^UJ^ h^: 
 
 MARIE MAGDALEN'S 
 
 FUNERALL TEARES 
 
 FOR THE 
 
 IBeatj) of out Jbafctour. 
 
 to wisdom, thou art my Sister, and call under,, 
 '\ ; nswrman." 
 
 RE-PRJNffcD'Fo. 
 
 n ' i * i 
 
 LONDON. 
 
 1823. 
 
7Z2 
 572? 
 
THE LIFE OF 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHWELL. 
 
 From the " Respective Review." 
 
 THE pious author of these volumes was one 
 of the many victims sacrificed to the intolerant 
 spirit which characterised the early stages of 
 the Reformation. 
 
 932160 
 
Robert Southwell was a Catholic, and, what 
 was still more criminal in the eyes of the English 
 Government in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, he 
 was a Jesuit. He was born about the year 1562, 
 of a respectable Catholic family, at St. Faith's, 
 in Norfolk, and was, at an early age, sent to the 
 English College at Douay, for education. From 
 Douay he went to Rome, and, at the age of six- 
 teen, was received into the order of the society 
 of Jesus. Having finished his noviciate, and 
 gone through his course of philosophy and divi- 
 nity with great credit, he was made Prefect of 
 the studies of the English College at Rome. In 
 1584, he was sent as a missionary Priest into 
 his native country, having, as he says, travelled 
 
far and brought home a freight of spiritual sub- 
 stance to enrich his friends, and medicinable re- 
 ceipts against their ghostly maladies. Father 
 Southwell continued in England, labouring dili- 
 gently in his function until the year 1529, when 
 \\e was apprehended in a gentleman's house at 
 Uxenden, in Middlesex, and committed to a 
 dungeon in the tower, so noisome and filthy, 
 that when he was brought out for examination, 
 his clothes were covered with vermin. Upon 
 this, his father presented a petition to Queen 
 Elizabeth, begging, that if his son had commit- 
 ted any thing for which, by the laws, he had de- 
 served death, he might suffer death ; if not, as 
 he was a gentleman, he hoped Her Majesty 
 
would be pleased to order that he should be 
 treated as a gentleman. The Queen was graci- 
 ously pleased to listen to this prayer, and order- 
 ed that Southwell should have a better lodging, 
 and that his father should have permission to 
 supply him with clothes and other necessaries, 
 together with the books he asked for, which 
 were only the Bible, and the works of Saint 
 Bernard. For three years was he kept in prison, 
 and what was worse for himself and more dis- 
 graceful to the government, it is said, he was 
 put to the rack ten several times. 
 
 Wearied out with torture and solitary impri- 
 sonment, he at length applied to the Lord Trea- 
 surer Cecil, that he might either be brought to 
 
trial) to answer for himself, or, at least, that his 
 friends might have leave to come and see him. 
 To this application, if we are to believe the ac- 
 count of the Latin manuscript, which was for- 
 merly deposited in the archives of the English 
 College at St Omers, and of which a translation 
 is given in ChaUoner's Memoirs of Missionary 
 Priests, the Lord Treasurer answered, u that if 
 he was in so much haste to be hanged, he should 
 quickly have his desire." Shortly after this he 
 was removed from the Tower to Newgate, where 
 he was put down into the dungeon called limbo, 
 and there kept for three days. 
 
 On the 20th of February, he was carried to 
 Westminster to take his trial before Lord Chief 
 
Justice Popham and others. A true bill being 
 found against him, Father Southwell was order- 
 ed to the bar, and held up his hand according to 
 custom. On being- asked whether he was guilty 
 or not guilty, lie answered, " I confess that I 
 was born in England, a subject to the Queen's 
 Majesty; and that, by authority derived from 
 God, I have been promoted to the sacred order 
 of priesthood in the Roman Church," but he de- 
 nied he had ever entertained any designs against 
 the Queen or kingdom ; alleging, that he had no 
 other intention, in returning to his native coun- 
 try, than to administer the sacraments, according 
 to the Catholic Church, to such as desired them. 
 The jury were sworn without a single challenge, 
 
the prisoner observing that they were all equally 
 strangers to him, and, therefore, charity did not 
 allow him to except against one more than ano- 
 ther. He was found guilty on his own con- 
 fession, and being asked if he had any thing 
 more to say why sentence should not be pro- 
 nounced against him, he replied, " nothing, but 
 from my heart I forgive all who have been any 
 way accessary to my death." The judge having 
 pronounced sentence according to the usual 
 form, Father Southwell made a low bow, re- 
 turning him thanks as for an unspeakable favour. 
 The next morning he was drawn through the 
 streets, on a sledge, to Tyburn, where a great 
 concourse of people had assembled to witness his 
 
execution. He confessed that he was a priest of 
 the society of Jesus, but again denied that he 
 had ever contrived or imagined any evil against 
 the Queen, for whom, and for his country, he 
 offered up his prayers. The cart was then driven 
 away ; but the unskilful hangman had not appli- 
 ed the noose to the right place, so that he seve- 
 ral times made the sign of the cross, while he 
 was hanging, and was some time before he was 
 strangled. He was afterwards cut down, bow- 
 elled, and quartered. 
 
 So perished Father Southwell, at thirty-three 
 years of age, and so, unhappily, have perished 
 many of the wise and virtuous of the earth. 
 Conscious of suffering in the supposed best of 
 
causes, he seems to have met death without ter- 
 rorto have received the crown of martyrdom 
 not only with resignation but with joy. Indeed, 
 persecution and martyrdom, torture and death, 
 must have been frequent subjects of his contem- 
 plation. His brethren of the priesthood were 
 falling around him, and he himself assumed the 
 character of a comforter and encourager to 
 those who remained. Life's uncertainty and the 
 woild's vanity the crimes and follies of huma- 
 nity, and the consolations and glories of religion, 
 are the constant themes of his writings, both in 
 prose and verse ; and the kindliness and benig- 
 nity of his nature, and the moral excellence of 
 his character, are diffused alike over both. 
 
MARIE MAGDALEN'S 
 
 leremie, Chap. 6, Vers.26. 
 
 Luctum unigenltifac tibi planctum amarum. 
 
 Hontron : 
 
 PRINTED BY I. HAVILAND. 
 
 1634. 
 
TO THE WORSHIPFULL AND VERTUOUS 
 GENTLEWOMAN, 
 
 MISTRESSE D. A. 
 
 Your virtuous requests, to which your cfe* 
 serts gave the force of a commandement) won 
 mee to satisfie your devotion, in penning some 
 little Discourse of the blessed Marie Magdalene. 
 And among other glorious examples of this 
 Sainfs life, I have made choice of her Funerall 
 Teares, in which as shee most uttered the great 
 
vehemency of her fervent love to Christ, so hath 
 shee given therein largest scope to dilate upon the 
 same : a theme pleasing I hope unto yourself e, 
 and fittest for this lime. For as passion, and 
 especially this of love, is in these dayes the chief e 
 commander of most men's actions, and the idol 
 to which both tongues and penncs doe sacrifice 
 their ill bestowed labours : so is there nothing now 
 more needful to bee intreated, than how to direct 
 these humours unto their due courses, and to 
 draw thisfloud of affections into the right chan- 
 nett. Passions I allow, and loves I approve, 
 only I would wish that men would alter their ob- 
 ject, and better their intent. For passions being 
 sequels of our nature, and allotted unto us, as 
 
the handmaids of reason, there can bee no doubt, 
 but as their authour is good, and their end god- 
 ly ; so their use, tempered in the meane, implieth 
 no offence. Love is but the infancie of true cha- 
 ritie, yet sucking Nature's teat, and swathed in 
 her bands, which then growelh to perfection, 
 when faith, besides naturall motives, proposeth 
 higher and nobler grounds of amitie. Hatred 
 and anger are the necessarie officers of prowesse 
 and justice, courage being cold and dull, and 
 justice in due revenge slacke and carelesse, where 
 hate of the fault doth not make it odious, and 
 anger setteth not an edge on the sword that pu- 
 nisheth or preventeth wrongs. Desire and hope 
 are the parents of diligence and Industrie, the 
 
nurses of perseverance and constancie, the seeds 
 of valour and magnanimitie, the death ofsloatk, 
 and tfte breath of all vertue. Feare and dislikes 
 are the scouts of discretion, the harbingers of wis- 
 dom and policie,killing idle repentance in the cra- 
 dle, and curbing rashnesse with deliberation. Au- 
 dacitie is the armor of strength, and the guide 
 of glory, breaking the ice to the hardest exploits, 
 and crowning valour with honourable victorie. 
 
 Sorrow is the sister ofmercie, and a waker 
 of compassion, weeping with others 1 teares, and 
 grieved with their harmes. It is both the salve 
 and smart of sinne, curing that which it chas- 
 tiseth with true remorse, and preventing need of 
 new cure with the detestation of the disease. De- 
 
spaire of the successe is a bit against evill at- 
 tempts, and the hearse of idle hopes, ending end- 
 lesse things in their Jir&t motion to begin. True 
 joy is the rest and reward of vertuc, seasoning 
 difficulties with delight, and giving a present as- 
 say of future happinesse. Finally, there is no 
 passion but hath a serviceable use, either in pur- 
 suit of good, or avoidance of evill, and they are 
 all benefits of God, and helpes of nature, so long 
 as they are kept under vertue's correction. 
 
 But as too much of the best is evill, and 
 excesse in virtue, vice ; so passions let loose 
 without limits, are imperfections, nothing being 
 good that wanteth measure. And as the sea is 
 unfit for trajficke, not only when the windes are 
 
viii 
 
 too boysterous, but also when they are too still, 
 and a middle gale and motion of the waves serveth 
 best the sayler's purpose ; so neither too stormie, 
 nor too calme a minde giveth vertue the first 
 course, but a middle temper betweene them both, 
 in which the well ordered passions are wrought to 
 prosecute, not suffered to pervert any vertuous 
 endeavour. Such were the passions of this holy 
 Saint 9 which were not guides to reason, but at- 
 tendants upon it, and commanded by such a love 
 as could never exceed, because the thing loved 
 was of infinite perfection. And if her weaknesse 
 of faith, (an infirmitie then common to all 
 Christ's disciples) did suffer her understanding 
 to bee deceived, yet was her will so settled in a 
 
most sincere and perfect fore, that it led ail her 
 passions with the same byas, recompensing the 
 want ofbeleefe, with the strange effects of an ex- 
 cellent charitie. This love and these passions 
 are the subject of this discourse, which though it 
 reach not to the dignitie of Marie's deserts, yet 
 shall I thinke my endeavours well appaid, if it 
 may but wooe some skiUfuUer pens from unwor- 
 thy labours, either to supply in this matter my 
 want of ability, or in other of like pietie, (where- 
 of the Scripture is full ) to exercise tlueir happier 
 talents. I know that none can express a passion 
 that hee feeleth not, neither doth the pen deliver 
 but what it copieth out of the mind. And there- 
 fore the finest wits are now given to write pas- 
 
sionate discourses, I would wish them to make 
 choice of such passions, as it neither should be 
 shame to utter, nor sinne tofeele. 
 
 Hut whether my wishes in this behalf e take 
 effect or not, I reape at the least this reward of 
 my pains, that I have shewed my desire to answer 
 your courtesie, and set forth the due praises of 
 this glorious Saint. 
 
 Your loving friend 
 R. S. 
 
TO THE READER. 
 
 Many, suiting their labours to the popular 
 vane, and guided by the gale of vulgar breath, 
 have divulged divers patheticall discourses, in 
 which if they had shewed as much care to profit, 
 as they have done desire to please, their workes 
 would much more have honoured their names, 
 and availed the reader. But it is a just com- 
 plaint among the better sort of persons, that the 
 finest wits lose themselves in the vainest follies, 
 
12 
 
 spilling much art in some idle fancie, and leaving 
 their workes as witnesses how long they have 
 beene in travell, to be in fine delivered of a fable. 
 And sure it is a thing greatly to bee lamented, 
 that men of so high conceit should so much abase 
 their abilities, that when they have racked them 
 to the uttermost endeavour, all the praise that 
 they reape of their imploiment, consisteth in this, 
 that they have wisely told a foolish tale, and car- 
 ried a long lie very smoothly to the end. Yet 
 this inconvenience might finde some excuse, if 
 the drift of their discourse levelled at any vertu- 
 ous mark. For in fables are often figured morall 
 truths, and that covertly uttered to a common 
 good, which without a maske would not finde so 
 
13 
 
 free a passage. But when the substance of the 
 work hath neither truth nor probability, nor the 
 purport thereof tendeth to any honest end, the 
 writer is rather to be pitied than praised, and his 
 books litter for the fire than for the presse. This 
 common oversight more have observed, than en- 
 deavoured to salve, every one being able to re- 
 prove, none willing to redresse such faults, au- 
 thorized especially by generall custome. And 
 though if necessitie (the lawlesse patrone of in- 
 forced actions) had no more prevailed than 
 choice, this worke of so different a subject from 
 the usual veine should have been no eye-sore to 
 those that are pleased with worse matters. 
 Yetsith the copies thereof flew so fast, and so 
 
J4 
 
 false abroad, that it was in daunger to come cor- 
 rupted to the print ; it seemed a lesse evill to let 
 it Hie to common view in the native plume, and 
 with the own wings, than disguised in a coat of 
 a bastard feather, or cast off from the fist of such 
 a corrector, as might happily have perished the 
 sound, and stucke in some sick and sorry fea- 
 thers of his own phansies. It may be that cour- 
 teous skill will reckon this, though coarse in re- 
 spect of other exquisite labours, not unfit to en- 
 tertain well tempered humours both with plea- 
 sure and profit, the ground thereof being in scrip- 
 ture, and the form of enlarging it, an imitation 
 of the ancient doctours in the same and other 
 points of like tenour. This commoditie at the 
 
15 
 
 least it will carry with it, that the reader may 
 learn to love without improof of purity, and teach 
 his thoughts either to temper passion in the 
 meane, or to give the bridle only where the ex- 
 cesse cannot be faulty. Let the work defend it- 
 self, and every one pass his censure as he seeth 
 cause. Many carpes are expected when curious 
 eyes corae a fishing. But the care is already 
 taken, and patience waiteth at the table, ready to 
 take away, when that dish is served in, and make 
 room for others to set on the desired fruit. 
 
 R. S. 
 
MARY MAGDALEN'S 
 
 AMONGST other mournful accidents of the 
 Passion of Christ, that love presenteth itself 
 unto ray memory, with which the blessed Mary 
 Magdalen, loving- our Lord more than her life, 
 followed him in his journey to his death, attend- 
 ing upon him when his disciples fled, and being 
 more willing to die with him, than they to live 
 without him. But not finding the favour to 
 
18' 
 
 accompany him in death, and loathing after him 
 to remain in life, the fire of her true affection in- 
 flamed her hart, and her inflamed hart resolved 
 into uncessant teares : so that burning and bath- 
 ing in love and griefe, she led a life ever dying, 
 and felt a death never ending. And when he by 
 whom she lived was dead, and she for whom he 
 died inforcedly left alive, she praised the dead 
 more than the living, and having lost that light 
 of her life, she desired to dwell in darkness, and 
 in the shadow of death ; choosing Christ's tomb 
 for her best home, and his corse for her chief 
 comfort. For Mary (as the Evangelist saith) 
 stood without, at the tomb, weeping. 
 
 But (alas) how unfortunate is this woman, to 
 
19 
 
 whom neither life will affoard a desired farewell 
 nor death alluw any wished welcome ? She hath 
 abandoned the living, and chosen the company of 
 the dead, and now it seemeth that even the dead 
 have forsaken her, sith the corse she seeketh is 
 taken away from her. And this was the cause 
 that love induced her to stand, and sorrow in- 
 forced her to weep. Her eye was watchful to 
 seek whom her hart most longed to enjoy, and 
 her foot in readiness to runne if her eye should 
 chaunce to espie him. And therefore she stand- 
 eth to be still stirring, prest to watch every way, 
 and prepared to go whither any hope should call 
 her. But she wept because she had such occa- 
 sion of standing, and that which moved her to 
 
20 
 
 watch was the motive of her teares. For as she 
 watched to find whom she had lost, so she wept 
 for having lost whom she loved, her poor eyes 
 being troubled at once with two contrary 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 encrease 
 of her grief, not the beginning but the renewing 
 of her moane. For first she mourned for the de- 
 parting of his soule out of his body, and now she 
 lamented the taking of his body out of his grave, 
 being punished with two w re ekes of her only 
 wellfare, both full of misery, but the last with- 
 out all comfort. The first original of her sorrow 
 
21 
 
 grew because she could not enjoy him alive : yet 
 this sorrow had some solace, for that she hoped 
 to have enjoyed him dead. 
 
 But when she considered that his life was al- 
 ready lost, and now not so much as his body 
 could he found, she was wholly daunted with dis- 
 may, sith this unhappines admitted no help. She 
 doubted least the love of her Maister (the only 
 portion that fortune had left her) would soon lan- 
 guish in her cold 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 up. 
 She had prepared her spices and provided her 
 ointments to pay him the last tribute of eternall 
 duties. And though St. Joseph and Nicodemus 
 
22 
 
 had already bestowed a hundred pounds of myrrh 
 and aloes which was in quantity sufficient, in 
 quality the best, and as well applied as art and 
 devotion could devise : yet such was her love, 
 that she would have thought any quantity too 
 little, except her's had been added, the best in 
 quality too mean except her's were with it, and 
 no diligence in applying it enough, except her 
 service were in it. Not that she w r as sharp in 
 censuring that which others had done, but be- 
 cause love made her so desirous to do all her- 
 self e, that though all had beeue done that she 
 could devise, and as well as she could wish, yet 
 uulesse she were an actor > it would not suffice, 
 
23 
 
 sith love is as eager to be uttered in effect as it 
 is zealous in true affection. 
 
 She came therefore now meaning to embalme 
 his corpse as she had before anointed his feet, 
 and to preserve the reliques of his body, as the 
 only remnant of all blisse. And as in the spring 
 of her felicity she had washed his feet with her 
 teares, bewailing unto him the death of her owne 
 soule : so now she came in the depth of her mi- 
 sery, to shedd them fresh for the death of his 
 body. But when she saw the grave open, and 
 the body taken out, the labour of embalming was 
 prevented, but the cause of her weeping increas- 
 ed, and he that was wanting to her obsequies, 
 was not wanting to her teares, and though she 
 
24 
 
 found not whom to annoint, yet found she whom 
 to lament. 
 
 And not without cause did Marie complaine, 
 finding her first anguish doubled with a second 
 griefe, and being surcharged with two most vio- 
 lent sorrowes in one afflicted heart. For having 
 settled her whole affection upon Christ, and 
 summed all her desires and wishes into the love 
 of his goodnesse, as nothing could equall his 
 worth ; so was there not in the whole world, 
 either a greater benefit for her to enjoy than him- 
 selfe, or any greater dammage possible than his 
 losse. 
 
 The murdering in his owne death the life of 
 all lives, left a generall death in all living crea- 
 
25 
 
 tures, and his decease not only disrobed our na- 
 ture of her most royall ornaments, but impove- 
 rished the world of all highest perfections. What 
 marvell therefore though her vehement love to 
 so lovely a Lord, being after the wrecke of his 
 life, now also deprived of his dead body, feele as 
 bitter pangs for his losse, as before it tasted 
 joyes in his presence, and open as large an issue 
 to teares of sorrow, as ever heretofore to teares 
 of contentment ? And though teares were rather 
 oile than water to her flame, apter to nourish 
 than diminish her griefe : yet now being plunged 
 in the depth of paine, shee yeelded herselfe cap- 
 tive to all discomfort, carrying an overthrowne 
 minde in a more enfeebled body, and still busie 
 
26 
 
 in devising, but ever doubtfull in defining- what 
 shee might best doe. For what could a silly wo- 
 man do but weepe, that floating in a sea of cares, 
 found neither eare to heare her, nor tongue to di- 
 rect her, nor hand to helpe her, nor heart to pity 
 her in her desolate case ? True it is, that Peter 
 and John came with her to the tombe, and to 
 make trial 1 of her report were both within it : 
 but as they were speedy in comming, and dili- 
 gent in searching, so were they as quicke to de- 
 part, and fearefull of farther seeking. And alas, 
 what gained shee by their comming, but two 
 witnesses of her losse, two dismayers of her 
 hope, and two patternes of a new despaire ? 
 Love moved them to come, but their love was 
 
27 
 
 soone conquered with such feare, that it suffered 
 them not to stay. / But Mary, hoping in de- 
 spaire, and persevering in hope, stood without 
 feare, because shee now thought nothing left 
 that ought to bee feared. For shee hath lost 
 her Master, to whom shee was so entirely de- 
 voted, that hee was the totall of her loves, the 
 height of her hopes, and the uttermost of her 
 feares, and therefore besides him, shee could nei- 
 ther love other creature, hope for other comfort, 
 nor feare other losse. The worst shee could 
 feare was the death of her body, and that shee 
 rather desired than feared, sith shee had already 
 lost the life of her soule, without which any 
 other life would bee a death, and with which any 
 
28 
 
 other death would have beene a delight. But 
 now she thought it better to die than to live, be- 
 cause shee might happily dying finde, whom not 
 dying shee looked not to enjoy, and not enjoying 
 she had little will to live. For now shee loved 
 nothing in her life, but her love to Christ : and 
 if any thing did make her willing to live, it was 
 only the unwillingnesse that his image should die 
 with her, whose likeness love had limited in her 
 heart, and treasured up in her sweetest memo- 
 ries. And had she not feared to breake the table 
 and to breake open the closet, to which shee had 
 entrusted this last relique of her lost happinesse, 
 the violence of griefe would have melted her 
 heart into inward bleeding -teares, and blotted 
 
29 
 
 her remembrance with a fatall oblivion. And 
 yet neverthelesse, shee is now in so imperfect a 
 sort alive, that it is proved true in her, that Lwe 
 is as strong as death : For what could death have 
 done more in Mary than love did? Her wits 
 were astonished, and all her senses so amazed* 
 that in the end finding shee did not know, seeing 
 shee could not discerne, hearing shee perceived 
 not, and more than all this, shee was not there 
 where she was, for shee was wholly where her 
 master was ; more where shee loved, than where 
 shee lived, and iesse in herselfe than in his body, 
 which notwithstanding where it was shee could 
 not imagine. For shee sought, and as yet shee 
 found not, and therefore stood at the tombe 
 
30 
 
 weeping for it, being now altogether given to 
 mourning, and driven to misery. 
 
 But, O Mary, by whose counsell, upon 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 own eyes have often seene, 
 the Disciples' hands have felt, the empty Syndon 
 doth avouch, and cannot all this winne thee to 
 beleeve it? No, no ; thou wouldest rather con- 
 demne thine owne eyes of errour, and both their 
 eyes and hands of deceit, yea, rather suspect all 
 testimonies for untrue, than not looke whom thou 
 
31 
 
 hast lost r even there, where by no diligence hee 
 could bee found. When thou thinkest of other 
 places, and canst not imagine any so likely as 
 this, thou seekest againe in this, and though ne- 
 ver so often sought, it must bee an haunt for 
 hope. For when things dearly affected are lost, 
 love's nature is, never to bee weary of searching 
 even 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 evident, that hee is taken away, 
 what should move thee to remaine here where 
 the perill is apparent, and no profit likely ? Can 
 the wit of one (and she a woman) wholly possess- 
 ed with passion, have more light to discerne 
 
danger, than two wits of two men, and both 
 principal! favourites of the parent of all wis- 
 dome ? Or if (notwithstanding the danger) there 
 had beene just cause to encounter it, were not 
 two tog-ether, being both to Christ sworne cham- 
 pions, each to other affected friends, and to all 
 his enemies professed foes, more likely to have 
 prevailed, than one feminine heart, timorous by 
 kinde, and already amazed with this dreadfull 
 accident ? 
 
 But alas, why doe I urge her with reason, 
 whose reason is altered into love, and that judg- 
 eth it folly to follow such reason, as should any 
 way impaire her love ? Her thoughts were ar- 
 rested by every thread of Christ's Sindon, and 
 
33 
 
 slice was captive to so many prisons, as the 
 tombe had memories of her lost Master : Love 
 being her jaylor in them all, and nothing able to 
 ransome her, but the recovery of her Lord. 
 What marvell then though the Apostles' exam- 
 ples drew her not away, whom so violent a love 
 enforced to remaine, which, prescribing lawes 
 both to wit and will, is guided by no other law 
 but itselfe ? Shee could not thinke of any feare, 
 nor stand in feare of any force. Love armed her 
 against all hazards, and being already wounded 
 with the greatest griefe, shee had no leasure to 
 remember any lesser evill. Yea, she had forgot- 
 ten all things, and herselfe among all things, 
 only mindfull of him whom shee loved above all 
 c 
 
34 
 
 things. And yet her love, 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 diverted with the throng of pre- 
 sent discomforts, and shee seemed to have forgot- 
 ten also him besides whom shee remembred no- 
 thing. For doubtlesse had shee remembred him 
 as shee should, shee would not have now thought 
 the tombe a fit place to seeke him, neither would 
 shee mourne for him as dead, and removed by 
 others' force, but joy in him as revived, and risen 
 by his own power. For hee had often foretold 
 both the manner of Ids death, and the day of his 
 resurrection. But alas, let her heavinesse ex- 
 
cuse her, and the unwontednesse of the miracle 
 plead her pardon, sith dread and amazement have 
 dulled her senses, distempered her thoughts, dis- 
 couraged her hopes, awaked her passions, and 
 left her no other liberty but only to weepe. Shee 
 wept therefore being- only able to weepe. And 
 as skee was weeping, she stooped downe and look- 
 ed into the monument, and shee saw two angels 
 in white, sitting one at the head, and another at 
 the feet, where the body of lesus had bcene laid. 
 They said unto her, woman ! why weepest thon ? 
 lohn 20. 
 
 O Mary, thy good hap exceedeth thy hope, 
 and where thy last sorrow was bred, thy first 
 succour springeth. Thou diddest seeke but one> 
 
36 
 
 and them hast found two. A dead body was thy 
 errand, and thou hast lit upon two alive. Thy 
 weeping- was for a man, and thy teares have ob- 
 tained angels. Suppresse now thy sadnesse, 
 and refresh thy heart with this good fortune. 
 These angels invite thee to a parley, they seeme 
 to take pitty of thy case, and it may bee, they 
 have some happy tidings to tell thee. Thou hast 
 hitherto sought in vaine, as one either unseene 
 or unknowne, or at the least unregarded, sith the 
 party thou seekest, neither tendereth thy teares, 
 nor answereth thy cries, nor relenteth with thy 
 lamentings. Either hee doth not heare, or hee 
 will not helpe : hee hath peradventure left to 
 love thee, and is loth to yeeld thee releefe, and 
 
37 
 
 therefore take such comfort as thou findest, sith 
 thou art not so lucky, as to finde that which 
 thou couldest wish. Remember what they are, 
 where they sit, from whence they come, and to 
 whom they speake. They are angels of peace, 
 neither sent without cause, nor scene but of fa- 
 vour. They sit in the tombe, to shew that they 
 are no strangers to thy losse. They come from 
 heaven, from whence all happy news descendeth. 
 They speake to thyselfe, as though they had 
 some special 1 embassage to deliver unto 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 
 devoured him : thou hast long sought, and hast 
 
not found him on earth, and what place so fit for 
 him as to bee in heaven? Aske therefore of 
 those angels that came newly from thence, and 
 it may bee, their report will highly please thee. 
 Or ^ thou art resolved to continue thy seeking, 
 who can better helpe thee, than they that are as 
 swift as thy thought, as faithfull as thine owne 
 heart, and as loving to thy Lord as thou thy- 
 selfe ? Take therefore thy good hap, lest it bee 
 taken away from thee, and content thee with an- 
 gels, sith thy master hath given thee over. 
 
 But alas, what meaneth this change, and how 
 happeneth this strange alteration? The time 
 hath beene that fewer teares would have wrought 
 greater effect, shorter seeking have sooner found, 
 
and lesse paine have procured more pittie. The 
 time hath beene that thy annointing his feet was 
 accepted and praised, thy washing them with 
 teares highly commended, and thy wiping them 
 with thy haire, most courteously construed. 
 How then doth it now fall out, that having 
 brought thy sweet oyles to annoint his whole 
 body, having shed as many teares as would have 
 washed more than his feet, and having not only 
 thy haire, but thy heart ready to serve him, hee 
 is not moved with all these duties, so much as 
 once to affoord thee his sight ? Is it not hee that 
 reclaimed thee from thy wandring courses, that 
 dispossessed thee of thy damned inhabitants; 
 and from the wilds of sinne, recovered thee into 
 
40 
 
 the fold and family of his flock ? Was not thy 
 house his home, his love thy life, thyselfe his 
 disciple ? Did not hee defend thee against the 
 Pharisie, plead for thee against ludas, and 
 excuse thee to thy sister ? In summe, was not 
 hee thy patron and protector in all thy necessi- 
 ties ? 
 
 O good lesu, what hath thus estranged thee 
 from her ? thou hast heretofore so pittied her 
 teares, that seeing them, thou couldest not re- 
 frain thine. In one of her greatest agonies, for 
 love of her, that so much loved thee, thou didst 
 recall her dead brother to life, turning her com- 
 plaint into unexpected contentment. And wee 
 know that thou doest not use to alter course 
 
41 
 
 without cause, nor to chastise without desert. 
 Thou art the first that invitest, and the last that 
 forsakest, never leaving but first left ; and ever 
 offering, till thou art refused. How then hath 
 shee forfeited thy favour ? or with what tres- 
 passe hath shee earned thy ill will ? That shee 
 never left to love 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 ex- 
 ample, that thou shouldest rather alter thy na- 
 ture, than shee better her fortune, and bee to her 
 as thou art to no other ? For our parts, since thy 
 last shew of liking towards her, we have found 
 no other fault in her, but that she was the earliest 
 
42 
 
 up to seeke thee, readiest to annoint thee, and 
 when shee saw that thou wert removed, she 
 forthwith did weepe for thee, and presently went 
 for helpe to finde thee. And whereas those two 
 that shee brought, being lesse carefull of thee 
 than fearefull of themselves, when they had 
 scene what shee had said, sudainly shrunke 
 away, behold shee still stayeth, shee still seek- 
 eth, shee still weepeth. If this bee a fault, wee 
 cannot deny, but this shee doth, and to this shee 
 perswadeth ; yea, this shee neither meaneth to 
 amend, nor requesteth thee to forgive : if ther- 
 fore thou reckonest this as punishable, punished 
 shee must bee, sith no excuse hath effect where 
 the fact pleadeth guiltie. But if this import not 
 
43 
 
 any offence but a true affection, and bee rather a 
 good desire than an evill desert, why art thou so 
 hard a judge to so soft a creature, requiting her 
 love with thy losse, and suspending her hopes in 
 this unhappinesse ? Are not those thy words, / 
 love those that love me, and who watcheth early 
 for me shall finde me ? why then doth not this 
 woman finde thee. that was up so early to watch 
 for thee ? Why dost thou not with like repay 
 her, that bestoweth upon thee her whole love, 
 sith thy word is her warrant, and thy promise 
 her due debt ? Art thou lesse moved with these 
 teares that shee sheddeth for thee her only Mas- 
 ter, than thou wert with those that shee shed be- 
 fore thee for her deceased brother ? Or doth he? 
 
44 
 
 love to thy servant more please thee than her 
 love to thyselfe ? Our love to others must not bee 
 to them, but to thee in them. For hee loveth 
 thee so much the Jesse that loveth any thing 
 with thee. If therefore shee then deserved well 
 for loving thee in another, shee deserved better 
 now, for loving thee in thyselfe : and if indeed 
 thou lovest those that love thee, make thy word 
 good to her, that is so farre in love with thee. 
 Of thyselfe thou hast said, that thou art iht way, 
 the truth, and the life. If then thou art a way 
 easie to finde and never erring, how doth shee 
 misse thee ? If a life giving life and never end- 
 ing, why is shee ready to dye for thee ? If a 
 true promising truth, and never failing, how is 
 
45 
 
 shee bereaved of thee ? For if what thy tonga c 
 did speake, thy truth will averre, shee will never 
 aske more to make her most happy. Remember 
 that thou saidst to her sister, that Mary had 
 chosen the best part, which should not bee taken 
 from her. That shee chose the best part is out 
 of question, sith shee made choice of nothing 
 but only of thee. But how can it be verified, 
 that this part shall not be taken from her, sith 
 thou, that art this part, art already taken away ? 
 If shee could have kept thee, shee would not 
 have lost thee : and had it beene in her power, 
 as it was in her will, shee would never have 
 parted from thee : and might shee now bee re- 
 stored to thy presence, shee would trie all for- 
 
46 
 
 tunes rather than forgoe thee. Sith therefore 
 shee seeketh nothing but what shee chose, and 
 the losse of her choice is the only cause of her 
 combat, either vouchsafe thou to keepe this best 
 part that shee chose in her, or I see not how it 
 can bee true, that it shall not bee taken from her. 
 But thy meaning haply was, that though it bee ta- 
 ken from her eyes, yet it should never bee taken 
 from her heart : and it may bee, thy inward pre- 
 sence supplyeth thine outward absence : yet I can 
 hardly thinke, but that if Mary had thee within 
 her, shee could feele it ; and if shee felt it, she 
 would never seeke thee. Thou art too hot a fire 
 to bee in her bosome, and not to burne her, and 
 thy light is too great, to leave her minde in this 
 
47 
 
 darkeness if it shined in her. In true lovers 
 every part is an eye, and every thought a looke, 
 and therefore so sweet an object among so many 
 eyes, and in so great a light, could never lye so 
 hidden but love would espie it. No, no, if Mary 
 had thee, her innocent heart (never taught to 
 dissemble) could not make complaint the outside 
 of a concealed comfort, neither would shee 
 tume her thoughts to pasture in a dead man's 
 tombe, if at home shee might bid them to so 
 heavenly a banquet. Her love would not have 
 a thought to spare, nor a minute to spend in 
 any other action, than in enjoying of thee, 
 whom shee knew too well, to abridge the least 
 part of her from so high an happinesse. For 
 
48 
 
 her thirst of thy presence was so exceeding, 
 and the sea of thy joyes so well able to afford her 
 a full draught, that though every parcell in her 
 should take in a whole tide of thy delights, shee 
 would thinke them too few to quiet her desires. 
 Yea doubtlesse, if shee had thee within her, shee 
 would not envie the fortune of the richest em- 
 presse, yea, shee would more rejoyce to bee thy 
 tombe in earth, than a throne in heaven, and dis- 
 daine to bee a saint if shee were worthy to bee 
 but thy shrine. 
 
 But peradventure it is now with her mind, as 
 it was with the Apostles' eyes ; and as they see- 
 ing thee walke upon the sea took thee for a 
 ghost, so shee seeing thee in her heart, deemeth 
 
49 
 
 thee but a fancy, being yet better acquainted with 
 thy bodily shape than with thy spirituall power. 
 But O Mary, it seemeth too strange, that liee 
 whom thou seekest, and for whom thou weepest, 
 should thus give thee over to these painful] fits, 
 if in thee hee did not see a cause for which hee 
 will not be seen of thee. Still thy plaint, and 
 stint thy weeping, for I doubt there is some tres- 
 passe in thy teares, and some sinne in thy sor- 
 row. Doest thou not remember his words to thee 
 and to other women, when hee said, daughters 
 of Jerusalem ! weepe not for mee, but weepe for 
 yourselves and for your children $ What mean- 
 est thou then to continue this course ? Doth hee 
 forbid thy teares, and wilt thou not forbeare 
 
 D 
 
them ? Is it no fault to infringe his will, or is 
 not that his will that his words doe import ? 
 The fault must bee mended, ere the penance bee 
 released, and therefore either cease to weepe, or 
 never hope to finde. But I know this logicke 
 little pleaseth thee, and I might as soone win 
 thee to forbeare living as to leave weeping. 
 
 Thou wilt say, that though he forbad thee 
 to weepe for him, yet he left thee free, to weep 
 for thyselfe, and sith thy love hath made thee 
 one with him, thou weepest but for thyselfe, 
 when thou weepest for him. But I answer thee 
 againe, that because hee is one with thee, and 
 thy weeping for him hath beene forbidden thee, 
 thou canst not weepe for thyselfe, but his words 
 
51 
 
 will condemne thee. For if thou and he are one, 
 for which soever thou weepest it is all one, and 
 therefore sith for him thou maist not weepe, for- 
 beare all weeping lest it should offend. Yea but 
 (sayst thou) to barre mee from weeping, is to 
 abridge mee of liberty, and restraint of liberty is 
 a penalty, and every penalty supposeth some of- 
 fence : but an offence it is not to weepe for my- 
 selfe, for hee would never command it, if it were 
 not lawfull to do it The fault therefore must 
 bee, in being one with him, that maketh the 
 weeping for myselfe, a weeping also for him. 
 And if this bee a fault, I will never amend it ; 
 and let them that thinke it so, doe penance for 
 it : for my part, sith I have lost my mirth, I 
 
52 
 
 will make much of my sorrow, and sith I have 
 no joy but in teares, I may lawfully shed them. 
 Neither thinke I his former word a warrant 
 against his latter deed. And what need had hee 
 to weepe upon the Crosse, but for our example, 
 which if it were good for him to give, it cannot 
 be evill for mee 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 be- 
 waile the misse of such a master. 
 
 Yet, since neither thy seeking findeth, nor thy 
 weeping prevaileth, satisfie thyself e with the 
 sight of angels. Demand the cause of their 
 comming, and the reason of thy Lord's remove, 
 and sith they first offer thee occasion of parley, 
 
53 
 
 be not thou too dainty of thy discourse. It may 
 bee they can calme thy stormes, and quiet thy 
 unrest, and therefore conceale not from them 
 thy sore, lest thou lose the benefit of their em- 
 plaister. But nothing can move Mary to admit 
 comfort, or entertaine any company ; for to one 
 alone, and for ever, shee hath vowed herselfe, 
 and except it bee to him, shee will neither lend 
 her eare long to others, nor borrow other's helpe, 
 lest, by the seeking to allay her smarts, shee 
 should lessen her love. But drawing into her 
 mind all pensive conceits, shee museth and pin- 
 eth in a consuming languor, taking comfort in 
 nothing but in being comfortlesse. 
 
 Alas, (saith shee) small is the light that a 
 
54 
 
 starre can yeeld when the sunne is downe, and 
 a sorry exchange to goe gather the crums after 
 the losse of an heavenly repast. My eyes are 
 not used to see by the glimpse of a sparke : and 
 in seeking the sunne, it is either needlesse or 
 bootlesse to borrow the light of a candle, sith ei- 
 ther it must bewray itselfe with the selfe light, 
 or no other light can ever discover it. If they 
 come to disburden mee of my heavinesse, their 
 comming will bee burdensome unto mee, and 
 they will load mee more while they labour my 
 releefe. They cannot perswade mee, that my 
 master is not lost, for my owne eyes will dis- 
 prove them. They can lesse tell mee where hee 
 may bee found, for they would not bee so simple 
 
55 
 
 to bee so long from him : or if they can forbeare 
 him, surely they doe not know him, whom none 
 can truly know, and live long without him. All 
 their demurres would bee tedious, and discourses 
 irksome. Impaire my love they might, but ap- 
 pay it they could not, to which hee that first ac- 
 cepted the debt is the only payment, They ei- 
 ther want power, will, or leave to tell mee my 
 desire, or at the first word they would have done 
 it, sith angels are not used to idle speeches, and 
 to mee all talke is idle, that doth not tell mee of 
 my master. They know not where he is, and 
 therefore they are come to the place where hee 
 last was, making the tombe their heaven, and 
 the remembrance of his presence the food of 
 
56 
 
 their felicitie. Whatsoever they could tell mee, 
 if they told mee not of him, and whatsoever they 
 could tell mee of him, if they told mee not where 
 hee 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 mee and 
 angels, and to whom I owe more than both to 
 men and angels. 
 
 And to thee I appeale, O most loving Lord, 
 whether my afflicted heart doth not truely defray 
 the tribute of an undivided love. To thee I ap- 
 , peale, whether I have joyned any partner with 
 thee, in the small possession of my poore selfe. 
 And I would to God I were as privie where thy 
 
57 
 
 body is, as thou art, who is only Lord and owner 
 of my soule. 
 
 But alas, sweet lesu, where thou wert thou art 
 not ; and where thou art I know not ; wretched 
 is the case that I am in, and yet how to better it 
 I cannot imagine. Alas, O my only desire, why 
 hast thou left mee wavering in these uncertain- 
 ties, and in how wild a maze wander my doubt- 
 full and perplexed thoughts ? If I stay here 
 where hee is not, I shall never finde him. If I 
 goe further to seeke, I know not whither. To 
 leave the tombe is a death, and to stand helpe- 
 lesse by it an uncureable disease, so that all my 
 comfort is now concluded in this, thatl am free to 
 chuse whether I will stay without helpe, or goe 
 
58 
 
 without hope, that is, in effect, with what tor- 
 ment I will end ray life. And yet even this were 
 too happy a choice for so unhappy a creature. 
 If I might bee chuser of mine owne death, O 
 how quickly should choice bee made, and how 
 willingly would I runne to that execution? I 
 would bee nailed to the same crosse, with the 
 same nailes, and in the same place : my heart 
 should bee wounded with his speare, my head 
 with his thornes, my body with his whips : Fi- 
 nally, I would taste all his torments, and tread 
 all his embrued and bloudy steps. 
 
 But O ambitious thoughts, why gaze you upon 
 so high a felicitie ? why thinke you of so glori- 
 ous a death, that are privie to so infamous a life ? 
 
59 
 
 Death alas I deserve, yea, not one but infinite 
 deaths. But so sweet a death, seasoned with so 
 many comforts, the very instruments whereof 
 were able to raise the deadest corpse, and de- 
 pure 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 live houres, 
 and to passe as many pangs as I have thoughts 
 of my losse, which are as many as there are mi* 
 nutes, and as violent as if they were all in every 
 one. But sith I can neither die as hee died, nor 
 live where hee lieth dead, I will live out my 
 living death by his grave, and dye on my dying 
 life by his sweet tombe. Better is it after losse 
 of his body to looke to his sepulchre, than after 
 
60 
 
 the losse of the one, to leave the other to bee 
 destroyed. No, no ; though I have been robbed 
 of the Saint, I will at the least have care of the 
 shrine, which though it be spoiled of the most 
 soveraigne host, yet shall it bee the altar where 
 I will daily sacrifice my heart, and offer up my 
 teares. 
 
 Here will I ever leade, yea, here do I meane 
 to end my wretched life, that I may at the least 
 bee buried by the tombe of my Lord, and take 
 my iron sleepe neere this couch of stone, which 
 his presence hath made the place of sweetest 
 repose. 
 
 (t may bee also that this empty syndon lyeth 
 here to no use, and this tombe being open with- 
 
61 
 
 out any in it, may give occasion to some merck 
 full heart, that shall first light upon my unburied 
 body, to wrap mee in his shroud, and to interre 
 mee in this tombe. 
 
 ^Otoo fortunate lot, for so unfortunate a wo- 
 man to crave : no, no : I do not crave it, for 
 alas, I dare not, yet if such an oversight should 
 be committed, I doe now, before hand, forgive 
 that sinner, and were it no more presumption to 
 wish it alive, than to suffer it dead, if I knew 
 the party that should first pass by mee, I would 
 woo him with my teares, and hire him with my 
 prayers, to blesse mee with this felicitie. And 
 though I dare not wish any to doe it, yet this 
 (without offence) I may say to all, that I love 
 
this syndon above all clothes in the world> and 
 this tombe I esteeme more than any Prince's 
 monument : yea, and I thinke that corse highly 
 favoured, that shall succeed my Lord in it : and 
 tor my part, as I meane that the ground where 
 I stand shall bee my death-bed ; so am I not of 
 Jacob's mind, to have my body buried farre from 
 the place where it dyeth, but even in the next 
 and readiest grave, 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 blood 
 
63 
 
 passe presently into the glorious torabe of God 
 and man. 
 
 It is now enwrapped in a masse of corruption, 
 it shall then enjoy a place of high perfection : 
 where it is now, it is more by force than by 
 choice, and like a repining prisoner in a loathed 
 jaile : but there in a little roome it should find 
 perfect rest, and in the prison of death, the li- 
 berty of a joyfull life. 
 
 O sweet tombe of my sweetest Lord, while I 
 live I will stay by thee; when I die, I will 
 cleave unto thee: neither alive nor dead, will I 
 ever bee drawne from thee. Thou art the altar 
 of mercy, the temple of truth, the sanctuary of 
 
64 
 
 safety, the grave of death, and the cradle of 
 eternall life. 
 
 O heaven of my eclipsed sun, receive unto 
 thee this silly starre that hath now also lost all 
 wished light. 
 
 O whale ! that hast swallowed my only lonas, 
 swallow also me, more worthy to be thy prey, 
 sith I, and not he, was the cause of this bloudy 
 tempest. 
 
 O cesterne of my innocent Joseph, take me 
 into thy dry bottom, sith I, and not he, gave 
 jnst cause of offence to my enraged brethren. 
 But alas, in what cloud hast thou hidden the 
 light of our way ? Upon what shore hast thou 
 cast up the preacher of all truth ? or to what 
 
65 
 
 Ismaelite hastthon yeelded the purveyour of our 
 life? 
 
 Oh unhappy mee, why did I not before thinke 
 of that which I now ask ? Why did I leave him 
 when I had him, thus to lament him now tliat I 
 have lost him ? If I had watched with persever^ 
 ance, either none would have taken him, or they 
 should have taken me with him. 
 
 But through too much precisenesse in keeping 
 the law, I have lost the law-maker ; and by be- 
 ing too scrupulous in observing his ceremonies, 
 I am proved irreligious in losing himselfe, sith 
 I should rather have remained with the truth, 
 than forsaken it to solemnize the figure. 
 
 The Sabboth could not have beene prophaned 
 
66 
 
 in standing by his corse, by which the propha- 
 ned things are sanctified, and whose touch doth 
 not defile the cleane, but cleanseth the most de- 
 filed. 
 
 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 amend- 
 ed. But let my heart dissolve into sighes, mine 
 eyes melt in teares, and my desolate soule lan- 
 guish in dislikes : yea, let all that I am, and 
 have, endure the deserved punishment, that if 
 hee were incensed with my fault, hee may bee 
 appeased with my penance, and returne upon the 
 amendment that fled from the offence. 
 
 Thus when her timorous conscience had indit- 
 
67 
 
 ed her of so great an omission, and her tongue 
 enforced the evidence with these bitter accusa- 
 tions, love that was now the only umpire in all 
 her causes, condemned her eyes to a fresh 
 showre of teares, her breast to a new storme of 
 sighs, and her soule to bee perpetuall prisoner 
 to restlesse sorrowes. 
 
 But, O Marie, thou deceivest thyselfe in thy 
 owne desires, and it well appeareth, that excesse 
 of griefe hath bred in thee a defect of due provi- 
 dence. And wouldest thou indeed have thy 
 wishes come to passe, and thy words fulfilled ? 
 Tell mee then, I pray thee, if thy heart were 
 dissolved, where wouldest thou harbour thy 
 
68 
 
 Lord? what wouldest thou offer him? how 
 wouldest thou love him ? 
 
 Thine eyes have lost him, thy hands cannot 
 feele him, thy feet cannot follow him : and if it 
 bee at all in thee, it is thy heart that hath him, 
 and wouldest thou now have that dissolved, from 
 thence also to exile him ? And if thine eyes 
 were melted, thy soule in languor, and thy 
 senses decayed, how wouldest thou see him, if 
 hee 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 hee loved thee so 
 well, that if thy heart were spent for his love, 
 hee would either lend his owne heart unto 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 give place, 
 his soule wanting now a body, would enter into 
 thine, with supply of all {hy senses, and release 
 of thy sorrowes. 
 
 O Mary, thou diddest not marke what thy 
 master was wont to say, when hee told thee, 
 that the third day hee should rise againe. For 
 if thou hadst heard him, or at the least under- 
 stood him, thou wouldest not thinke but that 
 hee now used both his heart and soule in the life 
 of his owne body. 
 
 And therefore repaire to the angels, and en- 
 quire more of them, lest the Lord bee displeas* 
 
70 
 
 ed, that comming from him, thou wilt not enter- 
 taine them. 
 
 But Mary, whose devotions were all fixed 
 upon a nobler Saint, and that had so straightly 
 bound her thoughts to his only affection, that 
 shee rather desired to unknow whom shee knew 
 already, than to burthen her mind with the 
 knowledge of new acquaintance, could not make 
 her will long since possessed with the highest 
 love, stoop to the acceptance of meaner friend- 
 ships. 
 
 And for this, though shee did not scornefully 
 reject, yet did she with humility refuse the 
 angels' company, thinking it no discourtesie to 
 take herselfe from them, for to give herselfe 
 
71 
 
 more wholly to her Lord, to whom both she6 
 and they were wholly devoted, and ought most 
 love and greatest duty. 
 
 Sorrow also being now the only interpreter of 
 all that sense delivered to her understanding, 
 made her conster their demand in a more doubt- 
 full 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 never 
 aske it Why then did they say, Woman! 
 why weepest thou $ 
 
 If their question did import a prohibition, the 
 necessity of the occasion doth countermand their 
 
72 
 
 counsel!, and fitter it were they should weepe 
 with mee, than I in not weeping obey them. 
 
 If the sunne were ashamed to shew his bright- 
 nesse, when the father of lights was darkned 
 with such disgrace : if the heavens discolouring 
 their beauties, suted themselves to their Maker's 
 fortune: if the whole frame of nature were al- 
 most dissolved, to see the author of nature so 
 unnaturally abused : why may not angels, that 
 best knew the indignity of the case, make up a 
 part in this lamentable concert ? And especially 
 now, that by the losse of his body, the cause of 
 weeping is encreased, and yet the number of 
 mourners lessened . sith the apostles are fled, all 
 his friends afraid, and poore I left alone to sup- 
 
73 
 
 ply the teares of all creatures ? O who will give 
 water to my head, and afountaine of teares unto 
 mine eyes, that I may weepe day and night, and 
 never cease weeping ? 
 
 O my only Lord, thy griefe was the greatest 
 that ever was in man, and my griefe as great as 
 ever happened to woman : for my love hath carv- 
 ed me no small portion of thine, thy losse hath 
 redoubled the torment of my owne, and all crea- 
 tures seeme to have made over to mee theirs, 
 leaving me as the vicegerent of all their sorrow. 
 Sorrow with mee at the least, O 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 
 
74 
 
 your Lord's disciples, of whom hee himselfe said 
 to the Pharisees, that if they held their peace, 
 the very stones should cry for them. 
 
 Now therefore sith feare hath locked up their 
 lips, and sadnesse made them mute, let the 
 stones cry out against the murderers 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 have 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 every one to any other would have beene 
 a tyrannicall death) hath now stolen away his 
 
75 
 
 dead body, to practise upon it some savage cru- 
 elty, and to glut their pitilesse eyes and brutish 
 hearts with the unnaturall usage of his helplesse 
 corps. 
 
 O ye rocks and stones, if ever you must cry 
 out, now it is high time, sith the light, the life, 
 and the Lord of the world is thus darkened, mas- 
 sacred, and outragiously mis-used. 
 
 Doth not his tongue, whose truth is infallible, 
 and whose word omnipotent, commanding both 
 winds and seas, and never disobeyed of the most 
 sensible creatures, promise to arme the world, 
 and make the whole earth to fight against the 
 senselesse persons, in defence of the just ? and 
 who more just than the Lord of justice ? 
 
76 
 
 Who more senselesse than his barbarous mur- 
 therers, whose insatiable thirst of his innocent 
 blood, could not bee staunched with their cruell 
 butchering him at his death, unlesse they pro- 
 ceeded further in this hellish impiety to his dead 
 body? 
 
 Why then do not all creatures address e them- 
 selves to revenge so just a quarrell, upon so 
 senselesse wretches, left of all reason, forsaken 
 of humanity, and bereaved of all feeling both of 
 God and man ? 
 
 O'Mary, why doest thou thus torment thy- 
 selfe with these tragicall surmises ? Doest thou 
 thinke that the angels would sit still, if their 
 master were not well ? Did they serve him after 
 
77 
 
 his fasting, and would they despise him after his 
 decease? 
 
 Did they comfort him before he was appre- 
 hended, and would not defend him when he was 
 dead? If in the garden he might have had 
 twelve legions of them, is his power so quite 
 dead with his body, that hee could not now com- 
 mand them ? Was there an angel found to helpe 
 Daniel to his dinner, to save Toby from the fish, 
 yea, and to defend Balaam's poore beast from 
 his master's rage : and is the Lord of angels of 
 so little reckoning, that if his body stood in need, 
 never an angel would defend it ? 
 
 Thou seest two here present to honour his 
 tombe, and how much more carefull would they 
 
78 
 
 be to doe homage to his person ? Beleeve not, 
 Mary, that they would smile, if thou haddest 
 such occasion to weepe. 
 
 They would not so gloriously shine in white, 
 if a blacke and mourning weed did better become 
 them, or were a fitter livery for thy master to 
 give, or them to weare. Yeeld not more to thy 
 uncertaine feare and deceived love, than to their 
 assured knowledge : and never-erring charity. 
 
 Can a materiall eye see more than an heaven- 
 ly spirit, or the glimmering of the twi-light give 
 better aime than the beames of their eternall 
 sun ? Would they (thinkest thou) wait upon the 
 winding sheet, while the corse were abused, or 
 
79 
 
 bee here for thy comfort, if their Lord did need 
 their service ? 
 
 No, no, hee was neither any theeves' booty, 
 nor Pharisees' prey ; neither are the angels so 
 carelesse of him, as thy suspition presumetlu 
 And if their presence and demeanour cannot al- 
 ter thy conceit, looke upon the clothes and they 
 will teach thee thine errour, and cleare thee of 
 thy doubt 
 
 Would any theefe, thinkest thou, have fceene 
 so religious, as to have stolen the body, and left 
 the clothes ? Yea, would he have beene so ven- 
 turous, as to have stayed the unshrowding of 
 the corse, the well ordering of the sheets, and 
 folding up the napkins ? Thou knowest that the 
 
80 
 
 myrrh maketh linnen cleave as fast as pitch or 
 glue : and was a theefe at so much leasure, as to 
 dissolve the myrrh and uncloath the dead ? what 
 did the watch while the scales were broken, the 
 tomhe opened, the body unfolded, all other things 
 ordered as now thou seest ? 
 
 And if all this cannot yet perswade thee, be- 
 leeve at the least thy owne experience. When 
 thy master was strypped at the crosse, thou 
 knowest that his only garment, being congealed 
 to his goary back, came not off without many 
 parts of his skin, and doubtlesse would have 
 torne off many more, if he had been annointed 
 with myrrh. 
 
 Looke then into the sheete, whether there re- 
 
81 
 
 maine any parcell of skinne, or any one haire of 
 his head : and sith there is none to be found, be- 
 leeve some better issue of thy master's absence 
 than thy feare suggesteth. A guilty conscience 
 ddubteth want of time, and therefore dispatch- 
 eth hastily. 
 
 It is in hazard to be discovered, and therefore 
 practiseth in darknesse and secresy. It ever 
 worketh in extreme feare : and therefore hath no 
 leasure to place things orderly. But to unwrap 
 so mangled a body, out of myrrhed cloathes 
 without tearing of any skinne, or leaving on any 
 myrrh, is a thing either to man impossible, or 
 not possible to bee done with such speed, with- 
 out light or helpe, and with so good order. As- 
 
82 
 
 sure thyselfe therefore, that if" either of mailed 
 or by fraud the corse had beene removed, the 
 linnen and myrrh should never have beene left ; 
 and neither could the angels looke so cheareful- 
 ly, nor the clothes lye so orderly, but to import 
 some happier accident than thou conceivest. 
 But to free thee more from feare, consider these 
 words of the angels, woman, why weepest thou ? 
 For what doe they signifie, but as much in effect 
 as if they had said : where angels rejoyce, it 
 agreeth not that a woman should weepe, and 
 where heavenly eyes are witnesses of joy, no 
 mortall eye should controll them with testimonies 
 of sorrow ? 
 
 With more than a manly courage thou d.iddest 
 
83 
 
 before my coraming, arme thy feet to runne 
 among swords, thy armes to remove huge loades, 
 thy body to endure all tyrants' rage, and thy 
 soule to bee 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 unworthy of that stile, and wee can 
 affoord thee no better title, than a woman, and 
 therefore O woman, and too much a woman, 
 why weepest thou ? 
 
 If there were here any corse, wee might 
 thinke that sorrow for the dead enforced thy 
 teares : but now that thou findest it a place of 
 
84 
 
 the living, why doest thou here stand weeping 
 for the dead ? 
 
 Is our presence so discomfortable, that thou 
 shouldest weepe to behold us ? or is it the course 
 of thy kindnesse with teares to entertaine us ? 
 If they bee teares of love to testifie thy good 
 will, as thy love is acknowledged, so let these 
 signes be suppressed. If they bee teares of anger 
 to denounce thy displeasure, they should not here 
 have beene shed, where all anger was buried but 
 none deserved. 
 
 If they be teares of sorrow and duties to the 
 dead they are bestowed in vaine, where the dead 
 is revived. If they be teares of joy. stilled from 
 the flowers of thy good fortune, fewer of these 
 
So 
 
 would suffice, and fitter were other tokens to ex- 
 presse thy contentment. 
 
 And therefore O woman, why dot&t thou 
 weepe? would our eyes be so dry, if such eie- 
 streams were behovefull ? Yea, would not the 
 heavens raine teares, if thy supposals were 
 truths ? Did not angels alwaies in their visible 
 semblances represent their Lord's invisible plea- 
 sures, shadowing their shapes in the drift of his 
 intentions ? When God was incensed, they bran- 
 dished swords: when hee was appeased, they 
 sheathed them in the scabbards : when he would 
 defend, they resembled souldiers ; when he would 
 terrific, they tooke terrible formes ; and when he 
 would comfort, they carried mirth in their eyes, 
 
86 
 
 sweetnesse in their countenance, mildnesse in 
 their words, favour, grace and comlinesse in 
 their whole presence. Why then doest thou 
 weepe, seeing us to rejoyce ? 
 
 Doest thou imagine us to degenerate from our 
 nature, or to forget any duty, whose state is nei- 
 ther subject to change, nor capable of the least 
 offence ? Art thou more privy to the counsell of 
 our eternall God, than we that are daily attend- 
 ants at his throne of" glory ? 
 
 woman, deeme not amisse against so appa- 
 rent evidence, and at our request exchange thy 
 sorrow for our joy. 
 
 But O glorious angels, why doe yee move her 
 t jy> if you know why shee weepeth ? Alas, 
 
87 
 
 shee weepeth for the losse of him, without whom 
 all joy is to her but matter of new griefe. While 
 hee lived, every place where she found him, was 
 to her a paradise ; every season wherein he was 
 enjoyed, a perpetuall spring-; every exercise 
 wherein he was served, a speciall felicity : the 
 ground whereon he went, seemed to yeeld her 
 sweeter footing ; the aire wherein hee breathed, 
 became to her spirit of life, being once sanctified 
 in his sacred breast. 
 
 In summe, his presence brought with it an 
 heaven of delights, and his departure seemed to 
 leave an eclipse in all things. 
 
 And yet even the places that hee had once ho- 
 noured with the accesse of his person, were to 
 
her so many sweet pilgrimages, which in his ab- 
 sence shee used as chappels and altars, to offer up 
 her prayers, feeling in them long after, the ver- 
 tue of his former presence. And therefore to feed 
 her with conjectures of his well being, is but to 
 strengthen her feare of his evill, and the alledg- 
 ing of likelihoods, by those that know the cer- 
 tainty, importeth the cause to be so lamentable, 
 that they are unwilling it should be knowne. 
 
 Your obscure glancing at the truth, is no suf- 
 ficient acquittance of her griefe, neither can she 
 out of these disjoyned 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 deliver her out of these 
 
89 
 
 dumps, sith what else soever you say of him, 
 doth but draw more humours to her sore, and 
 rather anger it than any way asswage it. 
 
 Yet hearken, O Mary, and consider their 
 speeches. Thinke what answer thou wilt give 
 them, sith they presse thee with so strong per- 
 swasion. But I doubt that thy wits are smother- . 
 ed with too thicke a mist, to admit these un- 
 knowne beames of their pale light. 
 
 Thou art so wholly inherited by the bloudy 
 tragedy of thy slaughtered Lord, and his death 
 and dead body hath gotten so absolute a con- 
 quest over all thy powers, that neither thy sense 
 can discerne, nor thy minde conceive any other 
 object than his murdered corse. 
 
90 
 
 Thy eyes seeme to tell thee that every thing 
 inviteth thee to weep, carrying such outward 
 shew, as though all that thou seest were attired 
 in sorrow, to solemnize with generall consent the 
 f unerall of thy master. 
 
 Thy teares perswade thee, that all sounds and 
 voices 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 cause 
 of thy teares being so unnsuall) 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 hear- 
 
91 
 
 est, seeraeth to induce thee, yea, to enforce thee 
 to weepe. 
 
 If thou seest any thing that beareth colour of 
 mirth, it is unto thee like the rich spoils of a van- 
 quished kingdome, in the eye of a captive Prince, 
 which puts him in minde what he had, not what 
 hee hath, and are but upbraidings of his losse, 
 and whetstones of sharper sorrow. 
 
 Whatsoever thou nearest that moveth delight, 
 it presenteth the misse of thy master's speeches, 
 which as they were the only harmony that thy 
 eares affected, so they being now stopped with 
 a deathfull silence, all other words and tunes of 
 comfort are to thee but an Israelite's music ko 
 
92 
 
 upon Babylon's bankes, memories of a lost feli- 
 city, and proofes of a present unhappinesse. 
 
 And though love increaseth the conceit of thy 
 losse, which endeareth the meanest things, and 
 doubleth the estimate of things that are preci- 
 ous : yet thy faith teaching thee the infinite dig- 
 nity of thy master, and thy understanding being 
 no dull scholar to learne so well liked a lesson, 
 it fell out to bee the bitterest part of thy misery, 
 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 unto thee occasions of new griefe. 
 For their gracious and lovely countenances re- 
 
93 
 
 member ihee, that thou hast lost the beauty of 
 the world, and the highest marke of true love's 
 ambition. Their sweet lookes and amiable fea- 
 tures tell thee, that the heaven of thy eyes, 
 which was the reverend Majestic of thy master's 
 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 salves of thy calamity ; memorials, not me- 
 dicines of thy misfortune. Thy eyes were too 
 well acquainted with the truth, to accept a sup- 
 ply of shadowes : and as comelinesse, comfort, 
 and glory, were never in any other so truly at 
 
94 
 
 home, and so perfectly in their prime, as in the. 
 person and speeches of thy Lord : so cannot thy 
 thoughts but bee like strangers in any foreign 
 delight. For in them all, thou seest no more but 
 some scattered crummes, and hungrie morsels of 
 thy late plentifull banquets, and findest a dim re- 
 flexion of thy former light, which, like a flash of 
 lightening in a close and stormie night, serveth 
 thee but to see thy present infelicitie, and the 
 better to know the horrour of the ensuing dark- 
 nesse. 
 
 END OF PART THE FIRST. 
 
MARY MAGDALEN'S 
 
 PART THE SECOND. 
 
MARY MAGDALEN'S 
 
 Jpunetall 
 
 THOU thinkest therefore thyselfe blameless*, 
 both in weeping for thy losse, and in refusing 
 other comfort ; Yet in common courtesie affoord 
 these angels an answer, sith their charitie visit- 
 ing thee, deserveth much more, and thou (if not 
 too ungratefull) canst allow them no lesse. 
 
 Alas (saith shee) what needeth my answer, 
 where the raiserie itselfe speaketh, and the loss* 
 
 G 
 
is manifest ? My eyes have answered them with 
 teares, my breast with sighs, and my heart with 
 throbs, what need I also punish my tongue, or 
 wound my sense with a new rehearsall of so 
 dolefull a mischance ? They have taken away, O 
 unfortunate word ! they have taken away my 
 Lord, 
 
 O afflicted woman ; why thinkest thou this 
 word so unfortunate ? It may be the angels have 
 taken him, more solemnely to intombe him : and 
 sith earth hath done her last homage, haply the 
 quires of heaven are also descended to defray 
 unto him their funerall duties. 
 
 It may be that the centurion and the rest, that 
 did acknowledge him on the crosse to be the 
 
99 
 
 Sonne of God, have beene touched with re- 
 morse, and goared with pricke of conscience, 
 and being desirous to satisfie for their hainous 
 offence, have now taken him, more honourably 
 to interre him, and by their service to Ms body 
 sought forgivenesse, and sued the pardon of their 
 guiltie soules. 
 
 Peradventure some secret disciples have 
 wrought this exploit, and maugre the watch, ta- 
 ken him from hence, with due honour to preserve 
 him in some better place, and therefore being yet 
 uncertaine who hath him, there is no such cause 
 to lament, sith the greater probabilities march on 
 the better side. Why doest thou call sorrow be- 
 fore it commeth, which without calling commeth 
 
100 
 
 on thee too fast ? yea, why doest thou create 
 sorrow where it is not, sith thou hast true sor- 
 row enough, though imagined sorrowes helpe 
 not ? It is folly to suppose the worst where the 
 best may be hoped for : and every mishap bring- 
 eth griefe enough with it, though wee with our 
 feares doe not goe first to meet it. Quiet then 
 thy selfe till time try out the truth, and it may 
 bee thy feare will prove greater than thy mis- 
 fortune. 
 
 But I know thy love is little helped with this 
 lesson : for the more it loveth, the more it fear- 
 eth : and the more desirous to enjoy, the more 
 doubtfull it is to lose. It neither hath measure 
 in hopes, nor meane in feares : hoping the best 
 
101 
 
 upon the least surmises, and fearing the worst 
 upon the weakest grounds. And yet both tear- 
 ing and hoping at one time, neither feare with- 
 holdeth hope from the highest attempts, nor hope 
 can strengthen feare against the smallest suspi- 
 tions : but maugre all feares, love's hopes will 
 mount to the highest pitch, and maugre all hopes, 
 love's feares will stoope to the lowest downe- 
 come. To bid thee therefore hope, is not to for- 
 bid thee to feare, and though it may bee for the 
 best, that thy Lord is taken from thee, yet sith 
 it may bee also for the worst, that will never 
 content thee. 
 
 Thou thinkest, hope doth enough to keepe thy 
 heart from breaking, and feare little enough to 
 
102 
 
 force thee to no more than weeping, sith it is as 
 likely that he hath beene taken away upon hatred 
 by his enemies, as upon love by his friends. 
 
 For hitherto (sayest thou) his friends have all 
 failed him, and his foes prevailed against him ; 
 and as they that would not defend him alive, are 
 lesse likely to regard him dead, so they that 
 thought one life too little to take from him, are 
 not unlikely after death to wrecke new rage upon 
 him. 
 
 And though this doubt were not, yet whoso- 
 ever hath taken him, hath wronged mee, in not 
 acquainting mee with it : for to take away mine 
 without my consent, can neither be offered with- 
 out injury, nor suffered without sorrow. And as 
 
103 
 
 for leses, he was my lesus, my Lord, and my 
 master. He was mine because he was given 
 unto me, and born for me : hee was the author 
 of my being, and so my father ; hee was the 
 worker of my well doing, and therefore my Savi- 
 our; hee was the price of my ransome, and 
 thereby my redeemer ; hee was my Lord to com- 
 mand mee, my master to instruct mee, my pastor 
 to feed mee. Hee was mine, because his love 
 was mine, and when hee gave mee his love, hee 
 gave mee hiraselfe,. sith love is no gift except 
 the giver be given with it : yea, it is no love, 
 unlesse it bee as liberall of that it is, as of that 
 it hath. Finally, if the meat bee mine that I 
 eat, the life mine wherewith I live, or hee mine, 
 
104 
 
 all whose life, labours, and death were mine, 
 then dare I boldly say that lesus is mine, sith 
 on his body I feed, by his love I live, and to my 
 good without any need of his owiie, hath hee 
 lived, laboured, and died. And therefore though 
 his disciples, though the centurion, yea, though 
 the angels have taken him, they have done mee 
 wrong, in defeating mee of my right, sith I never 
 meane to resigne my interest. 
 
 But what if hee hath taken away himselfe, wilt 
 thou also lay injustice to his charge ? Though 
 hee bee 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 servant should bee master of his mas- 
 
105 
 
 ter's secrets, so might hee, and peradventure so 
 hath hee, removed without acquainting thee 
 whither, reviving himselfe with the same power 
 with which hee raised thy dead brother, and ful- 
 filling the words that hee often uttered of his re- 
 surrection. It may bee thou wilt say, that a 
 gift once given, cannot be revoked, and therefore 
 though it were before in his choice, not to give 
 himselfe unto thee : yet the deed of gift being 
 once made, he cannot bee taken from thee, nei- 
 ther can the donor dispose of his gift without the 
 possessor's privitie. And sith this is a rule in 
 the law of nature, thou mayest imagine it a 
 breach of equitie, and an impeachment of thy 
 
106 
 
 right, to convey hiraselfe away without thy con- 
 sent. 
 
 But to this I will answer thee with thine owne 
 ground. For if he be thine by being- given thee 
 once, thou art his by as many gifts, as dayes, 
 and therefore hee being absolute owner of thee, 
 is likewise full owner of whatsoever is thine : 
 and consequently because he is thine, he is also 
 his owne and so nothing liable unto thee, for 
 taking hiraselfe from thee. 
 
 Yea, but he is my Lord (sayest thou) and in 
 this respect, bound to keepe mee, at the least 
 bound not to kill mee : and sith killing is nothing 
 but a severing of life from the body, hee being 
 the chiefe life both of my soule and body, cannot 
 
107 
 
 possibly goe from mee, but hee must with a dou- 
 ble death kill mee. And therefore he being my 
 Lord, and bound to protect his servant, it is 
 against all lawes that I should bee thus for- 
 saken. 
 
 But, O cruell tongue, why pleadest thou thus 
 against him, whose case I feare mee is so piti- 
 full, that it might rather move all tongues to 
 plead for him, being peradventure in their hands, 
 whose unmerciful! hearts make themselves mer- 
 ry with his miserie, and build the triumphs of 
 their impious victory upon the dolefull mines of 
 his disgraced glory ? And now (O griefe) be- 
 cause I know not where hee is, I cannot imagine 
 
108 
 
 how to helpe, for they have taken him away, 
 and I know not where they have put him. 
 
 Alas, Mary, why doest thou consume thyselfe 
 with these cares ? His father knoweth, and hee 
 will helpe him. The angels know, and they wiU 
 guard him. His owne soule knoweth, and that 
 will assist him. And what need then is there, 
 that thou silly woman shouldest know it, that 
 canst no way profit him ? But I feele in what 
 veine thy pulse beateth, and by thy desire 
 I discover thy disease. Though both heaven 
 and earth did know it, and the whole world had 
 notice of it, yet except thou also wert made pri- 
 vie unto it, thy woes would bee as great, and 
 thy teares as many. That others see the sunne, 
 
109 
 
 doth not lighten thy darknesse, neither can 
 others' eating- satisfie thy hunger. The more 
 there bee that know of him, the greater is thy 
 sorrow, that among so many thou art not thought 
 worthy to bee one. And the more there bee that 
 may helpe him, the more it grieveth thee that 
 thy poore helpe is not accepted among them. 
 Though thy knowledge needeth not, thy love 
 doth desire it, and though it availe not, thy de- 
 sire will seeke it. If all know it, thou wouldest 
 know it with all : if no other, thou wouldest 
 know it alone ; and from whomsoever it bee 
 concealed, it must bee no secret to thee. Though 
 the knowledge would discomfort thee, yet know 
 
116 
 
 it thou wilt, yea, though it would kill thee, thou 
 couldest not forbeare it. 
 
 Thy Lord to thy love is like drinke to the 
 thirstie, which if they cannot have, they die for 
 drought, 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 never able to have other 
 thought, or to utter other word but of drinke and 
 moisture : so lovers, in the vehemencie of their 
 passion, can neither thinke nor speake but of 
 that they love, and if that bee once missing, 
 every part is both an eye to watch, and an eare 
 to listen, what hope or newes may bee had. If 
 it bee good, they die till they heare it, though 
 
Ill 
 
 bad, yet they cannot live without it. Of the good, 
 they hope that it is the very best ; and of the 
 evill, they feare it to bee the worst : and yet 
 though never so good, they pine till it bee told, 
 and be it never so evill, they are importunate to 
 know it. And when they once know it, they can 
 neither beare the joy nor brooke the sorrow, but 
 as well the one as the other is enough to kill 
 them. 
 
 And this, O Mary, I guess to be the cause 
 why the angels would not tell thee thy Lord's 
 estate. For if it had beene to thy liking, thou 
 wouldest have died for joy, if otherwise, thou 
 wouldest have sunk downe for sorrow. And 
 therefore they leave this newes for him to deli- 
 
112 
 
 ver, whose word if it give thee a wound, is also 
 a salve to cure it, though never so deadly. 
 
 But alas, afflicted soule, why doth it so deep- 
 ly grieve thee, that thou knowest not where he 
 is ? Thou canst not better him if hee be well, 
 thou canst as little succour him if hee be ill : and 
 sith thou fearest that hee 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 man- 
 ner to aske one halfe starved why hee is hun- 
 grie. For as thy Lord is the food of thy 
 thoughts, the releefe of thy wishes, the only 
 repast of all thy desires : so is thy love a con- 
 tiuuall hunger, and his absense unto thee an ex- 
 
113 
 
 trerae famine. And therefore no marvell though 
 thou art so greedie to heare, yea to devoure any, 
 be it never so bitter notice of him, sith thy hun- 
 ger is most violent, and nothing but hee able to 
 content it. And albeit the hearing of his harmes 
 should worke the same in thy minde, that un- 
 wholesome meat worketh in a sick stomacke : 
 yet if it once concerne him that thou lovest, thy 
 hungry love could not temper itselfe from it, 
 though after with many wringing gripes, it did 
 a long and unpleasant penance. 
 
 But why doth thy sorrow quest so much upon the 
 
 place where hee is ? were it not enough for thee to 
 
 know who had him, but that thou must also know 
 
 in what place hee is bestowed ? A worse place 
 
 H 
 
114 
 
 than a grave no man will offer, and many a farre 
 better mansion will allow: and therefore thou 
 mayest boldly thinke, that wheresoever hee be, 
 he is in a place fitter for him than where hee 
 was. Thy sister Martha confessed him to bee the 
 Sonne of God, and with her confession agreed 
 thy beleefe. And what place more convenient 
 for the Sonne, than to bee with his Father, the 
 businesse, for which he hath beene so long from 
 him, being now fully finished ? If he be the 
 Messias, as thou diddest once beleeve, it was 
 said of him, That he should ascend on high, and 
 leade our captivitie captive. And what is this 
 height, but heaven? what our captivity but 
 death ? Death therefore is become his captive, 
 
115 
 
 and it is like that with the spoiles thereof, he is 
 ascended in triumph to eternall life. 
 
 But if thou canst not lift thy mindo to so fa- 
 vourable a beleefe, yet raayest thou very well 
 suppose that hee is in Paradise. For if hee 
 came to repaire Adam's mines, and to bee the 
 common parent of our redemption, as Adam was 
 of our originall infection : reason seemeth to re- 
 quire, that having endured all his life the penal- 
 tie of Adam's exile, hee should after death re- 
 enter possession of that inheritance which Adam 
 lost : that the same place that was the nest 
 where sinne was first hatched, may bee now the 
 child-bed of grace and mercie. And if sorrow 
 at the crosse did not make thee as deafe, as at 
 
116 
 
 the tombe it maketh thee forgetfull, thou didest 
 in confirmation hereof heare hiraselfe say to one 
 of the theeves, that the same day hee should bee 
 with him in Paradise. And if it bee reason that 
 no shadow should bee more priviledged than the 
 body, no figure in more account than the figured 
 truth, why shouldest thou beleeve that Elias and 
 Enoch have beene in Paradise these many ages 
 and that hee whom they but as types resembled, 
 should bee excluded from thence ? Hee excelled 
 them in life, surpassed them in miracles, hee was 
 farre beyond them in dignitie : why then should 
 not his place bee farre above, or at the least 
 equall with theirs, sith their prerogatives were 
 so farre inferiour unto his ? 
 
117 
 
 And yet if the basenesse and miserie of his 
 passion have laid him so low in thy conceit, that 
 thou thinkest paradise too high a place to bee like- 
 ly to have him : the very lowest roorae that any 
 reason can assign 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 hee 
 can give him above other men, that being his 
 holy one, hee should not in his body see corrup- 
 tion, but bee free among the dead, reposing both 
 in body and soule, where other Saints are in 
 soule only. Let mot therefore the place where 
 hee is, trouble thee, sith it cannot bee worse 
 
118 
 
 than his grave, and infinite conjectures make 
 probability that it cannot but be better. 
 
 But suppose that liee were yet remaining on 
 earth, and taken by others out of his tombe, 
 what would it availe thee to know where hee 
 were ? If hee bee with such as love and honour 
 him, they will bee as wary to keepe him, as they 
 are loth hee should bee lost : and therefore will 
 either often change, or never confesse the place, 
 knowing secresie to be the surest locke to defend 
 so great a treasure. If those have taken him, 
 that malice and maligne him, thou mayest well 
 judge him past thy recoverie, when hee is once 
 in possession of so cruell owners. 
 
 Thou wouldest haply make sale of thy living-. 
 
119 
 
 and seeke him by ransome. But it is not likely 
 they would sell him to be honoured, that bought 
 him to be murthered. 
 
 If price would not serve, thou wouldest fall 
 to prayer. But how can prayer soften such flin- 
 tie hearts ? And if they scorned so many teares 
 offered for his life, as little will they regard thy 
 intreaty for his corse. 
 
 If neither price nor prayer would prevaile, 
 thou wouldest attempt it by force. But alas ! sil- 
 ly souldier, thy armes are too weake to manag-e 
 weapons, and the issue of thy assault, would be 
 the losse of thyselfe. 
 
 If no other way would helpe, thou wouldest 
 purloine him by stealth, and thinke thyselfe hap- 
 
120 
 
 pie in contriving such a theft. O Marie, thou 
 art deceived, for malice will have many lockes : 
 and to steale him from a theefe, that could 
 steal e him from the watch, requireth more cun- 
 ning in the art, than thy want of practice can 
 affoord thee. 
 
 Yet if these bee the causes that thou inquirest 
 of the place, thou shewest the force of thy rare 
 affection, and deservest the laurell of a perfect 
 lover. 
 
 But to feele more of their sweetnesse, I will 
 pound these spices, and dwell a while in the pe- 
 ruse of thy resolute fervour. 
 
 And first, can thy love enrich thee when thy 
 goods are gone, or a dead corse repay the value 
 
121 
 
 of thy ransome ? Because he had neither bed to 
 bee born in, nor grave to bee buried in, wilt 
 thou therefore rather bee poore with him, than 
 rich without him ? 
 
 Againe, if thou hadst to sue to some cruell 
 Scribe or Pharisee, that is, to an heart boyling 
 in rancor, with an heart burning- in love, for 
 a thing of him above all things detested, of thee 
 above all things desired : as his enemies to whom 
 thou suest, and his friend for whom thou intreat- 
 est, canst thou thinke it possible for this sute to 
 speed? Could thy love repaire thee from his 
 rage, or such a tyrant stoope to a woman's 
 teares ? 
 
 Thirdly, if thy Lord might be recovered by 
 
122 
 
 violence, art thou so armed in compleat love, 
 that thou thinkest it sufficient harnesse? or 
 doth thy love endue thee with such a Judith's 
 spirit, or lend thee such Sampson's locks, that 
 thou canst breake open huge gates, or foyle 
 whole armies ? Is thy love so sure a field, that 
 no blow can breake it, or so sharpe a dint, that 
 no force can withstand it ? Can it thus alter sex, 
 change nature, and exceed all art ? 
 
 But of all other courses wouldest thou adven- 
 ture a theft to obtaine thy desire ? A good deed 
 must bee well done, and a worke of mercy with- 
 out breach of justice. It were a sinne to steale 
 profane treasure, but to steale an anointed pro- 
 phet, can bee no lesse than sacrilege. And what 
 
123 
 
 greater staine to thy Lord, to his doctrine, 
 and to thyselfe, than to see thee his Disciple 
 publikely executed for an open theft ? 
 
 O Mary, unlesse thy love have better warrant 
 than common sense, I can hardly see how such 
 designements can be approved. 
 
 Approved (saith shee) I would to God the exe- 
 cution were as easie as the proofe, and I should 
 not long bewaile my unfortunate losse. 
 
 To others it seemeth ill to preferre love before 
 riches, but to love it seemeth worse to preferre 
 any thing before itselfe. Clothe him with plates 
 of silver that shivereth for cold, or fill his purse 
 with treasure that pineth with hunger, and see 
 whether the plates will warme him, or the trea- 
 
124 
 
 sure feed him, No, no, hee will give us all his 
 plates for a woollen garment, and all his money 
 lor a meale's meat Every supply fitteth not with 
 every need, and the love of so sweet 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 no- 
 thing else. They that have most are accounted 
 richest, and they thought to have most, that 
 have all they desire : and therefore as in him 
 alone is the uttermost of my desires, so hee alone 
 is the summe of all my substance. It were too 
 happie an exchange to have God for goods, and 
 too rich a povertie to enjoy the only treasure of 
 the world. If I were so fortunate a beggar, I 
 
125 
 
 would disdaine Solomon's wealth, and my love 
 being so highly enriched my life should never 
 complaine of want. 
 
 And if all I am worth would not reach to his 
 ransome, what should hinder to seeke him by in- 
 treaty ? Though I were to sue to the greatest 
 tyrant, yet the equity of my sute is more than 
 halfe a grant. 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 supply ant rebateth the edge of more 
 than a lyon's fury ? My sute itselfe would sue 
 for mee, and so dolefull a course would quicken 
 pity in the most iron hearts. 
 
120 
 
 But suppose that by touching a rankled sore, 
 my touch should anger it, and my petition at the 
 first incense him that heard it : he would per- 
 case revile me in words, and then his owne in- 
 jury would recoyle with remorse, and be unto me 
 a patron to proceed in my request. And if hee 
 should accompany his words with blowes, and 
 his blowes with wounds, it may bee my stripes 
 would smart in his guilty minde, and his con- 
 science bleed in my bleeding wounds, and my 
 innocent blood so entender his adamant heart, 
 that his owne inward feelings would plead my 
 cause, and peradventure obtaine my sute. 
 
 But if through extremity of spite he should 
 happen to kill me, his offence might easily re- 
 
127 
 
 dound to my felicity. For hee would bee as care- 
 full to hide whom hee had unjustly murthered, 
 as him whom he had feloniously stolen : and so 
 it is like that he would hide me in the same place 
 where hee had laid my Lord. And as hee hated us 
 both for one cause, him for challenging, and mee 
 for acknowledging that hee was the Messias : 
 so would he use us both after one manner. And 
 thus what comfort my body wanted, my soule 
 should enjoy, in seeing a part of myselfe partner 
 of ray master's misery : with whom to be mise- 
 rable, I reckon an higher fortune, than without 
 him to bee most happy. 
 
 And if no other meane would serve to recover 
 him but force, I see no reason why it might not 
 
128 
 
 very well become me. None will barre me from 
 defending my life, which the least worme in the 
 right nature hath leave to preserve. And sith 
 hee is to mee so deare a life, that without him all 
 life is death, nature authoriseth my feeble forces 
 to imploy their uttermost in so necessary an 
 attempt. 
 
 Necessity addeth ability, and love doubleth 
 necessity, and it often happeneth that nature 
 armed with love, and pressed with need, exceed- 
 eth itselfe in might, and surmounteth all hope 
 in successe. And as the equity of the cause 
 doth breathe courage into the defenders, making 
 them more willing to fight, and the lesse unwil- 
 ling to die : so guilty consciences are ever mo- 
 
rous, still starting with sudden frights, and afraid 
 of their owne suspitions, ready to yeeld before 
 the assault, upon distresse of their cause, and 
 despaire of their defence. Sith therefore to res- 
 cue an innocent, to recover a right, and to re- 
 dresse so deepe a wrong-, is so just a quarrell : 
 nature will enable mee, love encourage race, 
 grace confirme mee, and the judge of all justice 
 tight in ray behalfe. 
 
 And if it seeme unfitting to ray sex in talke, 
 much more in practice to deale with raateriall af- 
 faires : yet when such a cause happeneth as ne- 
 ver had patterne, such effects must follow as are 
 without example. There was never any body of 
 a God but one, neither such a body stolne but 
 I 
 
130 
 
 how, never such a stealth unrevenged but this. 
 Sitli therfore the angels neglect it, and men for- 
 get, O ludith, lend mee thy prowesse, for I am 
 bound to regard it. 
 
 But suppose that my force were unable to 
 winne him by an open enterprise, what scruple 
 should keepe mee from seeking him by secret 
 meanes ? yea, and by plaine stealth, it will bee 
 thought a sinne, and condemned for a theft. O 
 sweet shine, why was not I the first that did 
 commit thee ? why did I suffer any other sinner 
 to prevent me ? For stealing from God his ho- 
 nour, I was called a sinner, and under that title 
 was spread my infamie : But for stealing God 
 from a false owner, I was not worthy to bee cal- 
 
131 
 
 ied a sinner, because it had beene too high a 
 glory. If this bee so great a sinne, and so hein- 
 ous a theft, let others make choice of what titles 
 they will, but for my part I would refuse to bee 
 an angell, I would not wish to bee a saint, I 
 would never bee esteemed either just or true, 
 and I should be best contented, if I might but 
 live 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 upon the 
 crosse, that hee should that day bee with him in 
 paradise, I had halfe an envie at that theefe's 
 good fortune, and wished myselfe in the theefe's 
 place, so I might have enjoyed the fruit of his 
 promise. * 
 
132 
 
 But if I could bee so happy a theefe, as to 
 commit this theft, if that wish had taken effect, 
 I would now unwish it againe, and scorne to bee 
 any other theefe than myselfe, sith my booty 
 could make me happier than any other theefe's 
 felicity. And what though my felony should bee 
 called in question, in what respect should I need 
 to feare ? They would say, that I loved him too 
 well ; but that were soone disproved, sith where 
 the worthinesse is infinite, no love can bee 
 enough. 
 
 They would object that I stole another's 
 goods : and as for that, many sure titles of my 
 interest would averre him to be mine ; and his 
 dead corse would rather speake, than witnesses 
 
133 
 
 should faile to depose so certaine a truth. And 
 it" I had not a speciall right unto him, what 
 should move mee to venture my life for him ? 
 No, no, if I were so happy a felon, I should 
 feare no temporall arraignment : I should rather 
 feare that the angels would cite me to my an- 
 swer, for preventing them in the theft, sith not 
 the highest seraphin in Heaven, but would 
 deeme it a higher stile than his owne, to bee 
 the theefe that had committed so glorious a rob- 
 bery. 
 
 But alas, thus stand I now devising what I 
 would doe, if I knew any thing of him, and in the 
 meane time I neither know who hath him, nor 
 where they have bestowed him, and still I am 
 
134 
 
 forced to dwell in this answer, that they have ta- 
 ken away my Lord and I know not where they 
 have put him. 
 
 While Marie thus lost herselfe in a labyrinth 
 of doubts, watering her words with teares, and 
 warming them with sighs, seeing the angels with 
 a kinde of reverence rise, as though they had 
 done honour to one behind her : She turned 
 backe, and she saw Jesus standing^ but that it 
 was Jesus she knew not. 
 
 O Marie, is it possible that thou hast forgot- 
 ten Jesus ? Faith hath written him in thy un- 
 derstanding, love in thy will, both feare and hope 
 in thy memory : and how can all these registers 
 bee so cancelled, that so plainely seeing, thou 
 
135 
 
 shouldest not know the contents ? For him only 
 thou tirest thy feet, thou bendest thy knees, 
 thou wringest thy hands. For him thy heart 
 throbbeth, thy breast sigheth, thy tongue com- 
 plaineth. For him thine eye weepeth, thy 
 thought sorroweth, thy whole body fainteth, 
 and thy soule languisheth. In surarae, there is 
 no part in thee, but is busie about him, and not- 
 withstanding all this, hast thou now forgotten 
 him ? His countenance avoucheth it, his voyce 
 assureth it, his wounds witnesse it, thine owne 
 eyes behold it, and doest thou not yet beleeve 
 that this is Jesus ? Are thy sharpe seeing eyes 
 become so weake sighted, that they are dazzled 
 with the Sunne, and blinded with the light ? 
 
136 
 
 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, which 
 want of breath made him utter in a dying voyce, 
 that the force and loudnesse of his living words, 
 maketh thee imagine it the voice of a stranger : 
 and therefore as he seemeth unto thee so like a 
 stranger, hee asketh this question of thee, O 
 woman ! why weepest thou, whom seckest thou 9 
 
 O desire of the heart, and only joy of her 
 soule, why demandest thou why shee weepeth ? 
 or for whom shee seeketh ? But a while since 
 
137 
 
 shec saw thee, her only hope, hanging on a tree, 
 with thy head full of thornes, thy eies full of 
 teares, thy eares full of blasphemies, thy mouth 
 full of gall, thy whole person mangled and disfi- 
 gured, and dost thou aske her why shee weep- 
 eth ? Scarce three dayes passed, shee beheld 
 thy armes and legges racked with violent pulls, 
 thy hands and feet bored with nayles, thy side 
 wounded with a speare, thy whole body torne 
 with stripes, and goared in blood, and doest 
 thou, her only griefe, aske her why shee weep- 
 eth ? Shee beheld thee upon the crosse with 
 many teares, and most lamentable cries, yeeld- 
 ing up her ghost, that is, thy owne ghost, and 
 alas, askest thou why shee weepeth ? And now 
 
138 
 
 to make up her misery, having but one hope 
 alive, which was, that for a small releefe of her 
 other afflictions, shee might have anointed thy 
 body, that hope is also dead, since thy body is 
 removed, and shee now standeth hopelesse of all 
 helpe, and demandest thou why she weepeth, 
 and for whom she seeketh? Full well thou 
 knowest, that thee only she desireth, thee only 
 she loveth, all things beside thee shee contem- 
 neth, and canst thou finde in thy heart to aske 
 her whom shee seeketh ? To what end, O sweet 
 Lord, doest thou thus suspend her longings, pro- 
 long her desires, and martyr her with these te- 
 dious delayes ? Thou only art the forteresse of 
 her faint faith, the ankor of her wavering hope, 
 
139 
 
 the very center of her vehement love : to thee 
 she trusteth, upon thee she relieth, and of her- 
 selfe she wholly despaireth, Shee 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 upon thee, that they draw all 
 attention from her senses, wherewith they should 
 discerne thee. 
 
 Being therefore so attentive to that shee think- 
 eth, what marvell though she marke not whom 
 shee seeth ? and sith thou hast so perfect no- 
 tice of her thought, and shee so little power to 
 discover thee by sense, why demandest thou 
 for whom shee seeketh, or why shee weepeth ? 
 Dost thou looke that shee should answer, For 
 
140 
 
 thee I seeke, or for thee I weepe ? unlesse thou 
 wilt unbend her thoughts, that her eyes may 
 fully see thee : or while thou wilt be concealed, 
 dost thou expect that shee should bee able to 
 know thee ? 
 
 But, O Marie, not without cause doth hee 
 aske thee this question. Thou wouldest have him 
 alive, and yet thou weepest because thou dost 
 not finde him dead. Thou art sorry that he is not 
 here, and for this very cause thou shouldest ra- 
 ther bee glad. For if hee were dead, it is most 
 likely hee should be here : but not being here, 
 it is a signe that hee is alive. He rejoyceth to 
 bee out of his grave, and thou weepest because 
 hee is not in it. Hee will not lie any where, 
 
141 
 
 and thou sorrowest for not knowing where hee 
 lyeth. Alas, why bewailest thou his glory, and 
 injurest the reviving of his body, as the robbery 
 of his corse ? Hee being alive, for what dead 
 man mournest thou, and hee being present, 
 whose absence doest thou lament ? But she ta- 
 lcing him to bee a gardener, said unto him, O 
 Lord, if thou hast carried him from hence, tell 
 me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him 
 away. 
 
 O wonderfull effects of Marie's love ! if love 
 bee a languor, how liveth she by it ? If love be 
 her life, how dieth she in it ? If it bereaved her 
 of sense, how did she see the angels ? If it 
 quickned her of sense, why knew shee not Jesus ? 
 
142 
 
 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 
 seeke when thou hast him ? 
 
 Behold, lesus is come, and the party whom 
 thou seekest is hee that talketh with thee. O 
 Mary ! call up thy wits, and open thine eies. 
 Hath thy Lord lived so long, laboured so much, 
 died with such paine, and shed such showers of 
 blood, to come to no higher preferment, than to 
 bee 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 sor- 
 ry garden the best inheritance, that thy love can 
 affoord him, or a gardener's office the highest 
 
143 
 
 dignity, that thou wilt allow him ? It had beene 
 better he had lived to have beene lord of thy 
 castle, than with his death so dearely to have 
 bought so small a purchase. But thy mistaking 
 hath in it a further mystery. 
 
 Thou thinkest not amisse, though thy sight 
 be deceived. For as our first father, in the state 
 of grace and innocency, was placed in the garden 
 of pleasure, and the first office allotted him 
 was to bee a gardener ; so the first man that 
 ever was in glory, appeareth first in a garden, 
 and presenteth himselfe in a gardener's like- 
 nesse, that the beginnings of glory might resem- 
 ble the entrance of innocency and grace. And 
 as the gardener was the fall of mankinde, the pa- 
 
144 
 
 rent of sinne, and authour of death, so is this 
 gardener the raiser of our mines, the ransome of 
 our offences, and the restorer of life. In a gar- 
 den Adam was deceived and taken captive by 
 the Devill. In a garden Christ was betrayed 
 and taken prisoner by the Jewes. 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 Christ did earne it us with a bloody 
 sweat of his whole body. By disobedient eat- 
 ing the fruit of a tree, our right to that garden 
 was by Adam forfeited; and by the obedient 
 death of Christ upon a tree, a farre better right 
 is now recovered. When Adam had sinned in 
 
145 
 
 the garden of pleasure, hee was there apparelled 
 in dead beasts' skinnes, that his garment might 
 betoken his grave, and his livery of death agree 
 with his condemnation to die. And now to de- 
 fray the debt of that sinne, in this garden Christ 
 lay clad in the dead man's shroud, and buried in 
 his tonibe, that as our harmes began, so they 
 might end ; and such places and meaues as were 
 the premises to our misery, might bee also the 
 conclusions of our misfortune. 
 
 For this did Christ, in the Canticles, invite us 
 to an heavenly banquet after he was come into 
 this garden, and had reaped his myrrh, and his 
 spice, to forewarne us of the joy that after this 
 harvest should presently ensue, namely when hav- 
 
146 
 
 ing sowed iu this garden a body, the mortality 
 whereof was signified by those spices, hee now 
 reaped the same, neither capable of death, nor 
 subject to corruption. For this also was Mary 
 permitted to mistake, that we might be informed 
 of the mystery, and see how aptly the course of 
 our redemption did answer the processe of our 
 condemnation. 
 
 But though hee bee the gardener, that hath 
 planted the tree of grace, and restored us to the 
 use and eating of the fruits of life : Though it 
 bee hee that soweth his gifts in our soules, 
 quickening in us the seeds of vertue, and root- 
 ing out of us the weeds of sinne : yet is hee ne- 
 ver thelesse the same lesus hee was, and the 
 
147 
 
 borrowed presence of a meane labourer neither 
 altereth his person, nor diminisheth his right to 
 his divine titles. 
 
 Why then canst thou not as well see what in 
 truth hee is, as what in shew hee seemeth ? but 
 because thou seest more than thou diddest be- 
 leeve, and findest more than thy faith serveth 
 thee to seeke : and for this though thy love was 
 worthy to see him, yet thy faith was unworthy 
 to know him. 
 
 Thou diddest seeke for him as dead, and ther- 
 fore doest not know him seeing him alive ; and 
 because thou beleevest not of him as he is, thou 
 doest only see him as he seeraeth to be. 
 
 I cannot say thou art faultlesse, sith thou art 
 
148 
 
 so lame in thy beleefe : but thy fault deserveth 
 favour, because thy charity is so great; and 
 therefore, O mercifull lesu, give me leave to ex- 
 cuse whom thou art minded to forgive. 
 
 Shee thought to have found thee as shee left 
 thee, and shee sought thee, as shee did last see 
 thee, being so overcome with sorrow for thy 
 death, that she had neither roome nor respite in 
 her minde for any hope of thy life : and being so 
 deeply interred in the griefe of thy buriall, that 
 shee could not raise her thoughts to any con- 
 ceite of thy resurrection. 
 
 For in the grave where Joseph buried thy 
 body, Marie together with it entombed her 
 soule, and so straightly combined it with thy 
 
149 
 
 corse, that shee could with more ease sunder 
 her soule from her owne body that liveth by it, 
 than from thy dead body with which her love did 
 bury it : for it is more thine and in thee, than 
 her owne, or in herselfe : and therefore in seek- 
 ing thy body, shee seeketh her owne soule, as 
 with the losse of the one, shee also lost the 
 other. What marvell then though sense taile, 
 when the soule is lost, sith the lanterne must 
 needs be darke when the light is out ? 
 
 Restore unto her therefore her soule that lieth 
 imprisoned in thy body, and she will soone both 
 recover her sense, and discover her errour. For 
 alas it is no error that proceedeth of any will to 
 erre, and it fiseth as much of vehemency or affec- 
 
150 
 
 tion, as of default in faith. Regard not the errour 
 of a woman, but the love of a disciple, which 
 supplyeth in itselfe what in faith it wanteth. O 
 Lord (saith she) ifthou hast carried him hence, 
 tell mee where thou hast laid him, and I will take 
 
 O how learned is her ignorance, and how skil- 
 full her errour? Shee charged not the angels 
 with thy removing, nor seemed to mistrust them 
 for carrying thee away, as though that her love 
 had taught her that their helpe was needlesse, 
 where the thing removed was remover of itselfe. 
 She did not request them to informe her where 
 thou wert laid, as if shee had reserved that 
 question for thyselfe to answer. But now shee 
 
151 
 
 judgeth thee so likely to bee the authour of her 
 losse, that halfe supposing thee guilty, she sueth 
 a recovery, and desireth thee to tell her where 
 the body is, as almost fully perswaded that thou 
 art as privy to the place, as well acquaintedf^with 
 the action. 
 
 So that if she be not altogether right, shee is 
 not very much wrong, and she erreth with such 
 ayme, that she very little misseth the truth. 
 Tell her therefore, O Lord ! what thou hast done 
 with thyselfe, sith it is fittest for thine owne 
 speech to utter that which was only possible for 
 thy owne power to performe. 
 
 But, O Marie, sithens thou art so desirous to 
 know where thy Jesus is, why doest thou not 
 
152 
 
 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 asked 
 for him. Are thy thoughts so visible, as at thy 
 only presence to bee scene ; or so generall, that 
 they possesse all, when they are once in thee ? 
 When thou speakest of him, what him doest 
 thou meane, or how can a stranger understand 
 thee, when thou talkest of thy Lord ? Hath the 
 world no other Lords but thine ? or is the de- 
 manding by no other name but (him,) a sufficient 
 notice for whom thou demandest ? 
 
 But such is the nature of thy love, thou judg- 
 est that no other should be intitled a Lord, sith 
 the whole world is too little for thy Lord's pos- 
 
153 
 
 session, and that those few creatures that are, 
 cannot chuse but know him, sith all the creatures 
 of the world are too few to serve him. And as 
 his worthinesse can appay all loves, and his only 
 love 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 be- 
 stowed upon any other. 
 
 Yet thy speeches seeme more sudden than 
 sound, and more peremptory, than well ponder- 
 ed. Why doest thou say so resolutely without 
 any further circumstance, that if this gardener 
 have taken him, thou wilt take him from him ? If 
 hee had him by right, in taking him away, thou 
 shouldest doe him wrong ; If thou supposest hee 
 
154 
 
 wrongfully tooke him, them layest theft to his 
 charge : and howsoever it bee, thou either con- 
 demnest thyselfe for an usurper, or him for a 
 theefe. And is this an effect of thy zealous love, 
 first to abase him from a God to a gardener, 
 and now to degrade him from a gardener to a 
 theefe ? 
 
 Thou shouldest also have considered whether 
 hee tooke him upon love or malice. If it were 
 for love, thou mayest assure thyselfe that hee 
 will bee as wary to keepe, as hee was venturous 
 to get him, and therefore thy policy was weake 
 in saying, thou wouldest take him away before 
 thou knewest where hee was, sith none is so sim- 
 ple to bewray their treasure to a knowne theefe. 
 
155 
 
 If he tooke him of malice, thy offer to recover 
 him is an open defiance, sith malice is as obsti- 
 nate in defending, as violent in offering wrong, 
 and hee that would bee cruell against thy mas- 
 ter's dead body, is likely to bee more furious 
 against his living disciples. 
 
 But thy love had no leasure to cast so many 
 doubts. Thy teares were interpreters of thy 
 words, and thy innocent meaning was written in 
 thy dolefull countenance. Thine eies were ra- 
 ther pleaders for pity than heraiilds of wrath, 
 and thy whole person presenteth such a pateme 
 of thy extreme anguish, that no man from thy 
 presence could take in any other impression. 
 And therefore what thy words wanted, thy ac~ 
 
156 
 
 tion supplied, and what his care might mistake, 
 his eye did understand. 
 
 It might bee 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 wil- 
 ling to affoord as thou desirest to have his 
 helpe. And so presuming by his behaviour, that 
 thy suit should not suffer repulse, the tenour 
 of thy request doth but argue thy hope of a 
 grant. 
 
 But what is the reason that in all thy speech- 
 es, which since the misse of thy master, thou 
 hast uttered, (where have they put him) is al- 
 waies a part ? So thou saydest to the apostles, 
 
157 
 
 the same to the angels, and now tliou doest re- 
 peate it to this supposed gardener ; very sweet 
 must this word bee in thy heart, that is so often 
 in thy mouth, and it would never bee so ready in 
 thy tongue, if it were not very fresh in thy me- 
 mory. 
 
 But what marvell though it taste so sweet, 
 that was first seasoned in thy master's mouth ? 
 which as it was the treasury of truth, the foun- 
 taine of life, and the only quire of the most per- 
 fect harmony ; so whatsoever it delivered, thine 
 eare devoured, and thy heart locked up. And 
 now that thou wantest hiraselfe, thou hast no 
 other comfort but his words, which thou deem- 
 est so much the more effectuall to perswade, in 
 
158 
 
 that they tooke their force from so heavenly a 
 speaker. His sweetness therefore it is that ma- 
 keth this word so sweet, and for love of him thou 
 repeatest it so often, because hee in the like case 
 said of thy brother, Where have you put him ? 
 O how much doest thou affect his person, that 
 findest so sweet a feeling in his phrase ! How 
 much desirest thou to see his countenance, that 
 with so great desire pronouncest his words ? 
 And how willingly wouldest thou licke his sa- 
 cred feet, that so willingly utterest his shortest 
 speeches ? 
 
 But what meanest thou to make so absolute a 
 promise, and so boldly to say, / will take him 
 away ? Joseph was afraid, and durst not take 
 
159 
 
 down his body from the crosse but by night, 
 yea, and then also not without Pilate's warrant, 
 but thou neither stalest untill night, nor regard- 
 est Pilate, but stoutly promisest that thou thy- 
 selfe wilt take him away. 
 
 What if nee bee in the palace of the High 
 Priest, and some such maid, as made St. Peter 
 deny his master, doe begin to question with 
 thee, wilt thou then stand to these words, I will 
 take him away ? Is thy courage so high above 
 kinde, thy strength so farre beyond thy sex, and 
 thy love so much without measure, that thou 
 neither doest remember that all women are 
 weake, nor that thyselfe art but a woman? 
 Thou exemptest no place, thou preferrest no 
 
160 
 
 person, thou speakest without feare, thou pro- 
 misest without condition, thou makest no excep- 
 tion : as though nothing were impossible that 
 thy love suggesteth. 
 
 But as the darkeness could not fright thee 
 from setting forth before day, nor the watch 
 feare thee from comming to the tombe : as thou 
 diddest resolve to breake open the scales, though 
 with danger of thy life, and to remove the stone 
 from the grave's mouth, though thy force could 
 not serve thee : so what marvell though thy love 
 being now more incensed with the fresh wound 
 of thy losse, it resolve upon any though never so 
 hard adventures ? 
 
 Love is not ruled with reason, but without 
 
161 
 
 love. It neither regardeth what can bee, nor 
 what shall bee done, but only what itselfe desir- 
 eth to doe. No difficulty can stay it, no impos- 
 sibility appall it. Love is title just enough, and 
 armour strong enough for all assaults, and itselte 
 a reward of all labours. It asketh no recom- 
 pence, it respecteth no commodity. Love's fruits 
 are love's effects, and the gaines the paines. It 
 considereth behoofe more than benefit, and what 
 in duty it should, not what indeed it can. 
 
 But how can nature bee so mastered with af- 
 fection, that thou canst take such delight, and 
 carry such love to a dead corse ? The mother 
 how tenderly soever shee loved her child alive, 
 yet shee cannot chuse but loath him dead. 
 
162 
 
 The most loving spouse cannot endure the 
 presence of her deceased husband, and whose 
 embracements were delightsome in life, are ever 
 most hatefull after death. Yea, 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 ugly impres- 
 sions, and stirreth in them so great honour, that 
 notwithstanding the most vehement love, they 
 thinke long untill the house is ridde of their very 
 dearest friends, when they are once attired in 
 death's unlovely liveries. How then canst thou 
 endure to take up his corse in thy hands, and to 
 carry it thou knowest not thyselfe how farre, be- 
 ing especially tome and mangled, and conse- 
 
163 
 
 quently the more likely in so long time to bee 
 tainted ? 
 
 Thy sister was unwilling that the grave of her 
 owne brother should bee opened, and yet hee 
 was shrowded in sheets, embalmed with spices, 
 and died an ordinary death, without any wound, 
 bruise, or other harme, that might hasten his 
 corruption. But this corse hath neither shrowd 
 nor spice, sith these are to be scene 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 God's promise, 
 
164 
 
 that His holy one should not see corruption : If 
 thou haddest beleeved that his godhead remain- 
 ing with his body, could have preserved it from 
 perishing, thy faith had been more worthy of 
 praise, but thy love lesse worthy of admiration, 
 sith the more corruptible thou diddest conceive 
 him, the more combers thou diddest determine to 
 overcome, and the greater was thy love in being 
 able to conquer them. But thou wouldest have 
 thought thy oyntments rather harmes than 
 helpes, if thou hadst beene setled in that be- 
 leefe, and for so heavenly a corse embalmed with 
 God, all earthly spices would have seemed a dis- 
 grace. If likewise thou haddest firmely trusted 
 upon his resurrection, I should marvell at thy 
 
165 
 
 constant designement, sith all hazards in taking 
 him should have beene with usury repaid, if ly- 
 ing in thy lappe, thou mightest have seene him 
 revived, and his disfigured and dead body beau- 
 tified in thine armes with a Divine Majesty. If 
 thou haddest hoped so good fortune to thy wa- 
 tery eyes, that they might have beene first clear- 
 ed with the beames of his desired light ; or that 
 his eyes might have blessed thee with the first 
 fruits of his glorious lookes : If thou haddest 
 imagined any likelihood to have made happy thy 
 dying heart with taking in the first gaspes of his 
 living breath, or to have heard the first words 
 of his pleasing voyce : Finally, if thou haddest 
 thought to have seene his injuries turned to ho- 
 
166 
 
 nours, the markes of his misery to ornaments of 
 glory, and the debt of thy heavinesse to such an 
 height of felicitie ; whatsoever thou haddest done 
 to obtaine him had beene but a mite for a mil- 
 lion, and too slender a price for so soveraigne a 
 peniworth. 
 
 But having no such hopes to uphold thee, and 
 so many motives to plunge thee in despaire, how 
 could thy love be so mighty, as neither to feele 
 a woman's feare of so deformed a corse, nor to 
 think the weight of the burthen too heavy 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, 
 love feeleth no load of him it loveth, neither can 
 
167 
 
 true friendship bee frighted from rescuing so 
 affied a friend. 
 
 What meanest thou then, O comfort of her 
 life, to leave so constant a w el- wilier so long 
 uncomforted, and to punish her so much, that so 
 well deserveth pardon ? Dally no longer with so 
 knowne a love, which so many trials avouch 
 most true. And sith shee is nothing but what 
 it pleaseth thee, let her taste the benefit of being 
 only thine. She did not follow the tide of thy 
 better fortune to shift saile when the stream did 
 alter course. She began not to love thee in thy 
 life, to leave thee after death: Neither was 
 shee such a guest at thy table that meant to 
 be a stranger in thy necessity. 
 
168 
 
 She left thee not in the lowest ebbe, shee re- 
 volted not from thy last extremity : In thy life 
 she served thee with her goods : in thy death 
 shee departed not from the Crosse : after death 
 shee came to dwell with thee at thy grave. Why 
 then doest thou not say with Naomi, Blessed be 
 she of our Lord, because what curtesie shee af- 
 forded to the quiche, she hath also continued 
 towards the dead. A thing so much the more to 
 be esteemed, in that it is most rare. 
 
 Doe not, sweet Lord, any longer delay her. 
 Behold shee hath attended thee these three 
 dayes, and shee hath not what to eat, nor where- 
 with to foster her famished soule, unlesse thou, 
 by discovering thyselfe, doest minister unto her 
 
169 
 
 the bread of thy body, and feed her with the 
 food that hath in it all taste of sweetnesse. If 
 therefore thou wilt not have her to faint in the 
 way, refresh her with that which her hunger re- 
 quireth. For surely shee cannot long enjoy the 
 life of her soule. 
 
 But feare not, Mary, for thy teares will ob- 
 taine. They are too mighty oratours to let any 
 suit fall, and though they pleaded at the most 
 rigorous barre, yet have they so perswading a 
 silence, and so conquering a complaint, that by 
 yeelding they overcome, and by intreating they 
 command. They tye the tongues of all accusers, 
 and soften the rigour of the severest judge. Yea, 
 . they winne the invincible, and bind the omni- 
 
170 
 
 potent. When they seeme most pitifull, they 
 have great power, and being most forsaken they 
 are more victorious. Repentant eyes are the 
 cellars of angels, and penitent teares their sweet- 
 est wines ; which the savour of life perfumeth, 
 the taste of grace sweetneth, and the purest co- 
 lours of returning innocency highly beautifieth. 
 This dew of devotion never faileth, but the 
 sunne of justice draweth it up, and upon what 
 face soever it droppeth, it maketh it amiable in 
 God's eye. For this water hath thy heart beene 
 long a limbecke, sometimes distilling it out of 
 the weeds of thy owne offences, with the fire of 
 true contrition ; sometimes out of the flowers 
 of spirituall comforts, with the flames of contem- 
 
171 
 
 plation, and now out of the bitter hearbs of thy 
 master's miseries, with the heart of a tender 
 compassion. 
 
 This water hath better graced thy lookes, than 
 thy former alluring glances. It hath setled wor- 
 thier beauties in thy face, than all thy artificial! 
 paintings. Yea, this only water hath quenched 
 God's anger, qualified his justice, recovered his 
 mercy, merited his love, purchassed his pardon, 
 and brought forth the spring of all thy favours. 
 
 Thy teares were the procters for thy brother's 
 life, the inviters of those angels for thy comfort, 
 and the suters that shall bee rewarded with the 
 first sight of thy revived Saviour. Rewarded 
 they shall bee, but not refrained, altered in 
 
172 
 
 their cause, but their course continued. Hea- 
 ven would weepe at the losse of so precious a 
 water, and earth lament the absence of so fruit- 
 full showers. 
 
 No, no, the angels must still bathe themselves 
 in the pure streames of thine eyes, and thy face 
 shall still bee set with this liquid pearle, that as 
 out of thy teares were stroken the first sparks of 
 thy Lord's love, so thy teares may bee the oyle 
 to nourish and feed his fame. 
 
 Till death dam up the springs, they shall ne- 
 ver cease 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 bee wafted from grace to glory. 
 
173 
 
 In the meane time reare up thy fallen hopes, and 
 gather confidence both of thy speedy comfort, 
 and thy Lord's well being. 
 
 lesus saith unto her, Marie; She turning, 
 saith unto him, Rabboni. 
 
 O loving Master, thou diddest only 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 sighs, teares, and plaints, and diddest 
 purposely adjourne the date of her payment, to 
 requite the length of these delayes with a larger 
 loan of joy. It may bee shee knew not her for- 
 
174 
 
 mer happinesse, till shee was weaned from it : 
 nor had a right estimate in valuing the treasures, 
 with which thy presence did enrich her, untill her 
 extreme poverty taught her their unestimable rate. 
 But now tliou shewest by a sweet experience, 
 that though shee payd thee with the dearest wa- 
 ter of her eyes, with her best breath, and ten- 
 derest love, yet small was the price that shee 
 bestowed in respect of the worth shee received. 
 Shee sought the dead, and imprisoned in a stony 
 jayle, and now shee findeth thee both alive, and 
 at full liberty. Shee sought thee shrined in a 
 shroud, more like a leper than thyselfe, left as 
 the modell of the uttermost misery, and the only 
 paterne of the bitterest unhappinesse ; and now 
 
175 
 
 shee tindetli thee invested in the robes of glory, 
 the president of the highest, and both the owner 
 and giver of all felicity. 
 
 And as all this wliile she hath sought without 
 nnding, wept without comfort, and called with- 
 out 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 shee heard thee call her in thy 
 wonted manner, and with thy usuall voyce, her 
 only name issuing from thy mouth, wrought so 
 strange an alteration in her, as if shee had beene 
 wholly new made, when shee was only named. 
 For whereas before the violence of her griefe 
 had so benummed her, that her body seemed but 
 
176 
 
 the hearse of her dead heart, and the coffin of" 
 an unliving 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 lightned, her heart 
 quickned, and her soule revived. 
 
 But what marvell though with one word hee 
 raise the dead spirits of his poore disciple, that 
 with a word made the world, and even in this 
 very word sheweth an omnipotent power ? 
 
 Marie shee was called, as well in her bad as in 
 her reformed estate, and both her good and evill 
 was all of Marie's working. And as Marie sig- 
 nifieth no lesse what shee was, than what shee 
 is ; so is this one word, by his vertue that 
 
177 
 
 speaketh it, a repetition of all her miseries, an 
 epitome of his mercies, and a memoriall of all 
 her better fortunes. And therefore it laid so 
 generall a discovery of herselfe before her eyes, 
 that it awaked her most forgotten sorrowes, and 
 mustered together the whole multitude of her 
 joyes, and would have left the issue of their 
 mutiny very doubtfull, but that the presence and 
 notice of her highest happinesse decided the 
 quarrell, and gave her joyes the victory. 
 
 For as hee was her only Sunne, whose going 
 downe left nothing but a dumpish night of feare- 
 full fancies, wherein no starre of hope shined, 
 and the brightest planets were changed into dis- 
 mall signes : so the serenity of his countenance, 
 
178 
 
 and authority of his word, brought a calrae and 
 well tempered day, that chasing away all dark- 
 nesse, and dispersing the clouds of melancholy, 
 cured the lethargy and brake the dead sleepe of 
 her astonied senses. 
 
 She therefore ravished with his voyce, and 
 impatient of delayes, taketh his talke out of his 
 mouth, and to his first and yet only word an- 
 swered but one other, calling him Rabboni, that 
 is, master. And then sudden joy rowsing all 
 other passions, shee could no more proceed in 
 her owne, than give 1dm leave to goe forward 
 with his speech. 
 
 Love would have spoken, but feare inforced 
 silence. Hope frameth the words, but doubt 
 
179 
 
 melteth them in the passage : and when her in- 
 ward conceits served to come out, her voice 
 trembled, her tongue faltered, her breath fail- 
 ed. In fine, teares issued in lieu of words, and 
 deepe sighs instead of long sentences, the eyes 
 supplying the tongue's default, and the heart 
 pressing out the unsyllabled breath at once, 
 which the conflict of her disagreeing passions 
 would not suffer to bee sorted into the severall 
 sounds of intelligible speeches. 
 
 For such is their estate that are sicke with a 
 siirfet of sudden joy, for the attaining of a thing 
 vehemently desired. For as desire is ever usher- 
 ed by hope, and waited on by feare, so is it cre- 
 dulous in entertaining conjectures, but hard in 
 
180 
 
 grounding a iirrae beleefe. And though it bee 
 apt to admit the least shadow of wished comfort, 
 yet the hotter the desire is to have it, the more 
 perfect assurance it requireth for it : which so 
 long as it wanteth the first newes or apparence 
 of that which is in request, is rather an alarum 
 to summon up all passions, than retreit to quiet 
 the desire. For as hope presumeth the best, 
 and inviteth joy to gratulate the good successe ; 
 so feare suspecteth it too good to bee true, and 
 calleth up sorrow to bewaile the uncertainty. 
 And while these enterchange objections and 
 answers, sometimes feare falleth into despaire, 
 and hope riseth into repining anger ; and thus 
 
181 
 
 the skirmish still continueth, till evidence of 
 proofe conclude the controversie. 
 
 Marie therefore though shee suddenly an- 
 swered upon notice of his voyce, yet because the 
 novelty was so strange, his person so changed, 
 his presence so unexpected, and so many mira- 
 cles laid at once before her amazed eyes, shee 
 found a sedition in her thoughts, till more ear- 
 nest viewing him exempted them from all doubt. 
 
 And then, though words would have broken 
 out, and her heart sent into his duties that she 
 ought him, yea, every thought striving to bee 
 first uttered, and to have the first roome in his gra- 
 cious hearing, shee was forced as an indifferent 
 arbiter among them, to scale them up all under 
 
182 
 
 silence by suppressing speech, and to supply the 
 want of words, with more significant actions. 
 And therefore running to the haunt of her chief- 
 est delights, and falling at his sacred feet, shee 
 offered to bathe them with teares of joy, and to 
 sanctifie her lips, with kissing his once grievous, 
 but now most glorious wounds. 
 
 Shee stayed not for any more words, being 
 now made blessed with the Wordhimselfe, think- 
 ing it a greater benefit at once to feed all her 
 wishes, in the homage, honour, and embracing 
 of his feet, than in the often hearing of his lesse 
 comfortable talke. 
 
 For as the nature of love coveteth not only to 
 be united, but if it were possible wholly trans- 
 
183 
 
 formed out of itselfe into the thing it loveth : so 
 doth it most affect that which most uniteth, and 
 preferreth the least conjunction before any dis- 
 tant contentment And therefore 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 shee might touch him, nothing could 
 please her. But though shee humbly fell downe 
 at his feet to kiss them, yet Christ did forbid 
 her, saying : Do not touch me, for I am not yet 
 ascended to my Father. 
 
 O lesu, what mistery is in this ? Being dead 
 in sinne, shee touched thy mortall feet that were 
 to dye for her sake, and being now alive in grace, 
 may shee not touch thy glorious feet, that are 
 
184 
 
 no lesse for her benefit revived ? Shee was once 
 admitted to anoint thy head, and is shee now 
 unworthy of accesse to thy feet ? Doest thou 
 now command her from that for which thou wert 
 wont to commend her, and by praising the deed 
 didst move her often to doe it? Sith other 
 women shall touch thee, why hath she a re- 
 pulse ? yea, sith shee herselfe shall touch thee 
 hereafter, why is shee now rejected? What 
 meanest thou, O Lord, by thus debarring her of 
 so desired a duty ? and sith among all thy dis- 
 ciples thou hast vouchsafed her such a preroga- 
 tive, as to honour her eyes with thy first sight, 
 and her eares with thy first words, why deniest 
 thou the privilege of thy first embracing ? if the 
 
185 
 
 multitude of her teares have won that favour for 
 her eyes, and her longing to heare thee, so great 
 a recorapence to her eares, why doest thou not 
 admit her hands to touch, and her mouth to 
 kisse thy holy feet, sith the one with many 
 plaints, and the other with their readinesse to 
 all services, seemed to have earned no lesse re- 
 ward. But notwithstanding all this, thou pre- 
 ventest the effect of her offer, with forbidding 
 her to touch thee, as if thou haddest said : 
 
 O Mary, know the difference betweene a glo- 
 rious and a mortall body, betweene the condi- 
 tion of a momentary, and of an eternal) life. For 
 sith the immortality of the body and the glory 
 both of body and soule, are the endowments of 
 
186 
 
 an heavenly inhabitant, and the rights of another 
 world, thinke not this favour to seeme here or- 
 dinarie, nor leave to touch me a common thing. 
 It were not so great a wonder to see the 
 starres fall from their spheres, and the sunne 
 forsake Heaven, and to come within the reach 
 of a mortall arme, as for mee, that am not only 
 a citizen, but the soveraigne of saints, and the 
 sunne whose beames are the angels' blisse, to 
 shew myselfe visible to the pilgrims of this 
 world, and to display eternall beauties to cor- 
 ruptible eyes. Though I bee not yet ascended 
 to my Father, I shall shortly ascend, and there- 
 fore measure not thy demeanour towards mee by 
 the place where I am, but by that which is due 
 
187 
 
 unto mee : and then thou wilt rather with reve- 
 rence fall downe afarre off, than with such fami- 
 liaritie presume to touch mee. Doest thou not 
 beleeve 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 have thy hands and face 
 witnesses of my presence ? Touch mee not, O 
 Marie, for if I doe deceive thy sight, or delude 
 thy hearing, I can as easily beguile thy hand, 
 and frustrate thy feeling 1 . Or if I bee true in an}* 
 one, beleeve mee in all, and embrace mee first 
 in a firme faith, and then thou shalt touch mee 
 with more worthy hands. It is now necessary 
 to weane thee from the comfort of my externall 
 
188 
 
 presence, that them mayest 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 unto my Fa- 
 ther : but what thine eye then seeth not, thy 
 heart shall feele, and my silent parley will finde 
 audience in thy inward eare. Yet if thou fear- 
 est lest my ascending should bee so sudden that 
 if thou doest not now take thy leave of my feet 
 with thy humble kisses and loving teares, thou 
 shalt never finde the like opportunity againe, 
 licence from thee that needlesse suspition. I 
 am not yet ascended unto my Father, and for 
 all such duties, there will bee a more convenient 
 
189 
 
 time. But now goe about that which requireth 
 more haste, and runne to my brethren and in- 
 f'orme them what I say, That I will go before 
 them into Galilee, there shall they see me. 
 
 Marie therefore preferring her Lord's will 
 before her owne wish, yet sorry that her will 
 was worthy of no better event, departed from 
 him like an hungrie infant pulled from the teat, 
 or a thirstie hart chased from a sweet fountaine. 
 Shee judged herselfe but an unluckie messenger 
 of most joyfull tidings, being banished from her 
 master's presence, to carrie newes of his resur- 
 rection. Alas (saith shee) and cannot others bee 
 happy without my unhappinesse ? or cannot their 
 gaines come in, but through my losse? Must 
 
190 
 
 the dawning of their day bee the evening of 
 mine, and my soule robbed of such a treasure to 
 enrich their eares ? O my heart, returne thou to 
 enjoy him : why goest thou with mee that am 
 inforced to goe from him ? In mee, thou art but 
 in prison, and in him is thy only paradise, I 
 have buried thee long enough in former sor- 
 rowes, and yet now when thou wert halfe reviv- 
 ed, I am constrained to carry thee from the 
 spring of life. Alas, goe seeke to better thy life 
 in some more happie breast, sith I, evill-deserv- 
 ing creature, am nothing different from that I 
 was, but in having taken a taste of the highest 
 delight, that the knowledge and want of it might 
 drowne mee in the deepest miserie. 
 
191 
 
 Thus duty leading, and love withholding her, 
 shee goeth as fast backward in thought, as for- 
 ward in pace, ready eftsoones to faint for griefe, 
 but that a tirme hope to see him againe did sup- 
 port her weaknesse. Shee often turned towards 
 the torabe to breathe, deeming the very ayre that 
 came from the place where he stood to have taken 
 vertue of his presence, and to have in it a re- 
 freshing force above the course of nature. Some- 
 times shee forgetteth herselfe, and love carrieth 
 her in a golden distraction, making her to ima- 
 gine, that her Lord is present, and then shee 
 secmeth to demand him questions, and to heare 
 his answers : shee dreameth that his feet are in 
 her folded armes, and that hee giveth her soule 
 
192 
 
 a full repast of his comforts. But alas, when 
 she coraraeth to herselfe, and findeth it but an 
 illusion, shee is so much the more sorrie, in that 
 the only imagination being so delightfull, shee 
 was not worthy to enjoy the thing itselfe. And 
 when shee passeth by those places where her 
 master had beene: O stones (saith shee) how 
 much more happie are you than 1, most wretched 
 caitiffe, sith to you was not denied the touch of 
 those blessed feet, whereof my evill deserts have 
 now made race unworthy ? Alas, what crime 
 have I of late committed, that hath thus cancell- 
 ed mee out of his good conceit, and estranged 
 mee from his accustomed courtesie ? Had I but 
 a lease of his love for terme of his life ? or did 
 
193 
 
 my interest in his feet expire with his decease, 
 in them with my teares I writ my first supplica- 
 tion for mercy, which I pointed with sighs, fold- 
 ed up in my haire, and humbly sealed with the 
 impression of my lips. They were the doores of 
 my first entrance into his favour, by which I was 
 graciously entertained in his heart, and admitted 
 to doe homage unto his head, while it was yet a 
 mortall mirrour of imraortall majestie, an earth- 
 ly seat of an heavenly wisedome, containing in 
 man a God's felicity. 
 
 But alas, I must bee contented to beare a 
 lower saile, and to take downe my desires to 
 farre meaner hopes, sith former favours are now 
 too high marks for me to aime at. 
 
104 
 
 O mine eyes, why are you so ambitious of 
 heavenly honours ? Hee is now too bright a 
 snnne for so weake a sight : your lookes are li- 
 mited to meaner light ; you are the eyes of a 
 bat, and not of an eagle ; you must humble your- 
 selves to the twilight of inferiour things, and 
 measure your sights by your slender substance. 
 Gaze not too much upon the blaze of eternitie, 
 lest you lose yourselves in too much selfe-de- 
 light, and being too curious in sifting his Ma- 
 jestic, you bee in the end oppressed with his 
 glorie. No, no, sith I am rejected from his feet, 
 how can I otherwise presume, but that my want 
 of faith hath dislodged me out of his heart, and 
 throwne mee out of all possession of his minde 
 
195 
 
 and memorie. Yet why should I stoop to so 
 base a feare ? when want of faith was agrieved 
 with want of all goodnesse, hee disdained not to 
 accept mee for one of his number, and shall I 
 now thinke that hee will for my faint beleefe so 
 rigorously abandon mee ? And is the sinceritie 
 of my love, 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 unjust a suspition, sith his ap- 
 pearing improveth it, his words overthrow it, his 
 countenance doth disswade it, why then should 1 
 sucke so much sorrow out of so vaine a surmise ? 
 Thus Marie's travelling fancies making long 
 voyages in this short journey, and wavering be- 
 
J96 
 
 tweene the joy of her vision, and the grief e of 
 her deniall, entertained her in the way, and held 
 her parley with such discourses as are incident 
 unto mindes, in which neither hope is full master 
 of the field, nor feare hath received an utter 
 overthrow. But as shee was in this perplexed 
 manner, now falling, now rising in her owne un- 
 certainties, shee fmdeth on the way the other 
 holy woman that first came with her to the 
 grave, whom the angels had now assured of 
 Christ's resurrection. 
 
 And as they passed all forward towards the 
 disciples, behold, lesus met them, saying. Ail 
 kaile* But they came neere, and tooke hold of 
 his feet, and worshipped him, Then lesus 
 
197 
 
 said unto them, Feare not. Goe tell my bre- 
 thren that theygoe into Galilee, there they shall 
 see. me. 
 
 O Lord, how profound are thy judgements, 
 and unsearchable thy counsels ? Doth her sor- 
 row sit so neere thy heart, or thy repulse re- 
 bound with such regret by seeing her wounded 
 love bleed so fast at her eyes, that thy late re- 
 fusall must so soone bee requited with so free a 
 grant ? Is it thy pitie, or her change, which 
 cannot allow that shee should any longer fast 
 from her earnest longing ? 
 
 But, O most milde physician, well knowest 
 thou that thy sharpe corrosive with bitter smart 
 angered her tender wound, which being rather 
 
198 
 
 caused by unwitting ignorance than wilfull er- 
 rour ? was as soone cured as knowne. And 
 therefore thou quickly appliest a sweet lenitive 
 to ass wage her paine, that shee might acknow- 
 ledge her forbidding rather a fatherly checke to 
 her unsetled faith, than an austere rejecting her 
 for her fault : and therefore thou admittest her 
 to kisse thy feet, the two conduits of grace, and 
 scales of our redemption, renewing her a charter 
 of thy unchanged love, and accepting of her the 
 vowed sacrifice of her sanctified soule. 
 
 And thus, gracious Lord ! hast thou finished 
 her feares, assured her hopes, Fulfilled her desires, 
 satisfied her loves, stinted her teares, perfected 
 her joyes, and made the period of her expiring 
 
199- 
 
 griefes, the preamble to her now entring and 
 never-ending pleasures. 
 
 O how mercifull a father thou art to left or- 
 phanes, how easie a judge to repentant sinners, 
 and how faitlifull a friend to sincere lovers ! It 
 is undoubtedly true, that thou never leavest those 
 that love thee, and thou lovest such as rest 
 their affiance in thee. They shall finde thee li- 
 berall above desert, and bountif ull beyond hope : 
 a measure of thy gifts, not by their merits, but 
 thine owne mercy. 
 
 O Christian soule, take Marie for thy mirrour, ' 
 follow her affection, that like effects may follow 
 thine. Learne, O sinfull man, of this once a 
 sinfull woman, that sinners may finde Christ, if 
 
200 
 
 their sinnes bee amended. Learne that whom 
 sinne loseth, love recovereth, whom faintnesse 
 of faith chaseth away, firmenesse of hope recall- 
 eth ; and that which no other mortal] force, fa- 
 vour or policie can compasse, the continued 
 teares of a constant love are able to attaine. 
 Learne of Marie, for Christ to feare no encoun- 
 ters, out of Christ to desire no comforts, and 
 with the love of Christ to over-rule the love of 
 all things. Rise early in the morning of thy good 
 motions, and let them not sleepe in sloth, when 
 diligence may performe them. Runne with re- 
 pentance to thy sinfull heart, which should have 
 beene the temple, but through thy fault was no 
 better than a tombe for Christ, sith having in 
 
201 
 
 thee no life to feele him, he seemed unto thee, 
 as if hee had beene dead. Rowle away the stone 
 of thy former hardnesse, remove all thy heavie 
 loads that oppresse thee in sinne, and looke into 
 thy soule, whether thou canst there finde the 
 Lord. If hee bee not within thee, stand weep- 
 ing without, and seeke him in other creatures, 
 sith being 1 present in all, hee may bee found in 
 any. Let faith bee thine eye, hope thy guide, 
 and love thy light. Seeke him and not his : for 
 himselfe, and not for his gifts. If thy faith have 
 found him in a cloud, let thy hope seeke to him. 
 If hope have led thee to see him, let love seeke 
 further into him. To move in thee a desire to 
 finde, his goods are precious ; and when hee is 
 
202 
 
 found, to keepe thee in a desire to seeke, his 
 treasures are infinite. Absent, hee must bee 
 sought to bee had; being had, hee must bee 
 sought to bee more enjoyed. Seeke him truly, 
 and no other for him. Seeke him purely, and no 
 other thing with him. Seeke him only, and no- 
 thing besides him. And if at the first search 
 hee appeare not, thinke it not much to persever 
 in teares, and to continue thy seeking. Stand 
 upon the earth, treading under thee all earthly 
 vanities, and touching them with no more than 
 the soles of thy feet, that is, with the lowest and 
 least part of thy affection. To looke the better 
 in the tombe, bow downe thy necke to the yoke 
 of humilitie, and stoope from lofty and proud 
 
203 
 
 conceits, that with humbled and lowly lookes 
 thou raayest finde whom swelling and haughtie 
 thoughts have driven away. A submitted soule 
 soonest winneth his returne, and the deeper it 
 sinketh in a seife-contempt, the higher it climetli 
 in his highest favours. And if thou perceivest 
 in the tombe of thy heart the presence of his two 
 first messengers, that is, at the feet sorrow for 
 the bad that is past, and at the head desire to a 
 better that is to come, entertaine them with 
 sighs, and welcome them with penitent teares ; 
 yet reckoning them but as harbingers of thy 
 Lord, cease not thy seeking till thou findest 
 himselfe. And if hee vouchsafe thee his glori- 
 ous sight, offering himselfe to thy inward eyes, 
 
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 204 
 
 presume not of thyself e to bee able to know him, 
 but as his unworthy suppliant prostrate thy pe- 
 titions unto him, that thou mayst truly discenie 
 him, and faithfully serve him. Thus preparing 
 thee with diligence, comming with speed, stand- 
 ing with high lifted hopes, and stooping with in- 
 clined heart, if with Mary thou cravest no other 
 solace of lesus but lesus himselfe, he will an- 
 swer thy teares with his presence, and assure 
 thee of his presence with his owne words, that 
 having seene him thyselfe, thou raayest make 
 him knowne to others, saying with Mary, / have 
 seene our Lord, and these things he said unto 
 me. 
 
 LAVS DEO. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
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