shall not be taken from her, sith thou that art this part art already taken away? If shée could haue kept thée, shée would not haue lost thée, and had it béene in her power, as it was in her will, shée would neuer haue parted from thée: and might shée nowe bée restored to thy presence, shée would try all Fortunes rather then forgoe thée. Sith therefore shée seketh nothing but what shée choose, and the losse of her choise is the onely cause of her comber, either vouchsafe thou to kéepe this best [Page] part that shée choose in her, or I sée not how it can be true, that it shall not bée taken from her. But thy meaning happely was, that though it be taken from her eies, yet it should neuer bee taken from her heart, and it may be thy inward presence supplieth thine outward absence: yet I can hardlye thinke, but that if Mary had thée within her, shée could féele it, and if shée felt it, shée would neuer séeke thée. Thou art too hoate a fire to be in her bosome, and not to burne her, and thy light is too great, to leaue her minde in this darkenesse if it shined in her. In true louers euery part is an eie, and euery thought a looke, and therefore so swéet an obiect among so many eies, and in so great a light, could neuer lie so hidden but loue would espie it. No no if Mary had thée, her innocent heart neuer taght to dissemble, could not make complaint, the out side of a concealed comforte, neither would shée turne her thoughtes to pasture in a dead mans [Page] tombe, if at home shée might bid them to so heauenly a banquet. Her loue would not haue a thought to spare, nor a minute to spend, in any other action then in enioying of thée, whome shée knew too wel, to abridge the least part in her from so high a happinesse. For her thirst of thy presence was so excéeding, and the Sea of thy ioies so well able to afforde her a full draught, that though euery parcell in her should take in a whole tide of thy delightes, shée would thinke them too few to quiet her desires. Yea doubtlesse if shée had thée within her, shée would not enuye the Fortune of the richest Empresse, yea shée would more reioyce to be thy tōbe in earth then a throne in heauen, and disdain to be a Saint if shée were worthy to be but thy shrine.

But peraduenture it is now with her mind, as it was with the Apostles eies, and as they séeing thee walk vppon the sea, tooke thée for a Ghost, so shée séeing thee in her heart, déemeth [Page] thée but a fansie, being yet better acquainted with thy bodily shape, then with thy spirituall power.

But O Mary it séemeth too strange that hee whome thou séekest, and for whome thou wéepest should thus giue thée ouer, to these painefull fittes, if in thée he did not sée a cause for which he will not be séene of thée. Still thy plaint and stint thy wéeping, for I doubt there is some trespasse in thy teares, and some sinne in thy sorrow: doest thou not remember his wordes to thée and to other women, when he said: Daughters of Hierusalem weepe not vppon me, but weepe vppon your selues and vpon your children. What meanest thou then to continue this course? Doth he forbid thy teares, and wilt not thou forbeare them? Is it no fault to infringe his will, or is not that his will, that his wordes doe import? The fault must be mended, ere the penaunce be released, and therefore either cease to wéepe or neuer hope to [Page] finde. But I know this Logicke little pleaseth thée, and I might as soon win thée to forbeare liuing, as to leaue weping.

Thou wilt say that though he forbad thée to wéepe for him, yet he lefte thée free, to wéepe for thy selfe, and sith thy loue hath made thée one with him, thou wepest but for thy self when thou wéepest for him. But I aunswer thée againe, that because he is one with thée, and thy wéeping for him hath bin forbidden thée, thou canst not wéepe for thy selfe, but his wordes will condemn thee. For if thou and he are one, for which soeuer thou weepest it is all one, and therefore sith for him thou maiest not weepe, forbeare all weeping least it should offend.

Yea but (saiest thou) to barre mee from weeping, is to abridge me of liberty, and restraint of liberty is a penalty, and euery penalty supposeth some offence: but an offence it is not to weep for my selfe, for he would neuer [Page] commaund it, if it were not lawfull to doe it. The fault therefore must be, in being one with him, that maketh the weeping for my selfe, a weeping also for him. And if this be a fault, I will neuer amend it, and let them that thinke it so, doe penaunce for it, for my part, sith I haue lost my mirth, I will make much of my sorrow, and sith I haue no ioy but in teares, I may lawfully shedde them. Neither thinke I his former word, a warrant against his latter deede. And what neede had he to weepe vppon the Crosse, but for our example, which if it were good for him to giue, it can not be euill for mee to follow. No no it is not my weeping that causeth my losse, sith a worlde of eies, & a sea of tears, could not worthely bewaile the misse of such a maister.

Yet since, neither thy seeking findeth, nor thy weeping preuaileth satisfy thy selfe with the sight of Angels. Demaunding the cause of their comming, and the reason of thy Lords remoue, [Page] and sith they first offer the occasion of parley, be not thou too dainty of thy discourse. It may be they can calm thy stormes, and quiet thy vnrest, and therefore conceale not from them thy sore, leaste thou loose the benefite of their emplaister. But nothing can moue Mary to admit comfort, or entertaine any company, for to one alone and for euer she hath vowed her selfe, and except it be to him, shee will neither lend her eare long to others, nor borrow others helpe, least by seeking to alay her smart, shee should lessen her loue. But drawing into her minde all pensiue conceites, shee museth and pineth in a consuming languor, taking comfort in nothing but in being comfortlesse.

Alas saith shee, small is the light that a starre can yeeld when the Sun is downe, and a sorry exchange to goe gather crummes after the losse of a heuenly repast. My eyes are not vsed to see by the glims of a sparke: and in seking [Page] the sunne it is either needeles or booteles to borrowe the light of a candle, sith eyther it must bewray it selfe with the selfe light, or no other light can euer discouer it. If they come to disburden me of my heauinesse, their comming wil be burdensom vnto me, and they wil load me more while they labour my reliefe. They cannot perswade me, that my Maister is not lost, for my owne eyes will disproue them. They can lesse tell me where he may be found, for they would not be so simple, to be so long from him: or if they ran forbeare him, surely they doe not know him, whom none cā truly know and liue long without him. All their demurres would be tedious, and discourses irkesome. Impaire my loue they might, but appay it they could not, to which he that first accepted the debt, is the onely paiment. They eyther want power, will or leaue to tell me my desire, or at the first word they would haue don it, sith Angels are not [Page] vsed to idle spéeches, and to me al talke is idle, that doth not tell me of my master. They know not where he is, and therefore they are come to the place where he last was, making the tombe their heauen, and the remembrance of his presence the foode of their felicity. Whatsoeuer they could tell me, if they told me not of him, and whatsoeuer they should tell me of him, if they told me not where he were, both their telling and my hearing were but a wasting of time. I neither came to sée thē, nor desire to heare them. I came not to sée Angels, but him that made both me and Angels, and to whom I owe more then both to men and Angels.

And to thée I appeal O most louing Lord, whether my afflicted heart doe not truely defray the tribute of an vndeuided loue. To thée I appeale whether I haue ioyned any partner with thee in the small possession of my poore selfe. And I would to God I were as priuy where thy body is, as thou art, [Page] who is onely Lord and owner of my soule.

But alas swéet Iesu, where thou wert thou art not, where thou art I know not: wretched is the case that I am in, and yet how to better it I cannot imagin. Alas O my onely desire, why hast thou left me wauering in these vncertainties, and in how wilde a maze wander my doubtfull and perplexed thoughts? If I stay here where he is not I shall neuer finde him. If I would goe farther to séeke, I knowe not whether. To leaue the tombe is a death, and to stand helpeles by it an vncurable disease, so that all my comfort is now concluded in this, that I am left frée to choose whether I will stay without helpe, or goe without hope, that is in effect, with what torment I will end my life. And yet euen this were too happy a choise for so vnhappy a creature. If I might be chooser of my owne death, O how quickely should that choise be made, and how [Page] willingly would I runne to that execution? I would be nailed to the same crosse, with the same nailes, and in the same place: my heart should be wounded with his speare, my head with his thornes, my body with his whips: Finally I would taste al his tormentes, and tread all his embrued and bloudy steppes.

But O ambitious thoughts, why gaze you vpon so high a felicity? why think you of so glorious a death, yt are priuy to so infamous a life? death alas I deserue, yea not one but infinite deaths. But so swéet a death, seasoned with so many comforts, the very instruments whereof were able to raise the deadest corps, & depure the most defiled soule, were too small a scourge for my great offences. And therefore I am left to feele so many deaths, as I liue hours, and to passe as many pangues, as I haue thoughts of my losse, which are as many as there are minutes, and as violēt as if they were all in euery one. [Page] But sith I can neither die as he died, nor liue where he lieth dead, I will liue out my liuing death by his graue, and die on my dying life by his swéete tombe. Better is it after losse of his body to looke to his sepulchre, then after losse of the one, to leaue the other to be destroyed. No no, though I haue béene robbed of the Saint, I wil at the least haue care of the shrine, which though it be spoiled of the most soueraigne hoast, yet shall it be the Altar where I will daily sacrifie my heart, and offer vp my teares.

Here will I euer leade, yea here to I meane to end my wretched life, that I may at the least bee buried by the tombe of my Lord, and take my iron sléepe neere this couche of stone, which his presence hath made the place of swéetest repose.

It may be also that this empte Sindon lying héere to no vse, and this tōbe being opē without any in it, may giue occasion to some mercifull heart, [Page] that shall first light vpon my vnburied body, to wrap me in this shroud, and to interre me in this tombe.

O too fortunate lott, for so vnfortunate a woman to craue: no no, I doe not craue it. For alas I dare not, yet if such a sinfull ouersight shoulde be committed, I doe now beforehand forgiue that sinner, and were it no more presumption to wish it aliue then to suffer it dead, if I knew the party that shuld first passe by me, I woulde woe him with my teares, and hire him with my praiers, to blesse me with this felicity. And though I dare not wish anie to do it, yet this without offence I may say to all, that I loue this Syndon aboue all clothes in the world, and this tomb I estéeme more, then any princes monument: yea, and I thinke that corse highly fauoured, that shall succéede my Lord in it, and for my part as I mean, that the ground where I stand shall be my death-bed, so am I not of Iacobs minde to haue my bodie buried farre [Page] from the place where it dieth, but euen in the next and readiest graue, and that as soone as my breath faileth, sith delaies are bootlesse, where death hath wonne possession.

But alas I dare not say any more: let my bodie take such fortune as befalleth it: my soule at the least shall dwel in this swéet Paradise, and from this britle case of flesh and bloud, passe presently into the glorious tombe of God and man. It is nowe enwrapped in a masse of corruption, it shall then enioy a place of high perfection: where it is nowe it is more by force then by choise, and like a repining prisoner in a loathed gayle. But there in little roume it should finde perfect rest, and in the prison of death, the libertie of a ioyfull life.

O swéet tomb of my swéetest Lord, while I liue I will stay by thee: when I die, I will cleaue vnto thée: neither aliue nor dead, will I euer be drawne from thée. Thou art the altar of mercie, [Page] the temple of trueth, the sanctuary of safetie, the graue of death, and the cradle of eternall life. O heauen of my eclipsed sunne, receiue into thee this sillie starre, that hath nowe also lost all wished light. O Whale that hast swallowed my onely Ionas, swallowe also me more worthy to be thy pray, sith I, and not he, was the cause of this bloudie tempest. O Cesterne of my innocent Ioseph, take me into thy drie bottome, sith I, and not he, gaue iust cause of offence to my enraged brethren. But alas, in what cloud hast thou hidden the light of our way? Upon what shoare hast thou cast vp the preacher of all trueth? or to what Ismaelite hast thou yéelded the purueyour of our life?

O vnhappie me, why did I not before thinke of that which I now aske? why did I leaue him when I heard him, thus to lament him nowe, that I haue lost him? If I had watched with perseuerance, either none would haue [Page] taken him, or they shoulde haue taken me with him.

But through too much precisenesse in keeping the lawe, I haue lost the lawmaker, and by being too scrupulous in obseruing his ceremonies, I am proued irreligious in loosing himselfe, sith I should rather haue remained with the trueth then forsaken it, to solemnize the figure. The Sabboth could not haue bin prophaned in standing by his corse, by which the prophanest thinges are sanctified, & whose couch doth not defile the cleane, but clenseth the most defiled.

But when it was time to stay, I departed: When it was too late to helpe, I returned: and nowe I repent my folly, when it cannot be amended. But let my heart dissolue into sighes, mine eyes melt in teares, and my desolate soule languish in dislikes: yea let all that I am and haue, indure the deserued punishment, that if hee were incensed with my fault, he may [Page] be appeased with my penance, and returne vpon the amendement that fled from the offence.

Thus when hir timorous cōscienec had indited hir of so great an omission, & hir toong enforced the euidence with these bitter accusations, Loue, that was now the onely vmpier in all hir causes, condemned hir eyes to a freshe showre of teares, hir brest to a new storme of sighes, and hir soule, to be perpetuall prisoner to restlesse sorrowes.

But O Mary, thou deceiuest thy selfe in thy owne desires, and it well appeareth, that excesse of griefe, hath bred in thee a defect of due prouidence.

And wouldest thou indeed haue thy wishes, come to passe, and thy wordes fulfilled? Tell me then, I pray thee if thy heart were dissolued, where wouldest thou harbor thy Lord? what wouldest thou offer him? how wouldst thou loue him?

[Page] Thy eyes haue lost him, thy hands cannot féele him, thy féet cannot follow him, and if he be at all in thée, it is thy heart that hath him, and wouldest thou now haue that dissolued, from thence also to exile him? And if thy eyes were melted, thy soule in languor, and thy senses decayed, how wouldest thou see him, if he did appeare? howe shouldest thou heare him, if he did speake? howe couldest thou knowe him, though hée were there present?

Thou thinkest happily that hee loueth thée so wel, that if thy heart were spent for his loue, he would either lend his owne heart vnto thee, or create a newe heart in thee, better then that which thy sorrow tooke from thée. It may bee, thou imaginest, that if thy soule woulde giue place, his soule wanting nowe a body, would enter into thine, with supplie of all thy senses, and release of thy sorrowes.

O Mary thou didst not marke what thy maister was woont to say, when [Page] he told thee, that the third day he shuld rise againe. For if thou hadst heard him, or at the least vnderstoode him, thou wouldest not thinke, but that hée now vseth both his heart and soule in the life of his owne body. And therefore repaire to the angels, and enquire more of them, least thy Lord be displeased, that comming from him thou wilt not entertaine them.

But Marie whose deuotions were all fixed vpon a nobler Saint, and that had so straightly bound hir thoughtes to his onely affection, that shee rather desired to vnknow whom she knew alreadie, then to burthen her mind with the knowledge of newe acquaintance, could not make her wil, long since possessed with the highest loue, stoupe to the acceptance of meaner friendships, And for this though she did not scornefully reiect, yet did she with humilitie refuse the Angels company, thinking it no discourtesie to take her selfe from them, for to giue her selfe more wholly [Page] to her Lord, to whome both shee and they were wholly deuoted, and ought most loue and greatest dutie. Sorrow also being nowe the onely interpreter of all that sense, deliuered to her vnderstanding, made hir conster their demand in a more doubtfull then true meaning.

If (saith she) they come to ease my affliction, they coulde not be ignorant of the cause: and if they were not ignorant of it, they woulde neuer aske it: why then did they say, Woman why weepest thou?

If their question did import a prohibition, the necessitie of the occasion doth countermand their counsaile, and fitter it were they shoulde wéepe with me, then I in not wéeping obey them.

If the Sunne were ashamed to shew his brightnesse, when the father of all lightes was darkened with such disgrace: If the heauens discolouring their beauties, suted themselues to their makers fortune; If the whole [Page] frame of nature were almost dissolued to sée the authour of nature so vnnaturally abused: why may not Angelles, that best knewe the indignitie of the case, make vp a part in this lamentable consort: And especially nowe, that by the losse of his bodie, the cause of wéeping is increased, and yetthe number of mourners lessened: sith the Apostles are fled, all his friends afraid, and poore I left alone to supplie the teares of all creatures?

O who will giue water to my head, & a fountaine of teares vnto my eyes that I may weepe day and night, and neuer cease weeping? O my only Lord thy griefe was the greatest that euer was in man, and my griefe as great as euer happened to woman: for my loue hath carued me no small portion of thine, thy losse hath redoubled the torment of mine owne, and all creatures séeme to haue made ouer to me theirs, leauing mee as the vice-gereut of all their sorrows. Sorrow with me at the [Page] least thou O Tombe, and thawe into teares you hardest stones. The time is now come, that you are licensed to cry, and bound to recompence the silence of your Lordes Disciples, of whome hée himselfe said to the Pharisies, that if they held their peace, the verie stones should crie for them. Nowe therefore sith feare hath locked vp their lips, & sadnesse made thē mute, let the stones crie out against the murderers of my Lord, and bewray the robbers of his sacred body.

And I feare that were it well knowen, who hath taken him away, there is no stone so stony, but should haue cause to lament.

It was doubtlesse the spite of some malicious Pharisée or bloudy Scribe, that not contented with those torments, that he suffred in life (of which euery one to any other would haue bin a tirannicall death) hath now stollen away his dead body, to practise vppon it some sauage cruelty, and to glutte [Page] their pittilesse eies, and brutish heart with the vnnaturall vsage of his helples corps. O yée rockes and stones if euer you must cry out, now it is highe time, sith the light, the life, and the Lord of the world, is thus darkened, massacred, and outragiously missused.

Doth not this tongue, whose truth is infallible, and whose word omnipotent, commaunding both windes and seas, and neuer disobeyed of the moste insensible creatures, promise to arme the world, & to make the whole earth to fight against the sencelesse persons, Sap. 5. in defence of the iust? And who more iust then the lord of iustice? who more sencelesse then his barbarous murderers, whose insatiable thirst of his innocent bloud, could not be staunched, with their cruell butchering him at his death, vnles they procéeded farther in this hellish impiety to his dead body? Why then doe not all creatures addresse themselues to reuenge so iust a quarrell, vppon so sencelesse wretches, [Page] left of all reason, forsaken of humanity, & bereaued of all féeling both of God and man?

O Mary, why doest thou thus torment thy selfe with these tragical surmises? Doest thou thinke that the Angels would sit still, if their Maister were not well? Did they serue him after his fasting, and would they despise him after his dicease? Did they comfort him before he was apprehended, & would none defend him when he was dead? If in the garden hée might haue had twelue Legions of them, is his power so quite dead with his body, that he could not now commaund thē? Was there an Angell found to helpe Daniel to his dinner, to saue Tobye from the fish, yea and to defend Balaās poore beast from his Maisters rage, and is the Lord of Angelles of so little reckonning, that if his body stoode in néede, neuer an Angell would defende it? Thou séest two here present to honour his Tombe, and how much more [Page] carefull would they be to doe homage to his person? Beléeue not Mary that they would smile, if thou haddest such occasion to wéepe. They would not so gloriously shine in white, if a blacke & mourning wéede did better become them, or were a fitter liuery for theyr Maister to giue, or them to weare. Yeelde not more to thy vncertain fear, [...] deceiued loue, then to their assured [...]wledge, and neuer erring charity. [...] a materiall eye sée more then a [...]uenly spirite, or the glimmering of [...] twi-light giue better aym then the beames of their eternal Sun? Would they, thinkest thou, wait vpō the winding sheete, while the corse were abused, or be here for thy comfort, if their Lord did néede their seruice? No no, he was neither any théeues bootye, nor Pharisées praye, neyther are the Angels so careles of him, as thy suspition presumeth. And if their presence and demeanour can not alter thy conceite, looke vppon the clothes and they will [Page] teach thée thine errour, and cleare thée of thy doubt.

Would any théefe thinkest thou haue béen so religious, as to haue stollen the body and left the clothes? yea would he haue béene so venturous, as to haue staied the vnshrowding of the corse, the well ordering of the shéets, and folding vp the napkins? Thou knowest that mirrhe maketh linnen cleaue as fast, as pitch or glue: and was a théefe at so much leisure, as to dissolue the mirrhe and vncloath the dead? what did the watch while the seales were broken, the Tombe opened, the body vnfolded, al other things ordered as now thou seest? And if all this cannot yet perswad thee, beleeue at the least thy own experience? when thy maister was stripped at the crosse, thou knowest that his onely garmont being congealed to his goary backe, came not off without many partes of his skinne, and doubtlesse would haue torne off many more, if it had béen annointed [Page] with mirrhe: Looke then into the shéete, whether there remaine any parcell of skinne, or any one haire of his head: and sith there is none to bée found, beléeue some better issue of thy maisters absence, then thy feare suggesteth. A guilty conscience doubteth want of time, and therfore dispatcheth hastely. It is in hazard to be discouered, and therefore practiseth in darkenes and secresie. It euer worketh in extreame feare, and therefore hath no leisure to place things orderly. But to vnwrappe so mangled a body, out of mirrhed clothes, without tearing of any skinne, or leauing on any mirrhe, is a thing either to man impossible, or not possible to be done with such spéed, without light or help, and with so good order. Assure thy selfe therefore, that if either of malice, or by fraud, the corse had béen remoued, the linnen & mirrhe should neuer haue béene left, and neither could the Angels looke so chearfully, nor the cloths lie so orderly, but to [Page] import som happier accident, then thou conceiuest.

But to frée thée more from feare, consider those wordes of the Angelles, Woman why weepest thou? For what doe they signify but as much in effecte as if they had said: Where Angels reioyce it agréeth not that a womā shold wéepe, and where heauenly eies are witnesses of ioy, no mortall eye should controll them with testimonies of sorrow? With more then a manly corage thou diddest before thy comming, arme thy féete to runne among swords, thy armes to remoue huge loads, thy body to endure al tirants rage, and thy soul to be sundred with violent tortures: and art thou now so much a Woman that thou canst not command thy eies to forbeare teares? If thou wert a true Disciple, so many proofes would perswade thée, but now thy incredulous humor, maketh thée vnworthy of that stile, and we can affoorde thée no better title then a Woman, and therefore O [Page] Woman and too much a Woman, why weepest thou?

If there were here any corse, wée might thinke that sorrow for the dead enforced thy teares, but now that thou findest it a place of the liuing, why dost thou here stand weeping for the dead?

Is our presence so discomfortable, that thou shouldest wéep to behold vs? or is it the course of thy kindnesse with teares to entertaine vs? If they bée tears of loue to testify thy good will, as thy loue is acknowledged, so let these signes be suppressed. If they be teares of anger to denounce thy displeasure, they should not here haue béene shedde where all anger was buried but none deserued. If they be teares of sorrow and dueties to the dead, they are bestowed in vaine where the dead is reuiued. If they be teares of ioy, stilled from the flowers of thy good Fortune, fewer of these would suffice, and fitter were other tokens to expresse thy contentment. And therefore O VVoman [Page] why doest thou weepe? Would our eies be so dry, if such eie streams were behoouefull? Yea would not the heauens rain tears if thy suppossals were truths? Did not Angels alwaies in their visible semblaunces, represent their lords inuisible pleasure, shadowing in their shapes the drift of his intentions? When God was incensed they brandished swords: When hée was appeased, they sheathed them in scabbards: When hée would defend, they resembled souldiers, when hée would terrify they took terrible forms, and when he would comfort, they carried mirth in their eies, swéetenes in their countenaunce, mildenes in their wordes, fauour, grace and comlinesse in their whole presence. Why thē dost thou wéepe, séeing vs to reioyce? Dost thou imagin vs to degenerate from our nature, or to forget any duety, whose state is neither subiect to chāge, nor capable of the least offence? Art thou more feruent in thy loue, or more [Page] priuy to the counsaile of our eternall God, then we that are daily attendāts at his throne of glory? O Woman déeme not amisse against so apparaunt euidence, and at our request exchange thy sorrow for our ioy.

But O glorious Angels, why doe yée moue her to ioy, if you know why shée wéepeth? Alas shée wéepeth for the losse of him without whom all ioy is to her but matter of new griefe. While hée liued, euery place where shée found him, was to her a Paradise: euery season wherin he was enioyned, a perpetuall spring: euery exercise wherein he was serued a speciall felicity: the ground whereon hée went séemed to yéelde her swéeter footing: the aire wherein hée breathed, becam to her spirite of life, being once sanctified in his sacred brest. In summe, his presence brought with it a heauen of delightes, and his departure séemed to leaue an Eclipse in all things. And yet euen the places that he had once honored [Page] with the accesse of his person, were to her so many swéete pilgrimages, which in his absēce shée vsed, as chappels and altars, to offer vp her prayers, féeling in them long after, the vertue of his former presence. And therefore to féed her with coniectures of his well-being, is but to strengthen her feare of his euill, and the alledging of likelyhoodes, by those that knowe the certainty, importeth the case to bée lamentable, that they are vnwilling it should bée known. Your obscure glancing at the truth, is no sufficient acquittance of her griefe, neither can shée out of these disioyned ghesses, spell the wordes that must be the conclusion of her complaint. Tell her then directly what is becom of her lord, if you mean to deliuer her out of these dumpes, sith what else soeuer you say of him, doth but draw more humors to her sore, and rather anger it, then any way asswage it.

Yet hearken O Mary, and consider [Page] their spéeches. Thinke what answer thou wilt giue them, sith they presse thee with so strong perswassons. But I doubt that thy wittes are smothered with too thicke a miste, to admit these unknowen beams, of their pale light. Thou art so wholly inherited by the bloudy tragedy of thy slaughtred Lord, and his death and dead body haue gotten so absolute a conquest ouer all thy powers, that neither thy sence can discerne, nor thy minde conceiue, any other obiect then his murdered corse.

Thy eies séeme to tel thee that euery thing inuiteth thee to weepe, carrying such outward shew, as though all that thou seest were attired in sorrow to solemnize with generall consent the funerall of thy Maister. Thy ears perswade thée, that all sounds and voices are tuned to mourning notes, and that the Eccho of thy own wailings, is the cry of the very stons & trées, as though (the cause of thy teares being so vnusuall) God to the rocks and woods, had [Page] inspired a féeling of thine and their cō mon losse. And therefore it soundeth to thée as a straunge question, to aske thee why thou wéepest, sith al that thou seest and hearest, séemeth to e [...]duce thée, yea to enforce thée to weepe.

If thou seest anie thing that beareth a cullour of myrth, it is vnto thee like the riche spoiles of a vanquished kingdome, in the eye of the captiue Prince, which put him in minde what he had, not what he hath, and are but vpbraidinges of his losse, and whetstones of sharper sorrow Whatsoeuer thou hearest, that moueth delight, it representeth the misse of thy maisters spéeches, which as they were the onely harmonie that thy eares affected, so they being now stopped with a deathfull silence, all other words and times of comfort are to thee but an Israelites musicke vpon Babilon bancks, memories of a lost felicitie, and proofes of a present vnhappinesse. And though loue increased the conceite of thy losse [Page] which endéereth the meanest thinges, and doubleth the estimate of thinges that are pretious: yet thy faith teaching thee, the infinite dignitie of thy maister, and thy vnderstanding being no dull scholler, to learne so wel liked a lesson, it fell out to be the bitterest part of thy miserie, that thou diddest so wel know howe infinite the losse was that made thée miserable.

This is the cause that those verie angels in whome all thinges make remonstrance of triumph and solace, are vnto thée occasions of new griefe. For their gratious and louely countenances, remember thee, that thou hast lost the beutie of the world, and the highest marke of true loues ambition. Their swéete lookes and amiable features tel thée, that the heauen of thy eyes which was the reuerend Maiestie of thy maisters face, once shined with farre more pleasing graces, but is now disfigured with the dreadful formes of death. In summe they were to thée, like the glistering [Page] sparkes of a broken Diamond, and like pictures of dead and decaied beauties, signes, not salues of thy calamitie, memorials, not medicines of thy misfortune.

Thy eies were to wel acquainted with the trueth, to accept a supplie of shadowes, and as comelinesse, comfort, and glorie were neuer in anie other so truely at home, and so perfitly in their prime, as in the person and speeches of thy Lord: so cannot thy thoughtes but be like strangers in anie forraigne delightes. For in them all thou séest no more, but some scattered crummes, and hungrymorsels of thy late plentifull banquets, and findest a dimme reflexion of thy former light, which like a flash of lightning, in a close and stormy night, serueth thee, but to sée thy present infelicitie, and the better to know the horror of the insuing darkenesse.

Thou thinkest therefore thy selfe blamelesse, both in wéeping for thy [Page] losse, and in refusing other comforte Yet in common courtesie affoord these Angels an answere, sith their charitie in visiting thee, deserueth much more, and thou (if not too vngratefull) canst allow them no lesse.

Alas (saith she) what néedeth myanswere, where the miserie it selfe speaketh, and the losse is manifest. My eies haue answered them with teares, my brest with sighes, and my heart with trouble, what néed I also punish my toonge, or wound my soule with a newe rehear sall of so dolefull a mischance. They haue taken away, O vnfortunate worde. They haue taken away my Lord.

O afflicted woman, why thinkest thou this word so vnfortunate? It may be the Angels haue taken him more solemnly to entombe him, and sith earth hath done her last homage, happily the Quires of heauen are also descended to defray vnto him, their funerall duties.

[Page] It may be that the Centurian and the rest, that did acknowledge him on the crosse to be the sonne of God, haue béene touched with remorse, and goared with the pricke of conscience, and being desirous to satisfie for their heinous offence, haue nowe taken him, more honourably to interre him, and by their seruice, to his bodie sought forgiuenesse, and sued the pardon of their guiltie soules.

Peraduenture some secret Disciples, haue wrought this erploit, and maugre the watch taken him from hence, with due honour to preserue him in some fitter place: and therefore being yet vncertaine who hath him, there is no such cause to lament, sith the greater probabilities, march on the better side, why doest thou call sorrowe before it commeth, without which calling, it commeth on thee too fast? yea why doest thou create sorrow where it is not, sith thou hast true sorrowes inough, though imagined sorrowes [Page] helpe not? It is follie to suppose the worst where the best may be hoped for, and euerie mishappe bringeth griefe enough with it, though wée with our friendes doe not goe first to méete it. Quiet then thy selfe, till time trie out the trueth, and it may be thy feare will proue greater then thy misfortune.

But I know thy loue is litle helped with this lesson: for the more it loueth the more it feareth: and the more desirous to enioy, the more doubtfull it is to loose. It neyther hath measure in hopes, nor meane in feares: hoping the best vpon the least surmises, and fearing the worst vppon the weakest grounds. And yet both fearing and hoping at one time, neither feare withholdeth hope from the highest attēpts, nor hope can strengthen feare against the smallest suspitions: but maugre all feares, loues hopes will worke to the highest pitch, and maugre al hopes, loues feares will stoupe to the lowest [Page] downcome. To bidde thée therefore hope, is not to forbid thée to feare, and though it may be for the best, that thy Lord is taken from thée, yet, sith it may also be for the worst, that wil neuer content thée.

Thou thinkest hope doth inough to kéepe thy heart from breaking, & feare little enough to force thée to wéeping, sith it is as likely that he hath béen taken away vpon hatred by his enimies, as vpon loue by his friendes.

For hitherto (saiest thou) his friends haue all failed him, and his foes preuailed against him, & as they yt would not defend him aliue, are lesse likely to regard him dead, so they that thought one life too litle to take from him, are not vnlikely after deathe to wreake new rage vpon him.

And though this doubt were not, yet whosoeuer hath taken him, hath wronged me, in not acquainting me with it: for to take away mine, without my consent, can neither be offered [Page] without iniurie, nor suffered without sorrow. And as for Jesus he was my Jesus, my Lord, and my maister. Hée was mine because he was giuen vnto me, and borne for me: he was the author of my being, and so my father, hée was the worker of my wel doing, and therefore my Sauiour, hee was the price of my ransome, and thereby my redeemer: Hee was my Lord to command me, my maister to instruct mée, my pastor to féede mée. He was mine because his loue was mine, and when he gaue me his loue, hee gaue me himselfe, sith loue is no gift except the giuer be giuen with it, yea it is no loue, [...]lesse it be as liberall of that it is, as of that it hath. Finally, if the meat bee m [...] that I eate, the life mine wherewith I liue, or he mine, all, whose life labours and death were mine, then dare I boldly say that Iesus is mine, sith on his bodie I feede, by his loue I liue, and to my good without any neede of his owne, hath hee liued, laboured, [Page] and died. And therefore though his Disciples, though the Centurion, yea though the Angels haue taken him, they haue done me wrong, in defeating mee of my right, (sith I neuer meane to resigne my interest.

But what if he hath takē a way himself, wilt thou also lay vniustice to his charge? Thogh he be thine, yet thine to command, not to obey, thy Lord to dispose of thee, and not to be by thée disposed: and therefore as it is no reason, that the seruant should be maister of his maisters secretes, so might hee, and peraduenture so hath he, remoued without acquainting thee whether reuiuing himselfe with the same power, with which he raised thy dead brother, and fulfilling the wordes, that he often vttered of his resurrection.

It may be thou wilt say, that a gift once giuen, cannot bee reuoked, and therefore though it were before in his choise, not to giue himselfe vnto thée, yet the deede of gift being once made, [Page] he cannot be taken from thee, neyther can the doner dispose of his gift without the possessors priuitie. And sith this is a rule in the lawe of nature, thou maiest imagine it a breach of equitie, and an impeachment of thy right to conuey himselfe away without thy consent.

But to this I will aunswere thée with thine owne ground. For if he be thine by being giuen thée once, thou art his by as many gifts, as daies, and therefore hee being absolute owner of thée, is likewise full owner of whatsoeuer is thine, and consequently because he is thine, hee is also his owne, and so nothing liable vnto thée, for taking himselfe from thée.

Yea but he is my Lord (saiest thou) and in this respect, bound to kéepe me, at the least bound not to kill me: and sith killing is nothing but a seuering of life from the body, he being the chiefe life both of my soule and body, cannot possibly go from me, but he must with [Page] a double death kill me. And therefore he being my Lord, and bound to protect his seruant, it is against all lawes that I should be thus forsaken.

But O cruel tongue, why pleadest thou thus against him, whose case I feare me is so pitifull, yt it might rather moue all tongues to plead for him, being peraduēture in their hands, whose vnmercifull hearts, make themselues merrie with his miserie, and build the triumphes of their impious victorie, vpon the dolefull ruines of his disgraced glorie. And now (O griefe) because I know not where he is, I cānot imagine how to helpe, for they haue taken him away, and I knowe not where they haue put him.

Alas Mary why dost thou consume thy selfe with these cares? His father knoweth and hée will helpe him. The Angels know and they wil gard him. His own soule knoweth and that will asist him. And what néede then is there that thou séely woman shouldst know [Page] it, that canst no way profite him? But I féele in what vain thy pulse beateth, and by thy desire I discouer thy disease. Though both heauen and earth did know it, and the whole world had notice of it, yet except thou also wert made priuy vnto it, thy woes would be as great, & thy teares as many. That others sée thy Sunne, doth not lighten thy darkenesse, neither can others eating satisfie thy hunger. The more there be that know of him, the greater is thy sorrow, that among so many thou art not thought worthy to be one. And the more there bée that may help him, the more it gréeueth thée that thy poore helpe is not accepted among them. Though thy knowledge needeth not, thy loue doth desire it, and though it auaile not, thy desire will séeke it. If all know it thou wouldest know it with all: if no other, thou wouldest know it alone, and from whom soeuer it be concealed, it must be no secret to thée. Though the knowledge would [Page] discomfort thée, yet know it thou wilt, yea though it would kill thée, thou couldest not forbeare it.

Thy Lord to thy loue is like drink to the thirsty, which if they cannot haue, they die for drouht, and béeing long without it, they pine away with longing. And as men in extremity of thirst are still dreaming of fountaines, brookes, and springs, being neuer able to haue other thought, or to vtter other word but of drink and moisture: so louers in the vehemency of their passion, can neither thinke nor speake but of that they loue, and if that be once missing, euery part is both an eie to watch, and an eare to listen, what hope or newes may be had of it. If it be good they die till they hear it, though bad yet they cannot liue without it. Of the good they hope that it is the verye best, and of the euill they feare it to be the worst, and yet though neuer so good they pine til it be told, and be it neuer so euil, they are importunate to know [Page] it. And when they once know it, they can neither beare the ioy, nor brook the sorrow, but as well the one as the other is inough to kill them.

And this O Mary I ghesse to be the cause why the Angels would not tell thee thy Lords estate. For if it had béen to thy liking, thou wouldest haue died for ioy, if otherwise thou wouldst haue suncke downe for sorrow. And therefore they leaue this newes for him to deliuer, whose word if it giue thée a woūd, is also a salue to cure it, though neuer so deadly.

But alas afflicted soule, why doth it so déepely grieue thée, that thou knowest not where he is? Thou canst not better him if he be well, thou canst as little succour him if he be ill: and sith thou fearest that he is rather ill then well, why wouldest thou knowe it, so to end thy hopes in mishappe, and thy great feares in farre greater sorrows. Alas to aske thée why, is in a manner to aske one halfe starued why he is [Page] hungry. For as thy Lord is the foode of thy thoughts, the relief of thy wishes, the onely repast of all thy desires: so is thy loue a continuall hunger, and his absence vnto thée an extream famine. And therefore no maruail though thou art so gréedy to heare, yea to deuour any be it neuer so bitter notice of him, sith thy hūger is most violent, and nothing but he able to content it. And albeit the hearing of his harmes, should work the same in thy minde, that vnwholesome meat, worketh in a sicke stomacke: yet if it once concerne him that thou louest, thy hungry loue could not temper it selfe from it, though after with many wringing gripes, it did a long and vnplesaunt penance.

But why doth thy sorrow quest so much vppon the place where hée is? were it not inough for thée to knowe who had him, but that thou must also know in what place he is bestowed? A worse place then a graue no man will offer, and many farre better titles wil [Page] allowe: and therefore thou maist boldly thinke, that where so euer he be, he is in a place fitter for him then where he was.

Thy sister Martha confessed him to be the Sonne of God, and with her confession agreed thy beleef. And what place more conuenient for the Sonne, then to be with his Father, the businesse for which he hath béene so long from him, being now fully finished?

If he be the Messias as thou diddest once beléeue, it was said of him, That he should ascend on high and leade our captiuity captiue. And what is this height▪ but heauen, what our captiuity but death? Death therefore is become his captiue, and it is like that with the spoiles thereof, he is ascended in triumphe to eternall life.

But if thou canst not lift thy mind to so fauourable a beléefe, yet maist thou very well suppose that he is in Paradise. For if he came to repaire Adams ruines, and to be the common [Page] parent of our redemption, as Adam was of our originall infection: reason seemeth to require, that hauing endured al his life the penalty of Adams exile, he should after death reenter possession of that inheritance which Adam lost: that the same place that was the nest, where sinne was first hatched, may be now the child-bed of grace and mercy. And if sorrow at the crosse did not make thée as deafe, as at the tomb it maketh thée forgetfull, thou diddest in confirmation hereof heare him selfe say to one of the théeues, that the same day he shuld be with him in Paradise. And if it bee reason that no shadow should be more priuiledged then the body, no figure in more account then the figured truth, why shouldest thou beléeue, that Elias and Enoch haue bin in Paradise these many ages, and that he whom they but as tipes resembled, should be excluded from thence? He excelled them in life, he surpassed them in miracles, he was farre beyond them [Page] in dignity: Why then should not his place be farre aboue, or at the least equall with theirs, sith their prerogatiues were so farre inferiour vnto his?

And yet if the basenesse and misery of his passion, haue laid him so low in thy conceite, that thou thinkest Paradise too high a place to be likely to haue him: the very lowest roome that anye reason can assigne him, can not bée meaner then the bosome of Abraham: and sith God in his life did so often acknowledge him for his Sonne, it seemeth the slendrest preheminence, that he can giue him aboue other men, that being his holy one, hee should not in his body see corruption, but be frée among the dead, reposing both in body and soule, where other Saints are in soule onely. Let not therefore the place where he is trouble thée, sith it cannot be worse then his graue, and infinite coniectures make probability, that it cannot but be better.

But suppose that he were yet remaining [Page] in earth, and taken by others out of his tombe, what would it auail thée to know where he were? If he bée with such as loue and honor him, they will be as wary to kéepe him, as they are loth he should be lost: and therfore will either often change, or neuer confesse the place, knowing secresie to be the surest locke to defende so great a treasure. If those haue taken him, that malice and maligne him, thou maist wel iudge him past thy recouery, whē he is once in the possession of so cruell owners.

Thou wouldest happely make sale of thy liuing, and séek him by ransome. But it is not likely they woulde sell him to be honoured that bought him to be murdered.

If price would not serue, thou wouldest fall to praier. But how can praier soften such flint hearts? and if they scorned so many tears offered for his life, as little will they regard thy intreaty for his corse.

[Page] If neither price nor praier would preuaile, thou wouldest attempt it by force. But alas séely souldier thy arms are too weak to manage weapons, and the issue of thy assault, would be the losse of thy selfe.

If no other way would helpe, thou wouldest purloine him by stealth, and thinke thy selfe happy in contriuing such a theft. O Mary thou art deceiued, for malice will haue many lockes, and to steale him from a théefe, that could steale him from the watch, requireth more cunning in the art, then thy wāt of practise can affoorde thée.

Yet if these be the causes that thou enquirest of the place, thou she west the force of thy rare affection, and deseruest the Laurell of a perfect louer.

But to féele more of their sweetnes, I will pound these spices, and dwell a while in the peruse of thy resolute feruour.

And first, can thy loue enrich thée when thy goods are gone, or dead corse [Page] repay the value of thy ransome? Because he had neither bed to be borne in, nor graue to be buried in: wilt thou therefore rather be poore with him, then rich without him.

Againe, if thou hadst to sue to some cruell Scribe or Pharisée, that is to a heart boyling in rancor, with a heart burning in loue, for a thing of him aboue all things detested, of thée aboue all thinges desired: as his enemie to whome thou suelt, and his friend for whom thou intreatest: canst thou think it possible, for this sute to speed? Could thy loue repaire thée from his rage, or suche a tyraunt stoupe to a womans teares?

Thirdly, if thy Lord might be recouered by violence, art thou so armed in complete loue, that thou thinkest it sufficient harnesse? or doth thy loue indue thee with such a ludithes spirite, or lend thée such Sampsons lockes, that thou canst breake open huge gates, or foyle whole armies? Is thy loue so [Page] sure a shield, that no blowe can breake it, or so sharpe a dint, that no force can withstand it? Can it thus alter sexe, change nature, and excéed all Arte?

But of all other courses wouldest thou aduenture a theft to obtaine thy desire. A good déede must be well done, and a worke of mercie without breath of iustice. It were a sinne to steale a prophane treasure, but to steale an annointed prophet can be no lesse then a sacriledge. And what greater staine to thy Lord, to his doctrine, and to thy selfe, then to sée thée his Disciple, publikely executed for an open theft?

O Mary vnlesse thy loue haue better warrant then common sence, I can hardly sée how such designementes can be approued.

Approoued (saith shee) I would to God the execution were as easie as the proofe, and I should not so long bewaile my vnfortunate losse.

To others it séemeth ill to prefer loue before riches, but to loue it séemeth [Page] worse to preferre any thing before it selfe. Cloath him with plates of siluer, that shiuereth for cold, or fill his purse with treasure, that pineth for hunger, and sée whether the plates will warm him, or the treasure féed him. No no, he will giue all his plates for a wollen garment, and all his mony for a meals meate. Euerie supply fitteth not with euery néed, and the loue of so swéete a Lord hath no correspondēce in worldly wealth. Without him I were poore, though Empresse of the worlde. With him I were riche, though I had nothing else. They that haue moste are accounted richest, and they thought to haue moste, that haue all they desire: and therfore as in him alone is the vttermost of my desires, so hee alone is the summe of all my substance. It were too happie an exchaunge, to haue God for goodes, and too rich a pouerty, to inioy the only treasure of the world. If I were so fortunate a begger, I woulde disdaine Solomons wealth, [Page] and my loue being so highly enriched, my life shoulde neuer complaine of want.

And if all I am worth would not reach to his ransome, what should hinder me to saek him by intreaty? Thogh I were to sue to the greatest tyrant, yet the equitie of my sute is more then halfe a grant. If many droppes soften the hardest stones, why shoulde not many teares supple the moste stonie heartes? what anger so fiery that may not be quenched with eye water, sith a weeping suppliant, rebateth the edge of more then a Lions fury?

My sute it selfe woulde sue for me, and so dolefull a corse woulde quicken pitie in the moste iron heartes. But suppose that by touching a ranckled sore, my touch should anger it, and my petition at the first incense him that heard it: he would percase reuile mée in wordes, and then his owne iniurie would recoyle with remorse, and be vnto me a patron to procéed in my request. [Page] And if he should accompanie his wordes with blowes, and his blowes with wounds, it may be my stripes would smart in his guilty minde, and his conscience bléede in my bléeding wounds, and my innocent bloud so entender his adamant heart, that his owne inward feelings would plead my cause, and peraduenture obtayne my sute.

But if through extremity of spite, he should happen to kill me, his offence might easely redound to my felicity. For he would be as carefull to hide whom he had vniustly murdered, as him whom he had felonously stollen, and so it is like, that he would hide me in the same place wher he had layd my Lord, and as he hated vs both for one cause, him for challenging, and me for acknowledging that he was the Messias: so would he vse vs both after one manner. And thus what comfort my body wanted, my soule should enioy, in séeing a part of my selfe partner [Page] of my Maisters miserye: with whome to be miserable, I reckon a higher fortune, then without him to be most happy.

And if no other means would serue to recouer him but force: I sée no reason why it might not very well become me? None will bar me frō defending my life, which the least worme in the right of nature hath leaue to preserue. And sith he is to me so deare a life that without him, all life is death, nature authoriseth my féeble forces to imploy their vttermost in so necessary an attempt▪ Necessity addeth ability, & loue doubleth necessity, and it often happeneth that nature armed with loue, and pressed with néede, excéedeth it selfe in might and surmounteth all hope in successe. And as the equity of the cause, doth breath courage into the defendors, making them the more willing to fight, & the lesse vnwilling to die: so guilty consciences are euer timerous, still starting with sodaine [Page] frights, and afrayd of their own suspitions, ready to yéeld before the assault, vppon distrust of their cause, and dispaire of their defence. Sith therefore to rescue an innocent, to recouer a right, and to redresse so déep a wrong, is so iust a quarrell, nature will enhable me, loue encourage me, grace confirme me, and the iudge of all iustice fight in my behalfe.

And if it séeme vnfitting to my sexe in talke, much more in practise to deal with martiall affaires: yet when such a cause happeneth, as neuer had patterne, such effects must follow as are without example. There was neuer any body of a God but one, neuer such a body stollen but now, neuer such a stealth vnreuenged but this. Sith therefore the Angels neglect it, & men forget it, O Iudith lend me thy prowesse for I am bound to regard it.

But suppose that my force were vnable to winne him by an open enterprise, what scruple should kéepe me [Page] from seeking him by secret means: yea and by plain stealth It wilbe thought a sinne, and condemned for a theft. O swéete sinne why was not I the first that did commit thée? Why did I suffer any other sinner to preuent me? for stealing from God his honour I was called a sinner, and vnder that title was spred my infamy. But for stealing God from a false owner, I was not worthy to be called a sinner, because it had béene too high a glory. If this be so great a sinne, and so heinous a theft, let others make choise of what titles they will: but for my part, I would refuse to be an Angel, I would not wishe to be a Saint, I would neuer be estéemed either iust or true, and I shoulde be best contented if I might both liue and die such a sinner, and be condemned for such a theft. When I heard my Lord make so comfortable a promise to the théefe vppon the crosse, that he should that day be with him in Paradise, I had halfe an enuy at that [Page] théefes good Fortune, and wished my selfe in the théefes place, so I might haue enioyed the fruite of his promise. But if I could be so happy a théefe, as to commit this theft, if that wish had takeu effect, I would now vn wishe it againe, and scorne to be any other théef then my self, sith my booty could make me happier, then any other théefes felicity. And what though my felony should be called in question, in what respect should I néede to feare? They would say that I loued him too well. But that were soone disproued, sith where the worthinesse is infinite, no loue can be inough. They would obiect that I stole an others goods: and as for that many sure titles of my interest would aucree him to be mine, and his dead corse would rather speak then witnesses should faile to depose so certaine a truth. And if I had not a speciall right vnto him, what shuld moue me to venture my life for him? No no, if I were so happy a felone, I shoulde [Page] fear no temporal araignmēt. I should rather feare that the Angels woulde cite me to my aunswere, for preuenting them in the theft, sith not the highest Seraphin in heauē, but would déeme it a higher stile, then his owne, to be the théefe that had committed so glorious a robbery.

But alas thus stand I deuising what I would do, if I knew any thing of him, and in the meane time I neither know who hath him, nor where they haue bestowed him, and stil I am forced to dwell in this aunswere, that They haue taken away my Lord, and I know not wher they haue put him.

While Marie thus lost her selfe in a Laberinth of doubtes, watering her wordes with teares, and warming them with sighes, séeing the Angels with a kind of reuerēce rise, as though they had done honour to one behinde her: She turned backe, and she saw Iesus standing, but that it was Iesus she knewe not.

[Page] O Marie is it possible that thou hast forgotten Iesus? faith hath written him in thy vnderstanding, loue in thy will, both feare and hope in thy memorie: and how can all these registers be so cancelled that so plainly séeing, thou shouldest not know the contentes. For him onely thou tyrest thy féete, thou bendest thy knées, thou wringest thy handes. For him thy heart throbbeth, thy brest sigheth, thy tongue complaineth. For him thy eye wéepeth, thy thought sorroweth, thy wholebody fainteth, and thy soule languisheth. In summe, there is no part in thée, but is busie about him, &c notwithstanding all this, hast thou nowe forgotten him? His countenance auourheth it, his voyce assureth it, hys woundes witnesse it, thy owne eyes beholde it, and doest thou not yet beléeue that this is Iesus? Are thy sharp séeing eies become so weake sighted, that they are dazeled with the sunne, and blinded with the light?

[Page] But there is such a showre of teares betwéene thée and him, and thy eyes are so dimmed with wéeping for him, that though thou seest the shape of a man, yet thou canst not discerne him. Thy eares also are still so possessed with the dolefull Eccho of his last spéeches, which want of breath, made him vtter in a dying voyce, that the force & loudnesse of his liuing wordes, maketh thee imagine it the voice of a stranger: and therefore as hée séemeth vnto thée so like a stranger, hee asketh this question of thée, O woman why weepest thou, whom seekest thou?

O desire of heart, and onely ioy of her soule, why demandest thou why shée wéepeth, or for whome she séeketh? But a whilesince she saw thée hir only hope hanging on a trée, with thy head full of thornes, thy eies full of teares, thy eares full of blasphemies, thy mouth full of gall, thy whole person mangled and disfigured, and doest thou aske her why shee wéepeth? Scarse [Page] thrée daies passed, she beheld thy arms and legs, racked with violent pulles, thy hands and féete boared with nails, thy side wounded with a speare, thy whole body torne with stripes and goared in bloud, and doest thou hir only griefe aske hir why shée wéepeth? She beheld thee vppon the crosse with many teares, & most lamentable cries, yeelding vp her ghost, that is thy own ghost, & alas askest thou why she weepeth? And now to make vp hir misere, hauing but one hope aliue, which was, that for a small reliefe of her other afflictions, she might haue annointed thy body, that hope is also dead, since thy body is remoued, and shee nowe standeth hopelesse of all helpe, and demandest thou why shée wéepeth, and for whome shee séeketh? Full well thou knowest, that thée onely shee desireth, thée onely she loueth, all things besides thée she contemneth, and canst thou find in thy heart to aske hir whom she séeketh? To what end, O sweet Lord, doest [Page] thou thus suspend hir longinges, prolong hir desires, and martir hir with these tedious delaies? Thou onely art the fortresse of hir faint faith, the anker of her wauering hope, the very center of her vehement loue: to thée she trusteth, vpon thée she relieth, and of her selfe she wholly dispaireth. She is so earnest in seeking thée, that shée can neither seeke nor thinke any other thing: and all her wittes are so busied in musing vppon thée, that they draw all attention from her senses, wherewith they should discerne thée. Being therfore so attentiue to that she thinketh, what maruell though shee marke not whome shée séeth, and sith thou hast so perfect notice of her thought, and she so litle power to discouer thée by sense, why demandest thou for whome shée séeketh, or why shee wéepeth? Doest thou looke that she should answer, for thée I séeke, or for thée I wéep? vnlesse thou wilt vnbend her thoughtes, that her eyes may fully sée thée, or while [Page] thou wilt be concealed, doest thou expect yt she should be able to know thee?

But O Mary, not without cause doth he aske thée this question. Thou wouldest haue him aliue, and yet thou wéepest because thou doest not finde him dead. Thou art sorie that hee is not here, and for this verie cause thou shouldst rather be glad. For if he were dead, it is moste likely hee should bee héere, but not being héere, it is a signe that hée is aliue. Hee reioyceth to be out of his graue, and thou wéepest because hee is not in it. Hee will not lie any where, and thou sorrowest for not knowing wherehe lieth. Alas why bewaylest thou his glorie, as an iniurie: the reuiuing of his bodie as the robberie of his corse? Hee being aliue, for what dead man mournest thou, and he being present, whose absence doest thou lament? But shee taking him to be a Gardiner, said vnto him, O Lord if thou hast carried him from hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and [Page] I will take him away.

O woonderfull effectes of Maries loue, if loue be a languor howe liueth she by it? If loue be her life, how dieth shée in it? if it bereued her of sence, how did she sée ye Angels? if it quickned her sense, why knewe shee not Jesus? doest thou séeke for one, whome when thou hast found thou knowest not, or if thou doest know him when thou findest him, why doest thou séeke when thou hast him?

Behold Jesus is come, and the partie whom thou seekest, is he that talketh with thee. O Mary call vp thy wittes, and open thine eyes. Hath thy Lord liued so long, laboured so much, dyed with such paine, and shedde such showres of bloud to come to no higher preferment then to bee a Gardiner? And hast thou bestowed suche cost, so much sorrow, and so many feares, for no better man then a silly Gardiner? Alas is this soarie Garden the best inheritāce, that thy loue can affoord him, [Page] or a Gardiners office the highest dignitie that thou wilt allow him? It had bin better he had liued to béen Lord of thy castle, then with his death so dearly to haue bought so small a purchase.

But thy mistaking hath in it a farther mistery. Thou thinkst not amisse though thy sight bee deceiued. For as our first father, in the state of grace & innocency, was placed in the garden of pleasure, & the first office allotted him, was to be a Gardener: so the first man that euer was in glorie, appeareth first in a Garden, and presenteth himselfe in a gardeners likenes, that the beginnings of glory, might resemble the entrance of innocencie and grace. And as a Gardener was the foyle of mankind, the parent of sinne, and author of death: so is this Gardiner, the raysor of our ruines, the ransome of our offences, and the restorer of life. In a Garden Adam was deceiued, and taken captiue by the diuell. In a Garden Christ was betraied and taken prisoner by [Page] the Jewes. In a Garden Adam was condemned to earn his bread with the sweate of his browes. And after a frée gift of the bread of Angels in the last supper in a Garden Christ, did earne it vs with a bloudy sweat of his whole body. By disobedient eating the fruite of a trée, our right to that Garden was by Adam forfeited, and by the obedient death of Christ vpon a trée, a farre better right is nowe recouered. When Adam had sinned in the garden of plesure, hee was there apparelled in dead beastes skinnes, that his garment might betoken his graue, and his liuerie of death agrée with his condemnation to die. And nowe to defray the debt of that sin, in this garden Christ lay clad in the dead mans shrowd, and buried in his Tombe, that as our harmes began so they might ende, and such places and meanes as were the premises to our miserie, might be also the conclusions of our misfortune. For this did Christ in the canticles, inuite [Page] vs to a heauenly banquet, after hee was come into this garden, and had reaped his myrrh, and his spices, to forewarne vs of the ioy, that after this haruest should presently insue, namely when hauing sowed in this garden, a body, the mortalitie whereof was signified by those spices, he now reaped the same, neither capeable of death, nor subiect to corruption. For this also was Mary permitted to mistake, that we might be informed of the mystery, and see how aptly the course of our redemption did answere the processe of our condemnation.

But though he be the gardiner that hath planted the Trée of grace, and restored vs to the vse and eating of the fruites of life. Though it be he that soweth his gifts in our souls, quickning in vs the seedes of vertue, & rooting out of vs the wéedes of sinne: Yet is he neuerthelesse the same Jesus he was, & the borowed presence of a meane laborer, neither altreth his persō, nor diminisheth [Page] his right to his diuine titles.

Why then canst thou not as well sée what in trueth he is, as what in shew he séemeth, but because thou seest more then thou diddest beléeue, & findest more then thy faith serued thee to seeke: and for this though thy loue was worthy to sée him, yet thy faith was vnworthy to know him. Thou diddest seeke for him as dead, and therfore dost not know him, seing him aliue, and because thou beléeuest not of him, as hée is, thou doest onely sée him as he séemeth to be.

I cannot say thou art faultlesse, sith thou art so lame in thy beliefe: but thy fault deserueth fauor, because thy charity is so great, and therefore O mercifull Iesu, giue me leaue to excuse whom thou art minded to forgiue.

Shée thought to haue found thée, as shée left thée, & shée sought thee as shée did last sée thée, being so ouercom with sorrow for thy death, that shée had neither roome nor respite in her mind, for [Page] any hope of thy life, and being so déeply interred in the griefe of thy buriall, that shée could not raise her thoughtes to any conceite of thy resurrection.

For in the graue where Ioseph buried thy body, Mary together with it entombed her soule, and so straightly combined it with thy corse, that shee could with more ease sunder her soule from her owne bodie that liueth by it, then from thy dead bodie, with which her loue did bury it: for it is more thine and in thée, then her owne or in herselfe: and therefore, in séeking thy bodie, she séeketh her owne soule, as with the losse of the one, shee also lost the other. What maruaile then though sence faile, when the soule is lost, sith the lanterne must néeds be dark when the light is out?

Restore vnto her therefore her soul that lieth imprisoned in thy body, and shée will soone, both recouer her sense, and discouer her errour. For alas it is no errour, that procéedeth of any will [Page] to erre, and it riseth as much of vehemency of affection, as of default in faith. Regard not ye error of a woman but the loue of a disciple, which supplieth in it self what in faith it wanteth.

O Lord (saith she) If thou hast carried him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, & I will take him away.

O how learned is her ignoraunce, and how skilful her errour? Shée charged not the Angels with thy remoning, nor séemed to mistrust them for carrying thée away, as though her loue had taught her that their helpe was néedelesse where the thing remoued was remouer of it selfe. Shée did not request them to enfourme her where thou wert laide, as if shée had reserued that question for thy selfe to answere. But now shée iudgeth thée so likely to be the author of her losse, that halfe supposing thée guilty, shée sueth a recouery, and desireth thée to tell her wher the body is, as almost fully perswaded that thou art as priuy to the [Page] place, as well acquainted with the action. So that if shée be not altogether right, shée is not very much wrong, & shée erreth with such aime, that shée litle misseth the truth. Tell her therefore O Lord what thou hast done with thy selfe, sith it is fittest for thy owne spéech to vtter, that which was onely possible for thy owne power to performe.

But O Mary since thou art so desirous to know wher thy Iesus is, why doest thou not name him, when thou askest for him? Thou saidst to the Angels that they had taken away thy Lord, and now the second time, thou askest for this him. Are thy thoughtes so visible, as at thy onely presence to be séene, or so generall, that they possesse all when they are once in thee? when thou speakest of him, what him doest thou meane, or how can a stranger vnderstand thée when thou falkest of thy Lord? Hath the worlde no other Lords but thine? or is the demanding [Page] by no other name but (him) a sufficient notice for whom thou demandest.

But such is the nature of thy loue, thou iudgest that no other should be intitled a Lord, sith the whole worlde is too litle for thy Lordes possession, and that those few creatures that are, cannot chuse but knowe him, sith all the creatures of the world are to fewe to serue him. And as his worthies can appay all loues, and his only loue content all heartes, so thou deemest hym to be so well worthy to bee owner of all thoughtes, that no thought in thy conceite, can be well bestowed vppon anie other.

Yet thy speeches seeme more suddaine then sound, and more peremptorie, then well pondered. Why doest thou say so resolutely without anie further circumstance, that if this gardiner haue taken him, thou wilt take him from him. If he had him by right in taking him away thou shouldest do him wrong. If thou supposest hee [Page] wrongfully took him, thou laiest theft to his charge, and howsoeuer it be thou either condemnest thyselfe for an vsurper, or him for a theese And is this an effect of thy zelous loue, first to abase him from a God to a Gardiner, and now to degrade him from a Gardiner to a theese?

Thou shouldest also haue considered whether he tooke him vpon loue or malice. If it were for loue, thou maiest assure thy selfe that he wil be as wary to keepe, as hee was ventrous to get him, and therefore thy pollicie was weake in saying; thou wouldest take him away, before thou knewest where he was, sith none is so simple to bewray their treasure to a known théefe. If he tooke him of malice, thy offer to recouer him; is an open defiance, sith malice is as obstinate in defending, as violent in offering wrong, and he that woulde be cruell against thy maisters dead body, is likely to be more furious against his liuing disciple.

[Page] But thy loue had no leysure to cast so many doubts. Thy teares were interpreters of thy words, and thy innocent meaning was written in thy dolefull countenance. Thy eyes were rather pleaders for pity▪ then Heralds of wrath, and thy whole person presented such a paterne of thy extreame anguish, that no man from thy presence could take in anie other impression. And therefore what thy wordes wanted, thy action supplied, and what his eare might mistake, his eye did vnderstand.

It may be also that hee wrought in thy heart, that was concealed from thy sight, and happily his voyce, and demeanor did import such compassion of thy case, that hee seemed as willing to affoord, as thou desirous to haue his helpe. And so presuming by his behauiour, that thy sute should not suffer repulse, the tenour of thy request doth but argue thy hope of a grant.

But what is the reason, that in all [Page] thy speeches, which since the misse of thy maister, thou hast vttered (where they haue put him) is alwaies apart? So thou saydst to the Apostles, the same to the Angels, and nowe thou doest repeat it to this supposeo gardiner: verie sweete must this word be in thy hart, that is so often in thy mouth, and it would neuer be so readie in thy tongue, if it were not verie freshe in thy memorie.

But what maruell though it fast so swéete, that was first seasoned in thy maisters mouth, which as it was the treasurie of trueth, the fountaine of life, and the onely quire of the moste perfect harmonie, so whatsoeuer it deliuered, thy eare deuoured, and thy heart locked vp. And nowe that thou wantest himselfe, thou hast no other comfort, but his wordes, which thou déemest so much the more effectuall to perswade, in that they tooke their force from so heauenly a speaker. His sweetnesse therefore it is, that maketh this [Page] word so sweet and for loue of him thou repeatest it so often, because hee in the like case said of thy brother, where haue you put him. O how much doest thou affect his person that findest so sweete a feeling in his phrase? Howe much desirest thou to see his countenance, that with so great desire pronouncest his wordes? And howe willingly wouldest thou kisse his sacred feet, that so willingly vtterest his shortest speeches?

But what meanest thou to make so absolute a promise, and so boldly to say I will take him away? Ioseph was afraid, and durst not take downe his body from the crosse but by night, yea and then also not without Pilats warrant. But thou neyther staiest till night, nor regardest Pilat, but stoutly promisest, that thou thy selfe wilt take him away. What if hee be in the Pallace of the high Priest, and some suche mayd as made Saint Peter denie his maister to beginne to question with [Page] thée, wilt thou thē stand to these words I wil take him away? Is thy courage so high aboue thy kinde, strength so far beyond thy sexe, and thy loue so much without measure, that thou neither remembrest that al women are weak, nor that thou thy selfe art but a woman? Thou exemptest no place, thou preferrest no person, thou speakest without feare, thou promisest without condition, thou makest no exception: as though nothing were impossible that thy loue suggesteth. But as the darknesse could not fright thée from setting foorth before day, nor the watch feare thee from comming to the Tombe: as thou diddest resolue to breake open the seales, though with danger of thy life, and to remoue the stone from the graues mouth, though thy force could not serue thée: so what maruell though thy loue being nowe more incensed with the fresh wound of thy losse, it resolue vpon any, though neuer so hard aduentures? Loue is not [Page] ruled with reason, but with loue. It neither regardeth what can be, nor what shall be done, but onely what it selfe desireth to doe. No difficultie can stay it, no impossibilitie appale it. Loue is title iust enough, and armour strong enough for all assaultes, and it self a reward of all labours. It asketh no recompence, it respecteth no commodity. Loues fruits are loues effects, and the gaynes, the paynes. It considereth behoofe, more then benefite, and what in dutie it shoulde, not what in deede it can.

But how can nature be so mastered with affection, that thou canst take such delight and carrye such loue to a dead corse? The mother how tenderly soeuer shee loued her childe aliue. yet shée can not choose but loath him dead. The most louing spouse can not endure the presence of her deceas [...]d husband, and whose embracements were delightsom in life, are euer most hatefull after death. Yea this is the nature [Page] of all, but principally of women, that the very conceite, much more the sight of the departed, striketh into them so fearful and vgly impressions, and stirreth in them so great a horrour, that notwithstanding the most vehement loue, they thinke long till the house be ridde of their very dearest friends, when they are once attired in deaths vnlouely liueries. How thē canst thou endure to take vp his corse in thy handes, and to carry it thou knowest not thy selfe how far, being especially so torne and mangled, and consequently the more likely in so long time to be tainted.

Thy sister was vnwilling that the graue of her owne brother should be opened, and yet he was shrowded in shéetes, embalmed with spices, and died an ordinary death, without anye wound, bruse or other harme, that might hasten his corruption. But this corse hath neither shroud nor spice, sith these are all to be séene in the Tombe, [Page] and there is not a part in his body but had some helpe to further it to decay, and art not thou afraide to see him, yea to touch him, yea to embrace and carry him naked in thy armes?

If thou haddest remembred Gods promise, that His Saintes shoulde not see corruption: If thou haddest beléeued, that his Godhead remaining with his body, could haue preserued it from perishing, thy faith had ben more worthye of praise, but thy loue lesse worthy of admiration, sith the more corruptible thou diddest conceiue him, the more combers thou diddest determine to ouercome, & the greater was thy loue in being able to cōquer them. But thou wouldest haue thought thy ointments rather harms then helpes, if thou hadst béene setled in that beléef, and for so heauenly a corse embalmed with God, all earthly spices woulde haue séemed a disgrace. If likewise thou haddest firmely trusted vppon his resurrection, I should lesse maruail at [Page] thy constant designement, sith all hazards in taking him should haue beene with vsury repaid, if lying in thy lap, thou mightest haue séene him reuiued, and his disfigured and dead body beautified in thy armes with a diuine maiesty. If thou hadst hoped so good Fortune to thy watery eies, that they might haue beene first cleared with the beames of his desired light, or that his eies might haue blessed thee with the first fruites of their glorious lookes: If thou hadst imagined any likelihood to haue made happy thy dying hart, with taking in the first gaspes of his liuing breath, or to haue heard the first words of his pleasing voice: Finally if thou hadst thought to haue séen his iniuries turned to honours, the markes of his misery to ornaments of glory, and the depth of thy heauinesse to such a height of felicity, what so euer thou hadst don to obtaine him, had béen but a mite for a million, and too slender a price for so soueraigne a peniworth.

[Page] But hauing no such hopes to vphold thee, and so many motiues to plunge thée in dispaire, how could thy loue be so mighty, as neither to féele a womans feare of so deformed a corse, nor to thinke the weight of the burthen too heauy for thy féeble armes, nor to bee amated with a world of daungers that this attempt did carry with it?

But affection can not feare whom it affecteth, loue féeleth no load of him it loueth, neither can true friendshippe be frighted from rescuing so affied a friend.

What meanest thou then O comfort of her life, to leaue so constant a well, willer so long vncomforted, and to punish her so much, that so well deserueth pardon? Dally no longer with so known a loue, which so many trials auouch most true. And sith shée is nothing but what it pleaseth thée, let her taste the benefite of being onely thine. Shée did not follow the tide of thy better Fortune, to shift saile when the [Page] streame did alter course. Shée began not to loue thee in thy life, to leaue thée after death: Neither was shée such a guest at thy table, that meant to be a straunger in thy necessity. Shée lefte thee not in thy lowest ebbe, shee reuolted not from thy last extremity: In thy life shee serued thee with her goods: In thy death shee departed not from thy crosse: after death shee came to dwell with thee at thy graue. Why then dost not thou say with Noemi: Blessed bee shee of our Lord, because what courtesie shee afforded to the quicke, shee hath also continued towardes the dead. A thing so much the more to be esteemed, in that it is most rare.

Doe not sweet Lord any longer delay her. Behold shee hath attended thee these three daies, and shee hath not what to eate, nor wherewith to foster her famished soule, vnlesse thou by discouering thy selfe, doest minister vnto her the bread of thy body, & feede her with the foode, that hath in it all [Page] taste of sweetnesse. If therefore thou wilt not haue her to faint in the way, refresh, her with that which her hunger requireth. For surely shee cannot long enioy the life of her body, vnlesse shee may haue notice of thee, that art the life of her soule.

But feare not Mary for thy teares will obtaine. They are too mighty oratours, to let any suite fall, & though they pleaded at the most rigorous bar, yet haue they so perswading a silence, and so conquering a complaint, that by yeelding they ouercome, and by intreating they commaund. They tie the tongues of all accusers, and soften the rigour of the seuerest Iudge. Yea they win the inuincible, and bind the omnipotent. When they seeme most pittiful, they haue greatest power, and being most for saken they are most victorious. Repentant eies are the Cellers of Angels, and penitent teares their sweetest wines, which the sauor of life perfumeth, the taste of grace [Page] swéetneth, and the purest colours of returning innocency highly beautifieth. This dew of deuotion neuer falleth, but the sunne of iustice draweth it vp, and vpōwhat face soeuer it droppeth, it maketh it amiable in Gods eie. For this water hath thy heart beene long a limbecke, sometimes distilling it out of the weedes of thy owne offences with the fire of true contrition. Sometimes out of the flowers of spirituall comforts, with the flames of contemplation, and now out of the bitter hearbs of thy Maisters miseries, with the heate of a tender compassion. This water hath better graced thy lookes, then thy former alluring glaunces. It hath setled worthier beauties in thy face, then all thy artificiall paintings. Yea this onely water hath quenched Gods anger, qualified his iustice, recouered his mercy, merited his loue, purchased his pardon, & brought forth the spring of all thy fauors. Thy tears were the proctors for thy brothers [Page] life, the inuiters of those Angels for thy comfort, and the suiters that shall be rewarded with the first sight of thy reuiued Sauiour. Rewarded they shal be, but not refrained: altered in their cause, but their course continued Heauen would weepe at the losse of so pretious a water, and earth lament the absenee of so fruitefull [...]owers. No no, the Angels must still bathe themselues in the pure streams of thy eies, and thy face shall still bee set with this liquid pearle that as out of thy teares, were stroken the first sparkes of thy Lordes loue, so thy teares may be the oyle, to nourishe and feede his flame. Till death damme vp the springs, they shall neuer cease running: and then shal thy soule be ferried in them to the harbour of life, that as by them it was first passed from sinne to grace, so in them it may be wasted from grace to glorie. In the meane time, réere vp thy fallen hopes, and gather confidence both of thy spéedie comforte, and thy [Page] Lordes well being.

Iesus saith vnto her, Maria, She turning, said vnto him: Rabboni.

O louing maister, thou didst onely deferre her consolation, to increase it, that the delight of thy presence, might be so much the more welcome, in that through thy long absence it was with so little hope, so much desired. Thou wert content shee shoulde lay out for thée so manie sighs, tears, and plaints, and diddest purposely adiorne the date of her paiment, to requite the length of these delaies with a larger loane of ioy. It may be she knewe not her former happinesse, till shee was weaned from it: nor had a right estimate in valuing the treasures, with which thy presence did enriche hir, vntill her extreame pouertie taught her their vnestimable rate. But now thou she west by a swéete experience, that though she paied thée with the dearest water of her eyes, with her best breath, and tenderest loue, yet small was the [Page] price that shee bestowed in respect of the worth that shee receiued. She sought the dead, and imprisoned in a stonie gayle: and now she findeth thée both aliue and at full libertie. Shée sought the shrined in a shrowd, more like a leaper then thy selfe, left as the modell of the vitermost miserie, and the onely paterne of the bitterest vnhappinesse: And now shee findeth thée inuested in the robes of glorie, the president of the highest, and both the owner and giuer of all felicitie.

And as all this while shee hath sought without finding, wéept without comforte, and called without aunswere: so no we thou satisfiest her séeking with thy comming, her tears with thy triumph, and al her cries with this one word Marie. For when she heard thee call her in thy woonted maner, and with thy vsuall voyce, her onely name issuing frō thy mouth, wrought so strange an alteration in her, as if she had béene wholly new made, when she [Page] was only named. For whereas before the violence of her griefe had so benummed her, that her bodie séemed but the hearse of her dead heart, and her heart the cophin of an vnliuing soule, and hir whole presence but a representation of a double funeral of thine, and of hir owne: now with this one word her senses are restored, her minde lightened, her heart quickened, and her soule reuiued.

But what maruell though with one word hee raise the dead spirites of his poore disciple, that with a word made the world, & euen in this very worde sheweth an omnipotent power?

Marie she was called as well in her bad as in her reformed estate, and both her good and euill, was all of Maries working. And as Marie signifieth no lesse what she was, then what she is: so is this one word by his vertue that speaketh it, a repetition of all her miseries, an Epitome of his mercies, and a memorial of all her better fortunes. [Page] And therefore it laid so generall a discouerie of her self before her eyes, that it awaked her most forgotten sorows, and mustered together the whole multitude of her ioyes, and woulde haue left the issue of their mutinie verie doubtfull, but that the presence and notice of hir highest happinesse decided the quarrell, and gaue her ioyes the victory. For as he was her only sunne, whose going downe, left nothing but a dumpishe night of fearefull fansies, wherein no starre of hope shined, and the brightest plannets were chaunged into dismall signes: so the serenitie of his countenance, and authoritie of hys worde, brought a calme and well tempered day, that chasing away all darknesse, and disperpling the cloudes of melancholie, cured the letargie, and breaketh the dead sleep of her astonied senses.

Shée therefore rauished with his voice, and impatient of delaies, taketh his talke out of his mouth, and to his [Page] first and yet onely worde, aunswered but one other calling him Rabboni that is Maister. And then sodaine ioy rowsing all other passions, shée coulde no more procéed in her own, then giue him leaue to goe fore ward with his spéech.

Loue would haue spoken, but feare enforced silence. Hope frameth the words, but doubt melteth them in the passage: and whē her inward conceits striued to come out, her voice trembled, her tongue faltered, her breath failed,. In fine teares issued in liew of words, and déep sighes in stead of long sentēces, the eie supplying the mouths default, and the heart pressing out the vnsillabled breath at once, which the conflict of her disagréeing passions, would not suffer to be sorted into the seuerall soundes of intelligible speeches.

For such is there estate that are sicke with a surfet of sodaine ioy, for the attaining of a thing vehementlye [Page] desired. For as desire is euer vshered by hope, and waited on by feare, so is it credulous in entertaining coniectures, but hard in grounding a firme beliefe. And though it be apt to admitte the least shadow of wished comfort, yet the hotter the desire is to haue it, the more perfect assurance it requireth for it: which so long as it wanteth the first newes or apparaunce of that which is in request, is rather an Alarum to summon vp all passions, then a retraite to quiet the desire. For as hope presumeth the best, and inuiteth ioy to gratulate the good successe: so feare suspecteth it too good to be true, & calleth vp sorrowe to bewaile the vncertainety. And while these enterchange obiections and answeres, somtimes feare falleth into despaire, and hope riseth into repining anger, and thus the skirmishe still continueth till euidence of proofe conclude the controuersie.

Mary therefore though shée sodainly [Page] aunswered vpon notice of his voice, yet because the nouelty was so strāge, his person so chaunged, his presence so vnerpected, and so many miracles laid at once before her amazed eies, shée found a sedition in her thoughts, till more earnest vewing him erempted them from all doubt.

And then though wordes woulde haue broken out, and her hart sent into his, the dueties that shée ought him, yet euery thought striuing to be first vttered, and to haue the first roome in his gracious hearing, shée was forced as an indifferent arbitrer among thē, to seal them vp al vnder silence by suppressing spéech, and to supplye the want of words, with more significant actions. And therefore running to the haunt of her chiefest delights, and falling at his sacred feete, shée offered to bath them with teares of ioye, and to sanctifie her lippes with kissing his once grieuons, but now most glorious wounds,

[Page] She staied not for any more words, being now made blessed with the word himselfe, thinking it a greater benefite, at once to féede al her wishes, in the homage, honour, and embracing of his féet, then in the often hearing of his lesse comfortable talke.

For as the nature of loue coueteth not onely to be vnited, but if it were possible wholly transfourmed out of it selfe into the thing it loueth: So doth it most affect that which most vniteth, and preferreth the least coniunction before any distant contentment. And therefore to sée him did not suffiss her, to heare him did not quiet her, to speak with him was not inough for her, and except shée might touch him, nothing could please her. But though she humbly fell down at his féete to kisse them, yet Christ did forbidde her saying. Do not touch me for I am not yet ascended to my Father.

O Iesu what mistery is in this? Being dead in sinne shée touched thy [Page] mortall féete that were to die for her sake, & being now aliue in grace, may shée not touch thy glorious féete, that are no lesse for her benefite reuiued? Shée was once admitted to annointe thy head, and is shée now vnworthy of accesse to thy féete? Doest thou nowe commaund her frō that for which thou wert wont to commend her, and by praising the déede diddest moue her often to doe it? Sith other women shall touch thée, why hath shée a repulse, yea sith shée her selfe shall touch thée hereafter, why is shée now reiected? what meanest thou O Lord by thus debarring her of so desired a duty, and sith among al thy disciples thou hast vouchsafed her with such a prerogatiue, as to honour her eies with thy first sight, and her eares with thy first wordes, why deniest thou the priuiledge of thy first embracing? If the multitude of her tears haue wonne that fauour for her eies, and her longing to heare thée so great a recompence to her eares, why [Page] doest thou not admitte her handes to touch, and her mouth to kisse thy holye féete, sith the one with many plaintes and the other with their readinesse to all seruices, seeme to haue earned no lesse reward.

But notwithstanding all this thou preuentest the effect of her offer, with for bidding her to touch thee, as if thou haddest said.

O Mary know the difference betwéene a glorious and a mortall body, betwéene the condition of a momentary and of an eternall life. For sith the immortality of the body, and the glory both of body and soule, are the endowments of an heauenly inhabitant, and the rights of an other world, think not this fauour to se me here ordinary, nor leaue to touch me a common thing. It were not so great a wonder to sée the starres fall from their Sphers, and the Sunne forsake heauen, and to come within the reach of a mortall arme, as for me, that am not only a cittizen, but [Page] the soueraign of saints, and the sunne whose beames are the Angels blisse, to shew my self visible to the pilgrims of this world, and to display eternall beauties to corruptible eies. Though I be not yet ascended to my father, I shall shortly ascend, and therfore measure not thy demeanour towardes me by the place where I am, but by that which is due vnto me. And then thou wilt rather with reuerence fall down a farre off, then with such familiarity presume to touch me. Doest thou not beléeue my former promises? hast thou not a constant proofe by my present wordes? are not thy eies and eares sufficient testimonies, but that thou must also haue thy handes & face witnesses of my presence? Touch me not O Mary for if I doe deceiue thy sight, or delude thy hearing, I can as easely beguile thy hand, and frustrat thy féeling. Or if I be true in any one, beléeue me in all, and embrace me first in a firme faith, and then thou shalt [Page] touch me with more worthy hands. It is now necessary to weane thée from the comfort of my externall presence, that thou maist learne to lodge mee in the secretes of thy heart, and teach thy thoughts to supply the offices of outward senses. For in this visible shape I am not here long to be séene, béeing shortly to ascend vnto my Father: but what thy eie then seeth not, thy heart shall féele, and my silent parly wil find audience in thy inward eare. Yet if thou fearest least my ascending should be so sodain, that if thou doest not now take thy leaue of my féete, with thy humble kisses and louing teares, thou shalt neuer finde the like oportunitye againe, licence from thée that néedeles suspition. I am not yet ascended to my Father, and for all such dueties there will be a more conuenient time. But now goe about that which requireth more hast, and runne to my bretheren and enforme them what I say, that I will goe before them into Galilée, [Page] there they shall sée me.

Mary therfore preferring her lords will, before her owne wish, yet sorry that her will was worthy of no better euent, departeth from him like a hungry infant puld from a full teat, or a thirsty Hart chased from a swéet fountaine. Shée iudged her selfe but an vnlucky messenger of most ioyfull tidings, being banished from her Maisters presence, to carry newes of his resurrection. Alas (saith shée) and cannot others be happy without my vnhappinesse, or cannot their gains come in, but through my losses? Must the dawning of their day be yt euening of mine, and my soule robbed of such a treasure, to enrich their eares? O my heart returne thou to enioy him, why goest thou with me, that am enforced to goe from him? In me thou art but in prison, and in him is thy onely Paradise. I haue buried thée long inough in former sorrowes, & yet now when thou wert halfe reuiued, I am constrained [Page] to carry thee from the spring of life. Alas goe séeke to better thy selfe in some more happy breast, sith I euill deseruing creature am nothing different from that I was, but in hauing taken a taste of the highest delite, that the knowledge & want of it might drowne me in the déepest misery.

Thus dutie leading, and loue withholding her, shee goeth as fast backeward in thought as forward in pace, readie eftsoones to faint for griefe, but that a fit me hope to see him againe did support her weakenesse. Shee often turned towards the tombe to breath, déeming the verie ayre that came from the place where he stood to haue taken vertue of his presence, and to haue in it a refreshing force aboue the course of nature. Sometimes shee forgetteth her self, and loue carrieth her in a golden distraction, making her to imagin that her Lord is present, and then shée séemeth to demand him questions, and to heare his answeres: she dreameth [Page] that his féete are in her folded armes, and that hee giueth her soule a full repast of his comfortes. But alas when she commeth to her selfe, and findeth it but an illusion, she is so much the more sorie, in that the onely imagination, being so delightfull, she was not worthie to enioy the thing it self. And whē she passeth by those places where her maister had been. O stones (saith shée) howe much more happie are you then I moste wretched caitiffe, sith to you was not denied the touch of those blessed feet, whereof my euill deserts haue now made me vnworthie? Alas what crime haue I of late committed that hath thus cancelled mee out of his good conceite, and estranged from me hys accustomed courtesie? Had I but a lease of his loue, for tearme of his life, or did my interest in his féete expire with his decease? In them with my teares I write my first supplication for mercy, which I pointed with sighs, foulded vp in my hayre, and humblie [Page] sealed with the impression of my lips. They were the dores of my first entrance into his fauour, by which I was gratiously entertained in his heart, and admitted to do homage vnto his head, while it was yet a mortall mirrour of immortall maiestie, an earthly seate of a heauenly wisedome, conteining in man a Gods felicitie.

But alas I must bee contented to beare a lower saile, and to take down my desires to farre meaner hopes, sith former fauors are now too high marks for me to ayme at.

O my eyes why are you so ambitious of heauenly honours? He is now too bright a sunne for so weake a sight: your lookes are limited to meaner light, you are the eyes of a bat, and not of an Eagle: you must humble your selues to the twylight of inferior thinges, and measure your sightes by your slender substance. Gaze not too much vpon the blaze of eternitie, least you loose your selues in too much selfe [Page] delight, and being too curious in sifting his maiestie, you be in the end oppressed with his glorie. No no, sith I am reiected from his féet, how can I otherwise presume, but that my want of faith hath dislodged me out of his heart, and throwne me out of all possession of his minde and memorie. Yet why shoulde I stoupe to so base a feare? whē want of faith was agréeued with want of all goodnesse, he disdained not to accept me for one of his number: and shall I nowe thinke that hee will for my faint beléefe so rigorously abandon me? And is the sinceritie of my loue, wherein he hath no partner, of so slender accompt, that it may not hope for some little sparke of his woonted mercy? I will not wrong him with so vniust a suspition, sith his appearing improueth it, his wordes ouer throwe it, his countenance doth disswade it: why then shoulde I sucke so much sorrow out of so vaine a surmise.

Thus Maries trauailing phansies, [Page] making long voyages in this short iorney, and wauering betwéene the ioy of her vision, and the griefe of her deniall entertained her in the way, and held her parly with such discourses, as are incident into minds, in which, neither hope is ful maister of the field, nor fear hath receiued an vtter ouerthrow.

But as shee was in this perplexed maner, now falling, now rising in her owne vncertainties, shee findeth on the way, the other holy women, that first came with hir to the graue, whom the angels had now assured of Christs resurrection. And as they passed all forwardes towardes the Disciples: Behold Iesus met them, saying: All hayle. But they came neere, and took hold of his feete, and adored him. Then Iesus said vnto them, feare not. Go tell my brethren, that they go into Galilee, there they shall see me.

O Lord how profound are thy iudgmentes, and vnserchable thy councels? doth her sorrow sit so neere thy heart, [Page] or thy repulse rebound with such regret by séeing her wounded loue bléede so fast at her eyes, that thy late refusall must so soone be requited with so frée a grant? Is it thy pitie, or her change, which cannot allowe that shee should any longer fast from her earnest longing?

But O moste milde phisition, well knowest thou that thy sharpe corrosie, with bitter smarte angred her tender wound, which being rather caused, by vn witting ignorance then wilfull error, was assoone cured as knowne. And therfore thou quickly appliest a swéete lenitie, to asswage her paine, that shee might acknowledge her forbidding rather a fatherly checke to her vnsetled faith, then an austere reiecting her for her fault. And therefore thou admittest her to kisse thy feete, the two conduits of grace, and seales of our redemption, renewing her a charter of thy vnchanged loue, and accepting of her the vowed sacrifice of her sanctified soule.

And thus gratious Lord hast thou finished [Page] her feares, assured her hopes, fulfilled her desires, satisfied her loues, stinted her teares, perfited her ioyes, and made the period of her expiring griefes, the preamble to her nowe entring, and neuer ending pleasures.

O how mercifull a father thou art, to left Orphanes, how easie a iudge to repentant sinners, and howe faithfull a friend to sincere louers? It is vndoubtedly true, that thou neuer leauest those that loue thée, and thou louest suche as rest their affiance in thée. They shall finde thée liberall aboue desert, & bountifull beyond hope: a measurer of thy giftes, not by their merites, but by thy owne mercie.

O christian soule take Mary for thy mirrour, follow her affection that like effectes may follow thine. Learne O sinfull man of this once a sinfull woman, that sinners may finde Christ, if there sinnes be amended. Learne that whome sinne looseth, loue recouereth, whome faintnesse of faith chaseth away, firmnes [Page] of hope recalleth, & that which no other mortall force, fauour or policy can compasse, the continued teares of a constant loue, are able to obtaine. Learne of Mary for Christ to feare no encounters, out of Christ to desire no comforts, and with the loue of Christ to ouer-rule the loue of all things. Rise early in ye morning of thy good motions, and let them not sléepe in sloth, when diligence may perfourme them. Run with repentaunce to thy sinfull heart which should haue béene the temple, but through thy faulte, was no better then a Tombe for Christ, sith hauing in thée no life to féele him, he semed vnto thée as if he had béene dead. Roule away the stone of thy former hardnes, remoue all the heauy loades yt oppresse thée in sin, & looke into thy soule, whether thou canst there finde thy Lord. If he be not within thée, stand wéeping without, and séeke him in other creatures, sith being present in all, he may be found in any. Let faith be thy eie, hope thy guide, and loue thy light. Séeke him, and not [Page] his: for himselfe, and not for his giftes. If thy faith haue found him in a cloude, let thy hope séek to sée him. If hope haue led thee to sée him, let loue séeke further into him. To moue in thée a desire to finde, his goods are precious: and when he is found, to kéep thée in a desire to séek his treasures are infinit. Absent he must be sought to be had, being had, he must be sought to be more enioyed. Séeke him truely, and no other for him. Séeke him purely, and no other thing with him. Séeke him only and nothing beside him. And if at the first search he appeare not, thinke it not much to perseuer in tears, and to continue thy seeking. Stand vpon the earth, treading vnder thée all earthly vanities, and touching them, with no more then the soals of thy féete, that is with the lowest and least part of thy affection. To looke the better in the tombe, bow down thy necke to the yoake of humility, and stoupe from lofty and proud conceites: that with humbled and lowly lookes thou maist finde, whom swelling [Page] and haughtie thoughtes haue drawne away. A submitted soule soonest winneth his returne, and the déeper it sinketh in a selfe contempt, the higher it climeth in his highest fauours. And if thou perceiuest in the tombe of thy hart, the presence of his two first messengers, that is at the féet sorrow of the bad that is past, and at the head, desire to a better that is to come: entertaine them with sighes, and welcome them with penitent tears: yet reckoning them but as herbingers of thy Lord, cease not thy seeking till thou findest himselfe. And if hee vouchsafe thee with his glorious sight, offering himselfe to thy inward eies, presume not of thy selfe to be able to knowe him, but as his vnworthie suppliant prostrate thy petitions vnto him, that thou maiest truely discerne him, and faithfully serue him. Thus preparing thée with diligence, comming with spéede, standing with high lifted hopes, and stouping with inclined heart: if with Marie thou crauest no other solace of Jesus but Jesus [Page] himselfe, he will answere thy teares with his presence, and assure thée of his presence with his owne words, that hauing séene him thy selfe, thou maiest make him knowne to others: saying with Marie. I haue seene our Lord, and these thinges he sayd vnto me.

Laus Deo.

§

§

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MARIE MAGDALENS FVNERAL TEARES.

Ieremiae. CAP. 6. VERSE, 26.

‘Luctum vnigeniti fac tibi planctum Amarum.’

LONDON, Printed by I. W. for G. C. 1591.

To the worshipfull and vertuous Gentlewoman, Mistres D. A.

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[Page]

YOur vertuous request to whiche your deserts gaue the force of a com mandement, won me to satisfie your deuotion, in penning some little discourse of the blessed Mary Magdalen. And among other glorious examples of this Saints life, I haue made choise of her Funeral Tears, in which as shee most vttered the great vehemency of her feruent loue to Christ, so hath shee giuen [Page] therein largest scope to dilate vppon the same: a theame pleasing I hope vnto your self, and fittest for this time. For as passion, and especially this of loue, is in these daies the chiefe commaunder of moste mens actions, & the Idol to which both tongues and pennes doe sacrifice their ill bestowed labours: so is there nothing nowe more needefull to bee intreated, then how to direct these humors vnto their due courses, and to draw this floud of affections into the righte chanel. Passions I allow, and loues I approue, onely I would wishe that men would alter their obiect and better their intent. For passions being sequels of our nature, and allotted vnto vs as the handmaides of reason: there can be no doubt, but that as their author is [Page] good, and their end godly: so ther vse tempered in the meane, implieth no offence. Loue is but the infancy of true charity, yet sucking natures teate, and swathed in her bandes, which then groweth to perfection, when faith besides naturall motiues proposeth higher and nobler groundes of amitye. Hatred and anger are the necessary officers of prowesse and Iustice, courage being colde and dull, and Iustice in due reuenge slacke and carelesse, where hate of the faulte doth not make it odious, & anger seteth not edge on the sword that punisheth or preuenteth wrongs. Desire & hope are the parents of diligence and industry, the nurses of perseueraunce and constancy, the seedes of valour and magnanimity, the death of sloth, and the [Page] breath of all vertue. Feare and dislike are the sconces of discretion, the herbingers of wisedome and pollicy, killing idle repentance in the cradle, and curbing rashnesse with deliberation. Audacity is the armour of strength, and the guide to glory, breaking the ice to the hardest exploites, and crowening valour with honourable victory.

Sorrowe is the sister of mercy, and a waker of compassion, weeping with others teares, and grieued with their harmes. It is both the salue and smart of sin, curing that which it chasticeth with true remorse, and preuenting neede of new cure with the detestation of the disease. Dispaire of successe, is a bitte against euil attempts, and the herse of idle hopes ending endlesse [Page] things in their first motion to begin. True Ioy is the rest and reward of vertue, seasoning difficulties with delight, and giuing a present assay of future happinesse. Finally, ther is no passion but hath a seruiceable vse eyther in the pursuite of good, or auoydance of euill, and they are all benefites of God and helpes of nature, so long as they are kept vnder vertues correction.

But as too much of the best is euill, and excesse in vertue vice: so passions let loose without limmits are imperfections, nothing being good thatwanteth measure. And as the sea is vnfit for traffick, not onely when the windes are too boisterous, but also when they are too still, and a middle gale and motion of the waues serueth best [Page] the sailers purpose: So neither too stormy nor too calme a minde giueth Vertue the freest course, but a middle temper betweene them both, in which the well ordered passiōs are wrought to prosecute, not suffered to peruert any vertuous indeuour. Such were the passions of this holy Sainte, which were not guides to reason, but attendantes vpon it, and commanded by such a loue as could neuer exceede, because the thing loued was of infinite perfection. And if her weakenes of faith, (an infirmity then common to all Christes disciples) did suffer her vnderstanding to be deceiued, yet was her will so setled in a most sincere and perfect loue, that it ledde all her passions with the same bias, recompensing the want of beliefe, [Page] with the strange effectes of an excellent charity. This loue & these passions are the subiect of this discourse, which though it reach not to the dignity of Maries deserts, yet shal I thinke my indeuors wel apaide, if it may wooe some skilfuller pennes from vnworthy labours, eyther to supply in this matter my want of ability, or in other of like piety, (wherof the scripture is full) to exercise their happier talents. I know that none can expresse a passion that hee feeleth not, neyther doth the penne deliuer but what it coppieth out of the minde. And therefore sith the finest wits are now giuen to write passionat discourses, I would wish them to make choise of such passions, as it neither should be shame to vtter, nor sinne to feele. But [Page] whether my wishes in this behalf take effect or not, I reap at the least this reward of my paines, that I haue shewed my desire to answer your courtesie, and set forth the due praises of this glorious Saint.

Your louing friend. S. W.

To the Reader.

[Page]

MAnie suting their labors to the popular vaine, and guided by the gale of vulgar breath, haue diuulged diuerse patheticall discourses, in which if they had shewed as much care to profite, as they haue done desire to please, their workes woulde much more haue honoured their names, and auailed the Readers. But it is a iust complaint among the better sorte of persons, that the finest wittes loose themselues in the vainest follies, spilling muche Arte in some idle phansie, and leauing their workes as witnesses, howe long they haue beene in trauaile to be in fine deliuered of a fable. And sure it is a [Page] thing greatly to bee lamented, that men of so high conceite should so much abase their habilities, that when they haue racked them to the vttermost endeuour, all the prayse that they reape of their employment, consisteth in this, that they haue wisely tolde a foolish tale, and carried a long lie verie smoothlie to the ende. Yet this inconuenience might finde some excuse, if the drift of their discourse leuelled at anie vertuous marke, for in fables are often figured morall trueths, and that couertly vttered to a common good, whiche without a maske woulde not finde so free a passage. But when the substance of the worke hath neither trueth nor probabilite, nor the purport thereof tendeth to anie honest end, the writer is rather to bee pitied then praised, and his bookes fitter for the fire then for the presse. This common ouersight more haue obserued, [Page] then endeuored to salue, euerie one being able to reproue, none willing to redresse such faultes, aucthorised especially by generall custome: And though if necessitie (the lawlesse patrone of enforced actions) had not more preuailed, then choise, this worke of so different a subiect from the vsuall vaine, should haue beene no eye-sore to those that are better pleased with worse matters. Yet sith the copies therof flew so fast, and so false abroad, that it was in danger to come corrupted to the print: it seemed a lesse euill to let it flie to common viewe in the natiue plume, and with the owne wings, then disguised in a voate of a bastard feather, or cast off from the fist of such a corrector, as might happily haue perished the sound, and imped [...]n some sicke and sory fethers of his owne phansies. It may be that courteous skill will recken this, though eourse in respect of others exquisite labors, not vnfit to entertaine [Page] well tempered humours, both with pleasure and profit, the ground therof being in scripture, and the forme of enlarging it, an imitation of the ancient doctours, in the same and other pointes of like tenour. This commodity at the least it will carie with it, that the reader may learne to loue without improofe of puritie, & teach his thoughts eyther to temper passion in the meane, or to giue the bridle onely where the excesse cannot be faultic. Let the work defend it self, and euerie one passe his censure as he seeth cause. Manie Carpes are expected when curious eyes come a fishing. But the care is alreadie taken, and the patience waiteth at the table, readie to take away, when that dish is serued in, and to make roume for others to set on the desired fruit.

S. VV.

Faults escaped in the Printing.

[Page]

IN the Epistle fol. 2. b. lin. 2. sconces, read scoutes. To the Reader, foure lines before the end. and the patience, read and patience.

FOl. 2. b. lin. 23 eternall, read externall. fol. 3. b. l. 19. summoned, read summed. Fol 4. a. l. 3. disease, read decease. Fol. 6. a. l. 21., for read. For. Fol. 6. b. l. 15. companions, read champions. Fol. 7. a. l. 22. drouen, read drowned. Fol. 7. b. l. 7. should, read would. Fol. 11. b. l. 7. to thy, read to her. Fol. 14. a. l. 24. demanding, read demaund. Fol. 18. b. l. 22. I heard, read I had. Fol. 19. a. l. 14. couch, read touch, Fol. 22. b. l. 1. heart, read harts. Ibid. l. 8. this, read his. Fol. 23. a. l. 10. dicease, read decease. Fol. 26. b. l. 14. enioyned read enioyed. Fol. 29. b. l. 12. trouble, read throbbes. Ibid. l. 21. without which calling it commeth, read which without calling commeth. Fol. 31. a. l. 9. to weeping, read to no more then weeping. Fol. 35. a. l. 25. better titles, read better, many titles. Fol. 44. a. l. 12. misere, read miserie. Fol. 51. b. l. 25. to, read do Fol. 52. a. l. 3. kind, strength, read kind, thy strength. Fol. 53. b. l. 7. His Sayts, read His holy one. Fol. 58. b. l. 21. breaketh, read brake. Fol. 66, a. l. 14. lenity, read lenitiue. Ibid. l. 20. kisse thy, read kisse in thy

Information about this book

Title statement

Marie Magdalens funeral teares

Southwell, Robert, Saint, 1561?-1595.

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1591

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2003-05 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1).

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A12628

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STC 22950

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ESTC S111081

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99846501

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99846501

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11474

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(EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A12628)

Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 11474)

Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1475-1640 ; 332:2)

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— Marie Magdalens funeral teares, Southwell, Robert, Saint, 1561?-1595..

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[7], 68, [1] leaves

Printed by I[ohn] W[olfe] for G[abriel] C[awood],. London :: 1591.. (Dedication signed: S.VV., i.e. South Well, i.e. Robert Southwell.) (Printer's and publisher's names from STC.) (Running title reads: Mary Magdalens funerall teares.) (With a final errata leaf.) (Reproduction of the original in the Henry E. Huntington Library and Art Gallery.)

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