SAINT MARRY magdalen's CONVERSION.  
✚ IHS  
Printed with Licence.   

THE AUTHOR TO THE READER.  
This small poem (Gentle Reader) was composed for the pleasure of some private friends, and intended to have been presented for a Newyears gift the first of this mounth: But intervention of other affairs, delayed the finishing thereof, until the last. I made choice of this subject, as most fitting this time of death, the style being correspondant, plain and passionate, much like a morning garment, fitting both the time and the matter. Grave enough for soberest wits, and not see harsh, but may content the nicest ears. The reading whereof (I doubt not) will prove both pleasant, and profitable, which is as much as I can wish or thou desire. Farewell this last of januarie. 1603.  
Thine I. C.   

TO THE DEVOUT. AND VIRTUOUS MISTRESS F. B. I. C. PRESENTS THIS HIS WORTHELES LABOUR for a Neweyeares gift.  

THis day (the eight'h from his Nativity)  
The glorious Son of the Omnipotent  
Was Circumcis'de, bearing man's frailty,  
T'appease the wrath of the Magnificent;  
This day, the Son of blessed MARY shed  
His first dear blood, to make us live b'inge dead.   

In memory whereof this custom takes,  
That on the first day of the newe-borne year,  
Each friend, unto his friend some present makes;  
Lover to Lover, husband to his fere:  
But I; poor I, that have no gift to bring,  
Out of my homebred Muse these verses sing.    

SAINT MARY magdalen's CONVERSION.  

OF Rome's great conquest in the elder age,  
When she the world made subject to her thrall,  
Of lovers giddy fancies, and the rage,  
Wherewith that passion is possessed withal,  
When jealousy with love doth share apart,  
And breeds a civil war within the heart.   

Of Helen's rape, and Troy's besieged Town,  
Of Troilus faith, and Cressida's falsity,  
Of Rychards' stratagems for the english crown,  
Of Tarquin's lust, and lucrece chastity,  
Of these, of none of these my muse now treats,  
Of greater conquests, wars, and loves she speaks,   

A woman's conquest of her one affects,  
A woman's war with her self-appetite,  
A woman's love, breeding such effects,  
As th'age before nor since near brought to light,  
Of these; and such as these, my muse is priest,  
To spend the idle hours of her rest.   

Thou blessed Saint, whose life doth teach to live,  
Entreat that loving and best loved Lord of thine,  
That he vouchsafe such lively grace to give  
Unto these dull, and lifeless rhymes of mine,  
That such as read this good, (though ill told) story,  
May be (like thee) for their offences sorry.   

When first the world's Creator our dread Lord,  
Did with his presence bless judeae land,  
And to all sorts of people did afford,  
His gracious favour and all helping hand,  
Restoring by his power Omnipotent,  
The lazar, deaf, blind, lame, and impotent.   

Amongst the daughters of the sons of men,  
She that did most his gracious mercy prove,  
Was (Mary Martha's sister) Magdalen,  
Who loved most, and had most cause to love,  
Her wounded soul he cured with sins oppressed,  
Nature's defects in others he redressed.   

She needed not the rich man's golden ring,  
That all desires, seldom well got, good,  
She needed not the herald's deif'ing,  
To make her gentle of ungentle blood,  
She needed not the painters white and red,  
Nature those colours in her face had shed.   

Her eyes unto their Mistress yielded light,  
All though herself, within herself, were blind,  
She was nor lame, nor deaf, nor lazar-like,  
Perfecc'ous store to each lime was asin'de,  
With nature's gifts she plent'iously was graced,  
But sin those ornaments had all defaced.   

Sin made her want, in midst of her store,  
Sin made her servile in her liberty,  
Of all good grace's sin did make her poor,  
And rich in nothing but in misery,  
Her soul was subject to a thousand evils,  
Her body cumbered with as many Divilles.   

But her dear Lord through his life-giving grace,  
This many-headed Monster drove away,  
And those foul fiends who did his works deface,  
His blessed presence from her did affray,  
He thought not meet, that such unseemly gest,  
Should in so fair an Arbour build their nest.   

After her foes were thus dispersed and gone.  
Her captive soul b'inge franchis'de from their thrall,  
And she transformed by that mighty one,  
From her life best ' all to celestial,  
Her Lord affirmed that her love was such,  
That she deserved to be pardoned much.   

Her Lawless lusts she chaing'de to lawful love,  
Her many pleasures to one chief delight,  
All other joys she did from her remove,  
And only joyed in his blessed sight,  
Who best deserved to be loved most,  
saving her soul from death, by sin b'inge lost.   

She hateth now, what she had loved before,  
She loveth him, to whom all love was due,  
Her former misspent life she doth deplore,  
And now endeavours for to live anew,  
Herself, unto herself did hateful grow,  
When thus enlight'ned she herself did know.   

This Holy hatred did true love increase;  
She loved the more in that she hated so,  
This Holy hatred did her false loves cease,  
And how to love aright to her did show,  
O Hatred thou are only good in this,  
In all things else thou dost work amiss.   

Like to a monster to herself she seem'ed,  
And of herself, herself was now afraid,  
She saw 'twas otherwise then she had deem'ed,  
And loth'de to see how fond she had strayed,  
She now perceives the errors of her life,  
Which makes her with herself to be in strife   

O how have I deceived been (quoth she)  
With the false show of counterfeit delight?  
Were these the pleasures? this the vanities,  
Which now so much my guilty soul affright?  
Have I incurred the loss of life and fame,  
To purchase sorrow and repentant shame?   

Did I for this, my father's house forsake,  
Leaving my careful sister sisterles?  
Did I for this, of friends me friendless make,  
Shaming my kindred through my sinnefullnes?  
Did I for this, leave sister, friends and all,  
And from the service of my maker fall?   

O sin, thou art a serpent full of flight,  
Thy face seemed not so fowl as now I see,  
Thou dost bewitch us with a strong deceit,  
Of seeming good though full of misery,  
Our souls thou woundest with thy poisonus dart,  
And we (as senseless) never feel the smart.   

Thou art the loss of heaven, and hell's best friend;  
How many (like a Siren) hear thee sing?  
How many by in chantment dost thou send,  
To Pluto's Kingdom, ere they feel thy sting,  
But why do I exclaim against thee so,  
When I was partner in my over throw?   

I gave consent that thou shouldst work my fall,  
I pleased was with what thou didst suggest,  
I was attendant to each servile call,  
And basely subject to thy foul behest,  
I grew a cunning Artist in thy trade,  
And with thy Charms have many souls insnar'de.   

O sin of sins and the worst of evils,  
To poison others with thy stinking breath,  
No marvel though I was a lodge for devils,  
And worthily became a hell on earth;  
Wast not enough that thou thyself didst sin,  
But that thou others to the same must win?   

O my lost soul, how foul wilt thou appear,  
How full of fear, in that last dreadful day,  
When thou shalt bitter exclamations hear,  
Of such, whom thou didst guilefully betray,  
What canst thou say? What colour canst thou bring,  
T' excuse thyself of this infecting sin?   

O none at all; for sinnes-selfe I am grown;  
There is no sin but what in me remains,  
To be a public sinner I am known,  
The note of shame, which all my kindred stains,  
The blot, which I would wash of with my blood,  
To purchase to myself the name of good:   

But I have been so long sins servingman,  
That men will think I cannot from him part,  
They will object, I am a publican,  
And by long custom grounded in the art;  
From custom we another nature take,  
In good or ill she doth us perfect make.   

If to my sister home-againe I take me,  
She will reject me, lest I spot her fame,  
If to my kinsfolks, they will all forsake me;  
Through my misdeeds I have incur'de such blame,  
I dare not to a stranger show my face  
HE will wound my soul with words of foul disgrace.   

Like to Minerva's bird, when she appears  
And shows her hated self unto the light,  
Each fath'red foul against her Clamours rears,  
And makes her all ashamed take her flight,  
They all pursuing her with ●ill and wing,  
And she as fast away doth from them fling:   

So doth it far with me distressed one,  
When in the peopled streets. I chance to walk,  
There man nor woman doth respect my moan,  
But all of my loss life do seem to talk,  
All seem to wonder at me a I go,  
And monsterlike me to their children show.   

Me thinks I see some from their windows look,  
And with their fingers pointing out my shame,  
And some (who cannot) my foul presence brook,  
With lavish tongues to publish my defame,  
All hands and tongues conspiring my disgrace,  
Whilst I a loathed Creature veil my face.   

For though it be a common act to fall,  
And sin itself is too well Cherished:  
Yet is the sinner hattefull unto all;  
Compass'on now 'mong'st men is perished,  
The plea of mercy will not hold in law,  
Each pettifogger in it finds a flaw.   

The beggar always for offences bleeds,  
And feels the hand of grim Severity,  
The rich man's gold can cancel out misdeeds,  
And blind the sight of blear-eyed bribery:  
But I am rich in nothing, but in sin,  
That would I all forego some grace to win.   

If in my life I had but once misdone,  
Then had I not such urgent cause to mourn,  
Or to offend if I had new begun,  
Then were there some small hope of back-return:  
But long used sins from all this hope bereaves,  
And of their good conceptes me hopeless leaves.   

Much like a crazy weatherbeaten boat,  
Who having all his sails and tacklings lost,  
Amid the surges of the seas doth float,  
And too and fro with every guste is toast:  
So waves my anxious soul midst stormy fears  
No harbour can she find no calm appears.   

But since of friends my sins hath me bereft,  
I will return unto that Nazarite,  
Who of his pity hath good tokens left  
In me for lost wretched Israelite,  
He is for all afflicted and distressed  
A harbour, haven, and a port of rest.   

A Godlike man (if I may term him so)  
Or rather God; for dowbtles so he is,  
More than a man to be, his deeds do show,  
Each eye his acc'ons more than human fees:  
But how shall I be grateful to the best  
When I a sinner do myself detest?   

For being good (as he no other seems)  
As chiefest good, he hateth all that's ill,  
Like Traitors to his crown he sinners deems,  
Who still oppose themselves against his will;  
Nothing in God but sin can hatred breed;  
How then shall I the worst of sinner's speed.   

Through his all-seing wisdom he doth know  
The passed faults of my transgressing life;  
How great the wounds have been the Scars will show:  
As yet my sinful sores are bleeding rife;  
More than all others, I did him offend,  
Less cause there is that he should succour lend.   

What (he will say) now all men thee reject,  
Canst thou suppose that I will thee receive?  
Me most deserving thou didst least respect,  
And for a shadow, didst the substance leave,  
All that thou hast, I gave; yet thou unjust  
Didst moste offend him who did give thee most.   

I did Create thee of a different state  
From other Creatures of a less respect,  
I might have made thee, like in form and shape,  
Unto the Monsters, of a fierce aspect:  
But I did give thee nature's ornament  
Beauty, which thou hast lavishly misspent.   

I gave thee will, for to desire the best,  
And understanding to discern the same,  
Thou wast not ignorant of my behest:  
For all thy Nation invocate my name;  
If thou hadst been a Gentile, thy abuse  
Might have put on some colour of excuse:   

But thou didst know what did to me belong,  
And what thyself in duty shouldst have done,  
Yet thou didst never cease to work me wrong,  
Persisting always in thine ill begun,  
I sparing thy deserved punishment,  
expecting still thy sins relinquishment.   

He that his Creditor hath long delay'de  
With dilatory hopes, of payements due,  
Having made breach of promise grows dismai'de,  
Lest ireful rigour will his fault ensue,  
His Creditors feared presence he forsakes,  
Till due repayement some atonement makes:   

But thou art far engaged in my debt;  
For what hast thou which I did not bestow?  
How canst thou then new credit now expect,  
Who never payest but ever seekest to owe?  
For now thou comest no old debts to defray:  
But mercies new disbursementes for to pray.   

Canst thou imagine I myself forget?  
Or that calm mercy revengeful justice stays?  
Although ('tis true) I sit on mercy's seat,  
Yet my right hand the sword of justice sways;  
Mercy and justice are at my dispense,  
To pardon or to punish each offence.   

Thou hast already tasted mercies store,  
In that I did so long thy life sustain,  
Now justice doth require, thou shouldst restore,  
Thy borrowed talon, with an earned gain,  
But banckrout-like, thou hast misspent the stock,  
And now ashamed at mercy's gate dost knock.   

I know this Lord; I know I have offended,  
And am in debted more than I can pay,  
I humbly crave that mercy be extended,  
And I no more will run so far astray,  
Tears spent her speech (for now she wept a'mine)  
And after tears she thus began again.   

If thou (O Lord) wilt cancel my old debt,  
And once again restore me to thy grace,  
If thou wilt all my former wrongs forget,  
And smooth the wrinckels of thy angry face,  
The remnant of my purchased life I vow,  
In thy true service wholly to bestow.   

Here silent grief suppressed her further moan,  
And stopped the current of her flowing tears,  
She could not speak, nor weep, her soul alone,  
The heavy weight of sorrows burden bears,  
When outward senses once have spent their store,  
Then inward passions do offlicte the more.   

Her soul within her holds a parliament,  
And summons all her powers to appear,  
And they (as ready for to give content)  
Unto their Lady lend awilling ear,  
Within themselves they seriously debate,  
How to redress their mistress troubled state.   

First memory (the minds best Register)  
Tells her of many (Like herself) distressed,  
Who were relieved by this comforter,  
And had their former evils all redressed,  
How that the proud he useth to reject,  
But mercies-beggars always doth erect,   

Here Hope conceiveth (from examples past)  
A good conceit that like may now ensue,  
She doth suggest, how that his mercies last,  
And are bestowed on them that humbly sue,  
Hope doth persuade her sad Contrition,  
Will for offences beg Remission.   

Now strong opinion doth possess her breast,  
And her ensureth of a good success,  
And freeborn will (as handmaid to the rest)  
Is now behind to entertain such guess:  
Only distrust and ever-douting fear,  
Her springing hapes do cross with dead despair.   

They bid her look aright on her misdeeds,  
And she should find 'twas not as she suppo'de,  
Which chookes in her the growth of hopefulll seed,  
And makes her doubt what erst had been propos'de;  
As oft as Hope her fainting soul imbouldes:  
Distrust and fear the same as oft controls.   

Like to a Trau'ler in an unknown way  
Who having sundry paths to pass along,  
Is careful which to take, fearing to stray,  
And still he doubts, that which he takes is wrong,  
So her sad soul with doudtfull fears oppressed,  
Knows not which course to take but wills the best   

Now Hope his wont pirtie dote relate,  
And then Distrust bids her his justice eye;  
Yet fearful Hope at length doth animate,  
Her Conscious soul, his mercy's doom to try,  
She now resolves (all fear b'eing lad aside)  
Under his mercy's wings herself to hide.   

And lest the vice hateful to God and man,  
Ingratitude; that ill repaying sin,  
Should in her breast erect his mansion,  
From forth her store sweet ointment she doth bring,  
Which she intends upon him to bestow,  
That outward act her inward love might show.   

She was not like those ill-deseruinge jews,  
In cleansed bodies haching leprous souls,  
Their healthes-restorer nine of them refuse:  
But she his love within her breast infolds,  
And gratefully her precious oil doth shed,  
On his divine and far more precious head.   

This act of hers her Lord doth so regard,  
That he comaundes it should for aye be known,  
And where his life true story should be heard,  
This deed of hers should likewise there be shown,  
This act of hers her Lord somuch regarded,  
That he the same with double pay rewarded.   

O what are we (o Lord) that thou shouldst weigh,  
Our duteous service at so high a rate,  
All that we borrow, justice binds to pay,  
We own thee all; from the we all did take,  
How comes it then that thou so well accep'sts,  
If we discharge the tent'he of our due debts?   

What did she give thee; but a cruse of oil,  
Which now she had no further cause to use?  
She will no more her well formed visage soil,  
And Nature's workmanship by art abuse,  
But thou didst weigh the love wherewith she gave it,  
Which made thee graciously vouchsafe to have it.   

Now she proceeds; and from his head descends,  
Unto his feet, where prostrate she doth lie;  
For former Pride she feign would make amends,  
With this devout vnfain'de Humility,  
She loulie sets her at his blessed feet,  
Mean while her eyes rivers of tears do weep.   

Tears of true sorrow for offences done,  
Her watery eyes like prodigalles do spend,  
Wherewith the feet of great jehovans Son,  
For to imbalm, she humbly doth intend,  
Those feet of his, these tears of hers, make fair,  
And being wet she dries them with her hair.   

O well spent tears; you did but cleanse the spots,  
Which weary journeys, and foul ways had maid:  
But you did wash of many thousand blots,  
Wherewith foul sin her guilty soul had smear'de,  
O happy tears; and happily bestowed,  
You did defray what ere your mistress owed.   

After this work of Charity was past,  
Her love was such, she would not from him part,  
No earthly storms her heavenly love could blast,  
It was so deeply rooted in her heart,  
With modest silence tempering her loves heat,  
Her silent love by silence growing great.   

O silence; Companion of the wise,  
Thou surest note of spotless Chastity,  
All our frail passions thou dost temporize,  
And kindlest Holy thoughts in secrecy;  
Thou art a virtue rarely found on earth,  
Of virtues store there is so great a dearth.   

In Prince's Coortes thou canst no harbour find,  
Thy service there is but of slight regard,  
Thou canst not flatter; thou art not the wind,  
Wherewith ambitious toiling gests are rear'de,  
Thou canst not fill the sails of envies boat,  
Nor set the ship of longe-tong'de Fame a float.   

Thou art no tradseman for the cities use;  
Thou canst not harbour many tongues in one;  
The Countrymen with thee have broken truce,  
And entered league with fell dissension,  
The woods the babbling Echo entertain,  
Which each word iterates and makes one twain.   

Both Coort and City, Country and the woods  
Are unto Silence strangers, now unknown,  
And she hath left them to their brainsick moods,  
And to the heavens (from whence she came) is flown,  
She seldom now doth visit this our coast:  
Far if she comes she knows not where to host.   

This virtue first possessed Mary's breast,  
And did dispose her unto higher grace:  
For where garrulity doth build her nest,  
There modest virtues have no biding place,  
By this her new-reformed life was known,  
By this hereafter constancy was shown.   

For when the Lord of life our Ransom pai'de,  
And by his death, gave life unto the dead,  
When his Disciples fearfully dismai'de,  
From persecutions angry presence fled,  
She constantly attends him to his passion,  
And fears no threats of her life-killing Nation.   

Even at the foot of that fruit-baring tree,  
Which cured the wound by former tree received,  
She humbly sets her down, grieving to see:  
His blessed presence, from her thus bereaved;  
In stead of feet, she powers her liberal tears  
On that dead trunk, which now his body bears.   

This she embraceth in her twisted arms,  
Mixing her salt tears with his lukewarm blood,  
Which from his wounds distil'de (to salve our harms)  
Like forced streams proceeding from some flood,  
Which when she sees it makes her sad soul bleed,  
In strong compassion of so foul a deed.   

O thou my Lord, my Love, my Souls delight,  
Thy sight was erst (quoth she) my chiefest joy,  
To see thee thus, it doth my soul assise,  
And turns all former pleasure to annoy,  
To see thee thus, how can I chose but weep  
When for my tears thy blood doth wash thy feet.   

How can I chose but weep, to see thy head  
Inuiron'de with a crown of sharpest thorn,  
To see thy lovely countenance pall and dead,  
Which once with beauty did the heavens adorn,  
To see the brightest lamps which light the skies  
Obscur'de by blood and death; thy blessed eyes,   

To see those ever-working hands of thine,  
So savadglie affixed to this wood,  
Which with a touch, gave light to blindest eyen,  
And always were imploi'de in doing good;  
To see that heart, where Charity doth dwell  
pierced with envies spear, the dart of Hell.   

To see those worn but neuer-wear'ed feet,  
Who many long and toil some journeys made  
To seek us lost, and ever-wandering sheep,  
In the vast desert of black sin insnar'de,  
Now neither going, standing, nor at rest,  
But to a piece of wood with nails addressed;   

To see that body which the purest womb  
Of an unspotted Virgin, once contain'de,  
Now to be fit for some ghastly tomb,  
By cruel stripes and wounds deformed and stain'de,  
Thyself despised, naked, and for lost,  
Bereft of friends, and to thy foes a scorn.   

How can I chose (o Lord) but weep and moan,  
In sad remembrance of these dire aspects,  
How can I chose but sigh, to hear the groan,  
Under the heavy load of our defects,  
Was there no other means to pay our loss,  
But thou must needs be naled to this Cross?   

O wonderful effects, of wondrous love,  
He that of late gave life unto the dead.  
And from possessed bodies did remove,  
Legions of devils that his presence fled,  
For them that kills him, doth his life bestow,  
And pays the debt, which they themselves did owe.   

O you ungrateful bloudy-mynded jews,  
Always imbr'de in spilling righteous blood;  
How can you thus this innocent abuse,  
Who never in the way of sinners stood?  
What hath he done that you should use him thus?  
Was he not ever merciful and just?   

Did he not feed the hungry of the land,  
And cure the sick through his health-giving might?  
Did he not make the lame to go and stand,  
And to the blind restore desired sight?  
Did not both poor, and sick, both lame, and blind  
Through his mild pity health and comfort find?   

O you are more in human beastlike men,  
Then savage beasts in wildest deserts bred;  
They for a good deed still have grateful been,  
And such as did relieve them, they have fed:  
But you do pay the hire of ill desert  
To him, that did all good to you impart.   

This makes the heavens (who erst were bright & clear)  
To change their purple weeds to saddest black,  
No signs of joy in heaven or earth appear,  
Because the Lord of joy and bliss they lack;  
The Son himself doth hide his glorious face,  
Loathing to see his makers foul disgrace.   

The earth doth tremble at this horrid deed,  
Frighting the ghosts of the infernal deep,  
Her womb brings forth straying and untimely seed,  
The dead arise which in her bosom sleep,  
The adamantine rocks do cleave a sunder;  
Their stony hearts do rend to see this wonder:   

But you whose hearts are harder than the rocks,  
You bloody actors of this tragic scene;  
You that repay sweet Charity with mocks,  
And seek his loss who doth your welfare mean;  
You neither earth below, nor heaven above,  
With their unwonted prodigies can move.   

O thou sad mother of a sadder Son,  
Thou art spectator too of this great loss  
Thy joys are past, thy sorrows newe-begunne,  
Whom once the Cribe receau'de, now bears the Cross,  
Unto his Birth the one did harbour tend,  
Upon the other he his Life doth spend.   

My grieved soul is wounded with remorse,  
To see thy swollen eyes; to hear thy groans,  
The very sight would flinty hearts enforce,  
To take compassion of thy bitter moans,  
Thou art more like the dead, or deaths pall wife,  
Then to the mother of the Lord of life   

Shall you and I (dear Lady) plight our troth,  
And wed ourselves to sorrows restless bed;  
Our love and joy is taken from us both,  
And we are left for to bewail the dead,  
We both lament the loss of him that's gone,  
I, a most loving Lord, thou, a blessed Son.   

Shall we be take us to a hermitage,  
In some wild desert unto men unknown,  
And there wear out the remnant of our age,  
Filling the wide woods with our ceaseless moan,  
Let me take part of this thy heavy cheer,  
And for each fie of thine i'll spend a tear?   

Fellows in misery lessens sorrows weight:  
But I unworthy am to be thy mate,  
I have a spotted soul with sins full freight:  
But thou a Virgin art Immaculate;  
Thou art assin'de unto a Virgin's keeping,  
I will alone betake myself to weeping.   

By that time this her sad complaint was done,  
He that gives life had vanquish'de death by dying,  
And joseph comes t'interr this Holy one,  
Which in this weeper breeds new cause of crying;  
Before she wept, to see him so tormented,  
Because she sees him not, she now lamented:   

For joseph had new ta'en him from the Cross,  
And lai'de him in a Sepulchre of stone;  
Not his spent life, but his dead body's loss,  
Is now the cause of this her second moan,  
She sees the tree of life of fruit bereft:  
But her love-wounded soul uncured left.   

Which makes her thus to speak; O sacred tree,  
His precious blood hath left thee sanctified,  
Thou wert ordained an Altar for to be,  
Whereon this offering should be sacrified,  
Since he is gone, who was thy ornament  
To thee my sad complaints shall all be bend.   

I'll set thee for an object fore mine eyes;  
In seeing thee, I shall not him forget,  
Who did vouchsafe on thee to sacrifice,  
His own dear life, to pay our sinful debt:  
Though for my saviours shame they did thee make  
Yet I will honour thee for his sweet sake.   

With these and such like plaints the day was spent  
And dusky night had darkened all the sckye,  
Which when she saw unto her home she went,  
And there absentes her from all company,  
Like to a Turtle having lost her mate:  
So she without her Lord is desolate.   

This restless night and Saboathes rest b'eing past,  
(A day of sorrow and unrest to her)  
Unto the Monument early she did haste,  
Where they his Precious Body did entire,  
She doth present the rising of the sun,  
And takes her journey ere the day begun,   

No wont dangers of the fearful night,  
Could make her from her enterprise to stay,  
When Ghosts and Spirits nightwalkers use to fright,  
When Wolves and ravonous Beasts do wach their prey,  
When none but murderrers and thieves did wake:  
Then all-alone this Pilgrimage she takes.   

She might have feared the Soldiers cruel guard,  
Who did about that Holy place attend,  
And night and day his tomb did watch and ward,  
And from all Visitores the same defend,  
But her stout heart these perils could not touch  
Her love was more, although her danger much.   

love made her strong, although herself were weak,  
Love gave swift wings unto her quick desire,  
Love added fire to her former heat;  
Of doubts nor dangers Love doth not inquire,  
O powerful love, thou dost no perils cast,  
The bitterest pills seem pleasant to thy taste.   

By this time love had brought her to his tomb,  
Which she finds open by the stones remove,  
But nought she sees with in his empty tomb,  
But linen , which had enwrapped her love  
Whom when she finds not, she doth weep & moan,  
Imaginning that he was stolen and gone.   

O you profane and Sacraligious thieves,  
Who have (quoth she) his sacred corpse bereft;  
It is a sin, to rob from him that lives,  
To rob the house of death, is double theft,  
Was not your envy by his dying past,  
But after death the same must also last?   

O Envy; thou art a more blaker sin,  
Then bloody murder, who seeks nought but death,  
His thirsty appetite hath quenched been,  
But thou thy kill sword dost never sheathe,  
The act being done he often doth relent,  
But thy hellborn malice near is spent.   

I had not long enjoyed his blessed sight,  
But thou didst take him to the Cross from me,  
Where having kill'de him in thyself despite,  
Thou seemedst content that he intomb'de should be,  
There did I think I should his presence have,  
But thou hast also ta'en him from his grave.   

Unhappy I to come no sooner hither,  
I might aswell have come the day before,  
Now they have ta'en him hence I know not whether,  
And I am never like to see him more,  
The Spice and Ointments which with me I brought,  
I cannot now bestow on him I sought.   

With this two Glorious Angels do appear,  
To Comfort this uncomfortable one,  
They tell her he's risen, bids her not fear.  
But cease her sad complaints and heavy moan,  
Whilst she stands doubtful of this happy news,  
Her loving Lord himself unknown she views.   

She takes him to be gardener of that place,  
And gently doth bespeak him (as dismai'de)  
That if he did his body thence displace,  
He would inform her where the same was lai'de;  
He lovingly discovers whom he is,  
She doth adore when thus her Lord she sees.   

Her humbled body to the earth she bows,  
In odarac'on of his Deity,  
Mean while her joyful soul herself bestows  
In Contemplac'on of this Mystery;  
Of heavenly joy she feels so sweet a taste;  
That she forgets her ancient sorrows paste.   

O thou that art the heavens and earths Creator,  
Thou great dispenser of Celestial treasure,  
Thou that of Angels, Men, and Beasts art maker,  
Whose profound wisdom hath nor end nor measure,  
How merciful (O Lord) art thou; for each good deed,  
Thou dost repay us with a double meed.   

She wash'de thy feet with tears her eyes had shed,  
To cleanse her soul thy blood thou didst perfuse,  
She powered her precious ointment on thy head,  
In her thou didst Celestial grace infuse,  
She for thy absence did great sorrow take,  
Thou with thy presence didst her joyful make.   

Give grace (O Lord) to me unworthy one,  
To imitate this blessed Saint of thine,  
Fill thou mine eyes with tears, my heart with moan,  
That I may wail those grievous sins of mine,  
And if salt tears unto mine eyes be scant,  
Be merciful (O Lord) for this my want.   

Make me (like her) all worldly joys reject,  
And let my soul be wedded to thy love,  
Thy loving sweetness let me not forget,  
All other fancies from my heart remove,  
And if I do not love thee as I should,  
Have mercy Lord; accept of that I would.   
Finis Deo gratias. 
I. N. R. I.   cross