MARRY magdalen's FUNERAL TEARS.  
jeremiae. CAP. 6. VERSE, 26.  
Luctum unigeniti fac tibi planctum Amarum.  
LONDON, Printed by I. W. for G. C. 1591.   

To the worshipful and virtuous Gentlewoman, Mistress D. A.  
YOur virtuous request to which your deserts gave the force of a commandment, won me to satisfy your devotion, in penning some little discourse of the blessed Mary Magdalen. And among other glorious examples of this Saint's life, I have made choice of her Funeral Tears, in which as she most uttered the great vehemency of her fervent love to Christ, so hath she given therein largest scope to dilate upon the same: a theme pleasing I hope unto yourself, and fittest for this time. For as passion, and especially this of love, is in these days the chief commander of most men's actions, & the Idol to which both tongues and pens do sacrifice their ill bestowed labours: so is there nothing now more needful to be entreated, then how to direct these humours unto their due courses, and to draw this flood of affections into the right channel. Passions I allow, and loves I approve, only I would wish that men would alter their object and better their intent. For passions being sequels of our nature, and allotted unto us as the handmaids of reason: there can be no doubt, but that as their author is good, and their end godly: so there use tempered in the mean, implieth no offence. Love is but the infancy of true charity, yet sucking nature's teat, and swathed in her bands, which then groweth to perfection, when faith besides natural motives proposeth higher and nobler grounds of amity. Hatred and anger are the necessary officers of prowess and justice, courage being cold and dull, and justice in due revenge slack and careless, where hate of the fault doth not make it odious, & anger seateth not edge on the sword that punisheth or preventeth wrongs. Desire & hope are the parents of diligence and industry, the nurses of perseverance and constancy, the seeds of valour and magnanimity, the death of sloth, and the breath of all virtue. Fear and dislike are the sconces of discretion, the harbingers of wisdom and policy, killing idle repentance in the cradle, and curbing rashness with deliberation. Audacity is the armour of strength, and the guide to glory, breaking the ice to the hardest exploits, and crowening valour with honourable victory.  
Sorrow is the sister of mercy, and a waker of compassion, weeping with others tears, and grieved with their harms. It is both the salve and smart of sin, curing that which it chasticeth with true remorse, and preventing need of new cure with the detestation of the disease. Despair of success, is a bit against evil attempts, and the hearse of idle hopes ending endless things in their first motion to begin. True joy is the rest and reward of virtue, seasoning difficulties with delight, and giving a present assay of future happiness. Finally, there is no passion but hath a serviceable use either in the pursuit of good, or avoidance of evil, and they are all benefits of God and helps of nature, so long as they are kept under virtues correction.  
But as too much of the best is evil, and excess in virtue vice: so passions let lose without limits are imperfections, nothing being good thatwanteth measure. And as the sea is unfit for traffic, not only when the winds are too boisterous, but also when they are too still, and a middle gale and motion of the waves serveth best the sailors purpose: So neither too stormy nor too calm a mind giveth Virtue the freest course, but a middle temper between them both, in which the well ordered passions are wrought to prosecute, not suffered to pervert any virtuous endeavour. Such were the passions of this holy Saint, which were not guides to reason, but attendants upon it, and commanded by such a love as could never exceed, because the thing loved was of infinite perfection. And if her weakness of faith, (an infirmity then common to all Christ's disciples) did suffer her understanding to be deceived, yet was her will so settled in a most sincere and perfect love, that it led all her passions with the same bias, recompensing the want of belief, with the strange effects of an excellent charity. This love & these passions are the subject of this discourse, which though it reach not to the dignity of Mary's deserts, yet shall I think my endeavours well apaid, if it may woo some skilfuller pens from unworthy labours, either to supply in this matter my want of ability, or in other of like piety, (whereof the scripture is full) to exercise their happier talents. I know that none can express a passion that he feeleth not, neither doth the pen deliver but what it coppieth out of the mind. And therefore sith the finest wits are now given to write passionate discourses, I would wish them to make choice of such passions, as it neither should be shame to utter, nor sin to feel. But whether my wishes in this behalf take effect or not, I reap at the least this reward of my pains, that I have showed my desire to answer your courtesy, and set forth the due praises of this glorious Saint.  
Your loving friend. S. W.   

To the Reader.  
Many suiting their labours to the popular vain, and guided by the gale of vulgar breath, have divulged diverse pathetical discourses, in which if they had showed as much care to profit, as they have done desire to please, their works would much more have honoured their names, and availed the Readers. But it is a just complaint among the better sort of persons, that the finest wits lose themselves in the vainest follies, spilling much Art in some idle fancy, and leaving their works as witnesses, how long they have been in travail to be in fine delivered of a fable. And sure it is a thing greatly to be 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 reap of their employment, consisteth in this, that they have wisely told a foolish tale, and carried a long lie very smoothly to the end. Yet this inconvenience might find some excuse, if the drift of their discourse leveled at any virtuous mark, for in fables are often figured moral truths, and that covertly uttered to a common good, which without a mask would not find so free a passage. But when the substance of the work hath neither truth nor probabilite, nor the purport thereof tendeth to any honest end, the writer is rather to be pitied then praised, and his books fit for the fire then for the press. This common oversight more have observed, then endeavoured to salve, every one being able to reprove, none willing to redress such faults, authorized especially by general custom: And though if necessity (the lawless patron of enforced actions) had not more prevailed, than choice, this work of so different a subject from the usual vain, should have been no eyesore to those that are better pleased with worse matters. Yet sith the copies thereof flew so fast, and so false abroad, that it was in danger to come corrupted to the print: it seemed a less evil to let it fly to common view in the native plume, and with the own wings, then disguised in a voate of a bastard feather, or cast off from the fist of such a corrector, as might happily have perished the sound, and imped●n some sick and sorry feathers of his own fancies. It may be that courteous skill will reckon this, though eourse in respect of others exquisite labours, not unfit to entertain well tempered humours, both with pleasure and profit, the ground thereof being in scripture, and the form of enlarging it, an imitation of the ancient doctors, in the same and other points of like tenor. This commodity at the least it will carry with it, that the reader may learn to love without improofe of purity, & teach his thoughts either to temper passion in the mean, or to give the bridle only where the excess cannot be faultic. Let the work defend itself, and every one pass his censure as he seethe cause. Many Carp are expected when curious eyes come a fishing. But the care is already taken, and the patience waiteth at the table, ready to take away, when that dish is served in, and to make room for others to set on the desired fruit.  
S. W.   

MARY magdalen's Funeral Tears.  
AMONGST other mournful accidents of the passion of Christ, that love presenteth itself to my memory, with which the blessed Mary Magdelen loving our Lord more than her life, followed him in his journey to his death, attending 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 accompany him in death, and loathing after him to remain in life, the fire of her true affection inflamed her heart, and her inflamed heart resolved into uncessant tears, so that burning and bathing between love and grief, 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 enforcedly 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 corpse for her chief comfort. For Mary (as the Evangelist saith) Stood 
john 20.  without at the Tomb weeping.  
But alas how unfortunate is this woman, to whom neither life will afford a desired farewell, nor death allow 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 corpse she seeketh is taken away from her. And this was the cause that love induced her to stand, and sorrow enforced her to weep. Her eye was watchful to seek, whom her heart most longed to enjoy, and her foot in a readiness to run, if her eye should chance to espy him. And therefore she standeth to be still stirring, priest to watch every way, and prepared to go whether any hope should call her. But she wept because she had such occasion of standing, and that which moved her to watch was the motive of her tears. 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 clear in sight the better to seek him, and yet cloudy with tears for missing the sight of him.  
Yet was not this the entrance but the increase of her grief, not the beginning but the renewing of her moan. For first she mourned for the departing of his soul out of his body, and now she lamented the taking of his body out of the grave, being punished with two wrecks of her only welfare, both full of misery, but the last without all comfort. The first original of her sorrow 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 already lost, and now not so much as his body could be found, she was wholly daunted with dismay, sith this unhappiness admitted no help. She doubted least the love of her master (the only portion that her Fortune had left her) would soon languish 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 
joan. 19  eternal duties. And though joseph and Nichodemus had already bestowed a hundred pounds of Mirth and Aloes, which was in quantity sufficient, in quality of 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 hers had been added, the best in quality too mean except hers were with it, and no diligence in applying it enough, except her service were in it. Not that she was sharp in censuring that which others had done, but because love made her so desirous to do all herself, that though all had been done that she could devise, and as well as she could wish, yet unless she were an Actor it would not suffice, sith love is as eager to be uttered in effects, as it is zealous in true affection. She came therefore now meaning to embalm his corpse, as she had before anointed his feet, and to preserve the relics of his body, as the only remnant of all her bliss. And as in the spring of her felicity she had washed his feet with her tears, be wailing unto him the death of her own soul: so now she came in the depth of her misery, to shed them a 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 increased, and he that was wanting to her obsequies, was not wanting to her tears, and though she found not whom to anoint, yet found she whom to lament.  
And not without cause did Mary complain, finding her first anguish doubled with a second grief, and being surcharged with two most violent sorrows in one afflicted heart. For having settled her whole affection upon Christ, and summoned all her desires and wishes into the love of his goodness, as nothing could equal his worths: so was there not in the whole world, either a greater benefit for her to enjoy then himself, or any greater damage possible than his loss.  
The murdering in his one death, the life of all lives, left a general death in all living creatures, and his disease not only disrobed our nature of her most royal ornaments, but impoverished the world of all highest perfections. What marvel therefore though her vehement love to so lovely a Lord, being after the wreck of his life, now also deprived of his dead body, feel as bitter pangs for his loss, as before it tasted joys in his presence, and open as large an issue to tears of sorrow, as ever heretofore to tears of contentment. And though tears were rather oil than water to her flame, apt to nourish then diminish her grief: yet being now plunged in the depth of pain, she yielded herself captive to all discomfort, carrying an ouèrthrowen mind in a more enfeebled body, and still busy in devising, but ever doubtful in defining what she might best do. For what could a silly woman do but weep, that floating in a Sea of cares, found neither ear to hear her, nor tongue to direct her, nor hand to help her, nor heart to pity her in her desolate case? True it is that Peter and john came with her to the tomb, and to make trial of her report were both within it: but as they were speedy in coming, and diligent in searching, so were they as quick to departed, and fearful of farther seeking. And alas, what gained she by their coming, but two witnesses of her loss, two dismaiers of her hope, and two patterns of a new despair? love moved them to come, but their love was soon conquered, with such a fear, that it suffered them not to stay. But Mary hoping in despair, and persevering in hope, stood without fear, because she now thought nothing left that aught to be feared. For she had lost her master to whom she was so entirely devoted, that he was the total of her loves, the height of her hopes, and the uttermost of her fears, and therefore beside him, she could neither love other creature, hope for other comfort, nor fear other loss. The worst she could fear was the death of her body, and that she rather desired then feared, sith she had already lost the life of her soul, without which any other life would be a death, and with which any other death would have been a delight. But now she thought it better to die then to live, because she might happily dying find, whom not dying she looked not to enjoy, and not enjoying she had little will to live. For now she loved nothing in her life, but her love to Christ, & if any thing did make her willing to live, it was only the unwillingness that his Image should die with her, whose likeness love had limmed in her heart, and treasured up in her sweetest memories. And had she not feared to break the Table, and to break open the closet, to which she had entrussed this last relic of her lost happiness, the violence of grief would have melted her heart into inward bleeding tears, and blotted her remembrance with a fatal oblivion. And yet nevertheless, she is no we in so imperfect a sort alive, that it is proved true in her that Love is as strong as Death. For what could death have done more in Mary then Love did. Her wits were astonished, and all her senses so amazed, that in the end finding she did not know, seeing she could not discern, hearing she perceived not, and more than all this, she was not there where she was, for she was wholly where her Master was, more where she loved then where she lived, and less in herself then in his body, which notwithstanding, where it was she could not imagine. For she sought, and as yet found it not, and therefore stood at the Tomb weeping for it, being now altogether given to mourning & driven to misery.  
But O Marry, by whose counsel, upon what hope, or with what heart, couldst thou stand alone, when the Disciples were departed? Thou wert there once before they came, thou returnest again at their coming, and yet now thou stayest when they are gone. Alas that thy Lord is not in the Tomb, thy own eyes have often seen, the Disciples hands have felt, the empty Sindon doth avouch, and cannot all this win thee to believe it? No no, thou wouldst rather condemn thy own eyes of error, and both their eyes and hands of deceit, yea rather suspect all testimonies for untrue, than not look whom thou hast lost, even there, where by no diligence he could be found. When thou thinkest of other places, and canst not imagine any so likely as this, thou seekest again in this, and though never so often sought, it must still be a haunt for hope, for when things dearly affected are lost, loves nature is, never to be weary of searching even the oftenest searched corners, being more willing to think that all the senses are mistaken, then to yield that hope should quail. Yet now sith it is so evident, that he is taken away, what should move thee to remain here where the peril is apparent, and no profit likely? Can the witof one (and she a woman) wholly possessed with passion, have more light to discern danger, than two wits of two men, and both principal favourites of the parent of all wisdom? Or if (notwithstanding the danger) there had been just cause to encounter it, were not two together, being both to Christ sworn companions, each to other affied friends, and to all his enemies professed foes, more likely to have prevailed, than one feminine heart, timorous by kind, and already amazed with this dreadful accident?  
But alas why do I urge her with reason, whole reason is altered into love, and that judgeth it folly to follow such reason, as should any way impair her love. Her thoughts were arrested by every thread of Christ's Sindon, and she was captive in so many prisons, as the Tomb had memories of her lost master, Love being her jailor in them all, and nothing able to ransom her, but the recovery of her Lord. What marvel then though the Apostles examples drew her not away, whom so violent a love enforced to remain, which prescribing laws both to wit and will, is guided by no other law but itself? She could not think of any fear, nor stand in fear of any force. love armed her against all hazards, and being already wounded with the greatest grief, she had not leisure to remember any lesser evil. Yea she had forgotten all things, and herself among all things, only mindful of him, whom she loved above all things. And yet her love by reason of her loss, drownev both her mind and memory so deep 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 present discomforts, and she seemed to have forgotten also him besides whom she remembered nothing. For doubtless had she remembered him as she should, she should not have now thought the Tomb a fit place to seek him, neither would she mourn for him as dead, and removed by others force, but joy in him as revived, and risen by his own power. For he had often foretold both the manner of his death, and the day of his resurrection. But alas let her heaviness excuse her, and the unwontednes of the miracle plead her pardon, sith dread and amazement hath dulled her senses, distempered her thoughts, discouraged her hopes, awaked her passions, and left her no other liberty but only to weep.  
She wept therefore, being only able to weep. And, As she was weeping, she stooped down and looked 
john 20.  into the Monument, and she saw two Angels in white, sitting one at the head, and an other at the feet, where the body of jesus had been laid. They said unto her, Woman why weepest thou?  
O Mary, thy good hap exceedeth thy hope, and where thy last sorrow was bred, thy first succour springeth. Thou didst seek but one, and thou hast found two. A dead body was thy errand, and thou hast light upon two alive. Thy weeping was for a man, and thy téars have obtained Angels. Suppress now thy sadness, and refresh thy heart with this good Fortune. These angels invite thee to a parley, they seem to take pity of thy case, and it may be they have some happy tidings to tell thee. Thou hast hitherto sought in vain, as one either unseen, or unknown, or at the least unregarded, sith the party thou seekest, neither tendereth thy tears, nor answereth thy cries, nor relenteth with thy lament. Either he doth not hear, or he will not help, he hath peradventure left to love thee, and is loath to yield thee relief, & therefore take such comfort as thou findest, sith thou art not so lucky, as to find that which thou couldst wish. Remember what they are, where they sit, from whence they come, and to whom they speak. They are Angels of peace, neither sent with out cause, nor seen but of favour. They sit in the Tomb, to show that they are no strangers to thy loss. They come from Heaven, from whence all happy news descend. They spoke to thyself, as though they had some special Embassage to deliver unto thee. Ask them therefore of thy master, for they are likeliest to return thee a desired answer. Thou knewest him too well, to think that hell hath devoured him, thou hast long sought, and hast not found him in earth, and what place so fit for him as to be in heaven. Ask therefore of those Angels that came newly from thence, and it may be, their report will highly please thee? Or if thou art resolved to continue thy seeking, who can better help thee than they that are as swift as thy thought, as faithful as thy own heart, and as loving to thy Lord as thou thyself? Take therefore thy good hap, lest it be taken away from thee, and content thee with Angels sith thy master hath given thee over.  
But alas what meaneth this change, & how happeneth this strange alteration? The time hath been that fewer tears would have wrought greater effect, shorter seeking have sooner found, and less pain have procured more pity. The time hath ven that thy anointing his feet, was accepted and praised, thy washing them with tears highly commended, and thy wiping them with thy hair, most courteously construed. How then doth it now fall out, that having brought thy sweet oils, to anoint his whole body, having shed as many tears, as would have washed more than his feet, and having not only thy hair but thy heart ready to serve him, he is not moved with all these duties, so much as once to afford thee his sight. Is it not he that reclaimed thee from thy wandering courses, that dispossessed thee of thy damned inhabitants, and from the wilds of sin, recovered thee into the fold and family of his flock? was not thy house his home, his love thy life, thyself his Disciple? did not he defend thee against the Pharisee, plead for thee against judas, and excuse thee to thy sister? In sum, was not he thy patron and protector in all thy necessities.  
O good jesus what hath thus estranged thee from her? Thou hast heretofore so pitied her tears, that seeing them thou couldst not refrain 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 complaint into unexpected contentment. And we know that thou dost not use to alter course 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 she forfeited thy favour? Or with what trespass hath she earned thy ill will? That she never left to love thee, her heart will depose, her hand will subscribe, her tongue will protest, her tears will testify, and her seeking doth assure. And alas is her particular case so far from all example, that thou shouldest rather alter thy nature, than she better her Fortune, and be to her as thou art to no other? For our parts since thy last show of liking towards her, we have found no other fault in her, but that she was the eareliest up to seek thee, readiest to anoint thee, and when she saw that thou wert removed, she forthwith did weep for thee, and presently went for help to find thee. And whereas those two that she brought, being less careful of thee, then fearful of themselves, when they had seen what she had said, suddenly shrunk away, behold she still stayeth, she still seeketh, she still weepeth. If this be a fault, we cannot deny but this she doth and to this she persuadeth, yea this she neither meaneth to amend, nor requesteth thee to forgive: if therefore thou reckonnest this as punishable, punished she must be, sith no excuse hath effect where the fact pleadeth guilty. But if this import not any offence but a true affection, and be rather a good desire than an evil desert, why art thou so hard a judge to so soft a creature, requiting her love with thy loss, and suspending her hopes in this unhappiness? Are not those thy words? I love those that love me, and who watcheth early for me shall find me. Why then doth not this woman find 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 less moved with these tears that she sheddeth for thee her only Master, than thou wert with those that she shed before thee for her deceased brother? Or doth her love to thy servant more please thee then her love to thyself? Our love to others must not be to them but to thee in them. For he loveth thee so much the less, that loveth anything with thee, that he loveth not for thee. If therefore she then deserved well for loving thee in an other, she deserveth better now for loving thee in thyself, and if in deed thou lovest those that love thee, make thy word good to her, that is so far in love with thee. Of thyself thou hast said, that thou art The way, the truth and the life, If then thou art a way easy to find & never erring, how doth she miss thee? If a life giving life and never ending, why is she ready to die for thee? If a true promising truth & never failing, how is she bereaved of thee? For if what thy tongue did speak, thy truth will aver, she will never ask more to make her most happy. Remember that thou saidst to thy sister, that Mary had chosen the best part which should not be taken from her. That she choose the best part is out of question, sith she 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 she could have kept thee, she would not have lost thee, and had it been in her power, as it was in her will, she would never have parted from thee: and might she now be restored to thy presence, she would try all Fortunes rather than forego thee. Sith therefore she seeketh nothing but what she choose, and the loss of her choice is the only cause of her cumber, either vouchsafe thou to keep this best part that she choose in her, or I see not how it can be true, that it shall not be taken from her. But thy meaning happily was, that though it be taken from her eyes, yet it should never be taken from her heart, and it may be thy inward presence supplieth thine outward absence: yet I can hardly think, but that if Mary had thee within her, she could feel it, and if she felt it, she would never seek thee. Thou art too hot a fire to be in her bosom, and not to burn her, and thy light is too great, to leave her mind in this darkness if it shined in her. In true lovers every part is an eye, and every thought a look, and therefore so sweet an object among so many eyes, and in so great a light, could never lie so hidden but love would espy it. No no if Mary had thee, her innocent heart never taght to dissemble, could not make complaint, the out side of a concealed comfort, neither would she turn her thoughts to pasture in a dead man's tomb, if at home she 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 then in enjoying of thee, whom she knew too well, to abridge the least part in her from so high a happiness. For her thirst of thy presence was so exceeding, and the Sea of thy joys so well able to afford her a full draft, that though every parcel in her should take in a whole tide of thy delights, she would think them too few to quiet her desires. Yea doubtless if she had thee within her, she would not envy the Fortune of the richest Empress, yea she would more rejoice to be thy tomb in earth then a throne in heaven, and disdain to be a Saint if she were worthy to be but thy shrine.  
But peradventure it is now with her mind, as it was with the Apostles eyes, and as they seeing thee walk upon the sea, took thee for a Ghost, so she seeing thee in her heart, deemeth thee but a fancy, being yet better acquainted with thy bodily shape, then with thy spiritual power.  
But O Marry it seemeth too strange that he whom thou seekest, and for whom thou weepest should thus give thee over, to these painful fits, if in thee he did not see a cause for which he will not be seen of thee. Still thy plaint and stint thy weeping, for I doubt there is some trespass in thy tears, and some sin in thy sorrow: dost thou not remember his words to thee and to other women, when he said: Daughters of Jerusalem weep not upon me, but weep upon yourselves and upon your children. What meanest thou then to continue this course? Doth he forbidden thy tears, and wilt not thou forbear them? Is it no fault to infringe his will, or is not that his will, that his words do import? The fault must be mended, ere the penance be released, and therefore either cease to weep or never hope to find. But I know this Logic little pleaseth thee, and I might as soon win thee to forbear living, as to leave weeping.  
Thou wilt say that though he forbade thee to weep for him, yet he left thee free, to weep for thyself, and sith thy love hath made thee one with him, thou weepest but for thyself when thou wéepest for him. But I answer thee again, that because he is one with thee, and thy weeping for him hath been forbidden thee, thou canst not weep for thyself, but his words will condemn thee. For if thou and he are one, for which soever thou weepest it is all one, and therefore sith for him thou mayest not weep, forbear all weeping lest it should offend.  
Yea but (sayest thou) to bar me from weeping, is to abridge me of liberty, and restraint of liberty is a penalty, and every penalty supposeth some offence: but an offence it is not to weep for myself, for he would never command it, if it were not lawful to do it. The fault therefore must be, in being one with him, that maketh the weeping for myself, a weeping also for him. And if this be a fault, I will never amend it, and let them that think it so, do penance for it, for my part, sith I have lost my mirth, I will make much of my sorrow, and sith I have no joy but in tears, I may lawfully shed them. Neither think I his former word, a warrant against his latter deed. And what need had he to weep upon the Cross, but for our example, which if it were good for him to give, it can not be evil for me to follow. No no it is not my weeping that causeth my loss, sith a world of eyes, & a sea of tears, could not worthily bewail the miss of such a master.  
Yet since, neither thy seeking findeth, nor thy weeping prevaileth satisfy thyself with the sight of Angels. Demanding the cause of their coming, and the reason of thy Lords remove, and sith they first offer the occasion of parley, be not thou too dainty of thy discourse. It may be they can calm thy storms, and quiet thy unrest, and therefore conceal not from them thy sore, least thou lose the benefit of their emplaster. But nothing can move Mary to admit comfort, or entertain any company, for to one alone and for ever she hath vowed herself, and except it be to him, she will neither lend her ear long to others, nor borrow others help, least by seeking to allay her smart, she should lessen her love. But drawing into her mind all pensive conceits, she museth and pineth in a consuming languor, taking comfort in nothing but in being comfortless.  
Alas saith she, small is the light that a star can yield when the Sun is down, and a sorry exchange to go gather crumbs after the loss of a heavenly repast. My eyes are not used to see by the glims of a spark: and in seeking the sun it is either needless or bootless to borrow the light of a candle, sith either it must bewray itself with the self light, or no other light can ever discover it. If they come to disburden me of my heaviness, their coming will be burdensome unto me, and they will load me more while they labour my relief. They cannot persuade me, that my Master is not lost, for my own eyes will disprove them. They can less tell me where he may be found, for they would not be so simple, to be so long from him: or if they ran forbear him, surely they do not know him, whom none can truly know and live long without him. All their demurs would be tedious, and discourses irksome. Impair my love they might, but appay it they could not, to which he that first accepted the debt, is the only payment. They either want power, will or leave to tell me my desire, or at the first word they would have done it, sith Angels are not used to idle speeches, and to me all talk is idle, that doth not tell me of my master. They know not where he is, and therefore they are come to the place where he last was, making the tomb their heaven, and the remembrance of his presence the food of their felicity. Whatsoever they could tell me, if they told me not of him, and whatsoever they should tell me of him, if they told me not where he were, both their telling and my hearing were but a wasting of time. I neither came to see them, nor desire to hear them. I came not to see Angels, but him that made both me and Angels, and to whom I own more then both to men and Angels.  
And to thee I appeal O most loving Lord, whether my afflicted heart do not truly defray the tribute of an undivided love. To thee I appeal whether I have joined any partner with thee in the small possession of my poor self. And I would to God I were as privy where thy body is, as thou art, who is only Lord and owner of my soul.  
But alas sweet jesus, where thou wert thou art not, where thou art I know not: wretched is the case that I am in, and yet how to better it I cannot imagine. Alas O my only desire, why hast thou left me wavering in these uncertainties, and in how wild a maze wander my doubtful and perplexed thoughts? If I stay here where he is not I shall never find him. If I would go farther to seek, I know not whether. To leave the tomb is a death, and to stand helpless by it an uncurable disease, so that all my comfort is now concluded in this, that I am left free to choose whether I will stay without help, or go without hope, that is in effect, with what torment I will end my life. And yet even this were too happy a choice for so unhappy a creature. If I might be chooser of my own death, O how quickly should that choice be made, and how willingly would I run to that execution? I would be nailed to the same cross, with the same nails, and in the same place: my heart should be wounded with his spear, my head with his thorns, my body with his whips: Finally I would taste all his torments, and tread all his imbrued and bloody steps.  
But O ambitious thoughts, why gaze you upon so high a felicity? why think you of so glorious a death, that are privy to so infamous a life? 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, & depure the most defiled soul, were too small a scourge for my great offences. And therefore I am left to feel so many deaths, as I live hours, and to pass as many pangs, as I have thoughts of my loss, which are as many as there are minutes, and as violent as if they were all in every one. But sith I can neither die as he died, nor live where he lieth dead, I will live out my living death by his grave, and die on my dying life by his sweet tomb. Better is it after loss of his body to look to his sepulchre, then after loss of the one, to leave the other to be destroyed. No no, though I have been rob of the Saint, I will at the least have care of the shrine, which though it be spoiled of the most sovereign host, yet shall it be the Altar where I will daily sacrify my heart, and offer up my tears.  
Here will I ever lead, yea here to I mean to end my wretched life, that I may at the least be buried by the tomb of my Lord, and take my iron sleep near this couch of stone, which his presence hath made the place of sweetest repose.  
It may be also that this empte Sindon lying here to no use, and this tomb being open without any in it, may give occasion to some merciful heart, that shall first light upon my unburied body, to wrap me in this shroud, and to inter me in this tomb.  
O too fortunate lot, for so unfortunate a woman to crave: no no, I do not crave it. For alas I dare not, yet if such a sinful oversight should be committed, I do now beforehand forgive that sinner, and were it no more presumption to wish it alive then to suffer it dead, if I knew the party that should first pass by me, I would woe him with my tears, and hire him with my prayers, to bless me with this felicity. And though I dare not wish any to do it, yet this without offence I may say to all, that I love this Syndon above all clothes in the world, and this tomb I esteem more, than any prince's monument: yea, and I think that corpse highly favoured, that shall succeed my Lord in it, and for my part as I mean, that the ground where I stand shall be my deathbed, so am I not of jacobs' mind to have my body buried far from the place where it dieth, but even in the next and readiest grave, and that as soon as my breath faileth, sith delays are bootless, where death hath won possession.  
But alas I dare not say any more: let my body take such fortune as befalleth it: my soul at the least shall dwell in this sweet Paradise, and from this brittle case of flesh and blood, pass presently into the glorious tomb of God and man. It is now enwrapped in a mass of corruption, it shall then enjoy a place of high perfection: where it is now it is more by force then by choice, and like a repining prisoner in a loathed jail. But there in little room it should find perfect rest, and in the prison of death, the liberty of a joyful life.  
O sweet tomb 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 be drawn from thee. Thou art the altar of mercy, the temple of truth, the sanctuary of safety, the grave of death, and the cradle of eternal life. O heaven of my eclipsed sun, receive into thee this silly star, that hath now also lost all wished light. O Whale that hast swallowed my only jonas, swallow also me more worthy to be thy prey, sith I, and not he, was the cause of this bloody tempest. O Cistern of my innocent joseph, take me into thy dry bottom, sith I, and not he, gave just 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 Ismaelite hast thou yielded the purveyor of our life?  
O unhappy me, why did I not before think of that which I now ask? why did I leave him when I heard him, thus to lament him now, that I have lost him? If I had watched with perseverance, either none would have taken him, or they should have taken me with him.  
But through too much preciseness in keeping the law, I have lost the lawmaker, and by being too scrupulous in observing his ceremonies, I am proved irreligious in losing himself, sith I should rather have remained with the truth then forsaken it, to solemnize the figure. The Sabbath could not have been profaned in standing by his corpse, by which the profanest things are sanctified, & whose couch doth not defile the clean, but cleanseth the most defiled.  
But when it was time to stay, I departed: When it was too late to help, I returned: and now I repent my folly, when it cannot be amended. But let my heart dissolve into sighs, mine eyes melt in tears, and my desolate soul languish in dislikes: yea let all that I am and have, endure the deserved punishment, that if he were incensed with my fault, he may be appeased with my penance, and return upon the amendment that fled from the offence.  
Thus when her timorous conscienec had indicted her of so great an omission, & her tongue enforced the evidence with these bitter accusations, Love, that was now the only umpire in all her causes, condemned her eyes to a fresh shower of tears, her breast to a new storm of sighs, and her soul, to be perpetual prisoner to restless sorrows.  
But O Marry, thou deceivest thyself in thy own desires, and it well appeareth, that excess of grief, hath bred in thee a defect of due providence.  
And wouldst thou indeed have thy wishes, come to pass, and thy words fulfilled? Tell me then, I pray thee if thy heart were dissolved, where wouldst thou harbour thy Lord? what wouldst thou offer him? how wouldst thou love him?  
Thy eyes have lost him, thy hands cannot feel him, thy feet cannot follow him, and if he be at all in thee, it is thy heart that hath him, and wouldst thou now have that dissolved, from thence also to exile him? And if thy eyes were melted, thy soul in languor, and thy senses decayed, how wouldst thou see him, if he did appear? how shouldest thou hear him, if he did speak? how couldst thou know him, though he were there present?  
Thou thinkest happily that he loveth thee so well, that if thy heart were spent for his love, he would either lend his own heart unto thee, or create a new heart in thee, better than that which thy sorrow took from thee. It may be, thou imaginest, that if thy soul would give place, his soul wanting now a body, would enter into thine, with supply of all thy senses, and release of thy sorrows.  
O Marry thou didst not mark what thy master was wont to say, when he told thee, that the third day he should rise again. For if thou hadst heard him, or at the least understood him, thou wouldst not think, but that he now useth both his heart and soul in the life of his own body. And therefore repair to the angels, and inquire more of them, lest thy Lord be displeased, that coming from him thou wilt not entertain them.  
But Marie whose devotions were all fixed upon a nobler Saint, and that had so straightly bound her thoughts to his only affection, that she rather desired to unknown whom she knew already, then to burden 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 friendships, And for this though she did not scornfully reject, yet did she with humility refuse the Angel's company, thinking it no discourtesy to take herself from them, for to give herself more wholly to her Lord, to whom both she and they were wholly devoted, and aught most love and greatest duty. Sorrow also being now the only interpreter of all that sense, delivered to her understanding, made her construe their demand in a more doubtful than true meaning.  
If (saith she) they come to ease my affliction, they could not be ignorant of the cause: and if they were not ignorant of it, they would never ask 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 counsel, and fit it were they should weep with me, than I in not weeping obey them.  
If the Sun were ashamed to show his brightness, when the father of all lights was darkened with such disgrace: If the heavens discolouring their beauties, suited themselves to their maker's fortune; If the whole frame of nature were almost 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 consort: And especially now, that by the loss of his body, the cause of weeping is increased, and yetthe number of mourners lessened: sith the Apostles are fled, all his friends afraid, and poor I left alone to supply the tears of all creatures?  
O who will give water to my head, & a fountain of tears unto my eyes that I may weep day and night, and never cease weeping? O my only Lord thy grief was the greatest that ever was in man, and my grief as great as ever happened to woman: for my love hath carved me no small portion of thine, thy loss hath redoubled the torment of mine own, and all creatures seem to have made over to me theirs, leaving me as the vice-gereut of all their sorrows. Sorrow with me at the least thou O Tomb, and thaw into tears you hardest stones. The time is now come, that you are licenced to cry, and bound to recompense the silence of your lords Disciples, of whom he himself said to the pharisees, that if they held their peace, the very stones should cry for them. Now therefore sith fear hath locked up their lips, & sadness made them mute, let the stones cry out against the murderers of my Lord, and bewray the robbers of his sacred body.  
And I fear that were it well known, who hath taken him away, there is no stone so stony, but should have cause to lament.  
It was doubtless the spite of some malicious Pharisée or bloody Scribe, that not contented with those torments, that he suffered in life (of which every one to any other would have been a tyrannical death) hath now stolen away his dead body, to practise upon it some savage cruelty, and to glut their pitiless eyes, and brutish heart with the unnatural usage of his helpless corpse. 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, massacred, and outrageously missused.  
Doth not this tongue, whose truth is infallible, and whose word omnipotent, commanding both winds and seas, and never disobeyed of the most insensible creatures, promise to arm the world, & to make the whole earth to fight against the senseless persons, 
Sap. 5.  in defence of the just? And who more just than the lord of justice? who more senseless than his barbarous murderers, whose insatiable thirst of his innocent blood, could not be staunched, with their cruel butchering him at his death, unless they proceeded farther in this hellish impiety to his dead body? Why then do not all creatures address themselves to revenge so just a quarrel, upon so senseless wretches, left of all reason, forsaken of humanity, & bereaved of all feeling both of God and man?  
O Mary, why dost thou thus torment thyself with these tragical surmises? Dost thou think that the Angels would sit still, if their Master were not well? Did they serve him after his fasting, and would they despise him after his decease? Did they comfort him before he was apprehended, & would none 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 he could not now command them? Was there an Angel found to help Daniel to his dinner, to save Tobye from the fish, yea and to defend Balaam's poor beast from his masters rage, and is the Lord of Angels of so little reckonning, that if his body stood in need, never an Angel would defend it? Thou seest two here present to honour his Tomb, and how much more careful would they be to do homage to his person? Believe not Mary that they would smile, if thou hadst such occasion to weep. They would not so gloriously shine in white, if a black & mourning weed did better become them, or were a fit livery for their Master to give, or them to wear. Yield not more to thy uncertain fear, 〈◊〉 deceived love, then to their assured ●●●wledge, and never erring charity. 〈◊〉 a material eye see more than a ●●●uenly spirit, or the glimmering of 〈◊〉 twilight give better aim than the beams of their eternal Sun? Would they, thinkest thou, wait upon the winding sheet, while the corpse were abused, or be here for thy comfort, if their Lord did need their service? No no, he was neither any thieves booty, nor pharisees pray, neither are the Angels so careless of him, as thy suspicion presumeth. And if their presence and demeanour can not alter thy conceit, look upon the clothes and they will teach thee thine error, and clear thee of thy doubt.  
Would any thief thinkest thou have been so religious, as to have stolen the body and left the clothes? yea would he have been so venturous, as to have stayed the unshrowding of the corpse, the well ordering of the sheets, and folding up the napkins? Thou knowest that myrrh maketh linen cleave as fast, as pitch or glue: and was a thief at so much leisure, as to dissolve the myrrh and unclothe the dead? what did the watch while the seals were broken, the Tomb opened, the body unfolded, all other things ordered as now thou seest? And if all this cannot yet persuade thee, believe at the least thy own experience? when thy master was stripped at the cross, thou knowest that his only garmont being congealed to his gory back, came not off without many parts of his skin, and doubtless would have torn off many more, if it had been anointed with myrrh: Look then into the sheet, whether there remain any parcel of skin, or any one hair of his head: and sith there is none to be found, believe some better issue of thy masters absence, than thy fear suggesteth. A guilty conscience doubteth want of time, and therefore dispatcheth hastily. It is in hazard to be discovered, and therefore practiseth in darkness and secrecy. It ever worketh in extreme fear, and therefore hath no leisure to place things orderly. But to unwrap so mangled a body, out of mirrhed clothes, without tearing of any skin, or leaving on any myrrh, is a thing either to man impossible, or not possible to be done with such speed, without light or help, and with so good order. Assure thyself therefore, that if either of malice, or by fraud, the corpse had been removed, the linen & myrrh should never have been left, and neither could the Angels look so cheerfully, nor the clothes lie so orderly, but to import some happier accident, than thou conceivest.  
But to free thee more from fear, consider those words of the Angels, Woman why weepest thou? For what do they signify but as much in effect as if they had said: Where Angels rejoice it agreeth not that a woman should weep, and where heavenly eyes are witnesses of joy, no mortal eye should control them with testimonies of sorrow? With more than a manly courage thou didst before thy coming, arm thy feet to run among swords, thy arms to remove huge loads, thy body to endure all tyrants rage, and thy soul to be sundered with violent tortures: and art thou now so much a Woman that thou canst not command thy eyes to forbear tears? If thou wert a true Disciple, so many proofs would persuade thee, but now thy incredulous humour, maketh thee unworthy of that style, and we can afford thee no better title than a Woman, and therefore O Woman and too much a Woman, why weepest thou?  
If there were here any corpse, we might think that sorrow for the dead enforced thy tears, but now that thou findest it a place of the living, why dost thou here stand weeping for the dead?  
Is our presence so uncomfortable, that thou shouldest weep to behold us? or is it the course of thy kindness with tears to entertain us? If they be tears of love to testify thy good will, as thy love is acknowledged, so let these signs be suppressed. If they be tears of anger to denounce thy displeasure, they should not here have been shed where all anger was buried but none deserved. If they be tears of sorrow and duties to the dead, they are bestowed in vain where the dead is revived. If they be tears of joy, stilled from the flowers of thy good Fortune, fewer of these would suffice, and fit were other tokens to express thy contentment. And therefore O Woman why dost thou weep? Would our eyes be so dry, if such eye streams were behoveful? Yea would not the heavens rain tears if thy suppossals were truths? Did not Angels always in their visible semblances, represent their lords invisible pleasure, shadowing in their shapes the drift of his intentions? When God was incensed they brandished swords: When he was appeased, they sheathed them in scabbards: When he would defend, they resembled soldiers, when he would terrify they took terrible forms, and when he would comfort, they carried mirth in their eyes, sweetens in their countenance, mildness in their words, favour, grace and comeliness in their whole presence. Why then dost thou weep, seeing us to rejoice? Dost thou imagine us to degenerate from our nature, or to forget any duty, whose state is neither subject to change, nor capable of the least offence? Art thou more fervent in thy love, or more privy to the counsel of our eternal God, than we that are daily attendants at his throne of glory? O Woman deem not amiss against so apparent evidence, and at our request exchange thy sorrow for our joy.  
But O glorious Angels, why do ye move her to joy, if you know why she weepeth? Alas she weepeth for the loss of him without whom all joy is to her but matter of new grief. While he lived, every place where she found him, was to her a Paradise: every season wherein he was enjoined, a perpetual spring: every exercise wherein he was served a special felicity: the ground whereon he went seemed to yield her sweeter footing: the air wherein he breathed, became to her spirit of life, being once sanctified in his sacred breast. In sum, his presence brought with it a heaven of delights, and his departure seemed to leave an Eclipse in all things. And yet even the places that he had once honoured with the access of his person, were to her so many sweet pilgrimages, which in his absence she used, as chapels and altars, to offer up her prayers, feeling in them long after, the virtue of his former presence. And therefore to feed her with conjectures of his well-being, is but to strengthen her fear of his evil, and the alleging of likelihoods, by those that know the certainty, importeth the case to be lamentable, that they are unwilling it should be known. Your obscure glancing at the truth, is no sufficient acquittance of her grief, neither can she out of these disjoined guesses, spell the words that must be the conclusion of her complaint. Tell her then directly what is become of her lord, if you mean to deliver her out of these dumps, sith what else soever you say of him, doth but draw more humours to her sore, and rather anger it, than any way assuage it.  
Yet hearken O Mary, and consider their speeches. Think what answer thou wilt give them, sith they press thee with so strong perswassons. But I doubt that thy wits are smothered with too thick a mist, to admit these unknown beams, of their pale light. Thou art so wholly inherited by the bloody tragedy of thy slaughtered Lord, and his death and dead body have gotten so absolute a conquest over all thy powers, that neither thy sense can discern, nor thy mind conceive, any other object then his murdered corpse.  
Thy eyes seem to tell thee that every thing inviteth thee to weep, carrying such outward show, as though all that thou seest were attired in sorrow to solemnize with general consent the funeral of thy Master. Thy ears persuade thee, that all sounds and voices are tuned to mourning notes, and that the Echo of thy own wail, is the cry of the very stones & trees, as though (the cause of thy tears being so unusual) God to the rocks and woods, had inspired a feeling of thine and their common loss. And therefore it soundeth to thee as a strange question, to ask thee why thou weepest, sith all that thou seest and hearest, seemeth to induce thee, yea to enforce thee to weep.  
If thou seest any thing that beareth a colour of mirth, it is unto thee like the rich spoils of a vanquished kingdom, in the eye of the captive Prince, which put him in mind what he had, not what he hath, and are but upbraidings of his loss, and whetstones of sharper sorrow Whatsoever thou hearest, that moveth delight, it representeth the miss of thy masters speeches, which as they were the only harmony that thy ears affected, so they being now stopped with a deathful silence, all other words and times of comfort are to thee but an Israelites music upon Babylon banks, memories of a lost felicity, and proofs of a present unhappiness. And though love increased the conceit of thy loss which endéereth the meanest things, and doubleth the estimate of things that are precious: yet thy faith teaching thee, the infinite dignity of thy master, and thy understanding being no dull scholar, to learn so well liked a lesson, it fell out to be the bitterest part of thy misery, that thou didst so well know how infinite the loss 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 grief. For their gracious and lovely countenances, remember thee, that thou hast lost the beauty of the world, and the highest mark of true loves ambition. Their sweet looks and amiable features tell thee, that the heaven of thy eyes which was the reverend Majesty of thy masters face, once shined with far more pleasing graces, but is now disfigured with the dreadful forms of death. In sum they were to thee, like the glistering sparks of a broken Diamond, and like pictures of dead and decayed beauties, signs, not salves of thy calamity, memorial, not medicines of thy misfortune.  
Thy eyes were to well acquainted with the truth, to accept a supply of shadows, and as comeliness, comfort, and glory were never in any other so truly at home, and so perfectly in their prime, as in the person and speeches of thy Lord: so cannot thy thoughts but be like strangers in any foreign delights. For in them all thou seest no more, but some scattered crumbs, and hungrymorsels of thy late plentiful banquets, and findest a dim reflection of thy former light, which like a flash of lightning, in a close and stormy night, serveth thee, but to see thy present infelicity, and the better to know the horror of the ensuing darkness.  
Thou thinkest therefore thyself blameless, both in weeping for thy loss, and in refusing other comfort Yet in common courtesy afford these Angels an answer, sith their charity in visiting thee, deserveth much more, and thou (if not too ungrateful) canst allow them no less.  
Alas (saith she) what needeth myanswere, where the misery itself speaketh, and the loss is manifest. My eyes have answered them with tears, my breast with sighs, and my heart with trouble, what need I also punish my tongue, or wound my soul with a new rehearsal of so doleful 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 solemnly to entomb him, and sith earth hath done her last homage, happily the Quires of heaven are also descended to defray unto him, their funeral duties.  
It may be that the Centurion and the rest, that did acknowledge him on the cross to be the son of God, have been touched with remorse, and gored with the prick of conscience, and being desirous to satisfy for their heinous offence, have now taken him, more honourably to inter him, and by their service, to his body sought forgiveness, and sued the pardon of their guilty souls.  
Peradventure some secret Disciples, have wrought this erploit, and maugre the watch taken him from hence, with due honour to preserve him in some fit place: and therefore being yet uncertain who hath him, there is no such cause to lament, sith the greater probabilities, march on the better side, why dost thou call sorrow before it cometh, without which calling, it cometh on thee too fast? yea why dost thou create sorrow where it is not, sith thou hast true sorrows enough, though imagined sorrows help not? It is folly to suppose the worst where the best may be hoped for, and every mishap bringeth grief enough with it, though we with our friends do not go first to meet it. Quiet then thyself, till time try out the truth, and it may be thy fear will prove greater than thy misfortune.  
But I know thy love is little helped with this lesson: for the more it loveth the more it feareth: and the more desirous to enjoy, the more doubtful it is to lose. It neither hath measure in hopes, nor mean in fears: hoping the best upon the least surmises, and fearing the worst upon the weakest grounds. And yet both fearing and hoping at one time, neither fear withholdeth hope from the highest attempts, nor hope can strengthen fear against the smallest suspicions: but maugre all fears, loves hopes will work to the highest pitch, and maugre all hopes, loves fears will stoop to the lowest downcome. To bid thee therefore hope, is not to forbid thee to fear, and though it may be for the best, that thy Lord is taken from thee, yet, sith it may also be for the worst, that will never content thee.  
Thou thinkest hope doth enough to keep thy heart from breaking, & fear little enough to force thee to weeping, sith it is as likely that he hath been 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, & as they that would not defend him alive, are less likely to regard him dead, so they that thought one life too little to take from him, are not unlikely after death to wreak new rage upon him.  
And though this doubt were not, yet whosoever hath taken him, hath wronged me, in not acquainting me with it: for to take away mine, without my consent, can neither be offered without injury, nor suffered without sorrow. And as for Jesus he was my Jesus, my Lord, and my master. He was mine because he was given unto me, and borne for me: he was the author of my being, and so my father, he was the worker of my well doing, and therefore my Saviour, he was the price of my ransom, and thereby my redeemer: He was my Lord to command me, my master to instruct me, my pastor to feed me. He was mine because his love was mine, and when he gave me his love, he gave me himself, sith love is no gift except the giver be given with it, yea it is no love, ●●lesse it be as liberal of that it is, as of that it hath. Finally, if the meat be m●●● that I eat, the life mine wherewith I live, or he mine, all, whose life labours and death were mine, then dare I boldly say that jesus is mine, sith on his body I feed, by his love I live, and to my good without any need of his own, hath he lived, laboured, and died. And therefore though his Disciples, though the Centurion, yea though the Angels have taken him, they have done me wrong, in defeating me of my right, (sith I never mean to resign my interest.  
But what if he hath taken a way himself, wilt thou also lay unjustice to his charge? Though he be thine, yet thine to command, not to obey, thy Lord to dispose of thee, and not to be by thee disposed: and therefore as it is no reason, that the servant should be master of his masters secrets, so might he, and peradventure so hath he, removed without acquainting thee whether reviving himself with the same power, with which he raised thy dead brother, and fulfilling the words, that he often uttered of his resurrection.  
It may be thou wilt say, that a gift once given, cannot be revoked, and therefore though it were before in his choice, not to give himself unto thee, yet the deed of gift being once made, he cannot be taken from thee, neither can the donor dispose of his gift without the possessors privity. And sith this is a rule in the law of nature, thou mayest imagine it a breach of equity, and an impeachment of thy right to convey himself away without thy consent.  
But to this I will answer thee with thine own ground. For if he be thine by being given thee once, thou art his by as many gifts, as days, and therefore he being absolute owner of thee, is likewise full owner of whatsoever is thine, and consequently because he is thine, he is also his own, and so nothing liable unto thee, for taking himself from thee.  
Yea but he is my Lord (sayest thou) and in this respect, bound to keep me, at the least bound not to kill me: and sith killing is nothing but a severing of life from the body, he being the chief life both of my soul and body, cannot possibly go from me, but he must with a double death kill me. And therefore he being my Lord, and bound to protect his servant, it is against all laws that I should be thus forsaken.  
But O cruel tongue, why pleadest thou thus against him, whose case I fear me is so pitiful, that it might rather move all tongues to plead for him, being peradventure in their hands, whose unmerciful hearts, make themselves merry with his misery, and build the triumphs of their impious victory, upon the doleful ruins of his disgraced glory. And now (O grief) because I know not where he is, I cannot imagine how to help, for they have taken him away, and I know not where they have put him.  
Alas Mary why dost thou consume thyself with these cares? His father knoweth and he will help him. The Angels know and they will guard him. His own soul knoweth and that will assist him. And what need then is there that thou seely woman shouldst know it, that canst no way profit him? But I feel in what vain 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 privy unto it, thy woes would be as great, & thy tears as many. That others see thy Sun, doth not lighten thy darkness, neither can others eating satisfy thy hunger. The more there be that know of him, the greater is thy sorrow, that among so many thou art not thought worthy to be one. And the more there be that may help him, the more it grieveth thee that thy poor help is not accepted among them. Though thy knowledge needeth not, thy love doth desire it, and though it avail not, thy desire will seek it. If all know it thou wouldst know it with all: if no other, thou wouldst know it alone, and from whom soever it be concealed, it must be no secret to thee. Though the knowledge would discomfort thee, yet know it thou wilt, yea though it would kill thee, thou couldst not forbear it.  
Thy Lord to thy love is like drink to the thirsty, which if they cannot have, they die for drouht, and being long without it, they pine away with longing. And as men in extremity of thirst are still dreaming of fountains, brooks, and springs, being never able to have other thought, or to utter other word but of drink and moisture: so lovers in the vehemency of their passion, can neither think nor speak but of that they love, and if that be once missing, every part is both an eye to watch, and an ear to listen, what hope or news may be had of it. If it be good they die till they hear it, though bad yet they cannot live without it. Of the good they hope that it is the very best, and of the evil they fear it to be the worst, and yet though never so good they pine till it be told, and be it never so evil, they are importunate to know it. And when they once know it, they can neither bear the joy, nor brook the sorrow, but as well the one as the other is enough to kill them.  
And this O Marry I guess to be the cause why the Angels would not tell thee thy Lords estate. For if it had been to thy liking, thou wouldst have died for joy, if otherwise thou wouldst have sunk down for sorrow. And therefore they leave this news for him to deliver, whose word if it give thee a wound, is also a salve to cure it, though never so deadly.  
But alas afflicted soul, why doth it so deeply grieve thee, that thou knowest not where he is? Thou canst not better him if he be well, thou canst as little succour him if he be ill: and sith thou fearest that he is rather ill then well, why wouldst thou know it, so to end thy hopes in mishap, and thy great fears in far greater sorrows. Alas to ask thee why, is in a manner to ask one half starved why he is hungry. For as thy Lord is the food of thy thoughts, the relief of thy wishes, the only repast of all thy desires: so is thy love a continual hunger, and his absence unto thee an extreme famine. And therefore no marvel though thou art so greedy to hear, yea to devour any be it never so bitter notice of him, sith thy hunger is most violent, and nothing but he able to content it. And albeit the hearing of his harms, should work the same in thy mind, that unwholesome meat, worketh in a sick stomach: yet if it once concern him that thou lovest, thy hungry love could not temper itself from it, though after with many wring gripes, it did a long and unrepentant penance.  
But why doth thy sorrow quest so much upon the place where he is? were it not enough for thee to know who had him, but that thou must also know in what place he is bestowed? A worse place than a grave no man will offer, and many far better titles will allow: and therefore thou mayst boldly think, that where so ever he be, he is in a place fit for him then where he was.  
Thy sister Martha confessed him to be the Son of God, and with her confession agreed thy belief. And what place more convenient for the Son, then to be with his Father, the business for which he hath been so long from him, being now fully finished?  
If he be the Messiah as thou didst once believe, it was said of him, That he should ascend on high and lead our captivity captive. And what is this height▪ but heaven, what our captivity but death? Death therefore is become his captive, and it is like that with the spoils thereof, he is ascended in triumph to eternal life.  
But if thou canst not lift thy mind to so favourable a belief, yet mayst thou very well suppose that he is in Paradise. For if he came to repair Adam's ruins, and to be the common parent of our redemption, as Adam was of our original infection: reason seemeth to require, that having endured all his life the penalty of Adam's exile, he should after death re-enter possession of that inheritance which Adam lost: that the same place that was the nest, where sin was first hatched, may be now the childbed of grace and mercy. And if sorrow at the cross did not make thee as deaf, as at the tomb it maketh thee forgetful, thou didst in confirmation hereof hear himself say to one of the thieves, that the same day he should be with him in Paradise. And if it be reason that no shadow should be more privileged than the body, no figure in more account than the figured truth, why shouldest thou believe, that Elias and Enoch have been in Paradise these many ages, and that he whom they but as types resembled, should be excluded from thence? He excelled them in life, he surpassed them in miracles, he was far beyond them in dignity: Why then should not his place be far above, or at the least equal with theirs, sith their prerogatives were so far inferior unto his?  
And yet if the baseness and misery of his passion, have laid him so low in thy conceit, that thou thinkest Paradise too high a place to be likely to have him: the very lowest room that any reason can assign him, can not be meaner than the bosom of Abraham: and sith God in his life did so often acknowledge him for his Son, it seemeth the slenderest pre-eminence, that he can give him above other men, that being his holy one, he should not in his body see corruption, but be free among the dead, reposing both in body and soul, where other Saints are in soul only. Let not therefore the place where he is trouble thee, sith it cannot be worse than his grave, and infinite conjectures make probability, that it cannot but be better.  
But suppose that he were yet remaining in earth, and taken by others out of his tomb, what would it avail thee to know where he were? If he be with such as love and honour him, they will be as wary to keep him, as they are loath he should be lost: and therefore will either often change, or never confess the place, knowing secrecy to be the surest lock to defend so great a treasure. If those have taken him, that malice and malign him, thou mayst well judge him past thy recovery, when he is once in the possession of so cruel owners.  
Thou wouldst happily make sale of thy living, and seek him by ransom. But it is not likely they would sell him to be honoured that bought him to be murdered.  
If price would not serve, thou wouldst fall to prayer. But how can prayer soften such flint hearts? and if they scorned so many tears offered for his life, as little will they regard thy entreaty for his corpse.  
If neither price nor prayer would prevail, thou wouldst attempt it by force. But alas seely soldier thy arms are too weak to manage weapons, and the issue of thy assault, would be the loss of thyself.  
If no other way would help, thou wouldst purloin him by stealth, and think thyself happy in contriving such a theft. O Marry thou art deceived, for malice will have many locks, and to steal him from a thief, that could steal him from the watch, requireth more cunning in the art, than thy want of practice can afford thee.  
Yet if these be the causes that thou inquirest of the place, thou she west the force of thy rare affection, and deservest the Laurel of a perfect lover.  
But to feel more of their sweetness, I will pound these spices, and dwell a while in the peruse of thy resolute fervour.  
And first, can thy love enrich thee when thy goods are gone, or dead corpse repay the value of thy ransom? Because he had neither bed to be borne in, nor grave to be buried in: wilt thou therefore rather be poor with him, then rich without him.  
Again, if thou hadst to sue to some cruel Scribe or Pharisée, that is to a heart boiling in rancour, with a heart burning in love, for a thing of him above all things detested, of thee above all things desired: as his enemy to whom thou suelt, and his friend for whom thou entreatest: canst thou think it possible, for this suit to speed? Can thy love repair thee from his rage, or such a tyrant stoop to a woman's tears?  
Thirdly, if thy Lord might be recovered by violence, art thou so armed in complete love, that thou thinkest it sufficient harness? or doth thy love endue thee with such a ludithes' spirit, or lend thee such Sampsons' locks, that thou canst break open huge gates, or foil whole armies? Is thy love so sure a shield, that no blow can break it, or so sharp a dint, that no force can withstand it? Can it thus alter sex, change nature, and exceed all Art?  
But of all other courses wouldst thou adventure a theft to obtain thy desire. A good deed must be well done, and a work of mercy without breath of justice. It were a sin to steal a profane treasure, but to steal an anointed prophet can be no less than a sacrilege. And what greater stain to thy Lord, to his doctrine, and to thyself, then to see thee his Disciple, publicly executed for an open theft?  
O Mary unless thy love have better warrant then common sense, I can hardly see how such designments can be approved.  
Approved (saith she) I would to God the execution were as easy as the proof, and I should not so long bewail my unfortunate loss.  
To others it seemeth ill to prefer love before riches, but to love it seemeth worse to prefer any thing before itself. Cloth him with plates of silver, that shivereth for cold, or fill his purse with treasure, that pineth for hunger, and see whether the plates will warm him, or the treasure feed him. No no, he will give all his plates for a woollen garment, and all his money for a meals 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 poor, though Empress of the world. With him I were rich, though I had nothing 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 he alone is the sum of all my substance. It were too happy an exchange, to have God for goods, and too rich a poverty, to enjoy the only treasure of the world. If I were so fortunate a beggar, I would disdain Solomon's wealth, and my love being so highly enriched, my life should never complain of want.  
And if all I am worth would not reach to his ransom, what should hinder me to saek him by entreaty? Though I were to sue to the greatest tyrant, yet the equity of my suit is more than half a grant. If many drops soften the hardest stones, why should not many tears supple the most stony hearts? what anger so fiery that may not be quenched with eye water, sith a weeping suppliant, rebateth the edge of more than a Lion's fury?  
My suit itself would sue for me, and so doleful a corpse would quicken pity in the most iron hearts. 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 percase revile me in words, and then his own injury would recoil with remorse, and be unto me a patron to proceed in my request. And if he should accompany his words with blows, and his blows with wounds, it may be my stripes would smart in his guilty mind, and his conscience bleed in my bleeding wounds, and my innocent blood so entender his adamant heart, that his own inward feelings would plead my cause, and peradventure obtain my suit.  
But if through extremity of spite, he should happen to kill me, his offence might easily redound to my felicity. For he would be as careful to hide whom he had unjustly murdered, as him whom he had felonously stolen, and so it is like, that he would hide me in the same place where he had laid my Lord, and as he hated us both for one cause, him for challenging, and me for acknowledging that he was the Messiah: so would he use us both after one manner. And thus what comfort my body wanted, my soul should enjoy, in seeing a part of myself partner of my masters misery: with whom to be miserable, I reckon a higher fortune, then without him to be most happy.  
And if no other means would serve to recover him but force: I see no reason why it might not very well become me? None will bar me from defending my life, which the least worm in the right of nature hath leave to preserve. And sith he is to me so dear a life that without him, all life is death, nature authorizeth my feeble forces to employ their uttermost in so necessary an attempt▪ Necessity addeth ability, & love doubleth necessity, and it often happeneth that nature armed with love, and pressed with need, exceedeth itself in might and surmounteth all hope in success. And as the equity of the cause, doth breath courage into the defenders, making them the more willing to fight, & the less unwilling to die: so guilty consciences are ever timorous, still starting with sudden frights, and afraid of their own suspicions, ready to yield before the assault, upon distrust of their cause, and despair of their defence. Sith therefore to rescue an innocent, to recover a right, and to redress so deep a wrong, is so just a quarrel, nature will enable me, love encourage me, grace confirm me, and the judge of all justice fight in my behalf.  
And if it seem unfitting to my sex in talk, much more in practice to deal with martial affairs: yet when such a cause happeneth, as never had pattern, such effects must follow as are without example. There was never any body of a God but one, never such a body stolen but now, never such a stealth unrevenged but this. Sith therefore the Angels neglect it, & men forget it, O judith lend me thy prowess for I am bound to regard it.  
But suppose that my force were unable to win him by an open enterprise, what scruple should keep me from seeking him by secret means: yea and by plain stealth It willbe thought a sin, and condemned for a theft. O sweet sin 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 honour I was called a sinner, and under that title was spread my infamy. But for stealing God from a false owner, I was not worthy to be called a sinner, because it had been too high a glory. If this be so great a sin, and so heinous a theft, let others make choice of what titles they will: but for my part, I would refuse to be an Angel, I would not wish to be a Saint, I would never be esteemed either just or true, and I should be best contented if I might both 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 thief upon the cross, that he should that day be with him in Paradise, I had half an envy at that thiefs good Fortune, and wished myself in the thiefs place, so I might have enjoyed the fruit of his promise. But if I could be so happy a thief, as to commit this theft, if that wish had takeu effect, I would now vnwishe it again, and scorn to be any other thief than myself, sith my booty could make me happier, than any other thiefs felicity. And what though my felony should be called in question, in what respect should I need to fear? They would say that I loved him too well. But that were soon disproved, sith where the worthiness is infinite, no love can be enough. They would object that I stole an others goods: and as for that many sure titles of my interest would aucree him to be mine, and his dead corpse would rather speak then witnesses should fail to depose so certain a truth. And if I had not a special right unto him, what should move me to venture my life for him? No no, if I were so happy a felon, I should fear no temporal arraignment. I should rather fear that the Angels would cite me to my answer, for preventing them in the theft, sith not the highest Seraphin in heaven, but would deem it a higher style, than his own, to be the thief that had committed so glorious a robbery.  
But alas thus stand I devising what I would do, if I knew any thing of him, and in the mean time I neither know who hath him, nor where they have bestowed him, and still I am forced to dwell in this answer, that They have taken away my Lord, and I know not where they have put him.  
While Marie thus lost herself in a Labyrinth of doubts, watering her words with tears, and warming them with sighs, seeing the Angels with a kind of reverence rise, as though they had done honour to one behind her: She turned back, and she saw jesus standing, but that it was jesus she knew not.  
O Marry is it possible that thou hast forgotten jesus? faith hath written him in thy understanding, love in thy will, both fear and hope in thy memory: and how can all these registers be so canceled that so plainly seeing, thou 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 complaineth. For him thy eye weepeth, thy thought sorroweth, thy wholebody fainteth, and thy soul languisheth. In sum, there is no part in thee, but is busy about him, etc. notwithstanding all this, hast thou now forgotten him? His countenance avourheth it, his voice assureth it, his wounds witness it, thy own eyes behold it, and dost thou not yet believe that this is jesus? Are thy sharp seeing eyes become so weak sighted, that they are dazzled with the sun, and blinded with the light?  
But there is such a shower of tears between thee and him, and thy eyes are so dimmed with weeping for him, that though thou seest the shape of a man, yet thou canst not discern him. Thy ears also are still so possessed with the doleful Echo of his last speeches, which want of breath, made him utter in a dying voice, that the force & loudness of his living words, maketh thee imagine it the voice of a stranger: and therefore as he seemeth unto thee so like a stranger, he asketh this question of thee, O woman why weepest thou, whom seekest thou?  
O desire of heart, and only joy of her soul, why demandest thou why she weepeth, or for whom she seeketh? But a whilesince she saw thee her only hope hanging on a tree, with thy head full of thorns, thy eyes full of tears, thy ears full of blasphemies, thy mouth full of gall, thy whole person mangled and disfigured, and dost thou ask her why she weepeth? Scarce three days passed, she beheld thy arms and legs, racked with violent pulls, thy hands and feet bored with nails, thy side wounded with a spear, thy whole body torn with stripes and gored in blood, and dost thou her only grief ask her why she weepeth? She beheld thee upon the cross with many tears, & most lamentable cries, yielding up her ghost, that is thy own ghost, & alas askest thou why she weary? And now to make up her misere, having but one hope alive, which was, that for a small relief of her other afflictions, she might have anointed thy body, that hope is also dead, since thy body is removed, and she now standeth hopeless of all help, 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 besides thee she contemneth, and canst thou find in thy heart to ask her whom she seeketh? To what end, O sweet Lord, dost thou thus suspend her longings, prolong her desires, and martyr her with these tedious delays? Thou only art the fortress of her faint faith, the anchor of her wavering hope, the very centre of her vehement love: to thee she trusteth, upon thee she relieth, and of herself she wholly dispaireth. She is so earnest in seeking thee, that she can neither seek nor think 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 discern thee. Being therefore so attentive to that she thinketh, what marvel though she mark not whom she seeth, and sith thou hast so perfect notice of her thought, and she so little power to discover thee by sense, why demandest thou for whom she seeketh, or why she weepeth? Dost thou look that she should answer, for thee I seek, or for thee I weep? unless thou wilt unbend her thoughts, that her eyes may fully see thee, or while thou wilt be concealed, dost thou expect that she should be able to know thee?  
But O Marry, not without cause doth he ask thee this question. Thou wouldst have him alive, and yet thou weepest because thou dost not find him dead. Thou art sorry that he is not here, and for this very cause thou shouldst rather be glad. For if he were dead, it is most likely he should be here, but not being here, it is a sign that he is alive. He rejoiceth to be out of his grave, and thou weepest because he is not in it. He will not lie any where, and thou sorrowest for not knowing where he lieth. Alas why bewailest thou his glory, as an injury: the reviving of his body as the robbery of his corpse? He being alive, for what dead man mournest thou, and he being present, whose absence dost thou lament? But she taking him to be 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 wonderful effects of Mary's love, if love be 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 quickened her sense, why knew she not Jesus? dost thou seek for one, whom when thou hast found thou knowest not, or if thou dost know him when thou findest him, why dost thou seek when thou hast him?  
Behold Jesus is come, and the party whom thou seekest, is he that talketh with thee. O Marry call up thy wits, and open thine eyes. Hath thy Lord lived so long, laboured so much, died with such pain, and shed such showers of blood to come to no higher preferment then to be a Gardener? And hast thou bestowed such cost, so much sorrow, and so many fears, for no better man than a silly Gardiner? Alas is this soarie Garden the best inheritance, that thy love can afford him, or a Gardiner's office the highest dignity that thou wilt allow him? It had been better he had lived to been Lord of thy castle, then with his death so dearly to have bought so small a purchase.  
But thy mistaking hath in it a farther mystery. Thou thinkest not amiss though thy sight be deceived. For as our first father, in the state of grace & innocency, was placed in the garden of pleasure, & the first office allotted him, was to be a Gardener: so the first man that ever was in glory, appeareth first in a Garden, and presenteth himself in a gardeners likeness, that the beginnings of glory, might resemble the entrance of innocency and grace. And as a Gardener was the foil of mankind, the parent of sin, and author of death: so is this Gardener, the razor of our ruins, the ransom of our offences, and the restorer of life. In a Garden Adam was deceived, and taken captive by the devil. In a Garden Christ was betrayed and taken prisoner by the Jews. In a Garden Adam was condemned to earn his bread with the sweat of his brows. And after a free gift of the bread of Angels in the last supper in a Garden Christ, did earn it us with a bloody sweat of his whole body. By disobedient eating 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 far better right is now recovered. When Adam had sinned in the garden of pleasure, he was there appareled in dead beasts skins, that his garment might betoken his grave, and his livery of death agree with his condemnation to die. And now to defray the debt of that sin, in this garden Christ lay clad in the dead man's shroud, and buried in his Tomb, that as our harms began so they might end, and such places and means as were the premises to our misery, might be also the conclusions of our misfortune. For this did Christ in the canticles, invite us to a heavenly banquet, after he was come into this garden, and had reaped his myrrh, and his spices, to forewarn us of the joy, that after this harvest should presently ensue, namely when having sowed in this garden, a body, the mortality whereof was signified by those spices, he 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 process of our condemnation.  
But though he be the gardener that hath planted the Tree of grace, and restored us to the use and eating of the fruits of life. Though it be he that soweth his gifts in our souls, quickening in us the seeds of virtue, & rooting out of us the weeds of sin: Yet is he nevertheless the same Jesus he was, & the borrowed presence of a mean labourer, neither altereth his person, nor diminisheth his right to his divine titles.  
Why then canst thou not as well see what in truth he is, as what in show he seemeth, but because thou seest more than thou didst believe, & findest more than thy faith served thee to seek: and for this though thy love was worthy to see him, yet thy faith was unworthy to know him. Thou didst seek for him as dead, and therefore dost not know him, seeing him alive, and because thou believest not of him, as he is, thou dost only see him as he seemeth to be.  
I cannot say thou art faultless, sith thou art so lame in thy belief: but thy fault deserveth favour, because thy charity is so great, and therefore O merciful jesus, give me leave to excuse whom thou art minded to forgive.  
She thought to have found thee, as she left thee, & she sought thee as she did last see thee, being so overcome with sorrow for thy death, that she had neither room nor respite in her mind, for any hope of thy life, and being so deeply interred in the grief of thy burial, that she could not raise her thoughts to any conceit of thy resurrection.  
For in the grave where joseph buried thy body, Marry together with it entombed her soul, and so straightly combined it with thy corpse, that she could with more ease sunder her soul from her own body that liveth by it, then from thy dead body, with which her love did bury it: for it is more thine and in thee, than her own or in herself: and therefore, in seeking thy body, she seeketh her own soul, as with the loss of the one, she also lost the other. What marvel then though sense fail, when the soul is lost, sith the lantern must needs be dark when the light is out?  
Restore unto her therefore her soul that lieth imprisoned in thy body, and she will soon, both recover her sense, and discover her error. For alas it is no error, that proceedeth of any will to err, and it riseth as much of vehemency of affection, as of default in faith. Regard not the error of a woman but the love of a disciple, which supplieth in itself what in faith it wanteth.  
O Lord (saith she) If thou hast carried him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, & I will take him away.  
O how learned is her ignorance, and how skilful her error? She charged not the Angels with thy remoning, nor seemed to mistrust them for carrying thee away, as though her love had taught her that their help was peerless where the thing removed was remover of itself. She did not request them to inform her where thou wert laid, as if she had reserved that question for thyself to answer. But now she judgeth thee so likely to be the author of her loss, that half supposing thee guilty, she sueth a recovery, and desireth thee to tell her where the body is, as almost fully persuaded that thou art as privy to the place, as well acquainted with the action. So that if she be not altogether right, she is not very much wrong, & she erreth with such aim, that she little misseth the truth. Tell her therefore O Lord what thou hast done with thyself, sith it is fittest for thy own speech to utter, that which was only possible for thy own power to perform.  
But O Mary since thou art so desirous to know where thy jesus is, why dost thou not name him, when thou askest for him? Thou saidst to the Angels that they had taken away thy Lord, and now the second time, thou askest for this him. Are thy thoughts so visible, as at thy only presence to be seen, or so general, that they possess all when they are once in thee? when thou speakest of him, what him dost thou mean, or how can a stranger understand thee when thou falkest of thy Lord? Hath the world no other Lords but thine? or is the demanding by no other name but (him) a sufficient notice for whom thou demandest.  
But such is the nature of thy love, thou judgest that no other should be entitled a Lord, sith the whole world is too little for thy lords possession, and that those few creatures that are, cannot choose but know him, sith all the creatures of the world are to few to serve him. And as his worthies 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 bestowed upon any other.  
Yet thy speeches seem more sudden than sound, and more peremptory, then well pondered. Why dost thou say so resolutely without any further circumstance, that if this gardener have taken him, thou wilt take him from him. If he had him by right in taking him away thou shouldest do him wrong. If thou supposest he wrongfully took him, thou layest theft to his charge, and howsoever it be thou either condemnest thyself for an usurper, or him for a these 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 these?  
Thou shouldest also have considered whether he took him upon love or malice. If it were for love, thou mayest assure thyself that he will be as wary to keep, as he was venturous to get him, and therefore thy policy was weak in saying; thou wouldst take him away, before thou knewest where he was, sith none is so simple to bewray their treasure to a known thief. If he took him of malice, thy offer to recover him; is an open defiance, sith malice is as obstinate in defending, as violent in offering wrong, and he that would be cruel against thy masters dead body, is likely to be more furious against his living disciple.  
But thy love had no leisure to cast so many doubts. Thy tears were interpreters of thy words, and thy innocent meaning was written in thy doleful countenance. Thy eyes were rather pleaders for pity▪ than Heralds of wrath, and thy whole person presented such a pattern of thy extreme anguish, that no man from thy presence could take in any other impression. And therefore what thy words wanted, thy action supplied, and what his ear might mistake, his eye did understand.  
It may be also that he wrought in thy heart, that was concealed from thy sight, and happily his voice, and demeanour did import such compassion of thy case, that he seemed as willing to afford, as thou desirous to have his help. And so presuming by his behaviour, that thy suit should not suffer repulse, the tenor of thy request doth but argue thy hope of a grant.  
But what is the reason, that in all thy speeches, which since the miss of thy master, thou hast uttered (where they have put him) is always apart? So thou saidst to the Apostles, the same to the Angels, and now thou dost repeat it to this supposeo gardener: very sweet must this word be in thy heart, that is so often in thy mouth, and it would never be so ready in thy tongue, if it were not very fresh in thy memory.  
But what marvel though it fast so sweet, that was first seasoned in thy masters mouth, which as it was the treasury of truth, the fountain of life, and the only choir of the most perfect harmony, so whatsoever it delivered, thy ear devoured, and thy heart locked up. And now that thou wantest himself, thou hast no other comfort, but his words, which thou deemest so much the more effectual to persuade, in that they took their force from so heavenly a speaker. His sweetness therefore it is, that maketh this word so sweet and for love of him thou repeatest it so often, because he in the like case said of thy brother, where have you put him. O how much dost 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 wouldst thou kiss his sacred feet, that so willingly utterest his shortest speeches?  
But what meanest thou to make so absolute a promise, and so boldly to say I will take him away? joseph was afraid, and durst not take down his body from the cross but by night, yea and then also not without Pilat's warrant. But thou neither stayest till night, nor regardest Pilate, but stoutly promisest, that thou thyself wilt take him away. What if he be in the Palace of the high Priest, and some such maid as made Saint Peter deny his master to begin to question with thee, wilt thou then stand to these words I will take him away? Is thy courage so high above thy kind, strength so far beyond thy sex, and thy love so much without measure, that thou neither remember'st that all women are weak, nor that thou thyself art but a woman? Thou exemptest no place, thou preferrest no person, thou speakest without fear, thou promisest without condition, thou makest no exception: as though nothing were impossible that thy love suggesteth. But as the darkness could not fright thee from setting forth before day, nor the watch fear thee from coming to the Tomb: as thou didst resolve to break open the seals, though with danger of thy life, and to remove the stone from the graves mouth, though thy force could not serve thee: so what marvel though thy love being now more incensed with the fresh wound of thy loss, it resolve upon any, though never so hard adventures? Love is not ruled with reason, but with love. It neither regardeth what can be, nor what shall be done, but only what itself desireth to do. No difficulty can stay it, no impossibility appall it. Love is title just enough, and armour strong enough for all assaults, and itself a reward of all labours. It asketh no recompense, it respecteth no commodity. loves fruits are loves effects, and the gains, the pains. It considereth behoof, more than benefit, and what in duty it should, not what in deed it can.  
But how can nature be so mastered with affection, that thou canst take such delight and carry such love to a dead corpse? The mother how tenderly soever she loved her child alive. yet she can not choose but loathe him dead. The most loving spouse can not endure the presence of her deceased husband, and whose embracements were delightsome in life, are ever most hateful 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 fearful and ugly impressions, and stirreth in them so great a horror, that notwithstanding the most vehement love, they think long till the house be rid of their very dearest friends, when they are once attired in deaths unlovely liveries. How then canst thou endure to take up his corpse in thy hands, and to carry it thou knowest not thyself how far, being especially so torn and mangled, and consequently the more likely in so long time to be tainted.  
Thy sister was unwilling that the grave of her own brother should be opened, and yet he was shrouded in sheeets, embalmed with spices, and died an ordinary death, without any wound, bruise or other harm, that might hasten his corruption. But this corpse hath neither shroud nor spice, sith these are all to be seen in the Tomb, and there is not a part in his body but had some help to further it to decay, and art not thou afraid to see him, yea to touch him, yea to embrace and carry him naked in thy arms?  
If thou hadst remembered Gods promise, that His Saints should not see corruption: If thou hadst believed, that his Godhead remaining with his body, could have preserved it from perishing, thy faith had been more worthy of praise, but thy love less worthy of admiration, sith the more corruptible thou didst conceive him, the more cumbers thou didst determine to overcome, & the greater was thy love in being able to conquer them. But thou wouldst have thought thy ointments rather harms than helps, if thou hadst been settled in that belief, and for so heavenly a corpse embalmed with God, all earthly spices would have seemed a disgrace. If likewise thou hadst firmly trusted upon his resurrection, I should less marvel at thy constant designment, sith all hazards in taking him should have been with usury repaid, if lying in thy lap, thou mightest have seen him revived, and his disfigured and dead body beautified in thy arms with a divine majesty. If thou hadst hoped so good Fortune to thy watery eyes, that they might have been first cleared with the beams of his desired light, or that his eyes might have blessed thee with the first fruits of their glorious looks: If thou hadst imagined any likelihood to have made happy thy dying heart, with taking in the first gaps of his living breath, or to have heard the first words of his pleasing voice: Finally if thou hadst thought to have seen his injuries turned to honours, the marks of his misery to ornaments of glory, and the depth of thy heaviness to such a height of felicity, what so ever thou hadst done to obtain him, had been but a mite for a million, and too slender a price for so sovereign a pennyworth.  
But having no such hopes to uphold thee, and so many motives to plunge thee in despair, how could thy love be so mighty, as neither to feel a woman's fear of so deformed a corpse, nor to think the weight of the burden too heavy for thy feeble arms, nor to be amated with a world of dangers that this attempt did carry with it?  
But affection can not fear whom it affecteth, love feeleth no load of him it loveth, neither can true friendship be frighted from rescuing so affied a friend.  
What meanest thou then O comfort of her life, to leave so constant a well, willer so long uncomforted, and to punish her so much, that so well deserveth pardon? Dally no longer with so known a love, which so many trials avouch most true. And sith she 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 sail when the stream did alter course. She began not to love thee in thy life, to leave thee after death: Neither was she such a guest at thy table, that meant to be a stranger in thy necessity. She left thee not in thy lowest ebb, she revolted not from thy last extremity: In thy life she served thee with her goods: In thy death she departed not from thy cross: after death she came to dwell with thee at thy grave. Why then dost not thou say with Noemi: Blessed be she of our Lord, because what courtesy she afforded to the quick, she hath also continued towards the dead. A thing so much the more to be esteemed, in that it is most rare.  
Do not sweet Lord any longer delay her. Behold she hath attended thee these three days, and she hath not what to eat, nor wherewith to foster her famished soul, unless thou by discovering thyself, dost minister unto her the bread of thy body, & feed her with the food, that hath in it all taste of sweetness. If therefore thou wilt not have her to faint in the way, refresh, her with that which her hunger requireth. For surely she cannot long enjoy the life of her body, unless she may have notice of thee, that art the life of her soul.  
But fear not Mary for thy tears will obtain. They are too mighty orators, to let any suit fall, & though they pleaded at the most rigorous bar, yet have they so persuading a silence, and so conquering a complaint, that by yielding they overcome, and by entreating they command. They tie the tongues of all accusers, and soften the rigour of the severest judge. Yea they win the invincible, and bind the omnipotent. When they seem most pitiful, they have greatest power, and being most for saken they are most victorious. Repentant eyes are the Cellars of Angels, and penitent tears their sweetest wines, which the savour of life perfumeth, the taste of grace swéetneth, and the purest colours of returning innocency highly beautifieth. This dew of devotion never falleth, but the sun of justice draweth it up, and uponwhat face soever it droppeth, it maketh it amiable in God's eye. For this water hath thy heart been long a limbeck, sometimes distilling it out of the weeds of thy own offences with the fire of true contrition. Sometimes out of the flowers of spiritual comforts, with the flames of contemplation, and now out of the bitter herbs of thy masters miseries, with the heat of a tender compassion. This water hath better graced thy looks, than thy former alluring glances. It hath settled worthier 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, purchased his pardon, & brought forth the spring of all thy favours. Thy tears were the proctor's for thy brother's life, the inviters of those Angels for thy comfort, and the suitors that shall be rewarded with the first sight of thy revived Saviour. Rewarded they shall be, but not refrained: altered in their cause, but their course continued Heaven would weep at the loss of so precious a water, and earth lament the absence of so fruitful ●owers. No no, the Angels must still bathe themselves in the pure streams of thy eyes, and thy face shall still be set with this liquid pearl that as out of thy tears, were strooken the first sparks of thy lords love, so thy tears may be the oil, to nourish and feed his flame. Till death dam up the springs, they shall never cease running: and then shall thy soul be ferried in them to the harbour of life, that as by them it was first passed from sin to grace, so in them it may be wasted from grace to glory. In the mean time, rear up thy fallen hopes, and gather confidence both of thy speedy comfort, and thy Lords well being.  
jesus saith unto her, Maria, She turning, said unto him: Rabboni.  
O loving master, thou didst only defer 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, tears, and plaints, and didst purposely adjourn the date of her payment, to requite the length of these delays with a larger loan of joy. It may be she knew not her former happiness, till she was weaned from it: nor had a right estimate in valuing the treasures, with which thy presence did enrich her, until her extreme poverty taught her their unestimable rate. But now thou she west by a sweet experience, that though she paid thee with the dearest water of her eyes, with her best breath, and tenderest love, yet small was the price that she bestowed in respect of the worth that she received. She sought the dead, and imprisoned in a stony jail: and now she findeth thee both alive and at full liberty. She sought the shrined in a shroud, more like a leper than thyself, left as the model of the vitermost misery, and the only pattern of the bitterest unhappiness: And now she findeth thee invested in the robes of glory, the precedent of the highest, and both the owner and giver of all felicity.  
And as all this while she hath sought without finding, wéept without comfort, and called without answer: so no we thou satisfiest her seeking with thy coming, her tears with thy triumph, and all her cries with this one word Marie. For when she heard thee call her in thy wonted manner, and with thy usual voice, her only name issuing from thy mouth, wrought so strange an alteration in her, as if she had been wholly new made, when she was only named. For whereas before the violence of her grief had so benumbed her, that her body seemed but the hearse of her dead heart, and her heart the cophin of an unliving soul, and her whole presence but a representation of a double funeral of thine, and of her own: now with this one word her senses are restored, her mind lightened, her heart quickened, and her soul revived.  
But what marvel though with one word he raise the dead spirits of his poor disciple, that with a word made the world, & even in this very word showeth an omnipotent power?  
Marry she was called as well in her bad as in her reformed estate, and both her good and evil, was all of Mary's working. And as Marie signifieth no less what she was, than what she is: so is this one word by his virtue that speaketh it, a repetition of all her miseries, an Epitome of his mercies, and a memorial of all her better fortunes. And therefore it laid so general a discovery of herself before her eyes, that it awaked her most forgotten sorrows, and mustered together the whole multitude of her joys, and would have left the issue of their mutiny very doubtful, but that the presence and notice of her highest happiness decided the quarrel, and gave her joys the victory. For as he was her only sun, whose going down, left nothing but a dumpish night of fearful fancies, wherein no star of hope shined, and the brightest planets were changed into dismal signs: so the serenity of his countenance, and authority of his word, brought a calm and well tempered day, that chase away all darkness, and disperpling the clouds of melancholy, cured the lethargy, and breaketh the dead sleep of her astonished senses.  
She therefore ravished with his voice, and impatient of delays, taketh his talk out of his mouth, and to his first and yet only word, answered but one other calling him Rabboni that is Master. And then sudden joy rousing all other passions, she could no more proceed in her own, then give him leave to go fore ward with his speech.  
Love would have spoken, but fear enforced silence. Hope frameth the words, but doubt melteth them in the passage: and when her inward conceits strived to come out, her voice trembled, her tongue faltered, her breath failed,. In fine tears issued in lieu of words, and deep sighs in stead of long sentences, the eye supplying the mouths default, and the heart pressing out the unsillabled breath at once, which the conflict of her disagreeing passions, would not suffer to be sorted into the several sounds of intelligible speeches.  
For such is there estate that are sick with a surfeit of sudden joy, for the attaining of a thing vehemently desired. For as desire is ever ushered by hope, and waited on by fear, so is it credulous in entertaining conjectures, but hard in grounding a firm belief. And though it be 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 news or appearance of that which is in request, is rather an Alarm to summon up all passions, than a retreat to quiet the desire. For as hope presumeth the best, and inviteth joy to gratulate the good success: so fear suspecteth it too good to be true, & calleth up sorrow to bewail the uncertainty. And while these interchange objections and answers, sometimes fear falleth into despair, and hope riseth into repining anger, and thus the skirmish still continueth till evidence of proof conclude the controversy.  
Marry therefore though she suddenly answered upon notice of his voice, yet because the novelty was so strange, his person so changed, his presence so unerpected, and so many miracles laid at once before her amazed eyes, she found a sedition in her thoughts, till more earnest viewing him erempted them from all doubt.  
And then though words would have broken out, and her heart sent into his, the duties that she ought him, yet every thought striving to be first uttered, and to have the first room in his gracious hearing, she was forced as an indifferent arbitrer among them, to seal them up all under silence by suppressing speech, and to supply the want of words, with more significant actions. And therefore running to the haunt of her chiefest delights, and falling at his sacred feet, she offered to bathe them with tears of joy, and to sanctify her lips with kissing his once grievous, but now most glorious wounds,  
She stayed not for any more words, being now made blessed with the word himself, thinking it a greater benefit, at once to feed all her wishes, in the homage, honour, and embracing of his feet, then in the often hearing of his less comfortable talk.  
For as the nature of love coveteth not only to be united, but if it were possible wholly transformed out of itself into the thing it loveth: So doth it most affect that which most uniteth, and preferreth the least conjunction before any distant contentment. And therefore to see him did not suffiss her, to hear him did not quiet her, to speak with him was not enough for her, and except she might touch him, nothing could please her. But though she humbly fell down 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 jesus what mystery is in this? Being dead in sin she touched thy mortal feet that were to die for her sake, & being now alive in grace, may she not touch thy glorious feet, that are no less for her benefit revived? She was once admitted to anoint thy head, and is she now unworthy of access to thy feet? Dost thou now command her from that for which thou wert wont to commend her, and by praising the deed didst move her often to do it? Sith other women shall touch thee, why hath she a repulse, yea sith she herself shall touch thee hereafter, why is she now rejected? what meanest thou O Lord by thus debarring her of so desired a duty, and sith among all thy disciples thou hast vouchsafed her with such a prerogative, as to honour her eyes with thy first sight, and her ears with thy first words, why deniest thou the privilege of thy first embracing? If the multitude of her tears have won that favour for her eyes, and her longing to hear thee so great a recompense to her ears, why dost thou not admit her hands to touch, and her mouth to kiss thy holy feet, sith the one with many plaints and the other with their readiness to all services, seem to have earned no less reward.  
But notwithstanding all this thou preventest the effect of her offer, with for bidding her to touch thee, as if thou hadst said.  
O Marry know the difference between a glorious and a mortal body, between the condition of a momentary and of an eternal life. For sith the immortality of the body, and the glory both of body and soul, are the endowments of an heavenly inhabitant, and the rights of an other world, think not this favour to see me here ordinary, nor leave to touch me a common thing. It were not so great a wonder to see the stars fall from their Spheres, and the Sun forsake heaven, and to come within the reach of a mortal arm, as for me, that am not only a citizen, but the sovereign of saints, and the sun whose beams are the Angel's bliss, to show myself visible to the pilgrims of this world, and to display eternal beauties to corruptible eyes. Though I be not yet ascended to my father, I shall shortly ascend, and therefore measure not thy demeanour towards me by the place where I am, but by that which is due unto me. And then thou wilt rather with reverence fall down a far off, then with such familiarity presume to touch me. Dost thou not believe my former promises? hast thou not a constant proof by my present words? are not thy eyes and ears sufficient testimonies, but that thou must also have thy hands & face witnesses of my presence? Touch me not O Mary for if I do deceive thy sight, or delude thy hearing, I can as easily beguile thy hand, and frustrate thy feeling. Or if I be true in any one, believe me in all, and embrace me first in a firm faith, and then thou shalt touch me with more worthy hands. It is now necessary to wean thee from the comfort of my external presence, that thou mayst learn 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 seen, being shortly to ascend unto my Father: but what thy eye then seethe not, thy heart shall feel, and my silent parley will find audience in thy inward ear. Yet if thou fearest lest my ascending should be so sudden, that if thou dost not now take thy leave of my feet, with thy humble kisses and loving tears, thou shalt never find the like opportunity again, licence from thee that needless suspicion. I am not yet ascended to my Father, and for all such duties there will be a more convenient time. But now go about that which requireth more haste, and run to my brethren and inform them what I say, that I will go before them into Galilée, there they shall see me.  
Marry therefore preferring her lords will, before her own wish, yet sorry that her will was worthy of no better event, departeth from him like a hungry infant pulled from a full teat, or a thirsty Hart chased from a sweet fountain. She judged herself but an unlucky messenger of most joyful tidings, being banished from her masters presence, to carry news of his resurrection. Alas (saith she) and cannot others be happy without my unhappiness, or cannot their gains come in, but through my losses? Must the dawning of their day be that evening of mine, and my soul rob of such a treasure, to enrich their ears? O my heart return thou to enjoy him, why goest thou with me, that am enforced to go from him? In me thou art but in prison, and in him is thy only Paradise. I have buried thee long enough in former sorrows, & yet now when thou wert half revived, I am constrained to carry thee from the spring of life. Alas go seek to better thyself in some more happy breast, sith I evil deserving creature am nothing different from that I was, but in having taken a taste of the highest delight, that the knowledge & want of it might drown me in the deepest misery.  
Thus duty leading, and love withholding her, she goeth as fast backward in thought as forward in pace, ready eftsoons to faint for grief, but that a fit me hope to see him again did support her weakness. She often turned towards the tomb to breath, deeming the very air that came from the place where he stood to have taken virtue of his presence, and to have in it a refreshing force above the course of nature. Sometimes she forgetteth herself, and love carrieth her in a golden distraction, making her to imagine that her Lord is present, and then she seemeth to demand him questions, and to hear his answers: she dreameth that his feet are in her folded arms, and that he giveth her soul a full repast of his comforts. But alas when she cometh to herself, and findeth it but an illusion, she is so much the more sorry, in that the only imagination, being so delightful, she was not worthy to enjoy the thing itself. And when she passeth by those places where her master had been. O stones (saith she) how much more happy are you then I most wretched caitiff, sith to you was not denied the touch of those blessed feet, whereof my evil deserts have now made me unworthy? Alas what crime have I of late committed that hath thus canceled me out of his good conceit, and estranged from me his accustomed courtesy? Had I but a lease of his love, for term of his life, or did my interest in his feet expire with his decease? In them with my tears I writ my first supplication for mercy, which I pointed with sighs, folded up in my hair, and humbly sealed with the impression of my lips. They were the doors of my first entrance into his favour, by which I was graciously entertained in his heart, and admitted to do homage unto his head, while it was yet a mortal mirror of immortal majesty, an earthly seat of a heavenly wisdom, containing in man a God's felicity.  
But alas I must be contented to bear a lower sail, and to take down my desires to far meaner hopes, sith former favours are now too high marks for me to aim at.  
O my eyes why are you so ambitious of heavenly honours? He is now too bright a sun for so weak a sight: your looks are limited to meaner light, you are the eyes of a bat, and not of an Eagle: you must humble yourselves to the twilight of inferior things, and measure your sights by your slender substance. Gaze not too much upon the blaze of eternity, lest you lose yourselves in too much self delight, and being too curious in sifting his majesty, you be in the end oppressed with his glory. 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 thrown me out of all possession of his mind and memory. Yet why should I stoop to so base a fear? when want of faith was aggrieved with want of all goodness, he disdained not to accept me for one of his number: and shall I now think that he will for my faint belief so rigorously abandon me? And is the sincerity of my love, wherein he hath no partner, of so slender account, that it may not hope for some little spark of his wonted mercy? I will not wrong him with so unjust a suspicion, sith his appearing improveth it, his words over throw it, his countenance doth dissuade it: why then should I suck so much sorrow out of so vain a surmise.  
Thus Maries travailing fancies, making long voyages in this short journey, and wavering between the joy of her vision, and the grief of her denial entertained her in the way, and held her parley with such discourses, as are incident into minds, in which, neither hope is full master of the field, nor fear hath received an utter overthrow.  
But as she was in this perplexed manner, now falling, now rising in her own uncertainties, she findeth on the way, the other holy women, that first came with her to the grave, whom the angels had now assured of Christ's resurrection. And as they passed all forwards towards the Disciples: Behold jesus met them, saying: All hail. But they came near, and took hold of his feet, and adored him. Then jesus said unto them, fear not. Go tell my brethren, that they go into Galilee, there they shall see me.  
O Lord how profound are thy judgements, and unsearchable thy counsels? doth her sorrow sit so near thy heart, or thy repulse rebound with such regret by seeing her wounded love bleed so fast at her eyes, that thy late refusal must so soon be requited with so free a grant? Is it thy pity, or her change, which cannot allow that she should any longer fast from her earnest longing?  
But O most mild physician, well knowest thou that thy sharp corrosie, with bitter smart angered her tender wound, which being rather caused, by un witting ignorance then wilful error, was assoon cured as known. And therefore thou quickly appliest a sweet lenity, to assuage her pain, that she might acknowledge her forbidding rather a fatherly check to her unsettled faith, than an austere rejecting her for her fault. And therefore thou admittest her to kiss thy feet, the two conduits of grace, and seals of our redemption, renewing her a charter of thy unchanged love, and accepting of her the vowed sacrifice of her sanctified soul.  
And thus gracious Lord hast thou finished her fears, assured her hopes, fulfilled her desires, satisfied her loves, stinted her tears, perfected her joys, and made the period of her expiring griefs, the preamble to her now entering, and never ending pleasures.  
O how merciful a father thou art, to left Orphans, how easy a judge to repentant sinners, and how faithful 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 find thee liberal above desert, & bountiful beyond hope: a measurer of thy gifts, not by their merits, but by thy own mercy.  
O christian soul take Mary for thy mirror, follow her affection that like effects may follow thine. Learn O sinful man of this once a sinful woman, that sinners may find Christ, if there sins be amended. Learn that whom sin looseth, love recovereth, whom faintness of faith chaseth away, firmness of hope recalleth, & that which no other mortal force, favour or policy can compass, the continued tears of a constant love, are able to obtain. Learn of Mary for Christ to fear no encounters, out of Christ to desire no comforts, and with the love of Christ to overrule the love of all things. Rise early in the morning of thy good motions, and let them not sleep in sloth, when diligence may perform them. Run with repentance to thy sinful heart which should have been the temple, but through thy fault, was no better than a Tomb for Christ, sith having in thee no life to feel him, he seemed unto thee as if he had been dead. Roll away the stone of thy former hardness, remove all the heavy loads that oppress thee in sin, & look into thy soul, whether thou canst there find thy Lord. If he be not within thee, stand weeping without, and seek him in other creatures, sith being present in all, he may be found in any. Let faith be thy eye, hope thy guide, and love thy light. Seek him, and not his: for himself, and not for his gifts. If thy faith have found him in a cloud, let thy hope seek to see him. If hope have led thee to see him, let love seek further into him. To move in thee a desire to find, his goods are precious: and when he is found, to keep thee in a desire to seek his treasures are infinite. Absent he must be sought to be had, being had, he must be sought to be more enjoyed. Seek him truly, and no other for him. Seek him purely, and no other thing with him. Seek him only and nothing beside him. And if at the first search he appear not, think it not much to persever in tears, and to continue thy seeking. Stand upon the earth, treading under thee all earthly vanities, and touching them, with no more than the sols of thy feet, that is with the lowest and least part of thy affection. To look the better in the tomb, bow down thy neck to the yoke of humility, and stoop from lofty and proud conceits: that with humbled and lowly looks thou mayst find, whom swelling and haughty thoughts have drawn away. A submitted soul soonest winneth his return, and the deeper it sinketh in a self contempt, the higher it climbeth in his highest favours. And if thou perceivest in the tomb of thy heart, the presence of his two first messengers, that is at the feet sorrow of the bad that is past, and at the head, desire to a better that is to come: entertain them with sighs, and welcome them with penitent tears: yet reckoning them but as harbingers of thy Lord, cease not thy seeking till thou findest himself. And if he vouchsafe thee with his glorious sight, offering himself to thy inward eyes, presume not of thyself to be able to know him, but as his unworthy suppliant prostrate thy petitions unto him, that thou mayest truly discern him, and faithfully serve him. Thus preparing thee with diligence, coming with speed, standing with high lifted hopes, and stooping with inclined heart: if with Marry thou cravest no other solace of Jesus but Jesus himself, he will answer thy tears with his presence, and assure thee of his presence with his own words, that having seen him thyself, thou mayest make him known to others: saying with Marie. I have seen our Lord, and these things he said unto me.  
Laus Deo.   

Faults escaped in the Printing.  
IN the Epistle fol. 2. b. lin. 2. sconces, read scouts. To the Reader, four lines before the end. and the patience, read and patience.  
FOl. 2. b. lin. 23 eternal, read external. fol. 3. b. l. 19 summoned, read summed. Folly 4. a. l. 3. disease, read decease. Fol. 6. a. l. 21., for read. For. Fol. 6. b. l. 15. companions, read champions. Fol. 7. a. l. 22. droven, read drowned. Fol. 7. b. l. 7. should, read would. Fol. 11. b. l. 7. to thy, read to her. Fol. 14. a. l. 24. demanding, read demand. Fol. 18. b. l. 22. I heard, read I had. Fol. 19 a. l. 14. couch, read touch, Fol. 22. b. l. 1. heart, read hearts. Ibid. l. 8. this, read his. Fol. 23. a. l. 10. decease, read decease. Fol. 26. b. l. 14. enjoined read enjoyed. Fol. 29. b. l. 12. trouble, read throbs. Ibid. l. 21. without which calling it cometh, read which without calling cometh. Fol. 31. a. l. 9 to weeping, read to no more than weeping. Fol. 35. a. l. 25. better titles, read better, many titles. Fol. 44. a. l. 12. misere, read misery. Fol. 51. b. l. 25. to, read do Fol. 52. a. l. 3. kind, strength, read kind, thy strength. Fol. 53. b. l. 7. His Sayts, read His holy one. Fol. 58. b. l. 21. breaketh, read brake. Fol. 66, a. l. 14. lenity, read lenitive. Ibid. l. 20. kiss thy, read kiss in thy