MARIE MAGDA­LENS FVNERAL TEARES.

AMongst other mourneful acci­dents of the pas­sion of Christ, that loue pre­senteth it selfe vnto my memory, with which the blessed Marie Magdalene louing our Lord more than her selfe, followed him in his iour­ney to his death, attending vpon him when his disciples fled and being more willing to dye with him, than 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 [Page] affection enflamed her heart, and her enflamed heart resol­ued into vncessant teares, so that burning and bathing be­tweene loue and griefe, she led a life euer dying and felt a death neuer ending. And when he by whom she liued was dead, and she for whom he dyed enfor­cedly left aliue, she praised the dead more than the liuing: and hauing lost that light of her life, she desired to dwell in darke­nesse, & in the shadow of death, choosing Christs Tombe for her best home, and his coarse for her chiefe comfort. For Mary (as the Euangelist saith) Stood without at the Tombe weeping.

But alas how vnfortunate is this woman, to whom neither life will affoord a desired fare­well, nor death allow any wish­ed welcome? She hath abando­ned the liuing, and chosen the company of the dead; and now it seemeth that euen the dead [Page] haue forsaken her, sith the coarse she seeketh is taken away from her. And this was the cause that loue induced her to stand, and sorrow enforced her to weepe. Her eye was watchfull to seeke whom her heart most longed to enioy, and her foot in a readi­nesse to runne, if her eye should chance to espy him. And there­fore she standeth to be still stir­ring, prest to watch euery way, and prepared to go whither any hope should call her. But she wept because she had such oc­casion of standing: and that which moued her to watch, was the motiue of her teares. For as she watched to finde whom she had lost, so she wept for hauing lost whom she loued, her poore eyes being troubled at once with two contrarie offices, both to be cleare in sight the better to seeke him, and yet cloudy with teares 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 moane. For first she mourned for the departing of his soule out of his body, and now she lamented the taking of his body out of the graue, being punished with two wreckes of her onely welfare, both full of miserie, but the last without all comfort. The first originall of her sorrow grew, because she could not enioy him aliue: yet this sorrow had some solace, for that she hoped to haue enioyed him dead.

But when she considered that his life was already lost, and now not so much as his body could be found she was wholly daun­ted with dismay, sith this vnhap­pinesse admitted no helpe. She doubted lest the loue of her maister (the onely portion that her fortune had left her) would soone languish in her cold [Page] breast, if it neither had his words to kindle it, nor his presence to cherish it, nor so much as his dead ashes to rake it vp. She had prepared her spices, and proui­ded her oyntments, to pay him the last tribute of externall du­ties. And though Ioseph and Ni­codemus had already bestowed an hundreth pounds of Mirrhe and Aloes, which was in quan­tity sufficient, in quality of the best, and as well applyed as art and deuotion could deuise: yet such was her loue, that she would haue thought any quan­titie too little, except hers had bene added; the best in qualitie too meane, except hers were with it; and no diligence in ap­plying it enough, except her seruice were in it. Not that she was sharpe in censuring that which others had done, but be­cause loue made her so desirous to do all her selfe, that though all had bene done that she could [Page] deuise, and as well as she could wish, yet vnlesse she were an actor it would not suffice, sith loue is as eager to be vttered in effects, as it is zealous in true affection. She came therefore now meaning to enbalme his corps, as she had before annoin­ted his feet, and to preserue the reliques of his body, as the onely remnant of all her blisse. And as in the spring of her felicitie she had washed his feet with her teares, bewayling vnto him the death of her owne soule: so now she came in the depth of her miserie, to shed them afresh for the death of his body. But when she saw the graue open, and the bodie taken out, the labour of enbalming was preuented, but the cause of her weeping in­creased, and he that was wan­ting to her obsequies, was not wanting to her teares; and though she found not whom to annoynt, yet found she whom [Page] to lament.

And not without cause did Marie complaine, finding her first anguish doubled with a se­cond griefe, and being surchar­ged with two most violent sor­rowes in one afflicted heart. For hauing setled her whole affecti­on vpon Christ, and summed all her desires and wishes into the loue of his goodnesse, as nothing could equall his worthes: so was there not in the whole world, either a greater benefit for her to enioy than himselfe, or any grea­ter dammage possible than his losse.

The murdering in his owne death, the life of all liues, left a generall death in all liuing crea­tures, and his decease not onely disrobed our nature of her most royall ornaments, but impoue­rished the world of all highest perfections. What maruell therefore though her vehement loue to so louely a Lord, being [Page] after the wrecke of his life, now also depriued of his dead body, feele as bitter pangs for his losse, as before it tasted ioyes in his presence, and open as large an issue to teares of sorrow, as euer heretofore to teares of content­ment? And though teares were rather oyle than water to her flame, apter to nourish than di­minish her griefe: yet now being plonged in the depth of paine, she yeelded her selfe captiue to all discomfort, carrying an ouer­throwne mind in a more enfee­bled body, and still busie in de­uising, but euer doubtfull in de­fining what she might best do. For what could a silly woman do but weepe, that floating in a sea of cares, found neither eare to heare her, nor tongue to direct her, nor hand to helpe her, nor heart to pittie her in her deso­late case? True it is, that Peter and Iohn came with her to the Tombe, and to make triall of [Page] her report were both within it: but as they were speedy in com­ming, and diligent in searching, so were they as quicke to de­part, and fearefull of farther see­king. And alas, what gained she by their comming, but two wit­nesses of her losse, two dismay­ers of her hope, and two pat­ternes of a new despaire? Loue moued them to come, but their loue was soone conquered, with such feare, that it suffered them not to stay. But Mary, hoping in despaire, and perseuering in hope, stood without feare, be­cause she now thought nothing left that ought to be feared. For she hath lost her maister, to whom she was so entirely deuo­ted, that he was the totall of her loues, the height of her hopes, and the vttermost of her feares, and therefore besides him, she could neither loue other crea­ture, hope for other comfort, nor feare other losse. The worst she [Page] could feare, was the death of her body, and that shee ra­ther desired than feared, sith shee had alreadie lost the life of her soule, with­out which anie other life would be a death, and with which any other death would haue bene a delight. But now she thought it better to dye than to liue, because she might hap­pily dying find, whom not dying she looked not to enioy, and not enioying she had little will to liue. For now she loued nothing in her life, but her loue to Christ: and if any thing did make her willing to liue, it was onely the vnwillingnesse that his Image should dye with her, whose like­nesse loue had limited in her heart, and treasured vp in her sweetest memories. And had she not feared to breake the table, and to breake open the closet, to which she had entrusted this last relique of her lost happinesse, [Page] the violence of griefe, would haue melted her heart into in­ward bleeding teares, and blot­ted her remembrance with a fatall obliuion. And yet neuer­thelesse, she is now 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 than loue did? Her wits were astonied, and all her senses so amazed, that in the end finding she did not know, seeing she could not discerne, hearing she perceiued not, and more than all this, she was not there where she was, for she was wholly where her maister was; more where she loued than where she liued, and lesse in her selfe than in his body, which notwithstan­ding, where it was she could not imagine. For she sought, & as yet she found not, and there­fore stood at the Tombe wee­ping for it, being now altoge­ther [Page] giuen to mourning, and driuen to misery.

But ô Mary, by whose coun­saile, vpon what hope, or with what heart, couldest thou stand alone, when the Disciples were departed? Thou wert there once before they came, thou turnedst againe at their comming, and yet thou stayest when they are gone. Alas that thy Lord is not in the Tombe, thine owne eyes haue often seene, the Disciples hands haue felt, the empty Syn­don doth auouch, and cannot all this winne thee to beleeue it? No no, thou wouldest rather condemne thine owne eyes of errour, and both their eyes and hands of deceit, yea, rather sus­pect all testimonies for vntrue, than not looke whom thou hast lost, euen there, where by no diligence he could be found. When thou thinkest of other places, and canst not imagine any so likely as this, thou seekest [Page] againe in this, and though ne­uer so often sought, it must be an haunt for hope. For when things dearely affected are lost, loues natures is, neuer to be weary of searching euen the of­tenest searched corners, being more willing to thinke that all the senses are mistaken, than to yeeld 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 profit likely? Can the wit of one (and she a wo­man) wholly possessed with pas­sion, haue more light to discerne danger, than two wits of two men, and both principall fauo­rits of the parent of all wise­dome? Or if (notwithstanding the danger) there had bene iust cause to encounter it, were not two together, being both to Christ sworne champions, each to other affected friends, [Page] and to all his enemies pro­fessed foes, more likely to haue preuailed, than one fe­minine heart, timorous by kind, and already amazed with this dreadfull accident?

But alas, why do I vrge her with reason, whose reason is al­tered into loue, & that iudgeth it folly to follow such reason, as should any way impaire her loue? Her thoughts were arre­sted by euery thread of Christs Sindon, and she was captiue to so many prisons, as the tombe had memories of her lost master: Loue being her Iaylor in them all, and nothing able to ransome her, but the recouery of her Lord. What maruaile then though the Apostles examples drew her not away, whom so violent a loue enforced to re­maine, which prescribing lawes both to wit and will, is guided by no other law but it selfe? She could not thinke of any feare, [Page] nor stand in feare of any force. Loue armed her against all ha­zards, and being already woun­ded wtih the greatest griefe, she had no leisure to remember any lesser euill. Yea she had forgot­ten all things, and her selfe a­mong all things, onely mind­full of him whom she loued aboue all things. And yet her loue, by reason of her losse, drow­ned both her mind and memory so deepe in sorrow, and so bu­sied her wits in the conceit of his absence, that all remem­brance of his former promises, was diuerted with the throng of present discomforts, and she seemed to haue forgotten also him besides whom she remembred nothing. For doubt­lesse had she remembred him as shee should, shee would not haue now thought the tombe a fit place to seeke him, neither would she mourne for him as dead, and remoued[Page] by others force, but ioy in him as reuiued, and risen by his own power. For he had often fore­told both the manner of his death, and the day of his Resur­rection. But alas, let her heaui­nesse excuse her, and the vnwon­tednesse of the miracle pleade her pardon, sith dread & amaze­ment hath dulled her senses, distempered her thoughts, dis­couraged her hopes, awaked her passions, and left her no other liberty but onely to weepe. She wept therefore, being onely able to weepe. And as she was weeping, she stouped downe and looked into the Monument, and she saw two Angels in white, sitting one at the head, and another at the feet, where the body of Iesus had bene layd. They said vnto her, Woman why weepest thou? Iohn 20.

O Mary, thy good hap excee­deth thy hope, and where thy last sorrow was bred, thy first succour springeth. Thou diddest [Page] seeke but one, and thou hast found two. A dead body was thy errand, and thou hast light vpon two aliue. Thy weeping was for a man, and thy teares haue obtained Angels. Suppresse now thy sadnesse, and refresh thy heart with this good for­tune. These Angels inuite thee to a parley, they seeme to take pitty of thy case, and it may be, they haue some happy tidings to tell thee. Thou hast hitherto sought in vaine, as one either vn­seene, or vnknowne, or at the least vnregarded, sith the party thou seekest, neither tendereth thy teares, nor answereth thy cryes, nor relenteth with thy la­mentings. Either he doth not heare, or he will not helpe: he hath paraduenture left to loue thee, and is loth to yeeld thee reliefe, and therefore take such comfort as thou findest, sith thou art not so lucky, as to finde that which thou couldest wish Re­member [Page] what they are, where they sit, from whence they come, and to whom they speake. They are Angels of peace, nei­ther sent without cause, nor seene but of fauour. They sit in the tombe, to shew that they are no strangers to thy losse. They come from heauen, from whence all happy news descen­deth. They speake to thy selfe, as though they had some speciall embassage to deliuer vnto thee. Aske them therefore of thy ma­ster, for they are likeliest to re­turne thee a desired answer. Thou knewest him too well, to thinke that hell hath deuoured him: thou hast long sought, and hast not found him on 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 report will highly please thee. Or if thou art resolued to con­tinue thy seeking, who can bet­ter [Page] helpe thee, than they that are as swift as thy thought, as faith­full as thine owne heart, and as louing to thy Lord as thou thy felfe? Take therefore thy good hap, lest it be taken away from thee, and content thee with An­gels, sith thy master hath giuen thee ouer.

But alas, what meaneth this change, and how happeneth this strange alteration? The time hath bene that fewer teares would haue wrought greater effect, shorter seeking haue sooner found, and lesse paine haue procured more pittie. The time hath bene that thy annoin­ting his feet, was accepted and praysed, thy washing them with teares highly cōmended, & thy wiping thē with thy haire, most curteously construed. How then doth it now fall out, that hauing brought thy sweet oyles to an­noint his whole body, hauing shed as many teares, as would [Page] haue washed more than his feet, and hauing not onely thy haire, but thy heart ready to serue him, he is not moued with all these duties, so much as once to afford thee his fight? Is it not he that reclaimed thee from thy wan­dring courses, that dispossessed thee of thy damned Inhabitants; and from the wilds of sinne, re­couered thee into the fold and family of his flock? Was not thy house his home, his loue thy life, thy selfe his disciple? Did not he defend thee against the Pha­risie, pleade for thee against Iu­das, and excuse thee to thy sister? In summe, was not he thy Pa­tron and Protector in all thy ne­cessities?

O good Iesu, what hath thus estranged thee from her? Thou hast heretofore so pitied her teares, that seeing them, thou couldest not refraine thine. In one of her greatest agonies, for loue of her that so much loued [Page] thee, thou didst recall her dead brother to life, turning her com­plaint into vnexpected content­ment. And we know that thou doest not vse to alter course without cause, nor to chastise without desert. Thou art the first that inuitest, and the last that forsakest▪ neuer leauing but first left; and euer offering, till thou art refused. How then hath she forfeited thy fauour? or with what trespasse hath she earned thy ill will? That she neuer left to loue thee, her heart will de­pose, her hand will subscribe, her tongue will protest, her teares will testifie, and her see­king doth assure. And alas, is her particular case so farre from ex­ample, that thou shouldest rather alter thy nature, than she better her Fortune, and be to her as thou art to no other? For our parts since thy last shew of li­king towards her, we haue found no other fault in her, but that she [Page] was the earliest vp to seeke thee, readiest to annoint thee, and when she saw that thou wert re­moued, she forthwith did weepe for thee, and presently went for helpe to finde thee. And where­as those two that she brought, being lesse carefull of thee than fearefull of themselues, when they had seene what she had said, sodainely shrunke away, behold she still stayeth, she still seeketh, she still weepeth. If this be a fault, we cannot deny but this she doth, and to this she perswadeth; yea, this she nei­ther meaneth to amend, nor re­questeth thee to forgiue: if ther­fore thou reckonest this as pu­nishable, punished she must be, sith no excuse hath effect where the fact pleadeth guiltie. But if this import not any offence but a true affection, and be rather a good desire than an euill desert, why art thou so hard a Iudge to so soft a creature, requiting her [Page] loue with thy losse, and suspen­ding her hopes in this vnhappi­nesse? Are not those thy words; I loue those that loue me, and who watcheth early for me shall find me? why then doth not this woman find thee, that was vp so early to watch for thee? Why doest thou not with like repay her, that be­stoweth vpon thee her whole loue, sith thy word is her war­rant, and thy promise her due debt? Art thou lesse moued with these teares that she sheddeth for thee her onely Master, than thou wert with those that she shed before thee for her deceas­sed brother? Or doth her loue to thy seruant more please thee than her loue to thy selfe? Our loue to others must not be to them, but to thee in them. For he loueth thee so much the lesse, that loue [...]h any thing with thee. If therefore she then deserued well for louing thee in another, she deserued better now, for [Page] louing thee in thy selfe: and if indeed thou louest those that loue thee, make thy word good to her that is so farre in loue with thee. Of thy selfe thou hast said, that thou art The way, the truth, and the life. If then thou art a way easie to find and neuer erring, how doth she misse thee? If a life giuing life and neuer en­ding, why is she ready to dye for thee? If a true promising truth and neuer failing, how is she be­reaued of thee? For if what thy tongue did speake, thy truth will auerre, she will neuer aske more to make her most happy. Re­member that thou saidst to her sister, that Mary had chosen the best part which should not be taken from her. That she chose the best par [...] is out of question, sith she made choise of nothing but only of thee But how can it be veri­fied, that this part shal not be ta­ken from her, sith thou that art this part art already taken away? If she could haue kept thee, she [Page] would not haue lost thee: and had it bene in her power, as it was in her will, she would neuer haue parted from thee: and might she now be restored to thy presence, she would trie all fortunes rather than for go thee. Sith therefore she seeketh no­thing but what she chose, and the losse of her choise is the only cause of her combat, either vouchsafe thou to keep this best part that she chose in her, or I see not how it can be true, that it shall not be taken from her. But thy meaning haply was, that though it be taken from her eyes, yet it should neuer be ta­ken from her heart; & it may be thy inward presence supplyeth thine outward absence: yet I can hardly thinke, but that if Mary had thee within her, she could feele it, and if she felt it, she would neuer seeke thee. Thou art too hot a fire to be in her bo­some and not to burne her, and [Page] thy light is too great, to leaue her mind in this darknesse if it shined in her. In true louers eue­ry part is an eye, and euery thought a looke, and therefore so sweet an obiect among so many eyes, and in so great a light, could neuer lye so hidden but loue would espy it. No, no, if Mary had thee, her innocent heart (neuer taught to dissem­ble) could not make complaint the out-side of a concealed com­fort, neither would she turne her thoughts to pasture in a dead mans Tombe, if at home she 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, than in enioying of thee, whom she knew too well, to a­bridge the least part of her from so high an happinesse. For her thirst of thy presence was so ex­ceeding, and the sea of thy ioyes so well able to afford her a full [Page] draught, that though euery par­cell in her should take in a whole tide of thy delights, she would thinke them too few to quiet her desires. Yea doubtlesse, if she had thee within her, she would not enuie the fortune of the richest Empresse, yea she would more reioyce to be thy Tombe in earth, than a throne in heauen, and disdaine to be a Saint if she were worthy to be but thy shrine.

But paraduenture it is now with her mind, as it was with the Apostles eyes; and as they seeing thee walke vpon the Sea took thee for a Ghost, so she see­ing thee in her hart, deemeth thee but a fancy, being yet better ac­quainted with thy bodily shape than with thy spirituall power.

But ô Mary, it seemeth too strange, that he whom thou see­kest, and for whom thou wee­pest, should thus giue thee ouer to these painefull fits, if in thee [Page] he did not see a cause for which he will not be seene of thee. Still thy plaint, and stint thy weeping, for I doubt there is some tres­passe in thy teares, & some sinne in thy sorrow. Doest thou not remember his words to thee and to other women, when he said: Daughters of Ierusalem weepe not for me, but weepe for your selues and for your children? What mea­nest thou then to continue this course? Doth he sorbid thy teares, and wilt thou not for­beare them? Is it no fault to in­fringe his will, or is not that his will that his words do import? The fault must be mended, ere the penance be released, and therefore either ceasse to weepe, or neuer hope to finde. But I know this Logicke little plea­seth thee, and I might as soone win thee to forbeare liuing as to leaue weeping.

Thou wilt say, that though he forbad thee to weepe for him, [Page] yet he left thee free, to weepe for thy selfe, and sith thy loue hath made thee one with him, thou weepest but for thy selfe when thou weepest for him. But I answer thee againe, that be­cause he is one with thee, and thy weeping for him hath bene forbidden thee, thou canst not weepe for thy selfe, but his words wil condemne thee. For if thou & he are one, for which so­euer thou weepest it is all one, & therefore sith for him thou maist not weepe, forbeare all weeping left it should offend. Yea but (saist thou) to barre me from weeping, is to abridge me of li­berty, and restraint of liberty is a penaltie; and euery penaltie sup­poseth some offence: but an of­fence it is not to weepe for my selfe, for he would neuer com­mande it, if it were not lawfull to do it. The fault therefore must be; in being one with him, that maketh the weeping for my [Page] selfe, a weeping also for him. And if this be a fault, I will neuer amend it; and let them that thinke it so, do penance 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 shed them. Neither thinke I his former word, a warrant against his latter deed. And what need had he to weepe vpon the Crosse, but for our example, which if it were good for him to giue, it cannot be euill for me to follow? No, no, it is not my weeping that causeth my losse, sith a world of eyes, and a sea of teares, could not worthily be­waile the misse of such a mai­ster.

Yet, since neither thy seeking findeth, nor thy weeping pre­uaileth, satisfie thy selfe with the sight of Angels. Demaund the cause of their comming, and the reason of thy Lords remoue, [Page] and sith they first offer thee oc­casion of parley, be not thou too dainty of thy discourse. It may be they can calme thy stormes, and quiet thy vnrest, and there­fore conceale not from them thy sore, lest thou lose the benefit 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, she will nei­ther lend her eare long to o­thers, nor borrow others helpe, lest by the seeking to allay her smart, she should lessen her loue. But drawing into her mind all pensiue conceits, she museth and pineth in a consuming languor, taking comfort in nothing but in being comfortlesse.

Alas, (saith she) small is the light that a starre can yeeld when the Sunne is downe, and a sorry exchange to go gather the crums after the losse of an [Page] heauenly repast. My eyes are not vsed to see by the glimse of a sparke: and in seeking the Sunne it is either needlesse or bootlesse to borrow the light of a candle, sith either 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 will be burdensome vnto me, and they will 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 can for­beare him, surely they do not know him, whom none can truly know, and liue long with­out him. All their demurres would be tedious, and discourses irksome. Impaire my loue they might, but appay it they could [Page] not, to which he that first accep­ted the debt is the onely pay­ment. They either want power, will, or leaue to tell me my de­sire, or at the first word they would haue done it, sith Angels are not vsed to idle speeches, and to me all talke is idle that doth not tell me of my maister. They know not where he is, and ther­fore they are come to the place where he last was, making the Tombe their heauen, and the remembrance of his presence the food of their felicitie. What­soeuer they could tell me, if they told me not of him, and what­soeuer they could 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 see them, nor desire to heare them. I came not to see Angels, but him that made both me and Angels, and to whom I owe more than both to men and [Page] Angels.

And to thee I appeale, ô most louing Lord, whether my affli­cted heart doth not truly defray the tribute of an vndeuided loue. To thee 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, priuie where thy body is, as thou art, who is onely Lord and owner of my soule.

But alas sweet 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 ima­gine. Alas ô my onely desire, why hast thou left me wauering in these vncertainties, and in how wild a maze wander my doubtful & perplexed thoughts? If I stay here where he is not, I shall neuer finde him. If I go fur­ther to seeke, I know not whi­ther. To leaue the Tombe is a death, and to stand helplesse by [Page] it an vncurable disease, so that all my comfort is now conclu­ded in this, that I am free to chuse whether I will stay with­out helpe, or go 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 chuser of mine owne death, ô how quickly should that choise be made, and how willingly would I runne to that execution? I would be nai­led to the same crosse, with the same nailes, & in the same place: my heart should be wounded with his speare, my head with his thornes, my body with his whippes: Finally, I would taste all his torments, and tread all his embrued and bloudie steps.

But ô ambitious thoughts, why gaze you vpon so high a fe­licitie? why thinke you of so glorious a death, that are priuie to so infamous a life? Death alas [Page] I deserue, yea not one but infi­nite deaths. But so sweete a death, seasoned with so many comforts, the very instruments whereof were able to raise the deadest corps, and 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 houres, and to passe as many pangs as I haue thoughts of my losse, which are as many as there are minutes, and as violent as if they were all in euery one. But sith I can neither die as he died, nor liue where he lyeth dead, I I will liue out my liuing death by his graue, and dye on my dy­ing life by his sweete Tombe. Better is it after losse of his bo­dy to looke to his Sepulcher, than after the losse of the one, to leaue the other to be destroyed. No, no, though I haue bene rob­bed of the Saint, I will at the least haue care of the shrine, [Page] which though it be spoiled of the most soueraigne hoast, yet shall it be the Altar where I will daily sacrifice my heart, and of­fer vp my teares.

Here will I euer leade, yea here do I meane to end my wret­ched life, that I may at the least be buried by the Tombe of my Lord, and take my iron sleepe neare this couch of stone which his presence hath made the place of sweetest repose.

It may be also that this empty Syndon lyeth here to no vse, and this Tombe being open without any in it, may giue occasion to some mercifull heart, that shall first light vpon my vnburied bo­dy, to wrap me in his shroud, and to interre me in this Tombe.

O too fortunate lot, for so vnfortunate a woman to craue: no: no: I do not craue it. For alas, I dare not, yet if such an ouer-sight should be committed, I do now before-hand, forgiue that [Page] sinner, and were it no more pre­sumption to wish it aliue, than to suffer it dead, if I knew the party that should first passe by me, I would woo him with my teares, and hire him with my prayers, to blesse me with this felicity. And though I dare not wish any 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 Tombe I esteeme more than any Princes monument: yea, and I thinke that coarse highly fauo­red, that shall succeed my Lord in it: and for my part, as I meane that the ground where I stand shall be my death-bed; so am I not of Iacobs mind, to haue my body buried farre from the place where it dyeth, but euen in the next and readiest graue, and that as soone as my breath faileth, sith delayes are bootlesse where death hath won posses­sion.

But alas, I dare not say any more, let my body take such fortune as befalleth it: my soule at the least shall dwell in this sweet Paradise, and from this brittle case of flesh and bloud, passe presently into the glori­ous Tombe of God and man. It is now enwrapped in a masse of corruption, it shall then enioy a place of high perfection: where it is now it is more by force than by choise, and like a repi­ning prisoner in a loathed gaile: but there in a little roome it should find perfect rest, and in the prison of death, the liberty of a ioyfull life.

O sweet Tombe of my swee­test Lord, while I liue I will stay by thee, when I die, I will cleaue vnto thee: neither aliue nor dead, will I euer be drawne from thee. Thou art the Altar of mer­cie, the temple of truth, the sanctuary of safe [...]ie, the graue of death, and the cradle of eternall [Page] life. O heauen of my eclipsed Sunne, receiue vnto thee this silly starre that hath now also lost all wished light. O Whale that hast swallowed my onely Ionas, swallow also me, more worthy to be thy prey, 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? Vpon what shore hast thou cast vp the Preacher of all truth? or to what Ismaelite hast thou yeelded the purueiour of our life?

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

But through too much pre­cisenesse in keeping the Law, I haue lost the Law-maker; and by being too scrupulous in ob­seruing his ceremonies, I am proued irreligious in losing him selfe, sith I should rather haue re­mained with the truth, than for­saken it to solemnize the figure. The Sabboth could not haue bene prophaned in standing by his coarse, by which the propha­ned things are sanctified, and whose touch doth not defile the cleane, but cleanseth the most defiled.

But when it was time to stay, I departed: when it was too late to helpe, I returned: and now 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, endure [Page] the deserued punishment, that if he were incensed with my fault, he may be appeased with my pe­nance, and returne vpon the a­mendment that fled from the offence.

Thus when her timorous con­science had indited her of so great an omission, and her tongue enforced the euidence with these bitter accusations, Loue, that was now the onely vmpire in all her causes, con­demned her eyes to a fresh showre of teares, her breast to a new storme of sighes, and her soule, to be perpetuall prisoner to restlesse sorrowes.

But ô 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 words fulfilled? Tell me then, I pray thee, if thy heart were dis­solued, [Page] where wouldest thou harbour thy Lord? what woul­dest thou offer him? how woul­dest thou loue him?

Thine eyes haue lost him, thy hands cannot feele him, thy feet cannot follow him: and if it be at all in thee, it is thy heart that hath him, and wouldest thou now haue that dissolued, from thence also to exile him? And if thine eyes were melted, thy soule in langour, and thy senses decay­ed, how wouldest thou see him, if he did appeare? how shouldest thou heare him, if he did speake? how couldest thou know him, though he were there present?

Thou thinkest haply that he loued thee so well, that if thy heart were spent for his loue, he would either lend his own heart vnto thee, or create a new heart in thee, better than that which thy sorrow tooke from thee. It may be thou imaginest that if thy soule would giue place, his [Page] soule wanting now a bodie, would enter into thine, with sup­ply of all thy senses, and release of thy sorrowes.

O Mary, thou diddest not marke what thy maister was wont to say, when he told thee, that the third day he should rise againe. For if thou hadst heard him, or at the least vnderstood him, thou wouldest not thinke, but that he now vsed both his heart and soule in the life of his owne body. And therefore re­paire to the Angels, and enquire more of them, lest the Lord be displeased, that comming from him, thou wilt not entertaine them.

But Mary, whose deuotions were all fixed vpon a nobler Saint, and that had so straightly bound her thoughts to his only affection, that she rather desired to vnknow whom she knew al­ready, than to burthen her mind with the knowledge of new ac­quaintance, [Page] could not make her will, long since possessed with the highest loue, stoope 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 to her Lord, to whom both she and they were wholly deuoted, & ought most loue and greatest duty. Sorrow also being now the onely inter­preter of all that sense, deliuered to her vnderstanding, made her conster their demand in a more doubtfull than true meaning.

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

If their question did import [Page] a prohibition, the necessitie of the occasion doth countermand their counsaile, and fitter it were they should weepe with me, than I in not weeping obey them. If the Sunne were asha­med to shew his brightnesse, when the father of lights was darkned with such disgrace: if the heauens discolouring their beauties, suted themselues to their makers fortune: if the whole frame of nature were al­most dissolued to see the author of nature so vnhaturally abused: why may not Angels, that best knew the indignitie of the case, make vp a part in this lamenta­ble consort? And especially now, that by the losse of his body, the cause of weeping is increased, and yet the number of mour­ners lessened: sith the Apostles are fled, all his friends afraid, and poore I left alone to supply the teares of all creatures? O who will giue water to my head, and a [Page] fountaine of teares vnto mine eyes, that I may weepe day and night, and neuer ceasse weeping? O my onely 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 my owne, and all creatures seeme to haue made ouer to me theirs, leauing me as the vicegerent of all their sorrow. Sorrow with me at the least ô thou Tombe, and thaw into teares you har­dest stones. The time is now come, that you are licensed to cry, and bound to recompence the silence of your Lords Dis­ciples, of whom he himselfe sayd to the Pharises, that if they held their peace, the very stones should cry for them. Now there­fore sith feare hath locked vp their lips, and sadnesse made them mute, let the stones cry out [Page] against the murd erers of my Lord, and bewray the robbers of his sacred body. And I feare that were it well knowne 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 Pharisee or bloudy Scribe, that not conten­ted with those torments that he suffered in life (of which euery one to any other would haue bene a tyrannicall death) hath now stolen away his dead bo­dy, to practise vpon it some sa­uage cruelty, and to glut their pitilesse eyes and brutish hearts with the vnnaturall vsage of his helplesse corps. O yee rocks and stones, if euer you must cry out, now it is high time, sith the light, the life, and the Lord of the world is thus darkned, mas­sacred, and outragiously mis­used.

Doth not his tongue, whose [Page] truth is infallible, and whose word omnipotent, commanding both winds and seas, and neuer disobeyed of the most sensible creatures, promise to arme the world, and make the whole earth to fight against the sens­lesse persons, in defence of the iust? And who more iust than the Lord of iustice? who more senslesse than his barbarous murtherers, whose insatiable thirst of his innocent bloud, could not be staunched with their cruell butchering him at his death, vnlesse they proceeded further in this hellish impiety to his dead body. Why then do not all creatures ad­dresse themselues to reuenge so iust a quarrell, vpon so senslesse wretches, left of all reason, for­saken of humanitie, and berea­ued of all feeling both of God and man?

O Mary, why doest thou thus torment thy self with these [Page] tragicall 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 deceasse? Did they comfort him before he was apprehended, and would not defend him when he was dead? If in the garden he might haue had twelue. Legions of them, is his power so quite dead with his body, that he could not now command them? Was there an Angell found to helpe Daniel to his dinner, to saue Toby from the fish, yea and to defend Ba­laams poore beast from his mai­sters rage: and is the Lord of Angels of so little reckoning, that if his body stood in need, neuer an Angell would defend it? Thou seest two here pre­sent to honour his Tombe, and how much more carefull would they be to do homage to his person? Beleeue not Mary that [Page] they would smile, if thou had­dest such occasion to weepe. They would not so gloriously shine in white, if a blacke and mourning weede did better be­come them, or were a fitter liue­ry for thy maister to giue, or them to weare. Yeeld not more to thy vncertaine feare and de­ceiued loue, than to their assured knowledge, and neuer erring charitie. Can a materiall eye see more than an heauenly spirit, or the glimmering of the twi-light giue better aime than the beams of their eternall Sunne? Would they (thinkest thou) waite vpon the winding sheete, while the coarse were abused, or be here for thy comfort, if their Lord did need their seruice? No, no, he was neither any theeues booty, nor Pharisees pray; nei­ther are the Angels so carelesse of him, as thy suspition presu­meth. And if their presence and demeanour cannot alter thy [Page] conceit, looke vpon the clothes and they will teach thee thine errour, and cleare thee of thy doubt.

Would any▪ thiefe, thinkest thou, haue bene so religious, as to haue stolen the body, and left the clothes? yea, would he haue bene so venturous, as to haue stayed the vnshrowding of the coarse, the well ordering of the sheets, and folding vp the nap­kins? Thou knowest that the Mirrhe maketh linnen cleaue as fast as pitch or glue: and was a thiefe at so much leisure, as to dissolue the Myrrhe and vn­cloath the dead? what did the watch while the scales were broken, the Tombe opened, the body vnfolded, all other things ordered as now thou seest? And if all this cannot yet perswade thee, beleeue at the least thy owne experience. When thy maister was stripped at the crosse, thou knowest that his [Page] onely garment being congealed to his goarie backe, came not off without many parts of his skin, & doubtlesse would haue torne off many more, if he had bene annointed with Myrrhe: Looke then into the sheete, whether there remaine any parcell of skin, or any one haire of his head: and sith there is none to be found, beleeue some better issue of thy maisters absence than thy feare suggesteth. A guiltie conscience doubteth want of time, and therefore dis­patcheth hastily. It is in hazard to be discouered, and therefore practiseth in darknesse and se­cresie. It euer worketh in ex­treame feare, and therefore hath no leisure to place things or­derly. But to vnwrap so mangled a body, out of Mirrhed cloathes without tearing of any skinne, or leauing on any Mirrhe, is a thing either to man impossible, or not possible to be done with [Page] such speed, without light or helpe, and with so good order. Assure thy selfe therefore, that if either of malice, or by fraud the coarse had bene remoued, the linnen and myrrhe should neuer haue bene left; and neither could the Angels looke so chearefully, nor the clothes lye so orderly, but to import some happier ac­cident than thou conceiuest. But to free thee more from feare, consider these words of the An­gels, Woman why weepest thou? For what do they signifie, but as much in effect as if they had said: Where Angels reioyce, it agreeth not that a woman shold weepe, and where heauenly eyes are witnesses of ioy, no mortall eye should controll them with testimonies of sorrow? With more than a manly courage thou diddest before my comming, arme thy feet to runne among swords, thy armes to remoue huge loades, thy body to en­dure [Page] all Tyrants rage, and thy soule to be sundred with violent tortures: and art thou now so much a Woman that thou canst not command thine eyes to for­beare teares? If thou wert a true Disciple, so many proofes would perswade thee, but now thy in­credulous humour maketh thee vnworthy of that stile, and we can affoord thee no better title, than a Woman, and there­fore ô Woman, and too much a Woman, why weepest thou?

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

Is our presence so discomfor­table that thou shouldest weepe to behold vs? or is it the course of thy kindnesse with teares to entertaine vs? If they be teates of loue to testifie thy good will, [Page] 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 bene shed where all anger was buried but none deserued. If they be teares of sorrow and duties 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 Woman, why doest thou weepe? would our eyes be so drie, if such eye-streames were behouefull? Yea, would not the heauens raine teares if thy supposals were truths? Did not Angels alwaies in their visi­ble semblances represent their Lords inuisible pleasures, sha­dowing their shapes in the drift of his intentions? When God was incensed they brandished [Page] swords: when he was appeased, they sheathed them in scab­bards: when he would defend, they resembled souldiers, when he would terrifie they tooke terrible formes, and when he would comfort, they carried mirth in their eyes, sweetnesse in their countenance, mildnesse in their words, fauour, grace and comelinesse in their whole presence. Why then doest thou weepe, seeing vs to reioyce? Doest thou imagine vs to dege­nerate from our nature, or to forget any dutie, whose state is neither subiect to change, nor capable of the least offence? Art thou more priuie to the coun­saile of our eternall God, than we that are daily attendants at his throne of glory? O woman, deeme not amisse against so ap­parent euidence, and at our re­quest exchange thy sorrow for our ioy.

But ô glorious Angels, why [Page] do ye moue her to ioy, if you know why she weepeth? Alas, she weepeth for the losse of him without whom all ioy is to her but matter of new griefe. While he liued, euery place where she found him, was to her a Paradise▪ euery season wherein he was enioyed, a perpetuall spring, e­uery exercise wherein he was serued, a speciall felicitie: the ground whereon he went, see­med to yeeld her sweeter foo­ting: the ayre wherein he brea­thed, became to her spirit of life, being once sanctified in his sa­cred breast. In summe, his pre­sence brought with it an heauen of delights, and his departure seemed to leaue an eclipse in all things. And yet euen the places that he had once honored with the accesse of his person, were to her so many sweet Pilgri­mages, which in his absence she vsed as chappels and altars, to offer vp her prayers, feeling in [Page] them long after, the vertue of his former presence. And there­fore to feed her with conie­ctures of his well being, is but to strengthen her feare of his euill, and the alledging of likelihoods by those that know the certain­tie, importeth the cause to be so lamentable, that they are vnwil­ling it should be knowne. Your obscure glancing at the truth, is no sufficient acquittance of her griefe, neither cā she out of these disioyned ghests spell the words that must be the conclusion of her complaint. Tell her then di­rectly what is become of her Lord, if you meane to deliuer her out of these dumpes, sith what else soeuer you say of him, doth but draw more hu­mours to her sore, and rather anger it than any way asswage it. Yet hearken ô Mary, and con­sider their speeches. Thinke what answer thou wilt giue them, sith they presse thee with [Page] so strong perswasion. But I doubt that thy wits are smothe­red with too thicke a mist, to admit these vnknowne beames of their pale light. Thou art so wholy inherited by the bloudy tragedie of thy slaughtered Lord, and his death and dead body hath gotten so absolute a conquest ouer all thy powers, that neither thy sense can dis­cerne, nor thy minde conceiue any other obiect than his mur­dered coarse.

Thy eyes seeme to tell thee that euery thing inuiteth thee to weepe, carrying such out­ward shew, as though all that thou seest were attyred in sor­row to solemnize with generall consent the funerall of the mai­ster. Thy teares perswade thee that all sounds and voyces are tuned with mournfull notes, and that the Eccho of thine owne wailings, is the cry of the very stones and trees, as though (the [Page] cause of thy teares being so vnu­suall) God to the rocks and woods, had inspired a feeling of thine and their common losse. And therefore it soundeth to thee as a strange question, to aske thee why thou weepest, sith all that thou seest and hearest, seemeth to induce thee, yea, to enforce thee to weepe.

If thou seest any thing that beareth colour of mirth, it is vnto thee like the rich spoiles of a vanquished kingdome, in the eye of a captiue Prince, which puts him in mind what he had, not what he hath, and are but vpbraidings of his losse, and whetstones of sharper sorrow. Whatsoeuer thou hearest that moueth delight, it presenteth the misse of thy maisters speeches, which as they were the onely Harmony that thy eares affected, so they being now stopped with a deathfull silence, all other words and tunes of comfort are [Page] to thee but an Israelites musicke vpon Babylons bancks, memo­ries of a lost felicitie, and proofes of a present vnhappinesse. And though loue increaseth the con­ceit of thy losse, which endea­reth the meanest things, and doubleth the estimate of things that are precious: yet thy faith teaching thee the infinite dig­nitie of thy Maister, and thy vn­derstanding being no dull scho­ler to learne so well liked a les­son, it fell out to be the bitterest part of thy miserie, that thou diddest so well know how infi­nite the losse was that made thee miserable.

This is the cause that those very Angels, in whom all things make remonstrance of triumph and solace, are vnto thee occa­sions of new griefe. For their gracious and louely countenan­ces, remember thee, that thou hast lost the beauty of the world, and the highest marke of true [Page] loues ambition. Their sweet lookes and amiable features tell thee, that the heauen of thy eyes which was the reuerend Maiesty of thy Masters face, once shined with farre more pleasing graces, but is now disfigured with the dreadfull formes of death. In summe, they were to thee, like the glistering sparkes of a bro­ken Diamond, and like pictures of dead and decayed beauties, signes, not salues of thy calami­ty, memorials, not medicines of thy misfortune. Thy eyes were too well acquainted with the truth, to accept a supply of sha­dowes: and as comelinesse, com­fort and glory, were neuer in any other so truely at home and so perfectly in their prime, as in the person and speeches of thy Lord: so cannot thy thoughts but be like strangers in any for­raine delight. For in them all thou seest no more but some scattered crums, and hungrie [Page] morsels of thy late plentifull banquets, and findest a dim re­flexion of thy former light, which like a flash of lightning, in a close and stormie night, serueth thee but to see thy pre­sent infelicitie, and the better to know the horrour of the ensu­ing darknesse.

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

Alas (saith she) what needeth my answer, where the miserie it selfe speaketh, and the losse is manifest? My eyes haue answe­red them with teares, my breast with sighes, and my heart with throbs, what need I also punish my tongue, or wound my soule, [Page] with a new rehearsall of so do le­full a mischance? They haue taken away, O vnfortunate word, 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 solemnely to entombe him: and sith earth hath done her last homage, haply the Quires of heauen are also descended to defray vnto him their funerall duties.

It may be that the Centurion and the rest, that did acknow­ledge him on the crosse to be the Sonne of God, haue bene touched with remorse, and goa­red with pricke of conscience, and being desirous to satisfie for their haynous offence, haue now taken him, more honorably to interre him, and by their seruice to his body sought forgiuenesse, and sued the pardon of their guiltie soules.

Peraduenture some secret dis­ciples, [Page] haue wrought this ex­ploit, and maugre the watch ta­ken him from hence, with due honour to preserue him in some better 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 sorrow before it commeth, which without cal­ling commeth on thee too fast? yea, why doest thou create sor­row where it is not, sith thou hast true sorrow enough, though imagined sorrowes helpe not? It is folly to suppose the worst where the best may be hoped for: and euerie mishap bringeth griefe enough with it, though we with our feares do not go first to meet it. Quiet then thy selfe till time try out the truth, and it may be thy feare will proue greater than thy misfor­tune.

But I know thy loue is little [Page] 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 lose. It neither hath measure in hopes, nor meane in feares: hoping the best vpon the least surmises, and fearing the worst vpon the weakest grounds. And yet both fearing and hoping at one time, neither feare with-hol­deth hope from the highest at­tempts nor hope can strengthen feare against the smallest suspi­tions: but maugre all feares, loues hopes will mount to the highest pitch, and maugre all hopes, loues feares will stoupe to the lowest downe-come. To bid thee therefore hope, is not to forbid thee to feare, and though it may be for the best, that thy Lord is taken from thee, yet sith it may also be for the worst, that will neuer con­tent thee.

Thou thinkest, hope doth [Page] enough to keepe thy heart from breaking, & feare little enough to force thee to no more than weeping, sith it is as likely that he hath bene taken away vpon hatred by his enemies, as vpon loue by his friends.

For hitherto (sayest thou) his friends haue all failed him, and his foes preuailed against him; and as they would not defend him aliue, are lesse likely to re­gard him dead, so they that thought one life too little to take from him, are not vnlikely after death to wrecke 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 cō ­sent, can neither be offered with out iniurie, nor suffered without sorrow. And as for Iesus, he was my Iesus, my Lord, and my Mai­ster. He was mine because he was [Page] giuen vnto me, & borne for me: he was the author of my being, and so my father; he was the worker of my well doing, and therefore my Sauiour; he was the price of my ransome, and thereby my Redeemer: he was my Lord to command me, my maister to instruct me, my pastor to feede me. He was mine, be­cause his loue was mine, and when he gaue me his loue, he gaue me himselfe, sith loue is no gift except the giuer be giuen with it, yea it is no loue, vnlesse it be as liberall of that it is, as of that it hath. Finally, if the meate be mine 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 body I feed, by his loue I liue, and to my good without any neede of his owne, hath he li­ued, laboured, and dyed. And therefore though his Disciples, [Page] though the Centurion, yea though the Angels haue taken him, they haue done me wrong, in defeating me of my right, sith I neuer meane to resigne my in­terest.

But what if he hath taken a­way himselfe, wilt thou also lay iniustice to his charge? Though he be thine, yet thine to com­mand, not to obey; thy Lord to dispose of thee, and not to be by thee disposed: and therefore, as it is no reason that the seruant should be maister of his maisters secrets, so might he, and perad­uenture so hath he, remoued without acquainting thee whi­ther, reuiuing himselfe with the same power with which he rai­sed thy dead brother, and ful­filling the words that he often vttered of his resurrection. It may be thou wilt say, that a gift once giuen, cannot be reuoked, and therefore though it were before in his choise, not to giue [Page] himselfe vnto thee, yet the deed of gift being once made, he can­not be taken from thee, neither can the donor dispose of his gift without the possessors priuity. And sith this is a rule in the law of nature, thou maist imagine it a breach of equine, and an im­peachment of thy right, to con­uey himselfe away without thy consent.

But to this I will answer thee with thine owne ground. For if he be thine by being giuen thee once: thou art his by as many gifts, as dayes, and there­fore he being absolute owner of thee, is likewise full owner of whatsoeuer is thine: and conse­quently because he is thine, he is also his owne, and so nothing lyable vnto thee, for taking him selfe from thee.

Yea, but he is my Lord (sayest thou) and in this respect, bound to keepe me, at the least bound not to kill me: and sith killing [Page] is nothing but a seu [...]ring of life from the body, he being the chiefe life both of my soule and bodie, cannot possibly go from me, but he must with 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 ô cruell tongue, why pleadest thou thus against him, whose case I feare me is so piti­full, that it might rather moue all tongues to pleade for him, being peraduenture in their hands, whose vumercifull hearts make themselues merry with his miserie, and build the triumphs of their impious victorie vpon the dolefull ruines of his disgra­ced glorie? And now (ô griefe) because I know not where he is. I cannot imagine how to helpe, for they haue taken him away, and I know not where they haue put him.

Alas Mary, why doest thou consume thy felfe with these cares? His father knoweth, and he will helpe him. The Angels know, and they will guard him. His owne soule knoweth, and that will assist him. And what neede then is there, that thou silly woman shouldest know it, that canst no way profit him? But I feele in what vaine 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 priuie vnro it, thy woes would be as great, and thy teares as many. That others see the Sunne, doth not lighten thy darknesse, 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 be that may [Page] helpe him, the move it grieueth thee that thy poore helpe is not accepted among them. Though thy knowiedge needeth not, thy loue doth desire it, and though it auaile not, thy desire wil seeke 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 thee. Though the knowledge would discomfort thee, yet know it thou wilt, yea though it would kill thee, thou couldest not forbeare it.

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

And this, ô Mary, I guesse to be the cause why the Angels would not tell thee thy Lords estate. For if it had beene to thy liking, thou wouldest haue died for ioy, if otherwise thou woul­dest [Page] haue sunke downe for sor­row. And therefore they leaue this newes for him to deliuer, whose word if it giue thee a wound, is also a salue to cure it, though neuer so deadly.

But alas afflicted soule, why doth it so deepely grieue thee, 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 than well, why shouldest thou know it, so to end thy hopes in mishap, and thy great feares in farre greater sorrowes? Alas, to aske thee why, is in a manner to aske one halfe starued why he is hungrie. For as thy Lord is the food of thy thoughts, the reliefe of thy wishes, the onely repast of all thy desires: so is thy loue a continuall hunger, and his absence vnto thee an extreame famine. And therefore no mar­uell though thou art so gree­dy [Page] to heare, yea to deuoure any, be it neuer so bitter notice of him, sith thy hunger is most vio­lent, and nothing but he able to content it. And albeit the hea­ring of his harmes should worke the same in thy mind, that vn­wholsome meat worketh in a sick stomacke: yet if it once con­cerne him that thou louest, thy hungrie loue could not temper it selfe from it, though after with many wringing gripes, it did a long and vnpleasant pe­nance.

But why doth thy sorrow quest so much vpon the place where he is? were it not enough for thee to know who had him, but that thou must also know in what place he is bestowed? A worse place than a graue no man will offer, and many farre better many titles will allow: and therefore thou maist boldly thinke, that wheresoeuer he be, he is in a place fitter for him [Page] than where he was. Thy sister Martha confessed him to be the Sonne of God, and with her confession agreed thy beliefe. And what place more conueni­ent for the sonne, than to be with his Father, the businesse for which he hath bene so long from him, being now fully fini­shed? If he be the Messias, as thou diddest once beleeue, it was said of him, That he should ascend on high, and leade our captiuitie cap­tiue. And what is this height, but heauen? what our captiuitie but death? Death therefore is become his captiue, and it is like that with the spoyles there­of, he is ascended in triumph to eternall life.

But if thou canst not lift thy minde to so fauourable a beliefe, yet maiest thou very well sup­pose that he is in Paradise. For if he came to repaire Adams ru­ines, and to be the common pa­rent of our redemption, as Adam [Page] was of our originall infection: reason seemeth to require, that hauing endured all his life the penaltie of Adams exile, he should after death re-enter pos­session of that inheritance which Adam lost: that the same place that was the neast where sinne was first hatched, may be now the child-bed of grace and mer­cy. And if sorrow at the crosse did not make thee as deafe, as at the Tombe it maketh thee for­getfull, thou diddest in confir­mation hereof heare himselfe say to one of the theeues, that the same day he should be with him in Paradise. And if it be reason that no shadow should be more priuiledged than the body, no figure in more account than the figured truth, why shouldest thou beleeue that Eli­as and Enoch haue bene in Para­dise these many ages, & that he whō they but as tipes resembled, should be excluded from thence? [Page] He excelled them in life, surpas­sed them in miracles, he was farre beyond them in dignitie: 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 layd him so low in thy conceit, that thou thinkest Paradise too high a place to be likely to haue him: the very lowest roome that any reason can assigne him, cannot be meaner than the bosome of Abraham. And sith God in his life did so often acknowledge him for his Sonne, it seemeth the slenderest preheminence that he can giue him aboue other men, that being his holy one, he should not in his body see corruption, but be free among the dead, repo­sing both in body and soule, where other Saints are in soule onely. Let not therefore the [Page] place where he is trouble thee, sith it cannot be worse than his graue, and infinite coniectures make probability that it cannot but be better.

But suppose that he were yet remaining on earth, and taken by others out of his Tombe, what would it auaile thee to know where he were? If he be with such as loue and honour him, they will be as warie to keepe him, as they are loth he should be lost: and therefore will either often change, or ne­uer confesse the place, knowing secresie to be the surest locke to defend so great a treasure. If those haue taken him, that ma­lice and maligne him, thou maist well iudge him past thy recoue­rie, when he is once in posses­sion of so cruell owners.

Thou wouldest haply make sale of thy liuing, and seeke him by ransome. But it is not likely they would sell him to be [Page] honoured, that bought him to be murthered.

If price would not serue, thou wouldest fall to prayer. But how can prayer soften such flinty hearts? And if they scorned so many teares offered for his life, as little will they regard thy in­treatie for his coarse.

If neither price nor prayer would preuaile, thou wouldest attempt it by force. But alas silly souldier, thy armes are too weake to manage weapons, and the issue of thy affault, would be the losse of thy selfe.

If no other way would helpe, thou wouldest purloine him by stealth, and thinke thy selfe hap­pie in contriuing such a theft. O Mary, thou art deceiued, for malice will haue many locks: and to steale him from a thiefe, that could steale him from the watch, requireth more cunning in the Art, than thy want of practise can affoord thee.

Yet if these be the causes that thou enquired of the place, thou shewest the force of thy rare affection, and deseruest the Lawrell of a perfect louer.

But to feele more of their sweetnesse, I will poune these spices, and dwell a while in the peruse of thy resolute seruour.

And first, can thy loue enrich thee when thy goods are gone, or a dead coarse 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, than rich without him?

Againe, if thou hadst to sue to some cruell Scribe or Phari­sie, that is, to an heart boyling in rancor, with an heart burning in loue, for a thing of him aboue all things detested, of thee aboue all things desired: as his enemie to whom thou suest, and his friend for whom thou intrearest: canst thou thinke it possible for [Page] this sute to speede? Could thy loue repaire thee from his rage, or such a tyrant stoupe to a wo­mans teares?

Thirdly, if thy Lord might be recouered by violence, art thou so armed in compleat loue, that thou thinkest it sufficient har­nesse? or doth thy loue indue thee with such a Iudiths spirit, or lend thee such Sampsons locks, that thou canst breake open huge gates, or foyle whole ar­mies? Is thy loue so sure a shield, that no blow can breake it, or so sharpe a dint, that no force can withstand it? Can it thus al­ter sexe, change nature, and ex­ceede all Art?

But of all other courses woul­dest thou aduenture a theft to obtaine thy desire? A good deed must be well done, and a worke of mercy without breach of iu­stice. It were a sinne to steale prophane treasure, but to steale an annointed Prophet, can be no [Page] lesse than sacriledge. And what greater staine to thy Lord, to his doctrine, and to thy selfe, than to see thee his Disciple publikely executed for an open theft?

O Mary, vnlesse thy loue haue better warrant than common sense, I can hardly see how such designements can be approued.

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

To others it seemeth ill to preferre loue before riches, but to loue it seemeth 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 with hunger, & see whether the plates will warme him, or the treasure feede him. No, no, he will giue vs all his plates for a woollen garment, and all his [Page] money for a meales meate. Eue­ry supply fitteth not with euery neede, and the loue of so sweete a Lord hath no correspondence in worldly wealth. Without him I were poore, though Empresse of the world. With him I were rich though I had nothing else. They that haue most are accoun­ted richest and they thought to haue most, that haue all they de­sire: and therefore as in him a­lone is the vttermost of my de­sires, so he alone is the summe of all my substance. It were too happy an exchange, to haue God for goods, and too rich a pouertie to enioy the onely treasure of the world. If I were so fortunate a begger, I would disdaine Salomons wealth, and my loue being so highly enri­ched, my life should neuer com­plaine of want.

And if all I am worth would not reach to his ransome, what should hinder to seeke him by [Page] intreaty? Though I were to sue to the gaeatest Tyrant, yet the equitie of my sute is more than halfe a graunt. If many drops soften the hardest stones, why should not many teares supple the most stony hearts? What an­ger so fiery that may not be quenched with eye-water; sith a weeping suppliant [...]ebateth the edge of more than a Lyons furie? My sute it selfe would sue for me, and so dolefull a coarse would quicken pitty in the most yron hearts. 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 me in words, and the [...] his owne iniurie would recoyle with remorse, and be vnto me a patron to proceede in my re­quest. And if he should accom­panie his words with blowes, and his blowes with wounds, it may be my stripes would [Page] smart in his guiltie minde, and his conscience bleed in my blee­ding wounds, and my innocent bloud so entender his Adamant heart, that his owne inward fee­lings would pleade my cause, and peraduenture obtaine my sute.

But if through extremity of spite he should happen to kil me, his offence might easily redound to my felicitie. For he would be as carefull to hide whom he had vniustly murthered, as him whom hee had felloniously stolen: and so it is like that he would hide me in the same place where 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 seeing a part of my selfe part­ner of my Maisters misery: with [Page] whom to be miserable, I reckon an higher fortune, than without him to be most happy.

And if no other meane would serue to recouer him but force, I see no reason why it might not very well become me. None will barre me from defending my life, which the least worme in the right 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 feeble forces, to employ their vttermost in so necessary an attempt. Necessitie addeth abilitie, and loue doubleth ne­cessitie, and it often happeneth that nature armed with loue, and pressed with neede, excee­deth it selfe in might, and sur­mounteth all hope in successe. And as the equitie of the cause doth breath courage into the defenders, making them the mote willing to fight, and the lesse vnwilling to dye so guiltie [Page] consciences are euer timorous, still starting with sodaine frightts, and afraid of their own suspitions, ready to yeeld before the assault, vpon distresse of their cause, and despaire of their de­fence. Sith therefore to rescue an innocent, to recouer a right, & to redresse so deepe a wrong, is so iust a quarrell: nature will enable me, loue encourage me, grace confirme me, and the iudge of all iustice fight in my behalfe.

And if it seeme vnfitting to my sexe in talke, much more in practise to deale with materiall 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, neither such a body stolne but now, neuer such a stealth vnreuenged but this. Sith there­fore the Angels neglect it; and men forge [...], O Iudith lend me [Page] 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 keepe me from seeking him by secret meanes? yea and by plaine stealth, it will be thought a sinne, and condemned for a theft. O sweet sinne, why was not I the first that did com­mit thee? 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 spread my infamie. But for stealing God from a false owner, I was not worthy to be called a sinner, because it had bene too high a glory. If this be so great a sinne [...], and so haynous a theft, let others make choise of what titles they will, but for my part I would refuse to be an Angell, I would not wish to be a Saint, I would ne­uer be esteemed either iust or [Page] true, and I should be best con­tented if I might but 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 theefe vpon the Crosse, that he should that day be with him in Para­dise, I had halfe an enuie at that theeues good fortune, & wished my selfe in the theefes place, so I might haue enioyed the fruit of his promise. But if I could be so happy a theefe, as to commit this theft, if that wish had taken effect, I would now vnwish it againe, and scorne to be any o­ther theefe than my selfe, sith my booty could make me hap­pier than any other theefes fe­licitie. And what though my fellonie should be called in question, in what respect should I need to feare? They would say, that I loued him too well; but that were soone disproued, sith where the worthinesse is infi­nite, [Page] no loue can be enough. They would obiect that I stole anothers goods: and as for that, many sure titles of my interest would auerre him to be mine, and his dead coarse would ra­ther speak than witnesses should faile to depose so certaine a truth. And if I had not a speciall right vnto him, what should moue me to venture my life for him? No no, if I were so happy a fellon, I should feare no tem­porall arraignment: I should ra­ther feare that the Angels would cite me to my answere; for pre­uenting them in the theft, sith not the highest Seraphin in hea­uen, but would deem it a higher stile than his owne, to be the theefe that had committed so glorious a robberie.

But alas, thus stand I now 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 [Page] haue bestowed him, and still I am forced to dwell in this an­swer, that they haue taken away my Lord, and I know not where they haue put him.

While Mary thus lost her selfe in a Labyrinth of doubts, watering her words with teares, and warming them with sighes, seeing the Angels with a kinde of reuerence rise, as though they had done honour to one behind her: She turned backe, and she saw Iesus standing, but that it was Iesus she knew not.

O Mary, 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 memory: and how can all these Registers be so cancelled, that so plainely seeing, thou shouldest not know the contents? For him onely thou tirest thy feet, thou ben­dest thy knees, thou wringest thy handes. For him thy heart [Page] throbbeth, thy breast sigheth, thy tongue complaineth. For him thine eye weepeth, thy thought sorroweth, thy whole body fainteth, and thy soule langui­sheth. In summe, there is no part in thee, but is busie about him, and notwithstanding all this, hast thou now forgotten him? His countenance auoucheth it, his voice assureth it, his wounds witnesse it, thine owne eyes be­hold it, and doest thou not yet beleeue that this is Iesus? Are thy sharpe seeing eyes become so weake sighted, that they are dazeled with the Sunne, and blinded with the light?

But there is such a shower of teares betweene thee and him, and thine eyes are so dimmed with weeping 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 speeches, [Page] which want of breath made him vtter in a dying voice, that the force and loudnesse of his liuing words, maketh thee ima­gine it the voyce of a stranger: and therefore as he seemeth vn­to thee so like a stranger, he as­keth this question of thee, O wo­man why weepest thou, whom see­kest thou?

O desire of the heart, and one­ly ioy of her soule, why deman­dest thou why she weepeth, or for whom she seeketh? But a while since she saw thee her onely hope hanging on a tree, with thy head full of thornes, thy eyes 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 she weepeth? Scarce three dayes pas­sed, she beheld thy armes and legges racked with violent puls, thy hands and feete boared with nayles, thy side wounded with [Page] a speare, thy whole bodie torne with stripes, and goared in blood, and doest thou her onely griefe, aske her why she wee­peth? She beheld thee vpon the Crosse with many teares, and most lamentable cryes, yeelding vp her ghost, that is, thy owne ghost, and alas asketh thou why she weepeth? And now to make vp her miserie, 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 she now standeth hopelesse of all helpe, and demandest thou why she weepeth▪ and for whom she seeketh? Full well thou knowest, that thee onely she de­sireth, thee onely she loueth, all things beside thee she cont [...]m­neth, and canst thou finde in thy heart to aske her whom she seeketh? To what end ô sweet Lord, doest thou thus suspend [Page] her longings, prolong her de­sires, and martyr her with these tedious delayes? Thou onely art the fortresse of her faint faith, the anker of her wauering hope, the very center of her vehement loue: to thee she trusteth, vpon thee she relyeth, and of her selfe she wholly despaireth. She is so earnest in seeking thee that she can neither seeke nor thinke any other thing: and all her wits are so busied in musing vpon thee, that they draw all attention from her senses, wherewith they should discerne thee. Being therefore so attentiue to that she thinketh, what maruell though she marke not whom she seeth: and sith thou hast so perfect notice of her thought and she so little power to disco­uer thee by sense, why deman­dest thou for whom she seeketh, or why she weepeth? Doest thou looke that she should answere, for thee I seeke, or for thee I [Page] weepe? vnlesse thou wilt vnbend her thoughts, that her eyes may fully see thee: or while thou wilt be concealed, doest thou expect that she should be able to know thee?

But, ô Mary, not without cause doth he aske thee this question. Thou wouldest haue him aliue, and yet thou weepest because thou doest not find him dead. Thou art some that he is not here, and for this very cause thou shouldest rather be glad. For if he were dead I it is most likely he should be here; but not being here, it is a signe that he is aliue. He reioyceth to be out of his graue, and thou weepest because he is not in it. He will not lie any where, and thou sor­rowest for not knowing where he lyeth. Alas, why be wailest thou his glory, and iniurest the reuiuing of his body as the rob­bery of his coarse? He being a­liue, for what dead man mour­nest [Page] thou, and he being present, whose absence doest thou la­ment? But she taking him to be a Gardener said vnto him, O Lord, if thou hast carried him from hence, tell me where thou hast layd him, and I will take him away.

O wonderfull effects of Ma­ries loue, if loue be a languor, how liueth she by it? If loue be her life, how dyeth she in it? If it bereaued her of sense, how did she see the Angels? If it quicke­ned her of sense, why knew she not Iesus? Doest thou seeke for one, whom when thou hast found thou knowest not? or if thou dost know him when thou findest him, why doest thou seek when thou hast him?

Behold Iesus is come, and the partie whom thou seekest, is he that talketh with thee, ô Mary call vp thy wits, and open thine eyes. Hath thy Lord liued so long laboured so much died with such paine, and shed such [Page] showers of bloud, to come to no higher preferment, than to be a Gardener? And hast thou be­stowed such cost, so much sor­row, and so many teares, for no better man than a silly Garde­ner? Alas, is the sorry Garden the best inheritance that thy loue can affoord him, or a Gar­deners office the highest digni­tie that thou wilt allow him? It had bene better he had liued to haue bene Lord of thy Castle, than with his death so dearely to haue bought so small a pur­chase. But thy mistaking, hath in it a further mysterie. Thou thin­kest not amisse, though thy sight be deceiued. For as our first Fa­ther, in the state of grace and innocencie, was placed in the Garden of pleasure, and 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 like­nesse, [Page] that the beginnings of glorie might resemble the en­trance of innocencie and grace. And as the Gardener was the fall of mankinde, the parent of sinne, and authour of death, so is this Gardener the raiser of our ruines, the ransome of our of­fences; and the restorer of life. In a Garden Adam was decei­ued and taken captiue by the deuill. In a Garden Christ was betrayed and taken prisoner by the Iewes. In a Garden Adam was condemned to earne his bread with the sweat of his browes. And after a free gift of the bread of Angels in the last Supper, in a Garden Chrid did earne it vs with a bloudy sweate of his whole body. By disobe­dient eating the fruite of a tree, our right to that Garden was by Adam forfeited, and by the obedient death of Christ vpon a tree a farre better right is now recouered. When Adam had [Page] sinned in the Garden of pleasure, he was there apparelled in dead beasts skinnes, that his garment might betoken his graue, and his liuery of death agree with his condemnation to die. And now to defray the debt of that sinne, in this Garden Christ lay cl [...]d in the dead mans shrowd, and buried in his Tombe, that as our harmes began, so they might end; 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 vs to an heauenly banquet after he was come into this Garden, and had reaped his myrrhe, and his spice, to fore­warne vs of the ioy that after this haruest should presently en­sue, namely when hauing sowed in this Garden a body, the mor­talitie whereof was signified by those spices, he now reaped the same, neither capable of death, [Page] nor subiect to corruption. For this also was Mary permitted to mistake, that we might be informed of the mysterie, and see how aptly the course of our redemption did answer the pro­cesse of our condemnation.

But though he be the Gar­dener that hath planted the tree of grace, and restored vs to the vse and eating of the fruites of life. Though it be he that soweth his giftes in our soules, quickening in vs the seeds of vertue, and rooting out of vs the weedes of sinne: yet is he neuerthelesse the same Iesus he was, and the borrowed presence of a meane laborer neither alte­reth his person, nor diminisheth his right to his diuine titles.

Why then canst thou not as well see what in truth he is, as what in shew he seemeth? but because thou seest more than thou diddest beleeue, and fin­dest more thrn thy faith serueth [Page] thee to seek: and for this though thy loue was worthy to see him, yet thy faith was vnworthy to know him.

Thou diddest seeke for him as dead, and therefore doest not know him seeing him aliue; and because thou beleeuest not of him as he is, thou doest onely see him as he seemeth to be.

I cannot say thou art faultlesse, sith thou art so lame in thy be­leefe▪ but thy fault deserueth fa­uour, because thy charitie is so great: and therefore ô mercifull Iesu, giue me leaue to excuse whom thou art minded to for­giue.

She thought to haue found thee as she left thee, and she sought thee as she did last see thee, being so ouercome with sorow for thy death, that she had neither roome nor respite in her minde for any hope of thy life: and being so deepely interred in the griefe of thy buriall that she [Page] could not raise her thoughts to any conceit 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 coarse, that she could with more ease sunder her soule from her owne body that liueth by it, than from thy dead body, with which her loue did burie it: for it is more thine and in thee, than her owne or in her selfe; and therefore in seeking thy body, she seeketh her owne soule, as with the losse of the one, she also lost the other. What maruell then though sense faile, when the soule is lost, sith the lanterne must needes be darke when the light is out?

Restore vnto her therfore her soule that lieth imprisoned in thy body, and she will soone both re­couer her sense, and discouer her errour. For alas it is no errour y^t [Page] proceedeth of any will to erre, and it riseth as much of vehe­mencie or affection, as of default in faith. Regard not the errour of a woman, but the loue of a Disciple, which supplyeth in it selfe what in faith it wanteth. O Lord (saith she) If thou hast carri­ed him hence, tell me where thou hast laide him, and I will take him away.

O how learned is her igno­rance, and how skilfull her er­rour? She charged not the An­gels with thy remouing, nor see­med to mistrust them for carry­ing thee away, as though that her loue had taught her y^t their helpe was needlesse, where the thing remoued was remouer of it selfe. She did not request them to enforme her where thou wert layd, as if she had reserued that question for thy selfe to answer. But now he iudgeth thee so likely to be the authour of her losse, that halfe supposing thee [Page] guilty, she sueth a recouerie, and desireth thee to tell her where the body is, as almost fully per­swaded that thou art as priuie to the place, as well acquainted with the action. So that if she be not altogether right, she is not very much wrong, and she erreth with such ayme, that she very little misseth the truth. Tell her therefore ô Lord, what thou hast done with thy selfe, sith it is fittest for thy owne speech to vtter that which was onely pos­sible for thy owne power to per­forme.

But ô Mary, sithens thou art so desirous to know where thy Iesus is, why doest thou not name him when thou askest for him? Thou saidest to the Angels that they had taken away thy Lord, and now the second time thou askest for him. Are thy thoughts so visible, as at thy onely presence to be seene; or so generall, that they possesse all [Page] when they are once in thee? When thou speakest of him, what him doest thou meane, or how can a stranger vnderstand thee when thou talkest of thy Lord? Hath the world no other Lords but thine? or is the de­manding 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 entitled a Lord, sith the whole world is too little for thy Lords possession, and that those few creatures that are, cannot chuse but know him, sith all the creatures of the world are too few to serue him. And as his worthinesse can appay all loues, and his onely loue con­tent all hearts, so thou deemest him to be so well worthy to be owner of all thoughts, that no thought in thy conceit, can be well bestowed vpon any other.

Yet thy speeches seeme more [Page] sudden than sound, and more peremptory, than well ponde­red. Why doest thou say so reso­lutely without any further cir­cumstance, that if this Gardener haue taken him, thou wilt take him from him? If he had him by right, in taking him away thou shouldst do him wrong. If thou supposest he wrongfully tooke him, thou layest theft to his charge: and howsoeuer it be thou either condemnest thy selfe for an vsurper, or him for a thiefe. And is this an effect of thy zealous loue, first to abase him from a God to a Gardener, and now to degrade him from a Gardener to a thiefe?

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 will be as wary to keepe, as he was venturous to get him, and therefore thy pol­licie was weake in saying, thou [Page] wouldest take him away before thou knewest where he was, sith none is so simple to bewray their treasure to a knowne thiefe. 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 would be cruell against thy maisters dead body, is likely to be more furious against his li­uing Disciples.

But thy loue had no leisure to cast so many doubts. Thy teares were Interpreters of thy words, and thy innocent meaning was written in thy dolefull counte­nance. Thine eyes were rather pleaders for pitty than Heraulds of wrath, and thy whole person presented such a patterne of thy extreame anguish, that no man from thy presence could take in any other impression. And therefore what thy words wan­ted, thy action supplied, and [Page] what his eare might mistake his eye did vnderstand.

It might be also that what he wrought in thy heart, was con­cealed from thy sight, and haply his voice and demeanour did import such compassion of thy case, that he seemed as willing to affoord as thou desirest to haue his helpe. And so presu­ming by his behauiour, that thy suite should not suffer repulse, the tenour of thy request doth but argue thy hope of a graunt.

But what is the reason that in all thy speeches, which since the misse of thy maister thou hast vttered, (where they haue put him) is alwayes a part? So thou saydest to the Apostles, the same to the Angels, and now thou doest repeate it to this supposed Garderner: very sweete must this word be in thy heart, that is so often in thy mouth, & it would neuet be so ready in thy tongue, if it were not very fresh in thy [Page] memory.

But what maruaile though it tast so sweete, that was first seasoned in thy maisters mouth? which as it was the treasury of truth, the fountaine of life, and the onely quire of the most per­fect Harmonie, so whatsoeuer it deliuered, thine eare deuoured, and thy heart locked vp. And now that thou wantest himselfe, thou hast no other comfort but his words, which thou deemest so much the more effectuall to perswade, in that they tooke their force from so heauenly a speaker. His sweetenesse there­fore it is that maketh this word so sweete, and for loue of him thou repeatest it so often, be­cause he 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! How much desirest thou to see his countenance, that with so [Page] great desire pronouncest his wordes? And how willingly wouldest thou licke his sacred feete, 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 neither stayest vntill night, nor regardest Pilate, but stoutly promisest that thou thy selfe wilt take him away.

What if he be in the pallace of the high Priest, and some such maid as made Saint Peter denie his maister do begin to questi­on with thee, wilt thou then stand to these words, I will take him away? Is thy courage so high aboue kinde, thy strength so farre beyond thy sexe, & thy loue so much without measure, y^t thou neither doest remember [Page] that all women are weake, not that 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 thee from setting forth 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 thee: so what maruaile though thy loue being now more incensed with the fresh wound of thy losse, it resolue vpon any though neuer so hard aduentures?

Loue is not ruled with rea­son, but with loue. It neither re­gardeth what can be, nor what [Page] [...] [Page] [...] [Page] shall be done, but onely what it selfe desireth to do. No difficulty can stay it, no impossibility ap­pall it. Loue is title iust enough and Armour strong enough for all assaults, and it selfe a reward of all labours. It asketh no re­compence, it respecteth no com­moditie. Loues fruites are loues effects, and the gaines the paines. It considereth behoofe more than benefit, and what in dutie it should, not what indeed it can.

But how can nature be so maistered with affection, that thou canst take such delight and carry such loue to a dead coarse? The mother how tenderly so­euer she loued her child aliue, yet she cannot chuse but loath him dead. The most louing Spouse cannot endure the pre­sence of her deceassed husband, and whose embracements were delightsome in life, are euer most hatefull after death. Yea [Page] this is the nature of all, but prin­cipally of women, that the very conceit, much more the sight of the departed striketh into them so fearefull and vgly impressi­ons, and stirreth in them so great horrour, that notwithstanding the most vehement loue, they thinke long vntill the house is ridde of their very dearest friends, when they are once at­tyred in deaths vnlouely liueries. How then canst thou endure to take vp his coarse in thy hands, and to carry it thou knowest not thy selfe how farre, being especially 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 sheets, embal­med with spices, and died an or­dinarie death, without any wound, bruse or other harme, [Page] that might hasten his corrup­tion. But this coarse hath neither shrowd nor spice, sith these are to be seene in the tombe, and there is not a part in his body but had some helpe to further it to decay; and art thou not a­fraid to see him, yea to touch him, yea to embrace and carry him naked in thine armes?

If thou haddest remembred Gods promise, that His holy one should not see corruption: If thou haddest beleeued that his God-head remaining with his bodie, could haue preserued it from perishing, thy faith had bene more worthy 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, and the greater was thy loue in being able to conquer them. But thou woul­dest haue thought thy oynt­ments rather harmes than helpes, [Page] if thou hadst bene setled in that beleefe, and for so heauenly a coarse embalmed with God, all earthly spices would haue see­med a disgrace. If likewise thou haddest firmely trusted vpon his resurrection, I should maruaile at thy constant designement, sith all hazards in taking him should haue bene with vsurie repaide, if lying in thy lappe, thou migh­test haue seene him reuiued, and his disfigured and dead body beautified in thine armes with a diuine maiestie. If thou haddest hoped so good fortune to thy waterie eyes, that they might haue bene first cleared with the beames of his desired light, or that his eyes might haue blessed thee with the first fruites of his glorious lookes: If thou haddest imagined any likelihood to haue made hap­pie thy dying heart with ta­king in the first gaspes of his li­uing breath, or to haue heard [Page] the first words of his pleasing voice: Finally if thou haddest thought to haue seene his iniu­ries turned to honours, the markes of his miserie to orna­ments of glorie, and the depth of thy heauinesse to such an height of felicity, whatsoeuer thou haddest done to obtaine him had bene but a mite for a million, and too slender a price for so soueraigne a peniworth.

But hauing no such hopes to vphold thee, and so many mo­tiues to plonge thee in despaire, how could thy loue be so migh­ty, as neither to feele a womans feare of so deformed a coarse, nor to thinke the weight of the burthen too heauy for thy feeble armes, nor to be amated with a world of dangers that this at­tempt did carry with it?

But affection cannot feare whom it affecteth, loue feeleth no load of him it loueth, neither can true frendship be frighted [Page] from rescuing so affied a friend.

What meanest thou then, ô comfort of her life, to leaue so constant a wel-willer so long vn­comforted, and to punish her so much, that so well deserueth pardon? Dally no longer with so knowne a loue, which so ma­ny trials auouch most true. And sith she is nothing but what it pleaseth thee, let her tast the be­nefit of being onely thine. She did not follow the tide of thy better fortune to shift saile when the streame did alter course. She began not to loue thee in thy life to leaue thee af­ter death: Neither was she such a guest at thy table that meant to be a stranger in thy necessi­tie. She left thee not in thy low­est ebbe, she reuolted not from thy last extremitie: In thy life she serued thee with her goods: in thy death she departed not from the Crosse: after death she came to dwell with thee at thy [Page] graue. Why then doest thou not say with Naomi? Blessed be she of our Lord, because what courtesie she afforded to the quicke, she hath also continued towards the dead. A thing so much the more to be esteemed in that it is most rare.

Do not sweete Lord any lon­ger delay her. Behold she hath attended thee these three dayes, and she 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, and feede her with the food that hath in it all 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 she cannot long enioy the life of her soule.

But feare not Mary, for thy teares will obtaine. They are to o mighty oratours to let any suit fall, and though they plea­ded [Page] at the most rigorous barre, yet haue they so perswading a silence, & so conquering a com­plaint, that by yeelding they o­uercome, and by intreating they command. They tie the tongues of all accusers, and soften the ri­gour of the seuerest Iudge. Yea they winne the inuincible, and binde the omnipotent. When they seeme most pitifull, they haue great power, and be­ing most forsaken they are more victorious. Repentant eyes are the Cellers of Angels, and penitent teares their sweetest wines; which the sauour of life perfumeth, the taste of grace sweeteneth, and the purest co­lours of returning innocencie highly beautifieth. This deaw of deuotion neuer faileth, but the Sunne of iustice draweth it vp, and vpon what face soeuer it droppeth, it maketh it amiable in Gods eye. For this water hath thy heart bene long a limbecke, [Page] 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 hearbes of thy maisters miseries, with the heat of a tender com­passion. This water hath better graced thy lookes, than thy former alluring glances. It hath setled worthier beauties in thy face, than all thy artificiall pain­tings. Yea this onely water hath quenched Gods anger, quali­fied his iustice, recouered his mercy, merited his loue purcha­sed his pardon, and brought forth the spring of all thy fa­uours. Thy teares were the procters for thy brothers life, the inuiters of those Angels for thy comfort, and the suters that shall be rewarded with the first sight of thy reuiued Sauiour. Rewarded they shall be, but not [Page] refrained, altered in their cause, but their course continued. Hea­uen would weepe at the losse of so precious a water, and earth lament the absence of so fruit­full showers. No, no, the Angels must still bath themselues in the pure streames of thine eyes, and thy face shall still be set with this liquid pearle, that as out of thy teares, were stroken the first sparkes of thy Lords loue, so thy teares may be the oyle to nou­rish and feede his fame. Till death dam vp the springs, they shall neuer ceasse running: and then shall 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 reare vp thy fallen hopes, and gather confidence both of thy speedy comfort, and thy Lords well being

Iesus saith vnto her, Marie, [Page] She turning, saith vnto him: Rab­boni.

O louing maister, thou did­dest 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 she should lay out for thee so many sighes, teares and plaints, and diddest purposely adiourne the date of her pay­ment, to requite the length of these delayes, with a larger loane of ioy. It may be she knew not her former happinesse, till she was weaned from it: nor had a right estimate in valuing the treasures with which thy pre­sence did inrich her, vntill her extreame pouertie taught her their vnestimable rate. But now thou shewest by a sweete expe­rience, that though she payde thee with the dearest water of [Page] her eyes, with her best breath, and tenderest loue, yet small was the price that she bestowed in respect of the worth she recei­ued. She sought thee dead, and imprisoned in a stonie gayle, and now she findeth thee both a­liue, and at full libertie. She sought thee shrined in a shrowd, more like a leaper than thy selfe, left as the modell of the vtter­most miserie, and the onely pat­terne of the bitterest vnhappi­nesse; and now she findeth thee 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 she hath sought without finding, wept without comfort, and called without answers: so now thou diddest satisfie her seeking with thy comming, her teares with thy triumph, and all her cryes with this one word, Mary. For when she heard thee call her in [Page] thy wonted manner, and with thy vsuall voice, her onely name issuing frō thy mouth, wrought so strange an alteration in her, as if she had bene wholly new made when she was onely na­med. For whereas before the violence of her griefe had so be­nummed her, that her body see­med but the hearse of her dead heart, and the coffin of an vn­liuing soule, and her whole pre­sence but a representation of a double funerall, of thine and of her 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 he raise the dead spirits of his poore Disciple, that with a word made the world, and euen in this verie word sheweth an omnipotent power?

Mary she was called as well [Page] 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, than 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. And therefore it layd so generall a discouerie of her selfe before her eyes, that it awaked her most forgotten sorrowes, and mustered together the whole multitude of her ioyes, and would haue left the issue of their mutinie very doubtfull, but that the presence and notice of her highest happinesse decided the quarrell, and gaue her ioyes the victory.

For as he was her onely Sunne, whose going downe left nothing but a dumpish night of fearefull fansies, wherein no starre of hope shined, and the [Page] brightest planets were chan­ged into dismall signes: so the serenity of his countenance, and authority of his word, brought a calme and well tempered day, that chasing away all darknesse, and dispercing the clouds of melancholy, cured the lethargy and brake the dead sleepe of her astonied senses.

She therefore rauished with his voice, and impatient of de­layes, taketh his talke out of his mouth, and to his first and yet onely word answered but one other, calling him Rabboni, that is, Maister. And then suddaine ioy rowsing all other passions, she could no more proceede in her owne, than giue him leaue to go forward with his speech.

Loue would haue spoken, but feare enforced silence. Hope frameth the words, but doubt melteth them in the passage: and when her inward conceites ser­ued to come out, her voice [Page] trembled, her tongue faltered, her breath failed. In fine, teares issued in liew of words, and deepe sighes in stead of long sentences, the eyes supplying the tongues default, and the heart pressing out the vnsillabled breath at once, which the con­flict of her disagreeing passions would not suffer to be sorted in­to the seuerall sounds of intelli­gible speeches.

For such is their estate that are sicke with a surfet of so­daine ioy, for the attaining of a thing vehemently desired. For as desire is euer vshered by hope, and wayted on by feare, so is it credulous in entertaining con­iectures, but hard in gronnding a firme beleefe. And though it be apt to admit 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 ap­parence [Page] of that which is in re­quest, is rather an alarum to sum­mon vp all passions, than retreit 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, and calleth vp sorrow to bewaile the vncer­taintie. And while these enter­change obiections and answers, sometimes feare falleth into de­spaire, and hope riseth into re­pining anger; and thus the skir­mish stil continueth, til euidence of proofe conclude the contro­uersie.

Marie therefore though she suddainly answered vpon notice of his voice, yet because the no­ueltie was so strange, his person so changed, his presence so vn­expected, and so many miracles layd at once before her amazed eyes, she found a sedition in her thoughts; til more earnest viewing him exempted them [Page] from all doubt.

And then though words would haue broken out, and her heart sent into his duties that she ought him, yea, euery thought striuing to be first vtte­red, and to haue the first roome in his gracious hearing, she was forced as an indifferent arbitrer among them, to seale them vp all vnder silence by suppressing speech, and to supply the want of words, with more significant actions. And therefore running to the haunt of her chiefest de­lights, and falling at his sacred feete, she offered to bath them with teares of ioy, and to sancti­fie her lippes with kissing his once grieuous but now most glorious wounds.

She stayed not for any more words, being now made blessed with the Word himselfe, thin­king it a greater benefit at once to feede all her wishes, in the homage, honour, and embracing [Page] of his feete, 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 transformed 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 cōtentment. And therfore to see him did not suffice her; to heare him did not quiet her; to speake with him was not enough for her; and except she might touch him, nothing could please her. But though she humbly fell downe at his feete to kisse them, yet Christ did forbid her, saying: Do not touch me, for I am not yet ascended to my Father.

O Iesu, what mysterie is in this? Being dead in sinne, she touched thy mortall feete that were to dye for her sake, and be­ing now aliue in grace, may she [Page] not touch thy glorious feete, that are no lesse for her benefit reuiued? She was once admitted to annoint thy head, and is she now vnworthy of accesse to thy feete? Doest thou now command her from that for which thou wert wont to commend her, and by praysing the deed didst moue her often to do it? Sith other women shall touch thee, why hath she a repulse? yea sith she her selfe shall touch thee hereafter, why is she now reiected? What meanest thou, O Lord, by thus debarring her of so desired a duty? and sith among all thy Disciples thou hast vouchsafed her such a prero­gatiue, as to honour her eyes with thy first sight, and her eares with thy first wo [...]ds▪ why de­niest thou the priuiledge of thy first embracing? If the multitude of her teares haue won that fa­uour for her eyes, and her lon­ging to heare thee, so great a re­compence [Page] to her eares, why doest thou not admit her hands to touch, and her mouth to kisse thy holy feete, sith the one with many plaints, and the other with their readinesse to all seruices, seemed to haue earned no lesse reward? But notwithstanding all this, thou preuentest the effect of her offer, with forbidding her to touch thee, as if thou haddest said:

O Mary, know the difference betweene a glorious and a mor­tall body, betweene the condi­tion of a momentary and of an eternall life. For sith the immor­talitie of the body and the glory both of body and soule are the endowments of an heauenly in­habitant, and the rights of ano­ther world, thinke not this fa­uour to seeme here ordinarie, nor leaue to touch me a com­mon thing.

It were not so great a wonder to see the starres fall from their [Page] Spheares, and the Sunne forsake Heauen, and to come within the reach of a mortall arme, as for me that am not onely a Citi­zen, but the Soueraigne of Saints, and the Sunne whose beames are the Angels blisse, to shew my selfe visible to the Pil­grims of this world, and to dis­play eternall beauties to corrup­tible eyes. Though I be not yet ascended to my Father, I shall shortly ascend, and therefore measure not thy demeanour to­wards 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, than with such fami­liaritie presume to touch me. Doest thou not beleeue my for­mer promises? Hast thou not a constant proofe by my present words? Are not thine eyes and eares sufficient testimonies, but that thou must also haue thy hands and face witnesses of my[Page] presence? Touch me not, ô Mary, for if I do deceiue thy sight, or delude thy hearing, I can as easily beguile thy hand, and frustrate thy feeling. Or if I be true in any one, beleeue me in all, and embrace me first in a firme faith, and then thou shalt touch me with more worthy hands. It is now necessarie to weane thee from the comfort of my externall presence, that thou mayst learne to lodge me in the secrets 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 seene, being shortly to ascend vnto my Father: but what thine eye then seeth not, thy heart shall feele, and my si­lent parley will find audience in thy inward eare. Yet if thou fea­rest lest my ascending should be so sudden, that if thou doest not now take thy leaue of my feete with thy humble kisses & louing [Page] teares, thou shalt neuer find the like oportunitie againe, licence frō thee that needlesse suspition. I am not yet ascended vnto my Father, & for al such duties, there will be a more conuenient time. But now go about that which re­quireth more hast, and run to my brethren & informe them what I say, That I will go before them in­to Galilee, there shall they see me.

Mary therefore preferring her Lords will before her owne wish, yet sorrie that her will was worthy of no better euent, departed from him like an hun­grie Infant pulled from a full teate, or a thirstie Hart chased from a sweete fountaine. She iudged her selfe but an vnluckie messenger of most ioyfull ti­dings, being banished from her maisters presence, to carrie newes of his resurrection. Alas (saith she) and cannot others be happy without my vnhappi­nesse? or cannot their gaines [Page] come in, but through my losse? Must the dawning of their day, be the 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 go from him? In me thou art but in prison, and in him is thy onely Paradise I haue buried thee long enough in former sorrowes, and yet now when thou wert halfe reuiued, I am constrained to carrie thee from the spring of life. Alas, go seeke to better thy life 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 delight, that the know­ledge and want of it might drowne me in the deepest mi­serie.

Thus dutie leading, and loue with-holding her, she goeth as fast backward in thought, as [Page] forward in pace, readie eftsoones to faint for griefe, but that a firme hope to see him againe, did support her weakenesse. She often turned towards the Tombe to breathe, deeming the very 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 she forgetteth her selfe, and loue carrieth her in a golden distraction, making her to imagine that her Lord is pre­sent, and then she seemeth to demand him questions, and to heare his answers: she dreameth that his feete are in her folded armes, and that he giueth her soule a full repast of his com­forts. But alas when she cometh to herselfe, and findeth it but an illusion, she is so much the more sorrie, in that the onely imagi­nation being so delightfull, she was not worthy to enioy the [Page] thing it selfe. And when she passeth by those places where her Maister had bene: O stones (saith she) how much more hap­py are you than I, most wretched caitiffe, sith to you was not de­nied the touch of those blessed feete, whereof my euill deserts haue now made me vnworthy? Alas what crime haue I of late committed, that hath thus cancelled mee out of his good conceit, and estranged mee from his accustomed curtesie? Had I but a lease of his loue for terme of his life? or did my interest in his feete ex­pire with his deceasse? In them with my teares I writ my first supplication for mercie, which I pointed with sighes, folded vp in my haire, and humbly sealed with the impression of my lips. They were the dores of my first entrance into his fauour, by which I was graciously enter­tained in his, heart, and admitted [Page] to do homage vnto his head, while it was yet a mortall mir­rour of immortall maiestie, an earthly seat of an heauenly wise­dome, containing in man a Gods felicitie.

But alas, I must be contented to beare a lower saile, and to take downe my desires to farre meaner hopes, sith former fa­uours are now too high markes for me to ayme at.

O mine 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 twilight of inferi­our things, and measure your sights by your slender substance. Gaze not too much vpon the blaze of eternitie, lest you lose your selues in too much selfe delight, and being too curious in sifting his maiestie, you be in [Page] the end oppressed with his glo­rie. No, no, sith I am reiected from his feete, 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 should I stoope to so base a feare? when want of faith was aggrieued with want of all goodnesse, he disdained not to accept me for one of his number: and shall I now thinke that he will for my faint beleefe so rigorously aban­don me? And is the sinceritie of my loue, wherein he hath no partner, of so slender account, that it may not hope for some little sparke of his wonted mer­cie? I will not wrong him with so vniust a suspition, sith his ap­pearing improueth it, his words ouerthrow it, his countenance doth disswade it, why then should I sucke so much sorrow out of so vaine a surmise?

Thus Maries trauelling fan­sies, making long voyages in this short iourney, and wauering betweene the ioy of her vision, and the griefe of her deniall en­tertained her in the way, and held her parley with such dis­courses as are incident vnto minds, in which neither hope is full maister of the field, nor feare hath receiued an vtter o­uerthrow. But as she was in this perplexed manner, now falling, now rising in her owne vncer­tainties, she findeth on the way the other holy woman that first came with her to the graue, whom the Angels had now as­sured of Christs resurection.

And as they passed all for­wards towards the Disciples: Behold Iesus met them saying, All haile. But they came neere, and tooke hold of his feete, and worship­ped him. Then Iesus said vnto them, Feare not: Go [...]l my brethren that they go into Gallilee, there [Page] they shall see me.

O Lord how profound are thy iudgements, and vnsearch­able thy counsels? Doth her sorrow sit so neare thy heart, or thy repulse rebound with such regret by seeing her wounded loue bleede so fast at her eyes, that thy late refusall must so soone be requited with so free a graunt? Is it thy pitty, or her change, which cannot allow that she should any longer fast from her earnest longing?

But ô most milde Phisition, well knowest thou that thy sharp corrosiue with bitter smart angred her tender wound, which being rather caused by vnwit­ting ignorance than wilfull er­rour, was as soone cured as knowne. And therefore thou quickely applyest a sweete le­nitiue to asswage her paine, that she might acknowledge her forbidding, rather a fatherly checke to her vnsetled faith, [Page] than 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 gracious Lord hast thou finished her seares, assured her hopes, fulfilled her desires, satisfied her loues, stinted her teares, perfected her ioyes, and made the period of her expiring griefes, the preamble to her now entring, and neuer ending pleasures.

O how mercifull a Father thou art to left Orphanes, how easie a Iudge to repentant sin­ners, and how faithfull a friend to sincere louers! It is vndoub­tedly true, that thou neuer lea­uest those that loue thee, and thou louest such as rest their affiance in thee. They shall finde [Page] thee liberall aboue desert, and bountifull beyond hope: a mea­sure of thy gifts, not by their merits but thine owne mercie.

O Christian soule, take Mary for thy mirrour, follow her af­fection, that like effects may fol­low thine. Learne ô sinfull man of this once a sinfull woman; that sinners may finde Christ if their sinnes be amended. Learne that whom sinne loseth, loue recouereth, whom faintnesse of faith chaseth away, firmnesse of hope recalleth; and that which no other mortall force, fauour or pollicie can compasse, the continued teares of a constant loue are able to attaine. 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 R [...]se early in the morning of thy good motions, and let them not sleepe in sloth, when diligence may per­forme [Page] them. Runne with re­pentance to thy sinfull heart which should haue bene the Temple, but through thy fault was no better than a Tombe for Christ, sith hauing in thee no life to feele him, he seemed vnto thee as if he had bene dead. Role away the stone of thy former hardnesse, remoue all thy heauy loads that oppresse thee in sinne, and looke into thy soule, whether thou canst there find the Lord. If he be not with­in thee, stand weeping without, and seeke him in other crea­tures, sith being present in all, he may be found in any. Let faith be thine eye hope thy guide, and loue thy light. Seeke him and not his: for himselfe, and not for his gifts. If thy faith haue found him in a cloud, let thy hope seeke to him. If hope haue led thee to see him, let loue seek further into him. To moue in thee a desire to finde, his goods [Page] are precious: and when he is found, to keepe thee in a desire to seeke, his treasures are infinit. Absent, he must be sought to be had; being had, he must be sought to be more enioyed. Seeke him truly, and no other for him. Seeke him purely, and no other thing with him. Seeke him onely, and nothing besides him. And if at the first search he appeare not, thinke it not much to perseuer in teares, and to continue thy seeking. Stand vpon the earth, trending vnder thee all earthly vanities, and touching them with no more than the soles of thy feete, that is with the lowest and least part of thy affection. To looke the better in the Tombe, bow downe thy neeke to the yoke of humilitie, and stoupe from loftie and proude conceits, that with humbled and lowly lookes thou mayest finde whom swelling and haughtie thoughts haue driuen [Page] away. A submitted soule soonest winneth his returne, and the deeper it sinketh in a selfe con­tempt, the higher it climeth in his highest fauours. And if thou perceiuest in the Tombe of thy heart the presence of his two first Messengers, that is, at the feete, sorrow for 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 teares: yet reckoning them but as her­bingers of thy Lord, ceasse not thy seeking till thou findest himselfe. And if he vouchsafe thee his glorious sight, offering himselfe to thy inward eyes, pre­sume not of thy selfe to be able to know him, but as his vnwor­thy suppliant prostrate thy peti­tions vnto him▪ that thou maist truely discerne him, and faith­fully serue him. Thus preparing thee with diligence, comming with speed, standing with high [Page] lifted hopes, and stooping with inclined heart, if with Mary thou crauest no other solace of Iesus but Iesus himselfe, he will answere thy teares with his pre­sence, and assure thee of his pre­sence with his owne words, that hauing seene him thy selfe, thou maiest make him knowne to o­thers: saying with Mary, I haue seene our Lord, and these things he said vnto me.

LAVS DEO.

The Triumphs ouer Death: OR, A Consolatorie Epistle for troubled minds, in the affects of dying friends.

IF it be a bles­sing of the ver­tuous to mourn it is the reward of this, to be comforted; and he that pronounced the one, promised the other. I doubt not, but that Spirit, whose nature is Loue, and whose name Com­forter, as he knowes the cause of our griefe, so hath he salued it with supplies of grace, powring into your wound no lesse oyle of mercy then wine of iustice; [Page] yet sith courtesie oweth com­passion as a dutie to the afflicted, and nature hath ingrafted a de­sire to finde it, I thought good to shew you by proofe, that you carry not your cares alone, though the loade that lieth on others can little lighten your burthen: her deceasse can not but sit nearer your heart, whom you had taken so deepe into a most tender affection. That which dieth to our loue, being alwayes aliue to our sorrow, you would haue bene kind to a lesse louing sister: yet finding in her so many worths to be loued, your loue wrought more ear­nestly vpon so sweete a subiect, which now being taken from you, I presume your griefe is no lesse then your loue was; the one of these being euer the measure of the other: the Scripture mo­ueth vs to bring forth our teares on the dead, a thing not offen­ding grace, and a right to reason. [Page] For to be without remorse in the death of friends, is neither incident nor conuenient to the nature of man, hauing too much affinitie to a sauage temper, and ouerthrowing the ground of all piety, which is a mutuall sym­pathie in each of others mise­ries: but as not to feele sorrow in sorrowfull chances, is to want sense, so, not to beare it with moderation, is to want vnder­standing, the one brutish, the other effeminate: and he hath cast his account best, that hath brought his summe to the meane. It is no lesse fault to ex­ceede in sorrow, then to passe the limits of competent mirth, sith excesse in either is a disor­der in passion, though that sor­row of curtesie be lesse blamed of men, because, if it be a fault, it is also a punishment, at once causing and tasting torments. It is no good signe in the sicke to be senslesse in his paines, as bad [Page] it is to be vnusually sensitiue, be­ing both either herbingers or attendants of death. Let sadnes, sith it is a due to the dead, testifie a feeling of pitty, not any pang of passion, and bewray rather a tender then a deiected minde. Mourne, as that your friends may finde you a liuing brother, all men a discreet mourner, ma­king sorrow a signell, not a su­periour of reason: some are so obstinate in their owne will, that euen time the naturall re­medy of the most violent ago­nies, cannot by any delayes as­swage their griefe: they enter­taine their sorrow with solitary muses, and feede their sighes and teares; they pine their bodies, and draw all pensiue considera­tion to their minds, nursing their heauinesse with a melancholy humour, as though they had vowed themselues to sadnesse, vnwilling it should end till it had ended them, wherein their [Page] folly sometimes findeth a ready effect; that being true which Sa­lomon obserued,Pro 1.25 that as a moath the garment, and a worme the wood, so doth sadnesse perswade the heart. But this impotent softnes fitteth not sober mindes. We must not make a liues pro­fession of a seuen nights duety, nor vnder colour of kindnesse to other; be vnnaturall to our selues: if some in their passion ioyned their thoughts into such labyrinths, that neither wit knoweth, nor will careth how long, or how farre they wander in them, it discouereth their weakenesse, but discerneth our meditation. It is (for the most) the fault, not of all, but of the silliest women, who next to the funerall of their friends, deeme it a second widowhood, to force their teares, and make it their happinesse, to seeme most vn­happy, as though they had onely bene left aliue, to be a perpetuall [Page] map of dead folkes misfortunes: but this is, to arme an enemie against our selues, and to yeeld Reason prisoner to Passion, put­ting the sword in the rebelles hand, when we are least able to withstand his treason. Sorrow once setled, is not lightly remo­ued, easily winning, but not so easily surrendring possession; and where it is not excluded in time, it challengeth a place by prescription. The Scripture war­neth vs, not to giue our hearts to sadnesse, yea rather, to reiect it as a thing not beneficiall to the dead, yea preiudiciall to our selues;Eccles. 38. Ecclesiasticus alloweth but seuen dayes to mourning, iudging moderation in plaint to be a sufficient testimony in good will, and a needefull office of wisedome. Much sorrow for the dead, is either the child of selfe-loue, or of rash iudgement. If we should shead our teares for o­thers death, as a meane to our [Page] contentment, we shew but our owne wound perfit louers of our selues: if we lament their de­ceasse as their hard destinie, we attache them of euill deseruing, with too peremtory a censure, as though their life had bene an arise, and their death a leape in­to small perdition; for otherwise a good departure craueth small condoling, being but a har­bour from stormes, and an en­trance vnto felicitie. But you know your sister too well to in­curre any blame in these re­spects. And experience of her life hath stored your thoughts with notice of so rare vertues, as might sooner make her memo­rie all enforcement to ioy, then any inducement to sorrow▪ and moue you to esteeme her last duties, rather the triumph of her victory, then the farewels of her deceasse. She was by birth, se­cond to none, but vnto the first in the realme, yet she measured [Page] onely greatnesse by goodnesse, making Nobilitie but the mir­rour of vertue; as able to shew things worthy to be seene, as apte to draw many eyes to be­holde it, she suted her behauiour to her birth, and enobled her birth with her piety, leauing her house more beholding to her for hauing honored it with the glorie of her vertues, then she was to it for the titles of her de­gree. She was high minded in nothing, but in aspiring to per­fection, and in the disdaine of vice; in other things couering her greatnesse with humilitie a­mong her inferiors, and shew­ing it with curtesie among her peeres. Of the carriage of her selfe, and her sober gou [...]ment may be a sufficient testimony, that enuy her selfe was dumbe in her dispraise, finding in her much to re [...] at, but nought to reprooue. The clearenesse of her honour I neede not to men­tion, [Page] she hauing alwaies armed it with such modestie as taught the most vntemperate tongues to be silent in her presence, and answered their eyes with scorne and contempt, that did but seeme to make her an ayme to passion; yea, and in this behalfe, as almost in all orhers, she hath the most honorable & knowen Ladies of the land, so common and knowen witnesses, that those that least loued her reli­gion, were in loue with her de­meanour, deliuering their opi­nions in open prayses. How mildly she accepted the checke of fortune fallen vpon her with­out desert, experience hath bene a most manifest proofe, the temper of her mind being so easie, that she found little diffi­cultie in taking downe her thoughts to a meane degree, which true honour, not pride hath raised to the former height. Her faithfulnesse & loue where [Page] she foūd true friendship, is writ­ten with teares in many eyes, and will be longer registred in gratefull memories of diuers that haue tried her in that kind, auowing her for secrecie, wise­dome, and constancie, to be a miracle in that sexe: yea when she found least kindnesse in o­thers, she neuer lost it in her selfe, more willingly suffering then offering wrong, and often weeping for their mishaps, whom though lesse louing her, she could not but affect. Of the innocencie of her life, this gene­rall each one can auerre, that as she was gratefull many wayes, and memorable for vertues, so was she free from all blemish of any vice, vsing, to her power, the best meanes to keepe continu­ally an vndefiled conscience: her attire was euer such as might both satisfie a curious eye, and yet beare witnesse of a sober minde, neither singular, nor [Page] vaine, but such as her peeres of best report vsed: her tongue was very little acquainted with oathes, vnlesse either duty or distrust did enforce them: and surely they were needelesse to those that knew her, to whom the truth of her words could not iustly be suspected; much lesse was she noted of any vnfitting talke, which as it was euer hate­full to her eares, so did it neuer defile her breath. Of feeding she was very measureable, rather too sparing, than too liberall a diet: so religious for obseruing of fasts, that neuer in her sicke­nesse she could hardly be wonne to breake them: and if our soules be possessed in our patience, surely her soule was truely her owne, whose rocke though often stricken with the rod of aduersity. neuer yeelded any more then to giue issue of eye streames: and though these through the tendernesse [Page] of her nature, and aptnesse of her sexe, were the customarie tri­butes that her loue payed, more to her friends then her owne misfortunes, yet were they not accompanied with distempered words, or ill seeming actions, reason neuer forgetting de­cencie, though remembring pity. Her deuotions she daily ob­serued, offering the daily sacri­fice of an innocent heart, and stinting her felfe to her times of prayer, which she performed with so religious a care, as well shewed that she knew how high a Maiestie she serued. I neede not write how dutifully she dis­charged all the behoofes of a most louing wife, since that was the commonest theame of her praise: yet this may be said with­out improofe to any, that who­soeuer in this behalfe may be counted her equall, none can iustly be thought her superiour. Where she owed, she paied du­tie, [Page] where she found she returned curtesie; wheresoeuer she was knowen, she deserued amitie; desirous of the best, yet disdai­ning none but euill companie: she was readier to requite bene­fits then reuenge wrongs, more grieued then angrie with vn­kindnesse of friends, when ei­ther mistaking or misreport oc­casioned any breaches: for if their words carry credite, it en­tred deepest into her thoughts, they haue acquitted her from all spice of malice, not onely against her friends, whose dislikes were but a retire to slip further into friendship, but euen her greatest enemies, to whom if she had bene a iudge as she was a sup­pliant▪ I assuredly thinke she would haue redressed, but not reuenged her wrongs In summe, she was an honour to her prede­cessors, a light to her age, and a patterne to her posteritie; nei­ther was her conclusion diffe­rent [Page] from her premises, or her death from her life, she shewed no dismay, being warned of her danger, carrying in her consci­ence, the safe conduct of inno­cencie. But hauing sent her de­sires to heauen before with a milde countenance, and a most calme minde, in more hope then feare, she expected her owne passage, she commended both her duty and good will to all her friends, and cleared her heart from all grudge towards her e­nemies, wishing true happinesse to them both, as best became so soft and gentle a mind, in which anger neuer stayed, but as an vn­welcome stranger: She made o­pen profession that she did die true to her religion, true to her husband, true to God and the world: she enioyed her iudge­ment as long as she breathed, her body earnestly offering her last deuotions, supplying in thought what faintnesse suffered [Page] not her tongue to vtter: in the end, when her glasse was runne out, and death began to chal­lenge his interest, some labou­ring with too late remedies to hinder the deliuery of her sweet soule, she desired them eftsoones to let her go to God; and her hopes calling her to eternall kingdomes, as one rather fallen asleepe, then dyieg, she most happily tooke her leaue of all mortall miseries. Such was the life, such was the death of your dearest sister, both so full of true comfort, that this surely of her vertues may be a sufficient leni­tiue to your bitterest griefes. For you are not (I hope) in the number of those that reckon it a part of their paine to heare of their best remedies, thinking the rehearsall of your dead friends praises an vpbraiding of their losse: but sith the obliuion of her vertuues were iniurious to her, let not the mention of [Page] her person be offensiue vnto you, and be not you grieued with her death, with which she is best pleased. So blessed a death is rather to be wished of vs, then pitied in her, whose soule tri­umpheth with God, whose ver­tue still breatheth in the mouths of infinite praises and liueth in the memories of all, to whom either experience made her knowne, or fame was not enui­ous to conceale her deserts. She was a iewell, that both God and you desired to enioy; he to her assured benefit without selfe in­terest, you for allowable re­spects, yet employing her re­straint among certaine hazards and most vncertaine hopes. Be then vmpire in your owne cause, whether your wishes or Gods will importeth more loue, the one, the adornement of her exile, the other, her returne into a most blessed countrey. And sith it pleased God in this loue to be [Page] your riuall, let your discretion decide the doubt, whom in due should carry the suite, the prero­gatiue being but a right to the one: for nature and grace being the motiues of both your loues, she had the best litle in them▪ that was authour of them: and she, if worthy to be beloued of either, as she was of both, could not but preferre him to the dea­rest portion of her deepest af­fection: let him with good leaue gather the grape of his owne vine, and plucke the fruite of his owne planting, and thinke so curious workes euer safest in the artificers hand, who is like­liest to loue them, and best able to preserue them. She did there­fore her duty in dying willingly: and if you will do yours, you must be willing with her death, sith to repine at her liking, is dis­curtesie at Gods, an impiety, both vnfitting for your appro­ued vertue; she being in place [Page] where no griefe can annoy her, she hath little neede, or lesse ioy of your sorrow; neither can she allow in her friends, that she would loathe in her selfe, loue neuer affecting likenesse: if she had bene euill, she had not de­serued our teares: being good, she cannot desire them, nothing being lesse to the likenesse of goodnesse; than to see it selfe any cause of vniust disquiet or trouble to the innocent. Would Saul haue thought it friendship, to haue wept for his fortune, in hauing found a kingdome,1. Sam. 17. by seeking of cattell? or Dauid ac­count it a curtesie, to haue sor­rowed at his successe, that from following sheepe, came to foyle a giant, and to receiue in fine, a royall crowne for his victorie? why then should her lot be la­mented, whom higher fauour hath raised from the dust to sit with princes of Gods people,Psal. 112 if security had bene giuen, that [Page] a longer life should still haue bene guided by vertue, and fol­lowed with good fortune, you might pretend some cause to complaine of her deceasse. But if different effects should haue crossed your hopes (processe of time being the parent of strange alterations) then had death bene friendlier then your selfe: and sith it hung in suspence which of the two would haue happened, let vs allow God so much dis­cretion, as to thinke him the fittest arbitrator in decision of the doubt: her foundations of happinesse were in the holy hills,Psal 86. and God sawe it fittest for her building to be but low in the vale of teares: & better it was it should be soone taken downe, then by rising too high, to haue oppressed her soule with the ruines. Thinke it no iniurie that she is now taken from you, but a fauour, that she was lent you so long, and shew no vnwilling­nesse [Page] to restore God his owne, sith hitherto you haue payed no vsurie for it. Consider not how much longer you might haue enioyed her, but how much soo­ner you might haue lost her: and sith she was held vpon cur­tesie, not by any couenant, take our soueraigne right for a suffi­cient reason of her death; our life is but lent; a good, to make thereof during the loane, our best commodity. It is due debt to a more certaine owner than our selues, and therefore so long as we haue it, we receiue a bene­fite, when we are depriued of it, we haue no wrong: we are ten­nants at will of this clayie farme, not for tearme of yeares; when we are warned out, we must be ready to remoue, hauing no o­ther title but the owners plea­sure: it is but an Inne, not an home: we came but to baite, not to dwell, and the condition of our entrance was in fine to de­part. [Page] If this departure be grie­uous, it is also common, this to day to me, to morrow to thee; and the case equally afflicting all, leaues none any cause to complaine of iniurious vsage.

Natures debt is sooner ex­acted of some than of other, yet is there no fault in the creditor that exacteth but his owne, but in the greedinesse of our eager hopes, either repining that their wishes faile, or willingly forget­ting their mortalitie, whom they are vnwilling by experi­ence to see mortall▪ yet the ge­nerall tide wafteth all passen­gers to the same shore, some sooner, some later, but all at the last: and we must settle our minds, to take our course as it commeth, neuer fearing a thing so necessary, yet euer expecting a thing so vncertaine. It seemeth that God purposely concealed the time of our death, leauing vs resolued betweene feare and [Page] hope of longer continuance. Cut off vnripe cares, lest with the notice and pensiuenesse of our diuorce from the world, we should lose the comfort of needfull contentments, and be­fore our dying day, languish away with expectation of death. Some are taken in their first steppe into this life, receiuing in one, their welcome and fare­well, as though they had bene borne, onely to be buried, and to take their pasport in this hourely middle of their course; the good, to preuent change, the bad, to shorten their impietie. Some liue till they be weary of life, to giue proofe of their good hap, that had a kindlier passage, yet though the date be diuers, the debt is all one, equally to be answered of all as their time ex­pireth:Psal. 88. for who is the man shall liue and not see death? sith we all dye, and like water slide vpon the earth. In Paradice we recei­ued [Page] the sentence of Death,Gen. 5. and here, as prisoners, we are kept in ward, tarying but our times till the Gaoler call vs to our execu­tion. Whom hath any vertue eternized▪ or desert commended to posterity, that hath not mour­ned in life, and bene mourned after death, no assurance of ioy being sealed without some teares? Euen the blessed Virgin the mother of God, was thrown downe as deepe in temporall miseries, as she was aduanced high in spirituall honours, none amongst all mortall creatures finding in life more proofe then she of her mortalitie. For, ha­uing the noblest sonne that e­uer woman was mother of, not onely aboue the condition of men, but aboue the glorie of Angels, being her sonne onely, without temporall Father, and thereby the loue of both parents doubled in her breast, being her onely Sonne without other [Page] issue, and so her loue of all chil­dren finished in him. Yea, he being God, and she the nearest creature to Gods perfections, yet no prerogatiue, either quit­ted her from mourning, or him from dying: and though they surmounted the highest An­gels in all other preheminences, yet were they equall with the meanest men in the sentence of Death. And howbeit the blessed Virgine being the patterne of Christian mourners, so tempered her anguish, that there was nei­ther any thing vndone that might be exacted of a mother, nor any thing done that might be misliked in so perfect a ma­tron; yet by this we may ghesse with what curtesies death is likely to friend vs, that durst cause so bloudy funerals in so heauenly a stocke, not exemp­ting him from the law of dying, that was the authour of life, and soone after to honour his tri­umphs [Page] with ruines and spoile of death. Seeing therefore that Death spareth none, let vs spare our teares for better vses, being but an idoll sacrifice to this deafe and implacable executio­ner. And for this, not long to be continued, where they can neuer profit, Nature did pro­mise vs a weeping life, exacting teares for custome at our first entrance, and for suting our whole course in this dolefull beginning. Therefore they must be vsed with measure, that must be vsed so often: and so many causes of weeping lying yet in the debt, sith we cannot end our teares, let vs at the least re­serue them: if sorrow cannot be shunned, let it be taken in time of neede, sith otherwise be­ing both troublesome and fruit­lesse, it is a double miserie, or an open folly. We moisten not the ground with precious waters, they were stilled to nobler ends, [Page] either by their fruits to delight our senses, or by their operation, to preserue our healths. Our teares are water of too high a price to be prodigally powred in the dust of any graues. If they be teares of loue, they perfume our prayers, making them odour of sweetnesse, fit to be offered on the Altar before the throne of God: if teares of contrition, they are water of life to the dying and corrupting soules,Apoc. 8. they may purchase fauour, and repeale the sentence till it be executed,3 King. 26. as the example of Eze­chias doth testifie, but when the punishment is past, and the ver­dict performed in effect, their pleading is in vaine,2 Kin 8.11. as Dauid taught vs when his child was dead, saying, that he was likelier to go to it, than it, by his wee­ping, to returne to him. Learne therefore to giue sorrow no long dominion ouer you. Wher­fore the wise should rather [Page] marke, than expect an end. Meet it not when it commeth, do not inuite it when it is absent: when you feele it, do not force it, sith the bruite creatures, which (Na­ture, seldome erring in her course, guideth in the meane) haue but a short, though vehe­ment sense of their losses. You should bury the sharpnesse of your griefe, with the course, and rest contented with a kind, yet a milde compassion, neither lesse than decent for you, nor more than agreeable to your nature & iudgement. Your much hea­uinesse would renew a multi­tude of griefes, and your eyes would be springs to many streames, adding to the memory of the dead, a new occasion of plaint by your owne discomfort. The motion of your heart mea­sureth the beating of many pul­ses, which in any distemper of your quiet with the like stroke will soone bewray themselues [Page] sicke of your disease: your for­tune though hard, yet is it noto­rious, and though moued in mishap, and set in an vnworthy lanterne, yet your owne light shineth farre, and maketh you markeable: euery one will bend an attentiue eye vpon you, ob­seruing how you ward this blow of temptation, and whe­ther your patience be a shield of proofe, or easily entred with these violent strokes. It is com­monly expected, that so high thoughts which haue already climed ouer the hardest dan­gers, should not now stoupe to any vulgar or female com­plaints. Great personages, whose estate draweth vpon them many eyes, as they cannot but be themselues, so may not they vse the libertie of meaner estates, the lawes of Nobilitie not al­lowing them to direct their deeds by their desires, but to li­mit their desires to that which [Page] is decent.

Nobility is an ayme for lower degrees to leuell at markes of higher perfection, and like state­ly windowes in the Northeast roomes of politicke and ciuill buildings, to let in such light, and lie open to such prospects, as may affoord their inferiours both to finde meanes and moti­ons to Heroicall vertues. If you should determine to dwell euer in sorrow, it were a wrong to your wisedome, and counter­manded by your qualitie. If euer you mind to surceasse it, no time fitter than the present, sith the same reasons that hereafter might moue you, are now as much in force. Yeld to Wise­dome that which you must yeeld to Time: be beholding to your selfe, not to Time for the victory; make it a voluntary worke of discretion that will o­therwise be a necessary worke of delay. We thinke it not e­nough [Page] to haue our owne mea­sure brim full with euill, vnlesse we make it runne ouer with others miseries, taking their misfortunes as our punishments, and executing forreine penal­ties vpon our selues. Yea dis­quiet mindes being euer bel­lowes to their owne flames, mistake oft times others good for ill, their follie making it a true scourge to them, how­soeuer it seemed twas to others a benefit. Iacob out of Iosephs absence sucked such surmises, as he made his heart a prey to his agonies, whereas that that bu­ried him in his owne melancho­lies, raised Ioseph to his highest happinesse. If Mary Magdalen said, and supposed she could haue suncke no deeper in griefe, than she had already plunged her selfe; and yet, that which she i­magined the vttermost of euils proued in conclusion, the very blisse of her wishes; the like [Page] may be your errour, if you cum­ber your minde with thinking vpon her death, which could neuer be discharged from cares, till death set his hand to her ac­quittance, nor receiue the char­ter of an eternall being, till her soule were presented at the sea­ling. I loath to rubbe the scarre of a deeper wound, for feare of renewing a dead discomfort; yet if you will fauour your owne re­medies, the maisterie ouer that griefe that springs from the roote, may learne you to quali­fie this that buddeth from the branch. Let not her losses moue you that are acquainted with greater of your owne, and taught by experience to know how vn­certaine then change is for whō vnconstant fortune throw­eth the dice. If she want the wonted titles, her part is now ended, and they were due but vpon the stage: her losse therein is but a wracke of wounds, in [Page] which she is but euen with the height of Princes, surpassing both her selfe in them, and the new honours of heauenly stile. If she haue left her children, it was her wish, they should repay her absence with vsury; yet had she sent her first fruits before her as pledges of her owne com­ming. And now may we say that the Sparrow hath found an home, and the Turtle doue a neast, where she may lay her yonglings, enioying some, and expecting the rest. If she be ta­ken from her friends, she is also deliuered from her enemies, in hope hereafter to enioy the first, out of feare of euer being trou­bled with the latter. If she be cut off in her youth, no age is vn­ripe for a good death; and ha­uing ended her taske, though neuer so short yet she hath liued out her full time. Old age is ve­nerable, not long, to be measu­red by increase of vertues, not by [Page] number of yeares: for grauity cō ­sisteth in wisedom,Sap. 4. and an vnspot­ted life is the ripenesse of the per­fectest age. If she were in possi­bilitie of preferment, she could hardly haue mounted higher, than from whence she was throwne: hauing bene brused with the first, she had little will to clime for a second fall. We might hitherto truly haue said, this is that Naomi, Ruth. 1. she being to her end enriched with many out­ward and more inward graces. But, whether hereafter shee would haue bid vs not to call her Naomi, that is, faire, but Ma­ra, that signifieth bitter, it is vn­certaine, sith she might haue fal­len into the widdows felicitie, that so changed her name to the likenesse of her lot. Insomuch that she is freed from more mi­series then she suffered losses, and more fortunate by not desiring, then she would be by enioying fortunes fauour; which if it be [Page] not counted a follie to loue, yet it is a true happinesse, not to need: we may rather thinke that Death was prouided against her imminent harmes, then enuious of any future prosperities: the times being great with so many broyles, that when they once fall in labour, we shall thinke their condition securest whom ab­sence hath exempted, both from feeling the bitter throwes, and beholding the monstrous issue that they are likely to bring forth. The more you tender her, the more temperate should be your griefe, sith seeing you vpon going, she did but step before you into the next world, to which she thought you to be­long more than to this, which hath already giuen you the most vngratefull congee. They that are vpon remouing, send their furniture before them; and you still standing vpon your depar­ture, what ornament could you [Page] rather wish in your future abode, then this that did euer please you? God thither sendeth your Adamants, whither he would draw your heart, and casteth your anchors where your thoughts should lie at roade, that seeing your loue taken out of the world, and your hopes disanchored from the stormie shoare, you might settle your desires where God seemeth to require them. If you would haue wished her life for an example to your house, assure your selfe she hath left her friends so in­herited with her vertues, and so perfect patternes of her best part, that who knoweth the surui­uours, may see the deceassed, and shall finde little difference, but in the number, which before was greater▪ but not better, vn­lesse it were in one repetition of the same goodnesse: wherefore set your selfe at rest in the ordi­nance of God, whose works are [Page] perfect, and whose wisedome is infinite. The termes of our life are like the seasons of the yeare, some for sowing, some for growing, and some for reaping; in this onely different, that as the heauens keepe their prescribed periods, so the succession of times haue their appointed chan­ges. But in the seasons of our life, which are not the law of neces­sarie causes, some are reaped in the seed, some in the blade, some in the vnripe eares, all in the end; this haruest depending vpon the Reapers will. Death is too ordi­nary a thing to seeme any no­uelty, being a familiar guest in euery house; and sith his com­ming is expected, and his errand vnknowne, neither his presence should be feared, nor his effects lamented. What wonder is it to see fuell burned, spice-pouned, or snow melted? And as little feare it is to see those dead that were borne vpon condition once [Page] to dye. She was such a compound as was once to be resolued vnto her simples, which is now per­formed, her soule being giuen to God, and her body resorted into her first elements. It could not dislike you, to see your friend remoued out of a ruinous house, & the house it self destroy­ed and pulled down, if you knew it were to build it in a state­lier forme, and to turne the inha­bitant with more ioy into a fairer lodging. Let then your sisters soule depart without griefe, let her body also be altred into dust: withdraw your eyes from the ruine of this cottage, and cast them vpon the maiestie of the second building, which Saint Paul saith shall be incorrup­tible, glorious, strange, spirituall, and immortall. Night and sleepe are perpetuall mirrours, figuring in their darknesse, silence, shut­ting vp of senses, the finall end of our mortall bodies: and for this [Page] some haue entituled sleepe the eldest brother of Death: but with no lesse conuenience it might be called one of Deaths tenants, neare vnto him in affinity of condition, yet farre inferiour in right, being but tennant for a time, of that Death is the inhe­ritance: for, by vertue of the conueyance made vnto him in Paradice, that dust we were, and to dust we must returne; he hath hitherto shewed his seigniory ouer all, exacting of vs, not onely the yearely, but hourely reue­rence of time, which euer by minuts we defray vnto him: so that our very life is not onely a memory, but a part of our death, sith the longer we haue liued the lesse we haue to liue. What is the daily less [...]ning of our life, but a continuall dying? and there­fore none is more grieued with the running out of the last sand in an houre glasse the with all the rest so should not the end of [Page] y^e last houre trouble vs any more, thē of so many that went before, sith that did but finish the course, that all the rest were still ending: not the quantity but the quality commendeth our life; the ordinary gaine of long li­uers, being onely a great bur­then of sinne. For as in teares, so in life, the value is not esteemed by the length, but by the fruit & goodnesse, which often is more in the least than in the longest. What your sister wanted in con­tinuance, she supplyed in speed; and as with her needle she wrought more in a day than ma­ny Ladies in a yeare, hauing both excellent skill, and no lesse delight in working: so with her diligence, doubling her ende­uours, she wonne more vertue in halfe than others in a whole life. Her death to time was her birth to eternitie, the losse of this world an exchange of a better, one endowment that she [Page] had being impaired, but many farre greater added to the store. Mardocheus house was too ob­scure a dwelling for so gracious an Hester, shrowding royall parts in the mantle of a meane estate, and shadowing immortall benefits vnder earthly veiles. It was fitter, y^t she being a summe of so rare perfections, and so well worthy a spouse of our hea­uenly Ahashuerus, should be car­ried to his court from her for­mer abode, there to be inuested in glorie, and to enioy both place and preheminence answe­rable to her worthinesse: her loue would haue bene lesse able to haue borne your death, then your constancy to brooke hers, and therefore God mercifully closed her eyes before they were punished with so grieuous a sight, taking out to you but a new lesson of patience out of your old booke, in which, long study hath made you perfect. [Page] Though your hearts were equal­ly ballanced with a mutuall and most entire affection, and the doubt insoluble, which of you loued most; yet Death finding her weaker, though not the wea­ker vessell, layd his weight in her ballance, to bring her soonest to her rest. Let your mind there­fore consent to that which your tongue daily craueth, that Gods will may be done, as well here in earth of her mortall body, as in that little heauen of her purest soule, sith his will is the best measure of all euents. There is in this world continuall enter­change of pleasing and greeting accidents, still keeping their suc­cession of times and ouertaking each other in their seuerall cour­ses. No picture can be all drawne of the brightest colours, nor an harmonie consorted onely of trebbles: shadowes are need­full in expressing of proportions, and the base is a principall part [Page] in perfect musicke: the condition of our exile here alloweth no vn­mingled ioy, our whole life is temperate betweene sweete and sower and we must all looke for a mixture of both. The wise so wish: better that they still thinke of worse, accepting the one if it come with liking, and bearing the other without impatience, being so much maisters of each others fortunes, that neither shall worke them to excesse. The dwarfe groweth not on the highest hill, nor the tall man lo­seth not his height in the lowest valley. And as a base minde, though most at ease, will be de­iected, so a resolute vertue in the deepest distresse is most impreg­nable. They euermore most per­fectly enioy their comforts, that least feare their contraries: for a desire to enioy, carieth with it a feare to lose; and both desire and feare are enemies to quiet possession, making men rather [Page] owners of Gods benefits, then tenants at his will. The cause of our troubles are, that our misfor­tunes hap, either to vnwitting or vnwilling minds. Foresight pre­uenteth the one, necessity the o­ther: for he taketh away the smart of present euills that atten­deth their comming, and is not amated with any crosse, that is armed against all. Where neces­sitie worketh without our con­sent, the effect should neuer greatly afflict vs, griefe being bootlesse, where it cannot helpe, needlesse where there was no fault. God casteth the dice, and giueth vs our chance; the most we can do, is to take the poynt that the cast will affoord vs, not grudging so much that it is no better, as comforting our selues it is no worse. If men should lay all their euils together, to be af­terwards by equall portions de­uided among them, most men would rather take that they [Page] brought, then stand to the diui­sion; yet such is the partial iudge­ment of selfe loue, that euery man iudgeth his selfe-misery too great, fearing if he can find some circumstance to increase it, and making it intollerable, by thought to induce it. When Mo­ses threw his rod from him, it became a serpent, ready to sting, and affrighted him, insomuch as it made him to flie, but being quietly taken vp, it was a rod a­gaine, seruiceable for his vse, no way hurtfull. The crosse of Christ, and rod of euery tribula­tion feeming to threaten stin­ging and terrour to those that shunne and eschue it, but they that mildly take it vp and em­brace it with patience, may say with Dauid, thy rod and thy staffe haue bene my comfort.Psal. 12. In this, affliction resembleth the Crocadile; flie, it pursueth and frighteth; followed, it flieth and feareth, a shame to the constant, [Page] a tyrant to the timorous. Soft mindes that thinke onely vpon delights, admit no other consi­deration: but in soothing things become so effeminate, as that they are apt to bleed with eue­ry sharpe impression. But he that vseth his thoughts with expecta­tion of troubles, making their trauell through all hazards, and apposing his resolution against the sharpest encounters, findeth in the proofe facilitie of pa­tience, and easeth the loade of most heauy combers. We must haue temporall things in vse, but eternall in wish, that in the one neither delight exceede (in that we haue no desire in that we want:) and in the other our most delight is here in desire, and our whole desire is hereafter to en­ioy. They straighten too much their ioyes, that draw them into the reach and compasse of their senses, as if it were no facilitie where no sense is witnesse, [Page] whereas if we exclude our passed and future contentments, plea­sant pleasures haue so fickle as­surance, that either as forestalled before their arriuall, or interrup­ted before their end, or ended before they are well begun, the repetition of former comforts, and the expectation of after hopes, is euer a reliefe vnto a vertuous mind, whereas others, not suffering their life to con­tinue in the conueniences of that which was and shall be deuided, this day from yesterday and to morrow, and by forgetting all, and forecasting nothing abridge their whole life into the mo­ment of present time. Enioy your sister in her former vertues, en­ioy her also in her future mee­ting, being both titles of more certaine delights, than her casu­all life could euer haue warran­ted. If we will thinke of her de [...]th, let it be as a warning to prouide vs, sith that what happe­neth [Page] to one, may happen to ano­ther: yea, none can escape, that is common to all. It may be, that blow that hither, was meant to some of vs; and this missing was but a proofe to take better aime in the next stroke. If we were diligent in thinking of our own, we should haue little leisure to bewaile others death. When the souldier in skirmish seeth his next fellow slaine, he thinketh more time to looke to himselfe, then to stand mourning an hap­lesse mischance, knowing the hand which sped so neare a neighbour, cannot be farre from his owne head. But we in this behalfe are much like the silly birds, that seeing one sticke in the lime bush, striuing to get a­way, with a kind of natiue pitty are drawen to go to it, and to rush themselues into the same misfortune; euen so many for their friends deceasse by musing on their lot, wittingly surfet of [Page] too much sorrow, that some­times they make mourning their last deceasse. But slippe not you into this toyle, that hath ta­ken none but weake affections; hold not your eyes alwayes vpon your hardest happes, neither be you still occupied in counting your losses. There are fairer parts in your body than scarres, better eye-markes in your fortune than a sisters losse. You might haply find more comfort left, than you would willingly lose; but that you haue already resigned the solaces of life, and shunned all comforts into the hopes of hea­uen; yet sith there is some diffe­rence betweene a purpose and proofe, intending and perfor­ming, a subdued enemy being euer ready to rebell when he findeth mighty helpes to make a party, it is good to strengthen reason against the violence of Nature that in this and like cases will renew her assaults. It was [Page] a forcible remedie that he vsed to withstand the conceit of a most lamentable occurrent, who hauing in one ship lost his chil­dren and substance, and hardly escaped himselfe from drow­ning, went presently into an hospitall of lazars, where fin­ding in a little roome many ex­amples of great miseries, he made the smart of others sores a lenitiue to his owne wound. For besides that, as lownesse and pouerty was common to them, they had also many combers pri­uate to themselues, some wan­ting their senses, some their wits, other their limmes, but all their health: in which consideration he eased his minde, that Fortune had not giuen him the greatest fall. If God had put you to Abra­hams triall, commanding you to sacrifice the hope of your poste­ritie, and to be to your onely sonne an authour of death, as you were to him of life: If you [Page] had bene tied in the straights of Iepthaes bitter deuotions, em­bruing his sword in his owne daughters bloud, and ending the triumphs ouer his enemies, with the voluntary funerals of his only ofspring: yet, sith both their liues & their labours had bene Gods vndeniable debt, your vertues ought to haue obeyed, maugre all encounters of carnall affe­ction. And how much more in this case should you encline your loue to Gods liking, in which he hath receiued a lesse part of his owne, and that by the vsuall easiest course of natures lawes? Let God strippe you to the skinne, yea to the soule, so he stay with you himselfe▪ let his reproach be your honour, his po­uerty your riches, and he, in lieu of all other friends. Thinke him enough for this world, that must be all your possession for a whole eternity. Let others ease their carefullnesse with borrowed [Page] pleasures, not bred out of the true roote, but begged of exter­nall helpes. They shall still carry vnquiet mindes, easily altered with euery accident, sith they labour not for any change in their inward distempers, but by forgetting them for a time by outward pastimes. Innocencie is the onely mother of true mirth, and a soule that is owner of God, will quietly beare with all other wants nothing being able to empouerish it but voluntary losses. Beare not therefore with her losses, for she is won for euer, but with the momentary absence of your most happy sister; yea it cannot iustly be called an ab­sence, many thoughts being dai­ly in parley with her, onely mens eyes and eares vnworthy to en­ioy so sweete an obiect, haue re­signed their interest, and inte­rested this treasure in their harts, being the fittest shrines for so pure a Saint, whom, as none did [Page] know but did loue, so none can now remember but with deuo­tion. Men may behold her with shame of their former life, seeing one of the weaker sexe honor her weaknesse with such a traine of perfections. Ladies may admire her, as a glorie to their degree, in whom honour was portraied in her full likenesse, grace hauing perfected Natures first draught with all the due colours of an absolute vertue. All women ac­cept her as a patterne to imitate her gifts and her good parts▪ ha­uing bene so manifested, that e­uen they that can teach the finest stitches, may themselues take new workes out of this Sampler. Who then could drinke any sor­row out of so cleare a Fountaine, or bewaile the estate of so happy a creature, to whom, as to be her selfe was her praise; so to be as she is, was her highest blisse? You still floate in a trou­blesome sea, and you find it by [Page] experience a sea of dangers: how then can it pitty you to see your sister on shoare, and so safely lan­ded in so blisfull an harbour? Sith your Iudith hath wrought the glorious exploite against her ghostly enemies,Iud. 15. for the accom­plishing whereof she came into the dangerous campe & warfare of this life; you may well giue her leaue to looke home to her Bethulia, to solemnize her tri­umph with the spoiles of her victorie. Yea, you should rather haue wished to haue bene Por­ter to let her in, than mourne to see her safe returned. For so appa­rent hazards, she carried an hea­uenly treasure in an earthly ves­sell,2. Cor. 4. which was too weake a treasurie for so high riches: sinne creeping in at the window of our senses, and often picking the locks of the strongest hearts. And for this it was layd vp in a surer, to the which the heauens are walles, and the Angels kee­pers. [Page] She was a pure fish, but yet swimming in muddy streames: it was now time to draw her to shoare, and to employ the in­wards of her vertues to medici­nable vses, that layd on the coals of due consideration, they may draw from our thoughts, the Diuels suggestions, and appli­ed to their eyes,Tob. 6. which are blin­ded with the dung of flying va­nities, the slime of their former vanities may fall off, and leaue them able to behold the cleare light. The base shell of a mortall body was vnfit for so precious a Margarite,Mat. 13. and the Ieweller that came into this world to seeke good pearles, and gaue, not only all he had, but himselfe also, to buy them, thought now high time to bring her vnto his bar­gaine, finding her growne to a Margarites full perfection. She stood vpon too low a ground to take view of her Sauiours most desired countenance, and forsa­king [Page] the earth with Zacheus, Luk. 9. she climed vp into the tree of life, there to giue her soule a full re­past of her beauties. She departed with Iepthaes daughter from her fathers house, but to passe some moneths in wandring about the mountaines of this troublesome world, which being now expi­red, she was after her pilgrimage, by couenant, to returne to be offered vnto God in a gratefull sacrifice, and to ascend out of this desart like a stemme of per­fume out of burned spices. Let not therefore the crowne of her vertue be the foile of her con­stancie, nor the end of her com­bers a renewing of yours. But sith God was well pleased to call her, she not displeased to go, and you the third twist to make a triple cord, saying, Our Lord gaue, and our Lord tooke away, as it hath pleased our Lord, so hath it fallen out: the name of our Lord be blessed.