 | Christ's Burial |  |
Off the wepinge of the thre Maries
(This is a play to be played, on part on Gud Friday afternone, and þe other part opon Ester Day after the resurrection in the morowe, but at «the» begynnynge ar certen lynes which «shuld» not be said if it be plaied, which ... [remaining words cut off at bottom])
Thre Mariye sais alle togider in a voce:
Aiunt THRE MARIE.
O most dolorose day! O tym of gretist sorowe!
MAVDLEYN.
O sisters, stand stille vntylle to-morowe!
I trow I may not leue.
JOSEPH.
I here the Mawdleyn bitterly compleyn.
What gud creature may hymself refrayn
In this piteose myscheffe?
PRIMA MARIA.
O day of lamentation!
SECUNDA MARIA.
O day of exclamatione!
THRID MARY.
O day off suspiratione,
Which Jewes shalle repent!
MAVDLEYN.
O day most doloruse!
SECUNDA MARIA.
O day paynfulle and tediose!
TERCIA MARIA.
O pepulle most cruelle and furiose,
Thus to slo an innocent!
SECUNDA MARIA.
O Mawdleyn, your master dere,
How rewfully he hinges here
That set you first in ceile!
MAWDLEYN.
JOSEPHE.
O Mawdleyn, said Joseph, I pray you here,
And your susters als, to be of gud chere.
MAGDAL«EYN».
«J»OSEPH.
Yis, Moder Mawdleyn, it changid my chere!
The wounder was so grete I yrkit to com nere,
But I was not farre hence.
MAGDALENA.
JOSEPHE.
Gude Mawdleyn, of your mowrnynge cease,
It ekes my doole, dere moder.
MARIA JACOBI SECUNDA.
Goode frende Josephe, what creatur maye
But sorow to se this wofulle daye,
The day of gretist payne?
MARIA SOLAMEE.
Wo and sorow must nedes synke
Mor in our hartes than met and drinke,
To se our Saueyoure slayne.
JOSEPHE.
Alese, women, ye mak my hart to relente,
Beholdinge his body thus torne and rente,
That inwardly I wepe.
But, gude Mawdleyn, shew vnto me
Where is Mary, his mothere so free?
Who haues that maide to kepe?
MAVDLEYN.
JOSEPHE.
A, gude Mawdleyn, who can hir blame,
To se hir awn son in so grete shame,
Withowt ony offence?
But, Mavdleyn, had he ony mynd on hir in his passion?
MAVDLEYN.
«JO»SEPH.
A, gud lady, fulle wo was shee.
But can ye telle what wordes saide hee
There in that grete distresse?
«M»AVDLEYN.
O Josephe, this lame most meke,
In his cruelle tormentes and paynfulle eke,
But fewe wordes he hadd,
Saue that in grete agonye
He saide thes wordes: ‘I am thrustye’,
With chere demure and sadd.
«J»OSEPH.
Mawdleyne, suppose ye his desire was to drinke?
«M»AVDLEYN.
TWO MARIES.
Gud Mawdleyn, mesure youre distillinge teres!
«M»AVDLEN.
«J»OSEPHE.
«MA»VDLEN.
«JO»SEPH.
MAVDLE«N».
ALTERA MARIA.
Mawdleyne, your mowrnynge avaylis nothinge.
Lat vs speke to Josephe, hym hertely desiringe
For to finde some gude waye
This crucified body down to take,
And bringe it to sepulcre and so lett make
Ende of this wofulle daye.
«J»OSEPH.
«N»icodemus venit.
[NICHODEMUS].
JOSEPH.
Gude brothere, of your compleinte cesse!
Ȝe renewe agayne grete hevynesse
Now in thes women here.
NICODEM«E».
Joseph, redy to tak Crist down, sais:
[JOSEPH].
To tak down this body, lat vs assaye.
Brother Nichodemus, help, I yow praye.
On arme I wald ye hadd,
To knokk out thes nayles so sturdy and grete.
O, Safyoure! They sparid not your body to bete!
Thay aught now to be sadd.
MAWDLEYN.
Gude Josephe, handille hym tenderlye!
JOSEPHE.
Stonde ner, Nichodemus, resaue hym softlye.
Mawdleyne, hold ye his fete.
MAWDLEYNE.
Haste yow, gude Josephe, hast yow whiklye!
For Marye, his moder, wille com, fer I.
A, A, that virgyne most swete!
NICHODEMUS.
I saw hir benethe on the othere sid;
With John, I am sure sho wille not abid
Longe frome this place.
Mary, Virgyn and Mother [with John Euaungeliste] com then sayinge:
[MARY VIRGIN].
A! A, my dere sone Jhesus! A! A, my dere sone Jhesus!
JOHN EUAUNGELISTE.
Gude Marye, swete cosyn, mowrn ye not thus!
Ye see how stondes the case.
MAWDLEYNE.
Mary Virgyn sais, falles in swown:
[MARY VIRGYN].
Stonde stille, frendes, hast ye not soo!
Haue ye no fere of mee!
Lat me help to tak my dere son down!
MARY MAWDLEYN.
Lo, I was sure sho walld falle in a swown!
Her on euery sid is pitee.
JOSEPHE.
Help, Mawdleyn, to revyue hir agayn!
A! A! This womans harte is plungid with payn!
Hir sorowe sho cane not cesse.
JOHN EUAUNGELISTE.
A, A, dere ladee, wherfore and why
Fare ye on this wise? Wille ye here dy?
Leyf of this hevynesse!
Ye promesit me ye wold not do thus.
MAWDLEYN.
Speke, ladye, speke for the loue of Jhesus,
Youre swete sone, my master here.
MARYE VIRGYN.
A, A, Mawdleyn, Mawdleyn, your master so dere!
TWO MARIES.
Most meke modere, be now of gude chere!
JOHN EUAUNGELISTE.
Wipe awaye that rynnys owte so faste!
From your remembraunce, rayse owt at þe last
Of his passione the crueltee.
JOSEPHE.
Tak comfurthe, Marye; this wailinge helpes nothinge.
Your dere son we wille to his sepulcre bringe,
Als it is alle oure dewtee.
MARY VIRGYN.
et cadit in extas«ia».
MAWDLEYN.
Mek moder and mayde, leve your lamentation!
Ye swown stille on pase with dedly suspiration.
Ye mare yowreself and vs.
JOHN EUAUNGELIST.
Ye shuld lefe of your paynfulle afflictione,
Callinge to your mynd his resurrection,
Which sal be so glorivse.
This knaw ye, and þat beste.
MARY VIRGYN.
JOSEPHE.
JHOANNES EUANGELISTE.
Com on, swete lady, I ȝow reqwire.
I shalle gife yow attendance.
JOSEPHE.
On of yow women, ber hir companye.
ALTERA MARIA.
I shalle wayte on hir. Go we hence, Marye;
Put alle this from your remembrance.
MARIE VIRGYN.
JOSEPHE.
A, A, Marye! For a gud consent,
We wald not haue you here.
MARIE VIRGYN.
Wold ye renewe mor sorow in me?
JOSEPHE.
Nay, gud lady, that were pitee!
MARYE VIRGYNE.
JOHN EUAUNGELISTE.
Lady, if ye wille haue moderation
Of youre most sorowfulle lamentacion,
Do as ye list in this case.
MARIE VIRGYNE.
John, I shalle do os ye thinke gude.
Gentille Josephe, lat me sit vnder your rude,
And holde my son a space.
NICHODEMUS.
Let vs suffere the modere to compleyn
Hir sonnes dethe in verrey certeyn,
Tille ease hir and content.
JOSEPHE.
Ye, so shalle hir sorowfulle harte
Alway to suffere smarte,
And we can bot repente.
MARIE VIRGYN.
JOHN EUAUNGELISTE.
Than, gude swete lady, lef your gret mon!
MARY VIRGYN.
MAWDLEYN.
To do ȝour biddynge, lady, [we] be rightt fayn,
But yit, gud lady, your teres ȝe refreyn!
JOSEPHE.
Now, Mary, deliuer that blessit body tille vs.
MARY VIRGYN.
Wille ȝe tak from me myn own son Jhesus?
NICHODEMUS.
Gud lady, suffere vs to bringe hym to his grave.
MARY VIRGYNE.
JOHANNES EUANGELISTA.
O, Mary, modere and maiden most myld,
Ordere yourselfe os reson doth requere!
JOSEPHE.
Com on, lat vs bery this body that is here!
MARY VIRGYN.
O, now myn harte is in a mortalle dred!
Allas! Shalle I not kep hym nothire whik ne ded?
Is ther no remedye?
Yit, Josephe, agayn the cloth ye vnfold,
That his graciose visage I may ons behold,
I pray yow interlye!
JOSEPHE.
Pece, gude Marye! Ye haue had alle your wille!
MARY VIRGYN.
JOHNE EUAUNGELIST.
Be content, swet Mary, for it may nott bee.
MARY VIRGYN.
A! A! Toward me ye be verreye cruelle!
Yit lat me bid ons myn own son farwelle!
Ye may it not denye.
Now, farewelle, only joye of alle my harte and mynd,
Farewelle! The derest redemption of mankind
Suffert most bitterlye!
JOHNE EUAUNGELIST.
Com one, gud Mary, com!
NICHODEMUS.
Some of you women, ber hir companye!
TWO MARIES.
We shalle gife hire attendance,
Faithfully, with humble reuerance.
Exeunt.
JOSEPHE.
MAWDLEN.
JOSEPHE.
NICODEMUS.
Gladly, frende Joseph, I wille go with ȝowe.
(This is a play to be played, on part on Gud Friday afternone, and þe other part opon Ester Day after the resurrection in the morowe, but at «the» begynnynge ar certen lynes which «shuld» not be said if it be plaied, which ... [remaining words cut off at bottom])
Thre Mariye sais alle togider in a voce:
143
O most dolorose day! O tym of gretist sorowe!
MAVDLEYN.
O sisters, stand stille vntylle to-morowe!
I trow I may not leue.
JOSEPH.
I here the Mawdleyn bitterly compleyn.
What gud creature may hymself refrayn
In this piteose myscheffe?
PRIMA MARIA.
O day of lamentation!
SECUNDA MARIA.
O day of exclamatione!
THRID MARY.
O day off suspiratione,
Which Jewes shalle repent!
MAVDLEYN.
O day most doloruse!
SECUNDA MARIA.
O day paynfulle and tediose!
TERCIA MARIA.
O pepulle most cruelle and furiose,
Thus to slo an innocent!
SECUNDA MARIA.
O Mawdleyn, your master dere,
How rewfully he hinges here
That set you first in ceile!
MAWDLEYN.
A! Cesse, sisters, it sloes my chere,
His dulfulle deth I may not bere!
Devowt Josephe! I se hym here,
Our cares for to keyle.
His dulfulle deth I may not bere!
Devowt Josephe! I se hym here,
Our cares for to keyle.
O, gud Josephe, approche to vs nere.
Behold hym wowndit with a spere,
That louede yow so weylle.
Behold hym wowndit with a spere,
That louede yow so weylle.
JOSEPHE.
O Mawdleyn, said Joseph, I pray you here,
And your susters als, to be of gud chere.
MAGDAL«EYN».
O, frende Joseph, this prince had neuer pere,
The welle of mercy that made me clere,
And that wist ye weile.
The welle of mercy that made me clere,
And that wist ye weile.
144
Nay, gude Josephe, com nere and behold.
This bludy lammes body is starke and cold.
O, hadde ye seyn his paynes manyfold,
Ye wald haue beyne right sory!
Josephe, luk bettere, behold and see,
In how litille space how many woundes bee!
Here was no mercee, her was no pitee,
But cruelle delinge paynfully!
This bludy lammes body is starke and cold.
O, hadde ye seyn his paynes manyfold,
Ye wald haue beyne right sory!
Josephe, luk bettere, behold and see,
In how litille space how many woundes bee!
Here was no mercee, her was no pitee,
But cruelle delinge paynfully!
O, goode Josephe, I am alle dysmayede
To see his tendere fleshe thus rewfully arayed,
On this wise so wofully displayed,
Woundit withe naylle and spere.
O dere Josephe, I feylle my harte wex cold,
Thes blessite fete thus bludy to behold,
Whom I weshid with teres manyfold,
And wyped with my heare.
To see his tendere fleshe thus rewfully arayed,
On this wise so wofully displayed,
Woundit withe naylle and spere.
O dere Josephe, I feylle my harte wex cold,
Thes blessite fete thus bludy to behold,
Whom I weshid with teres manyfold,
And wyped with my heare.
O, how rewfulle a spectakille itt is!
Neuer hast bee seyn, ne shalle be after this,
Such cruelle rigore to the kinge of blisse,
The Lord that made alle.
Thus to suffere in his humanitee,
And that only for our iniquitee,
O, Makere of man, what loue and pitee
Had thou for vs, so thralle!
Neuer hast bee seyn, ne shalle be after this,
Such cruelle rigore to the kinge of blisse,
The Lord that made alle.
Thus to suffere in his humanitee,
And that only for our iniquitee,
O, Makere of man, what loue and pitee
Had thou for vs, so thralle!
O, gude Josephe, was ye not present here?
«J»OSEPH.
Yis, Moder Mawdleyn, it changid my chere!
The wounder was so grete I yrkit to com nere,
But I was not farre hence.
MAGDALENA.
O Josephe, if I told you euery circumstaunce
Of the moste merite and perseueraunce,
Of hym þat neuer did offence—
Thys highe kinge þat hinges befor our face,
Displayede on crosse in this piteos place—
And telle you of his pacience,
Of the moste merite and perseueraunce,
Of hym þat neuer did offence—
Thys highe kinge þat hinges befor our face,
Displayede on crosse in this piteos place—
And telle you of his pacience,
145
Frende Josephe, this day am I sure
Scantly with force ye myght it indure,
But your hart shuld tendere,
How he sufferte to be takid,
Sore scourgit and nakit,
On alle his body sclender.
Scantly with force ye myght it indure,
But your hart shuld tendere,
How he sufferte to be takid,
Sore scourgit and nakit,
On alle his body sclender.
And notwithstondinge your manly hart,
Frome your ees the teres wald starte,
To shew your hevynesse.
Com hithere, Josephe, and stande ner this rood!
Loo, this lamme spared not to shedd his blude,
With most paynfulle distresse!
Frome your ees the teres wald starte,
To shew your hevynesse.
Com hithere, Josephe, and stande ner this rood!
Loo, this lamme spared not to shedd his blude,
With most paynfulle distresse!
Her was more rancore shewed than equitee,
Mich more malace than ony pitee,
I reporte me—yourself behold and see!
His payn passis alle othere,
Alle if he were the prince of peace,
Therfor my sorow haves no releace.
Mich more malace than ony pitee,
I reporte me—yourself behold and see!
His payn passis alle othere,
Alle if he were the prince of peace,
Therfor my sorow haves no releace.
JOSEPHE.
Gude Mawdleyn, of your mowrnynge cease,
It ekes my doole, dere moder.
MARIA JACOBI SECUNDA.
Goode frende Josephe, what creatur maye
But sorow to se this wofulle daye,
The day of gretist payne?
MARIA SOLAMEE.
Wo and sorow must nedes synke
Mor in our hartes than met and drinke,
To se our Saueyoure slayne.
JOSEPHE.
Alese, women, ye mak my hart to relente,
Beholdinge his body thus torne and rente,
That inwardly I wepe.
But, gude Mawdleyn, shew vnto me
Where is Mary, his mothere so free?
Who haues that maide to kepe?
146
A, Josephe, from this place is sho gone.
To haue seyn hir, a harte of stone
For ruthe wald haue relente.
Right many tymes emanges vs here
Sche swownyd with most dedly chere,
Ose mothere mekest kente.
To haue seyn hir, a harte of stone
For ruthe wald haue relente.
Right many tymes emanges vs here
Sche swownyd with most dedly chere,
Ose mothere mekest kente.
With fulle longe prayere scant we myghte
Cause hir parte from this peteose sighte.
Scho madde many compleynte!
Ye saw neuer woman þis wise dismaide.
Zebedeus and John hase hir convaide.
To spek of hire, I faynte.
Cause hir parte from this peteose sighte.
Scho madde many compleynte!
Ye saw neuer woman þis wise dismaide.
Zebedeus and John hase hir convaide.
To spek of hire, I faynte.
Many men spekes of lamentacion,
Off moders and of their gret desolation,
Which that thay did indure
When that their childer dy and passe,
But of his peteose tender moder, alasse,
I am verray sure
Off moders and of their gret desolation,
Which that thay did indure
When that their childer dy and passe,
But of his peteose tender moder, alasse,
I am verray sure
The wo and payn passis alle other.
Was ther neuer so sorowfulle a mother
For inward thoȝt and cure!
When sho harde hym for his enmyse praye,
And promesid the thefe the blissis aye,
And to hirself no word wald saye,
Sche sighid, be ye sure!
Was ther neuer so sorowfulle a mother
For inward thoȝt and cure!
When sho harde hym for his enmyse praye,
And promesid the thefe the blissis aye,
And to hirself no word wald saye,
Sche sighid, be ye sure!
The sonne hynge and the moder stood,
And euer sho kissid the droppes of blood
That so fast ran down.
Sche extendit hir armes hym to brace,
But sho myght not towch hym, so high was the place,
And then sho felle in swoune.
And euer sho kissid the droppes of blood
That so fast ran down.
Sche extendit hir armes hym to brace,
But sho myght not towch hym, so high was the place,
And then sho felle in swoune.
147
A, gude Mawdleyn, who can hir blame,
To se hir awn son in so grete shame,
Withowt ony offence?
But, Mavdleyn, had he ony mynd on hir in his passion?
MAVDLEYN.
Ȝee, yee, Josephe, of hir he had grete compassion,
Os apperit by evidence.
Os apperit by evidence.
For, hanginge on the crosse most petyfully,
He lukyd on that maide, his moder, rewfully,
And with a tender cow[n]tenaunce,
As who say, ‘Modere, the sorow of your harte
Makes my passion mor bitter and mor smarte;
Ye ben euer in my remembraunce.
He lukyd on that maide, his moder, rewfully,
And with a tender cow[n]tenaunce,
As who say, ‘Modere, the sorow of your harte
Makes my passion mor bitter and mor smarte;
Ye ben euer in my remembraunce.
Dere Modere, becawse I depart os nowe,
John, my cosyn, shalle waite on yowe,
Your comforte for to bee’.
Loo, he had hyr in his graciose mynd,
To teche alle chi[l]deren to be kind
To fader and modere of dewtee.
John, my cosyn, shalle waite on yowe,
Your comforte for to bee’.
Loo, he had hyr in his graciose mynd,
To teche alle chi[l]deren to be kind
To fader and modere of dewtee.
This child wald not lefe his moder alone,
Notwithstandinge hir lamentabille mone
And hevynesse.
Notwithstandinge hir lamentabille mone
And hevynesse.
«JO»SEPH.
A, gud lady, fulle wo was shee.
But can ye telle what wordes saide hee
There in that grete distresse?
«M»AVDLEYN.
O Josephe, this lame most meke,
In his cruelle tormentes and paynfulle eke,
But fewe wordes he hadd,
Saue that in grete agonye
He saide thes wordes: ‘I am thrustye’,
With chere demure and sadd.
148
Mawdleyne, suppose ye his desire was to drinke?
«M»AVDLEYN.
Nay, verrelye, frende Joseph, I think
He thrustide no lyquore.
His thruste was of charitee.
For our faithe and fidelitee
He ponderite the rigore
He thrustide no lyquore.
His thruste was of charitee.
For our faithe and fidelitee
He ponderite the rigore
Off his passion done so cruellye.
For the helth of mannys saulle cheflye
He thrustid and desirede.
And then, after tormente longe,
And after paynes felle and stronge,
This mekist lam expyrede.
For the helth of mannys saulle cheflye
He thrustid and desirede.
And then, after tormente longe,
And after paynes felle and stronge,
This mekist lam expyrede.
For wikkit synners þis lamm is dede!
Alese, my hart wex hevy os lede,
Myndinge my writchitnesse!
Wher was euer a mor synfulle creature
Than I myself? Nay, nay, I am sure
Was none of mor offencesse!
Alese, my hart wex hevy os lede,
Myndinge my writchitnesse!
Wher was euer a mor synfulle creature
Than I myself? Nay, nay, I am sure
Was none of mor offencesse!
O, what displesur is in my mynd,
Rememberinge that I was so vnkynd
To hym that hinges here,
That hinges here so piteoslye
For my synnes done owtragioslye—
Mercy, Lorde, I requere!
Rememberinge that I was so vnkynd
To hym that hinges here,
That hinges here so piteoslye
For my synnes done owtragioslye—
Mercy, Lorde, I requere!
Notwithstondinge the gre[t] enormitee
Of my fowle synnes, and of his humylitee,
This lambe, this innocent,
For my contrition he forgaue mee
Only of his fre mercifulle pitee;
Neddes must my harte relente!
Of my fowle synnes, and of his humylitee,
This lambe, this innocent,
For my contrition he forgaue mee
Only of his fre mercifulle pitee;
Neddes must my harte relente!
This is the sacrifice of remission.
Crist, alle synners havinge contrition,
Callith to mercy and grace,
Sayinge thes swete wordes: ‘Retorn to mee,
Leve thy syn, and I shal be with thee,
Accepte in euery place’.
Crist, alle synners havinge contrition,
Callith to mercy and grace,
Sayinge thes swete wordes: ‘Retorn to mee,
Leve thy syn, and I shal be with thee,
Accepte in euery place’.
149
Had not beyne his most mercyfulle consolatione,
I, wreche of alle wretches, into desperation
Had fallen right dangeroslye.
My dedes were dampnabille of righte,
But his mercee accepte my harte contrighte,
And reconsiled me gracioslye.
I, wreche of alle wretches, into desperation
Had fallen right dangeroslye.
My dedes were dampnabille of righte,
But his mercee accepte my harte contrighte,
And reconsiled me gracioslye.
O, mekeste lambe hanginge here on hye,
Was ther none othere meyn but þou must nede dy,
Synners to reconsyle?
A, sisters, sisters! What sorow is in me,
Beholdinge my master on this peteose tree!
My harte fayntes, I may no longer dree!
Now lat me pawse a whyle.
Was ther none othere meyn but þou must nede dy,
Synners to reconsyle?
A, sisters, sisters! What sorow is in me,
Beholdinge my master on this peteose tree!
My harte fayntes, I may no longer dree!
Now lat me pawse a whyle.
O, where shalle ony comfurth com to mee,
And to his modere, that maid so free?
Wald God here I myght dye!
And to his modere, that maid so free?
Wald God here I myght dye!
TWO MARIES.
Gud Mawdleyn, mesure youre distillinge teres!
«M»AVDLEN.
O, sisters, who may hold theire cheres?
Thes are the swete fete I wipet with heris,
And kissid so deuowtlye.
And now to see tham thyrlite with a nayle,
How shulde my sorowfulle harte bot fayle,
And mowrn contynually?
Thes are the swete fete I wipet with heris,
And kissid so deuowtlye.
And now to see tham thyrlite with a nayle,
How shulde my sorowfulle harte bot fayle,
And mowrn contynually?
Cum hithere, Joseph, beholde and looke,
How many bludy letters beyn writen in þis buke—
Smalle margente her is!
How many bludy letters beyn writen in þis buke—
Smalle margente her is!
«J»OSEPHE.
Ye, this parchment is stritchit owt of syse!
O, derest Lorde, in how paynfulle wise
Haue ye tholit this!
O, derest Lorde, in how paynfulle wise
Haue ye tholit this!
150
O, alle the pepille that passis here by,
Beholde here inwardlye with your ees gostly,
Consider welle and see,
Yf that euer ony payn or torment
Were lik vnto this which this innocent
Haves suffert thus meklee!
Beholde here inwardlye with your ees gostly,
Consider welle and see,
Yf that euer ony payn or torment
Were lik vnto this which this innocent
Haves suffert thus meklee!
Remembere, man! Remembere welle, and see
How liberalle a man this Lord was and free,
Which to saue mankind,
On droppe of blude haues not kepit ne sparid!
Fulle litille for ease or plesure he carid,
By reason ye may finde,
How liberalle a man this Lord was and free,
Which to saue mankind,
On droppe of blude haues not kepit ne sparid!
Fulle litille for ease or plesure he carid,
By reason ye may finde,
Which on dropp of blood hase not resaruyd.
O Lord, by thy deth we beyn preseruyd!
By deth, thou hast slayne deth!
Was neuer no love lik vnto thyn,
That to this meknes thyselfe wald inclyn,
And for vs to yelde thy brethe!
O Lord, by thy deth we beyn preseruyd!
By deth, thou hast slayne deth!
Was neuer no love lik vnto thyn,
That to this meknes thyselfe wald inclyn,
And for vs to yelde thy brethe!
Thou knew ther were no remedy to redeym syn
But a bath of þi blude to bath mans saule in,
And thou were welle assent
To let it ren owt most plenteosly.
Where wer euer sich love? Neuer, verrely,
That such wise wald content!
But a bath of þi blude to bath mans saule in,
And thou were welle assent
To let it ren owt most plenteosly.
Where wer euer sich love? Neuer, verrely,
That such wise wald content!
To his Fadere for vs he made a surerender.
Loo, euery bone ye may nowmbere of his body tender!
For vntollerabille paynes,
The tormentours sparede no crueltee,
With sharp scowrges te-terre his fleshe, ye may see,
With thorns thrust in his braynes;
Loo, euery bone ye may nowmbere of his body tender!
For vntollerabille paynes,
The tormentours sparede no crueltee,
With sharp scowrges te-terre his fleshe, ye may see,
With thorns thrust in his braynes;
Grete nayles drevyn the bones alle to-brake;
Thus in euery parte the nayles thay did wrake.
O cruelle wikkitnese!
From the crowne of the hede vnto the too,
This blessit body was wrappit alle in woo,
In payn and distresse.
Thus in euery parte the nayles thay did wrake.
O cruelle wikkitnese!
From the crowne of the hede vnto the too,
This blessit body was wrappit alle in woo,
In payn and distresse.
151
In this displaied body, wher may it be found,
On spott, or a place, bet ther is a wound,
Owther mor or lesse?
Se his side, hede, handes and fete!
Lo, alle his body with blude is wete,
So paynfulle was his presse.
On spott, or a place, bet ther is a wound,
Owther mor or lesse?
Se his side, hede, handes and fete!
Lo, alle his body with blude is wete,
So paynfulle was his presse.
On yche parte he is paynede sore,
Saue only the tunge, which euer more
For synners did prayee.
Saue only the tunge, which euer more
For synners did prayee.
«MA»VDLEN.
Who saw euer a spektacle more pitevs?
A more lamentable sight and dolorus?
A! A, this wofulle daye!
A more lamentable sight and dolorus?
A! A, this wofulle daye!
Alese, this sorow that I endure
With grete inwarde hevynes and cure!
Alesse, þat I do not dye,
To see hym dede, made me of noghte,
And with his deth thus haves me boughte.
O cruelle tormentrye!
With grete inwarde hevynes and cure!
Alesse, þat I do not dye,
To see hym dede, made me of noghte,
And with his deth thus haves me boughte.
O cruelle tormentrye!
O, dere Master, be ye not displeasid,
Yf I myght dy with yow, my hart wer wel easid.
O faynt, and faynt it is!
Yf I myght dy with yow, my hart wer wel easid.
O faynt, and faynt it is!
«JO»SEPH.
What meyn ȝe, women, in Goddis name?
Moder, to mych sorow ȝe mak, ye be to blame!
I pray yow, leve alle this!
Moder, to mych sorow ȝe mak, ye be to blame!
I pray yow, leve alle this!
He that hingeth here, of his humilite,
From deth shalle aryse, for right so saide hee.
His wordes must nedes be trewe.
This is the finale cavse and conclusion,
To bringe our mortalle enmy to confusion,
And his powere to subdewe.
From deth shalle aryse, for right so saide hee.
His wordes must nedes be trewe.
This is the finale cavse and conclusion,
To bringe our mortalle enmy to confusion,
And his powere to subdewe.
For this cawse he descendit from þe hevynly place,
Born of þe mekist virgyn, alle fulle of grace,
Which now most sorowfulle is.
For that cawse he did our natur take,
Thus by deth to sloo deth for mannes sake,
And to restor hym to blysse.
Born of þe mekist virgyn, alle fulle of grace,
Which now most sorowfulle is.
152
Thus by deth to sloo deth for mannes sake,
And to restor hym to blysse.
Wherfor, good women, your self comforte;
Amongest vs agayn he shalle resorte,
I trust verrelye.
I pray yow, compleyn not thus hevylee.
Amongest vs agayn he shalle resorte,
I trust verrelye.
I pray yow, compleyn not thus hevylee.
MAVDLE«N».
Nedes must I compleyn, and that most bitterlee,
And I shalle telle yow whye.
And I shalle telle yow whye.
Insensibille creaturs beyn trovblid, ȝe see;
The son had lost his sight, eclippid was hee;
Th'erth tremblide ferfullye!
The hard flynt and stone is brokyn in sundre!
Yf resonable creaturs be trowblid, it is no wonder!
And emange alle, speciallye,
The son had lost his sight, eclippid was hee;
Th'erth tremblide ferfullye!
The hard flynt and stone is brokyn in sundre!
Yf resonable creaturs be trowblid, it is no wonder!
And emange alle, speciallye,
I, a wrechit woman! A wrech! A wreche!
Behold these bludy welles! Her may þou feche
Balme more preciose than golde.
O, ye welles of mercy, dyggide so depe!
Who may refrayn? Who may bot wepe,
These bludy streymys to beholde?
Behold these bludy welles! Her may þou feche
Balme more preciose than golde.
O, ye welles of mercy, dyggide so depe!
Who may refrayn? Who may bot wepe,
These bludy streymys to beholde?
O fontains flowinge with water of life,
To wash away corrupcion of wondes infectyfe
By dedly syne grevose!
Alle with meknese is mesured this ground, without dowte,
Wherin so many springes of mercy flowes owte,
Beholde, how so plenteose!
To wash away corrupcion of wondes infectyfe
By dedly syne grevose!
Alle with meknese is mesured this ground, without dowte,
Wherin so many springes of mercy flowes owte,
Beholde, how so plenteose!
ALTERA MARIA.
Mawdleyne, your mowrnynge avaylis nothinge.
Lat vs speke to Josephe, hym hertely desiringe
For to finde some gude waye
This crucified body down to take,
And bringe it to sepulcre and so lett make
Ende of this wofulle daye.
153
Ȝe shalle vnderstand yit more, that I
Haue beyne with the juge Pilat instantlye
For this same requeste,
To berye this most holy bodye,
Ande he grauntid me fulle tenderlye
To do os me thought beste.
Haue beyne with the juge Pilat instantlye
For this same requeste,
To berye this most holy bodye,
Ande he grauntid me fulle tenderlye
To do os me thought beste.
I haue spokene with Nichodemus also;
Ye shalle se hyme takyn down or ye go.
That he taryes so longe, I mervelle.
A, I se hym now com vpward the hille!
Cesse of youre wepinge, I pray you, be stille!
I trust alle shal be welle.
Ye shalle se hyme takyn down or ye go.
That he taryes so longe, I mervelle.
A, I se hym now com vpward the hille!
Cesse of youre wepinge, I pray you, be stille!
I trust alle shal be welle.
Nichodemus, come nerre! We haue longe for you thouȝt!
«N»icodemus venit.
[NICHODEMUS].
O worthy Lorde, who made alle thinge of noght,
With the most bitter payn to deth is thou broughte.
Thy name blessit bee!
O, how a pitefulle sight is this,
To se the prince of euerlastinge blisse
To hinge here on this tree,
With the most bitter payn to deth is thou broughte.
Thy name blessit bee!
O, how a pitefulle sight is this,
To se the prince of euerlastinge blisse
To hinge here on this tree,
To hinge here thus soo piteoslye!
O, most lovinge Lorde, thy gret mercy
To this havese the constreynyd!
Why wold thyn awn pepille, þi awn flokke,
Thus crucyfy the, and naylle tille a stokke?
Why haves thou not refreynyd?
O, most lovinge Lorde, thy gret mercy
To this havese the constreynyd!
Why wold thyn awn pepille, þi awn flokke,
Thus crucyfy the, and naylle tille a stokke?
Why haves thou not refreynyd?
For fourty yere in wildernesse,
Theire olde faders in theire progresse
Thou fed with angelles foode,
And brought tham in to the land of promission,
Wher they fand lond in euery condischon,
And alle thinge that was goode.
Theire olde faders in theire progresse
Thou fed with angelles foode,
And brought tham in to the land of promission,
Wher they fand lond in euery condischon,
And alle thinge that was goode.
154
A! A, is this theire gramercy? Is this theire reward?
Thy kindnesse, thy gudnese, can they regard
No better but thus?
Notwithstondinge the vesture of þi humanyte,
That þou were the verrey Son of God, þay myȝt see
By myracles most gloriose.
Thy kindnesse, thy gudnese, can they regard
No better but thus?
Notwithstondinge the vesture of þi humanyte,
That þou were the verrey Son of God, þay myȝt see
By myracles most gloriose.
JOSEPH.
Gude brothere, of your compleinte cesse!
Ȝe renewe agayne grete hevynesse
Now in thes women here.
NICODEM«E».
Nay, gret comfurthe we may haue alle,
For, by his Godly powere, arise he shalle,
And the thride daye apere.
For, by his Godly powere, arise he shalle,
And the thride daye apere.
For ons he gaue me leue with hym to reasone,
And he shewet of this deth and of this treasone,
And of this crueltee,
And how for mankynd he com to dye,
And that he shuld arise so glorioslye
By his myghtee maiestee,
And he shewet of this deth and of this treasone,
And of this crueltee,
And how for mankynd he com to dye,
And that he shuld arise so glorioslye
By his myghtee maiestee,
And with our flesch in hevyn tille ascend.
Many swete wordes it plesit hym to spend,
Thus speking vnto me,
That no man to hevyn myght clym,
But if it were by grace of hym
Which com down to make vs free:
Many swete wordes it plesit hym to spend,
Thus speking vnto me,
That no man to hevyn myght clym,
But if it were by grace of hym
Which com down to make vs free:
‘Nemo ascendit in celum nisi qui descendit de celo’.
Joseph, redy to tak Crist down, sais:
[JOSEPH].
To tak down this body, lat vs assaye.
Brother Nichodemus, help, I yow praye.
On arme I wald ye hadd,
To knokk out thes nayles so sturdy and grete.
O, Safyoure! They sparid not your body to bete!
Thay aught now to be sadd.
155
Gude Josephe, handille hym tenderlye!
JOSEPHE.
Stonde ner, Nichodemus, resaue hym softlye.
Mawdleyne, hold ye his fete.
MAWDLEYNE.
Haste yow, gude Josephe, hast yow whiklye!
For Marye, his moder, wille com, fer I.
A, A, that virgyne most swete!
NICHODEMUS.
I saw hir benethe on the othere sid;
With John, I am sure sho wille not abid
Longe frome this place.
Mary, Virgyn and Mother [with John Euaungeliste] com then sayinge:
[MARY VIRGIN].
A! A, my dere sone Jhesus! A! A, my dere sone Jhesus!
JOHN EUAUNGELISTE.
Gude Marye, swete cosyn, mowrn ye not thus!
Ye see how stondes the case.
MAWDLEYNE.
Allese! Scho commys. A, what remedye?
Gud Joseph, comfurth hire stedfastlye,
Gud Joseph, comfurth hire stedfastlye,
That virgyne so fulle of woo.
Mary Virgyn sais, falles in swown:
[MARY VIRGYN].
Stonde stille, frendes, hast ye not soo!
Haue ye no fere of mee!
Lat me help to tak my dere son down!
MARY MAWDLEYN.
Lo, I was sure sho walld falle in a swown!
Her on euery sid is pitee.
JOSEPHE.
Help, Mawdleyn, to revyue hir agayn!
A! A! This womans harte is plungid with payn!
Hir sorowe sho cane not cesse.
JOHN EUAUNGELISTE.
A, A, dere ladee, wherfore and why
Fare ye on this wise? Wille ye here dy?
Leyf of this hevynesse!
156
MAWDLEYN.
Speke, ladye, speke for the loue of Jhesus,
Youre swete sone, my master here.
MARYE VIRGYN.
A, A, Mawdleyn, Mawdleyn, your master so dere!
TWO MARIES.
Most meke modere, be now of gude chere!
JOHN EUAUNGELISTE.
Wipe awaye that rynnys owte so faste!
From your remembraunce, rayse owt at þe last
Of his passione the crueltee.
JOSEPHE.
Tak comfurthe, Marye; this wailinge helpes nothinge.
Your dere son we wille to his sepulcre bringe,
Als it is alle oure dewtee.
MARY VIRGYN.
God reward yow of your tendernese!
I shalle assiste you with alle humylnesse.
But yit, or he departe,
Suffere me my mynd for to breke,
How-be-it fulle scantly may I speke,
For faynte and febille harte.
I shalle assiste you with alle humylnesse.
But yit, or he departe,
Suffere me my mynd for to breke,
How-be-it fulle scantly may I speke,
For faynte and febille harte.
A! A, Cosyn John, what shalle I saye?
Who saw euer so dolfulle a daye?
So sorowfulle a tym as this?
This wofulle moders sorow, who cane itt expresse,
To se hir own chyld sleyn with cruelnesse?
Yit, myn own swet son, your woundes wold I kysse!
Who saw euer so dolfulle a daye?
So sorowfulle a tym as this?
This wofulle moders sorow, who cane itt expresse,
To se hir own chyld sleyn with cruelnesse?
Yit, myn own swet son, your woundes wold I kysse!
O, Gabrielle, Gabrielle!
Of gret joy did ye telle,
In ȝour first salutation.
Ye saide the Holi Gost shuld co[m] in mee,
And I shuld consaue a child in virginitee,
For mankind saluation.
Of gret joy did ye telle,
In ȝour first salutation.
Ye saide the Holi Gost shuld co[m] in mee,
And I shuld consaue a child in virginitee,
For mankind saluation.
That ye said truthe, right welle knaw I;
But ye told me not my son shuld dye,
Ne yit the thought and care
Of his bitter passion which he suffert nowe.
O, old Symeon, fulle suthe said yowe—
To spek, ye wold not spare.
But ye told me not my son shuld dye,
Ne yit the thought and care
157
O, old Symeon, fulle suthe said yowe—
To spek, ye wold not spare.
Ye saide the sword of sorow suld enter my hart.
Ye, ye, juste Symeon, now I felle it smarte
With most dedly payn!
Was there neuer moder that felit so sore?
Iwise, John, I felle it alway more and more!
Help! Help now, Mawdleyn!
Ye, ye, juste Symeon, now I felle it smarte
With most dedly payn!
Was there neuer moder that felit so sore?
Iwise, John, I felle it alway more and more!
Help! Help now, Mawdleyn!
et cadit in extas«ia».
MAWDLEYN.
Mek moder and mayde, leve your lamentation!
Ye swown stille on pase with dedly suspiration.
Ye mare yowreself and vs.
JOHN EUAUNGELIST.
Ye shuld lefe of your paynfulle afflictione,
Callinge to your mynd his resurrection,
Which sal be so glorivse.
This knaw ye, and þat beste.
MARY VIRGYN.
I knaw it welle, or ellis in reste
My harte shuld neuer bee.
I myght not leve nore endure
On mynnate, bot I am sure
The thrid day ryse shalle hee;
My harte shuld neuer bee.
I myght not leve nore endure
On mynnate, bot I am sure
The thrid day ryse shalle hee;
But yit havinge remembraunce
The gret cruelty and felle vengance
Of the Jues so vnkind,
Which thus wikkitly has betrayed
Goddes Son, born of me, a mayd,
Most sorowfulle in my mynd.
The gret cruelty and felle vengance
Of the Jues so vnkind,
Which thus wikkitly has betrayed
Goddes Son, born of me, a mayd,
Most sorowfulle in my mynd.
O, Judas, why didist thou betraye
My son, þi master? What can þou saye,
Thyself for tille excuse?
Of his tender mercyfulle charite,
Chase he not the on his twelue to bee?
He wald not þe refuse.
My son, þi master? What can þou saye,
Thyself for tille excuse?
Of his tender mercyfulle charite,
Chase he not the on his twelue to bee?
He wald not þe refuse.
158
Callyt not he þe to his supere and last refection?
Cowth þou not put owt þi pesyn and infection
Saue thus only,
Vnto thy master to be so vnkind?
Was his tender gudnese owt of thy mynd
So vnnaturallye?
Cowth þou not put owt þi pesyn and infection
Saue thus only,
Vnto thy master to be so vnkind?
Was his tender gudnese owt of thy mynd
So vnnaturallye?
Gaue he not to the his body in memorialle,
And also in remembraunce perpetualle
At his suppere there?
He that was so comly and fayre to behold,
How durst thou, cruelle hert, to be so bold
To cawse hym dy thus here?
And also in remembraunce perpetualle
At his suppere there?
He that was so comly and fayre to behold,
How durst thou, cruelle hert, to be so bold
To cawse hym dy thus here?
By thy treson my son here is slayn,
My swete, swetist son! How suld I refreyn,
This bludy body to behold?
My swete, swetist son! How suld I refreyn,
This bludy body to behold?
JOSEPHE.
Gud dere Marye, git you hence!
We shalle bery hym with alle reuerence,
And ly hym in the mold.
We shalle bery hym with alle reuerence,
And ly hym in the mold.
Haue hir hence, John, now I desire.
JHOANNES EUANGELISTE.
Com on, swete lady, I ȝow reqwire.
I shalle gife yow attendance.
JOSEPHE.
On of yow women, ber hir companye.
ALTERA MARIA.
I shalle wayte on hir. Go we hence, Marye;
Put alle this from your remembrance.
MARIE VIRGYN.
What meyn ye, frendes? What is your mynd?
Towardes me be not so vnkinde!
His moder am not I?
Wold ye haue the moder depart hym fro?
To lefe hym thus I wille not so,
But bide and sitt hym bye.
Towardes me be not so vnkinde!
His moder am not I?
Wold ye haue the moder depart hym fro?
To lefe hym thus I wille not so,
But bide and sitt hym bye.
Therfore, gud Joseph, be content!
JOSEPHE.
A, A, Marye! For a gud consent,
We wald not haue you here.
159
Wold ye renewe mor sorow in me?
JOSEPHE.
Nay, gud lady, that were pitee!
MARYE VIRGYNE.
Than late me abide hym nere!
John, why spek ye not for my comforte?
Mi dere sone bad me to you resorte,
And allway on you calle.
Ye knaw welle, her is my tresure,
Whom I loue beste, whom alle my plesure
Is, and euer be shalle.
Mi dere sone bad me to you resorte,
And allway on you calle.
Ye knaw welle, her is my tresure,
Whom I loue beste, whom alle my plesure
Is, and euer be shalle.
Her is my likinge and alle my loue.
Why wald ye than me hens remoue?
I pray yow hartly, cesse!
Departe I may not, bot by fors constreynyd.
Remembringe departinge, ales, my hert is paynid
Mor then I may expresse!
Why wald ye than me hens remoue?
I pray yow hartly, cesse!
Departe I may not, bot by fors constreynyd.
Remembringe departinge, ales, my hert is paynid
Mor then I may expresse!
Now, dere swete coysyn, I you praye!
Myn awn dere loue, which on Thursdaye,
Of his grace specialle,
Of his lovinge mynd and tendernesse,
And of verrey inward kindnesse,
At suppere emanges you alle,
Myn awn dere loue, which on Thursdaye,
Of his grace specialle,
Of his lovinge mynd and tendernesse,
And of verrey inward kindnesse,
At suppere emanges you alle,
He admyttid you frendly for to reste,
And slepe on his holye Godly breste,
For a specialle prerogatife,
Because of your virginite and clennesse;
Der cosyn, encrease not myn hevynesse,
Yf ye desire my life!
And slepe on his holye Godly breste,
For a specialle prerogatife,
Because of your virginite and clennesse;
Der cosyn, encrease not myn hevynesse,
Yf ye desire my life!
But, gud frendes, here intreyt not ye,
But be content, and suffere mee
Ons yit for to hold,
For to holde here in this place,
And in myn armys for to enbrace,
This body, which now is cold,
This bludy body woundit so sore,
Of my swet son—John, I aske no more!
But be content, and suffere mee
Ons yit for to hold,
For to holde here in this place,
And in myn armys for to enbrace,
This body, which now is cold,
160
Of my swet son—John, I aske no more!
JOHN EUAUNGELISTE.
Lady, if ye wille haue moderation
Of youre most sorowfulle lamentacion,
Do as ye list in this case.
MARIE VIRGYNE.
John, I shalle do os ye thinke gude.
Gentille Josephe, lat me sit vnder your rude,
And holde my son a space.
NICHODEMUS.
Let vs suffere the modere to compleyn
Hir sonnes dethe in verrey certeyn,
Tille ease hir and content.
JOSEPHE.
Ye, so shalle hir sorowfulle harte
Alway to suffere smarte,
And we can bot repente.
MARIE VIRGYN.
O sisters, Mawdleyn, Cleophe, and Jacobye!
Ye see how pitefulle my son doth lye
Here in myn armys, dede.
What erthly mother may refreyn,
To se hir son thus cruelly sleyn?
A, my harte is hevy os lede!
Ye see how pitefulle my son doth lye
Here in myn armys, dede.
What erthly mother may refreyn,
To se hir son thus cruelly sleyn?
A, my harte is hevy os lede!
Who shalle gife me water sufficient,
And of distillinge teris habundance,
That I may wepe my fille with hart relent,
After the whantite of sorofulle remembrance,
And of distillinge teris habundance,
That I may wepe my fille with hart relent,
After the whantite of sorofulle remembrance,
For his sak that made vs alle,
Which now ded lyes in my lappe?
Of me, a mayd, by grace specialle,
He pleside to be born and sowket my pape.
He shrank not for to shew the shape
Of verreye man at his circumcision,
And þer shed his blude for mannys hape.
Also at my purification
Which now ded lyes in my lappe?
Of me, a mayd, by grace specialle,
He pleside to be born and sowket my pape.
He shrank not for to shew the shape
Of verreye man at his circumcision,
And þer shed his blude for mannys hape.
Also at my purification
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Of hym I made a fayre oblation,
Which to his Fader was most plesinge.
For fere than of Herodes persecution,
In-tille Egipe fast I fled with hym.
His grace me gidid in euery thinge;
And now is he dede. That changes my chere!
Was neuer child to moder so lovinge!
Who þat cann not wepe, at me may lere.
Which to his Fader was most plesinge.
For fere than of Herodes persecution,
In-tille Egipe fast I fled with hym.
His grace me gidid in euery thinge;
And now is he dede. That changes my chere!
Was neuer child to moder so lovinge!
Who þat cann not wepe, at me may lere.
Was neuer deth so cruelle as this,
To slo the gyvere of alle grace!
Son, suffer me your woundes to kisse,
And your holy blude spilt in this place.
Dere son, ye haue steynyd your face,
Your face so frely to behold.
Thikk bludy droppes rynnes down apace:
‘Speciosus forma’, the prophet told.
To slo the gyvere of alle grace!
Son, suffer me your woundes to kisse,
And your holy blude spilt in this place.
Dere son, ye haue steynyd your face,
Your face so frely to behold.
Thikk bludy droppes rynnes down apace:
‘Speciosus forma’, the prophet told.
But, alese, your tormentes so manyfold
Hase abatid your visage so gloriose!
Cruell Jewes, what mad yow so bold
To commyt þis crym most vngraciose,
Which to yourself is most noyose?
Now shalle alle the cursinges of your lawe
Opon yow falle most myschevose,
And be knawen of vagabundes ouer-awe!
Hase abatid your visage so gloriose!
Cruell Jewes, what mad yow so bold
To commyt þis crym most vngraciose,
Which to yourself is most noyose?
Now shalle alle the cursinges of your lawe
Opon yow falle most myschevose,
And be knawen of vagabundes ouer-awe!
He and I com both of your kyn,
And that ye kithe vncurteslye.
He com for to fordoo your syn,
But ye forsuke hym frowardly.
Who can not wepe, com sit me bye,
To se hym that regnyd in blisse,
In hevyn with his Fader gloryoslye,
Thus to be slayn, in alle giltlesse.
And that ye kithe vncurteslye.
He com for to fordoo your syn,
But ye forsuke hym frowardly.
Who can not wepe, com sit me bye,
To se hym that regnyd in blisse,
In hevyn with his Fader gloryoslye,
Thus to be slayn, in alle giltlesse.
Son, in your handes ar holes wid,
And in your fete that so tender were;
A gret wounde is in your blessit sid,
Fulle deply drevyn with a sharpe spere.
Your body is bete and brussid here—
On euery sid, no place is free!
Nedes muste I wepe with hevy chere!
Who can not wepe, com lern at me,
And in your fete that so tender were;
A gret wounde is in your blessit sid,
Fulle deply drevyn with a sharpe spere.
Your body is bete and brussid here—
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Nedes muste I wepe with hevy chere!
Who can not wepe, com lern at me,
And beholde your Lorde, myn awn der son,
Thus dolfulye delt with, ose ye see.
Se how his hede with thornys is thronge!
Se how he naylit was tille a tree!
His synows and vaynes, drawne so straytlee,
Ar brokyn sonder by payns vngude.
Who can not wepe, com lern at me,
And beholde hym here þat hange on rude!
Thus dolfulye delt with, ose ye see.
Se how his hede with thornys is thronge!
Se how he naylit was tille a tree!
His synows and vaynes, drawne so straytlee,
Ar brokyn sonder by payns vngude.
Who can not wepe, com lern at me,
And beholde hym here þat hange on rude!
Se alle abowte the bludy streynes!
O, man, this suffert he for thee!
Se so many felle and bitter peynes!
This lamme shed his blude in fulle plentee.
Who can not wepe, com lern at mee!
Se alle his frendes is from hym fled!
All is but blude, so bett was hee,
Fro the sole of his fute vnto þe hed.
O, man, this suffert he for thee!
Se so many felle and bitter peynes!
This lamme shed his blude in fulle plentee.
Who can not wepe, com lern at mee!
Se alle his frendes is from hym fled!
All is but blude, so bett was hee,
Fro the sole of his fute vnto þe hed.
O, swete child, it was nothinge mete—
Saue your sufferance, ye had no pere—
To lat Judas kisse thes lippes so swete,
To suffer a traytor to com so nere,
To betray his master, myldist of chere.
O, my swete child, now suffer yee
Me, your moder, to kisse yow here!
Who can not wepe, com lern at me!
Saue your sufferance, ye had no pere—
To lat Judas kisse thes lippes so swete,
To suffer a traytor to com so nere,
To betray his master, myldist of chere.
O, my swete child, now suffer yee
Me, your moder, to kisse yow here!
Who can not wepe, com lern at me!
To kisse, and swetly yow imbrace;
Imbrace, and in myn armes hold;
To hold, and luke on your blessit face;
Your face most graciose to behold;
To beholde so comly, euer I wold!
I wold, I wold stille with yow bee,
Stille with yow, to ly in mold!
Who can not wepe, com lern at me!
Imbrace, and in myn armes hold;
To hold, and luke on your blessit face;
Your face most graciose to behold;
To beholde so comly, euer I wold!
I wold, I wold stille with yow bee,
Stille with yow, to ly in mold!
Who can not wepe, com lern at me!
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My wille is to dy; I wald not leve.
Leve, how suld I, sithen dede ar yee?
My lif were ye, noght can me greve,
So þat I may in your presence bee.
Me, your wofulle moder, her may ye se;
Ye see my dedly sorow and payn.
Who can not wepe, com lern at mee,
To see so meke a lambe her slayn,
Leve, how suld I, sithen dede ar yee?
My lif were ye, noght can me greve,
So þat I may in your presence bee.
Me, your wofulle moder, her may ye se;
Ye see my dedly sorow and payn.
Who can not wepe, com lern at mee,
To see so meke a lambe her slayn,
Slayn of men that no mercy hadd.
Had they no mercy? I reporte me, see!
To se this bludy body, is not your hart sadd?
Sad and sorowfulle? Haue ye no pitee,
Pite and compassion, to se this crueltee?
Crueltee! Vnkindnese! O men most vnkind!
Ye that can not wepe, com lern at mee,
Kepinge this crucifixe stille in your mynd.
Had they no mercy? I reporte me, see!
To se this bludy body, is not your hart sadd?
Sad and sorowfulle? Haue ye no pitee,
Pite and compassion, to se this crueltee?
Crueltee! Vnkindnese! O men most vnkind!
Ye that can not wepe, com lern at mee,
Kepinge this crucifixe stille in your mynd.
When ye war born of me, a mayde myld,
I sange ‘lullay’ to bringe you on slepe.
Now is my songe ‘Alese, ales, my child!’
Now may I wayle, wringe my handes, and wepe!
Who shal be my comforth? Who shalle me kepe?
Save at your departinge, ye segnyte to mee
John, your cosyn, most virtuus and ȝepe.
Who that can not wepe, com and lern at mee!
I sange ‘lullay’ to bringe you on slepe.
Now is my songe ‘Alese, ales, my child!’
Now may I wayle, wringe my handes, and wepe!
Who shal be my comforth? Who shalle me kepe?
Save at your departinge, ye segnyte to mee
John, your cosyn, most virtuus and ȝepe.
Who that can not wepe, com and lern at mee!
O, derest childe, what falt haf ye done?
What was your trispace? I wald knav it fayn,
Wherfor your blessid blude is forsid forth to rone.
Haue murtherid any person, or ony man slayn,
That your avn pepille þus to yow dose endeyn?
Nay, nay, nay! Ye neuer did offence!
Was neuer spote of syn in your clere conscience!
What was your trispace? I wald knav it fayn,
Wherfor your blessid blude is forsid forth to rone.
Haue murtherid any person, or ony man slayn,
That your avn pepille þus to yow dose endeyn?
Nay, nay, nay! Ye neuer did offence!
Was neuer spote of syn in your clere conscience!
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And notwithstandinge their felle indignation,
Only of gud wille and inward charitee,
Also for loue, and mannes saluation,
Ȝe haue suffert alle this of your humylitee.
Of your large mercee gret was þe whantite,
Grete was þe multitude of your merites alle,
Thus for mannes sake to tast þe bitter galle.
Only of gud wille and inward charitee,
Also for loue, and mannes saluation,
Ȝe haue suffert alle this of your humylitee.
Of your large mercee gret was þe whantite,
Grete was þe multitude of your merites alle,
Thus for mannes sake to tast þe bitter galle.
Sonn, helpe, help your moder in this wofulle smarte!
Comfurth your wofulle moder þat neuer was vnkind!
In your conception ye reyoyet my harte;
But now of dedly woo so gret cawse I find,
That þe joy of my haylsinge is passit fro my mynd.
Yit suffer me to hold yow her on my lape,
Which sumtym gafe yow mylk of my pape!
Comfurth your wofulle moder þat neuer was vnkind!
In your conception ye reyoyet my harte;
But now of dedly woo so gret cawse I find,
That þe joy of my haylsinge is passit fro my mynd.
Yit suffer me to hold yow her on my lape,
Which sumtym gafe yow mylk of my pape!
O, swete, swetist child! Woo be vnto me!
O, most wofulle woman, your awn moder, loo!
Who shalle graunt it me with you fore to dee?
The son is dede! What shalle the moder doo?
Where shalle sho resorte? Whider shalle sho goo?
Yit suffere me to hold yow a while in my lap,
Which sumtym gafe yow mylk of my pap.
O, most wofulle woman, your awn moder, loo!
Who shalle graunt it me with you fore to dee?
The son is dede! What shalle the moder doo?
Where shalle sho resorte? Whider shalle sho goo?
Yit suffere me to hold yow a while in my lap,
Which sumtym gafe yow mylk of my pap.
O crewelle Deth! No lenger thou me spare!
To me thou wer welcom, and also acceptabille!
Oppresse me down at ons! Of the I haue no care!
O my son, my Saueyour, and joye most comfortabille,
Suffere me to dy with yow, most merciabille,
Or at lest lat me hold you a while in my lape,
Which sumtym gaue yowe þe milk of my pape.
To me thou wer welcom, and also acceptabille!
Oppresse me down at ons! Of the I haue no care!
O my son, my Saueyour, and joye most comfortabille,
Suffere me to dy with yow, most merciabille,
Or at lest lat me hold you a while in my lape,
Which sumtym gaue yowe þe milk of my pape.
O, ye wikkit pepille, without mercy or pitee,
Why do ye not crucyfye and hinge me on þe crosse?
Spare not your nayles! Spare not your crueltee!
Ye can not make me to ron in greter losse
Than to lesse my son þat to me was so dere.
Why sloo ye not þe moder, which is present here?
Why do ye not crucyfye and hinge me on þe crosse?
Spare not your nayles! Spare not your crueltee!
Ye can not make me to ron in greter losse
Than to lesse my son þat to me was so dere.
Why sloo ye not þe moder, which is present here?
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Dere sone, if the Jwes yit wille not sloo me,
Your gudnes, your grace, I besech and praye,
So calle me to your mercy of your benignitee.
To youre mek suters ye neuer saide yit naye;
Then may ye not your moder in this cavse delaye.
The modere with the child desires for to reste.
Remembere, myn awn son, þat ȝe sowket my breste!
Your gudnes, your grace, I besech and praye,
So calle me to your mercy of your benignitee.
To youre mek suters ye neuer saide yit naye;
Then may ye not your moder in this cavse delaye.
The modere with the child desires for to reste.
Remembere, myn awn son, þat ȝe sowket my breste!
Remember, when your fleshe was soft os tender silke,
With the grosse metes then yow I wold not fede,
But gaue yow the licour of a maydyns mylke;
Tille Egipe in myne armes softly I did yow lede;
But your smylinge contenaunce, I askit non other mede.
Then be content that I with yow may riste.
Remembere, my der son, þat ȝe sowkit my briste.
With the grosse metes then yow I wold not fede,
But gaue yow the licour of a maydyns mylke;
Tille Egipe in myne armes softly I did yow lede;
But your smylinge contenaunce, I askit non other mede.
Then be content that I with yow may riste.
Remembere, my der son, þat ȝe sowkit my briste.
At your natiuitee, remember, my dere son,
What vesselle I brochit to your nobille grace.
Was þer neuer moder that brochit sich a ton!
From my virgyne pappes mylk ran owt apasse.
To your Godly power natur gaf a place;
Ye sowkit maydens milke, and so did neuer none,
Nore herafter shalle, saue yourself alone.
What vesselle I brochit to your nobille grace.
Was þer neuer moder that brochit sich a ton!
From my virgyne pappes mylk ran owt apasse.
To your Godly power natur gaf a place;
Ye sowkit maydens milke, and so did neuer none,
Nore herafter shalle, saue yourself alone.
When ye sowkid my brest, your body was hole and sound;
Alese! In euery place now se I many wound!
Now help me, swet Mawdleyn, for I falle to þe ground!
And me, wofulle Mary, help now, gud John!
Alese! In euery place now se I many wound!
Now help me, swet Mawdleyn, for I falle to þe ground!
And me, wofulle Mary, help now, gud John!
JOHN EUAUNGELISTE.
Than, gude swete lady, lef your gret mon!
MARY VIRGYN.
A! A, Mawdleyn, why devise ye nothinge
To this blessid body for to gif praysinge?
To this blessid body for to gif praysinge?
Sum dolorose ditee express now yee,
In þe dew honour of þis ymage of pitee!
In þe dew honour of þis ymage of pitee!
MAWDLEYN.
To do ȝour biddynge, lady, [we] be rightt fayn,
But yit, gud lady, your teres ȝe refreyn!
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Now, Mary, deliuer that blessit body tille vs.
MARY VIRGYN.
Wille ȝe tak from me myn own son Jhesus?
NICHODEMUS.
Gud lady, suffere vs to bringe hym to his grave.
MARY VIRGYNE.
Swete frendes, suffer me mor respit to haue!
Haue compassion of me, frendes, I ȝou praye!
So hastely fro me tak hym not awaye.
So hastely fro me tak hym not awaye.
Yf to his sepulcre nedes ye wille hym bere,
Bery me, his moder, with myn awn son here!
Bery me, his moder, with myn awn son here!
When he was lyvynge, to leve I desirid;
Now, sithen he is ded, alle my joye is expirid.
Now, sithen he is ded, alle my joye is expirid.
Therfor, lay the moder in grave with the child.
JOHANNES EUANGELISTA.
O, Mary, modere and maiden most myld,
Ordere yourselfe os reson doth requere!
JOSEPHE.
Com on, lat vs bery this body that is here!
MARY VIRGYN.
O, now myn harte is in a mortalle dred!
Allas! Shalle I not kep hym nothire whik ne ded?
Is ther no remedye?
Yit, Josephe, agayn the cloth ye vnfold,
That his graciose visage I may ons behold,
I pray yow interlye!
JOSEPHE.
Pece, gude Marye! Ye haue had alle your wille!
MARY VIRGYN.
Ales! This departinge my tender hart doth kille!
Gud coysyn John, yit spek a word for mee!
JOHNE EUAUNGELIST.
Be content, swet Mary, for it may nott bee.
MARY VIRGYN.
A! A! Toward me ye be verreye cruelle!
Yit lat me bid ons myn own son farwelle!
Ye may it not denye.
Now, farewelle, only joye of alle my harte and mynd,
Farewelle! The derest redemption of mankind
Suffert most bitterlye!
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Com one, gud Mary, com!
NICHODEMUS.
Some of you women, ber hir companye!
TWO MARIES.
We shalle gife hire attendance,
Faithfully, with humble reuerance.
Exeunt.
JOSEPHE.
Now in his grave, lat vs ly hym down,
Sepelit[ur].
And then resorte we agayn to the town,
To her what wille men saye.
Mawdleyn, ye must hense departe.
To her what wille men saye.
Mawdleyn, ye must hense departe.
MAWDLEN.
Ye, and that with a sorowfulle harte,
Mowrnynge nyght and daye.
Mowrnynge nyght and daye.
Farewelle, swete lambe! Farwelle, most innocent!
Wrichit Mawdleyn, with most hartly intent,
Commendes hir to your grace.
Farwelle, der master! Farwelle, derest Lord!
Off yowr gret mercye, ȝe shalle þe warld record,
Herafter in ylk place.
Wrichit Mawdleyn, with most hartly intent,
Commendes hir to your grace.
Farwelle, der master! Farwelle, derest Lord!
Off yowr gret mercye, ȝe shalle þe warld record,
Herafter in ylk place.
Summe preciose balmes I wille go bye
Tille anoynt and honour this blessit body,
Os it my dewty is.
Fayre Josephe, and gude Nichodemus,
I commend ȝou to the kepinge of Jhesus!
He wille whit ȝou alle this.
Tille anoynt and honour this blessit body,
Os it my dewty is.
Fayre Josephe, and gude Nichodemus,
I commend ȝou to the kepinge of Jhesus!
He wille whit ȝou alle this.
JOSEPHE.
Farewelle, Mawdleyn, to yourself comfurth take.
Of this blessit berialle, lat vs ane end make.
Here now is he gravid and here lyes hee,
Which for loue of man, of his charite
Suffert bitter passion.
Gret comforthe it is vnto vs alle
That the thride day aryse he shalle,
In the most gloriose fassion!
Of this blessit berialle, lat vs ane end make.
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Which for loue of man, of his charite
Suffert bitter passion.
Gret comforthe it is vnto vs alle
That the thride day aryse he shalle,
In the most gloriose fassion!
The tyme drawethe fast and approchis nere;
Schortly, I truste sum gud tidinges to here.
Schortly, I truste sum gud tidinges to here.
Devowte Nichodemus, departe we as nowe.
NICODEMUS.
Gladly, frende Joseph, I wille go with ȝowe.
Thus Her Endes the Most Holy Berialle of Þe Body of Crist Jhesu.
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