The York plays
Allas, in this worlde was neuere no wight
Walkand with so mekill woo.
Thou dredfull dede, drawe hythir and dight
And marre me as thou haste done moo.
In lame is it loken, all my light,
Forthy on grounde onglad I goo;
Jesus of Nazareth he hight,
The false Jewes slewe hym me froo.
Mi witte is waste nowe in wede.
I walowe, I walke, nowe woo is me,
For laide nowe is that lufsome in lede,
The Jewes hym nayled vntill a tree.
My doulfull herte is euere in drede,
To grounde nowe gone is all my glee.
I sporne ther I was wonte to spede,
Nowe helpe me God in persones three.
Thou lufsome lede in ilke a lande,
As thou schope both day and nyght,
Sonne and mone both bright schynand,
THou graunte me grace to haue a sight
Of my lorde, or ellis his sande.
Thou wilfull woman in this waye,
Why wepis thou soo als thou wolde wede,
Als thou on felde wolde falle doune faie?
Do way, and do no more that dede.
Whome sekist thou this longe daye?
Say me the sothe, als Criste the rede.
Mi lorde Jesu and God verray,
THat suffered for synnes his sides bleede.
I schall the saie, will thou me here,
THe soth of hym that thou hast sought:
Withowten drede, thou faithfull fere,
He is full nere that mankynde bought.
Sir, I wolde loke both ferre and nere
To fynde my lorde-I se hym noght. Page 357
Womane, wepe noght, but mende thy chere,
I wotte wele whedir that he was brought.
Swete sir, yf thou hym bare awaye,
Saie me the sothe and thedir me leede
Where thou hym didde, withouten delay
I schall hym seke agayne goode speede.
Therfore, goode gardener, saie thou me,
I praye the for the prophetis sake,
Of thez tythyngis that I aske the.
For it wolde do my sorowe to slake
When Goddis body founden myght be,
THat Joseph of the crosse gonne take.
Might I hym fange vnto my fee,
Of all my woo he wolde me wrake.
What wolde thou doo with that body bare
THat beried was with balefull chere?
THou may noght salue hym of his sare,
His peynes were so sadde and seere.
But he schall cover mankynde of care,
THat clowded was he schall make clere,
And the folke wele for to fare
THat fyled were all in feere.
A, myght I euere with that man mete,
THe whiche that is so mekill of myght,
Drye schulde I wype that nowe is wete;
I am but sorowe of worldly sight.
Marie, of mournyng amende thy moode,
And beholde my woundes wyde.
THus for mannys synnes I schedde my bloode
And all this bittir bale gonne bide.
THus was I rased on the roode
With spere and nayles that were vnride.
Trowe it wele, it turnes to goode
Whanne men in erthe ther flessh schall hyde.
A, Rabony, I haue the sought,
Mi maistir dere, full faste this day.
Goo awaye Marie, and touche me noyot,
But take goode kepe what I schall saie:
I ame hee that all thyng wroght,
THat thou callis thi lorde and God verraye.
With bittir dede I mankynde boght,
And I am resen as thou se may. Page 358
And therfore, Marie, speke nowe with me,
And latte thou nowe be thy grette.
Mi lorde Jesu, I knowe nowe the,
THi woundes thai are nowe wette.
Negh me noght, my loue, latte be
Marie my doughtir swete.
To my fadir in Trinité
Forthe I stigh noyot yette.
A, mercy, comely conquerour,
Thurgh thi myght thou haste ouercome dede.
Mercy, Jesu, man and saueour,
Thi loue is swetter thanne the mede.
Mercy, myghty confortour,
For are I was full wille of rede.
Welcome lorde, all myn honnoure,
Mi joie, my luffe, in ilke a stede.
Marie, in thyne harte thou write
Myne armoure riche and goode:
Myne actone couered all with white
Als cors of man behewede,
With stuffe goode and parfite
Of maydenes flessh and bloode;
Whan thei ganne thirle and smyte
Mi heede for hawberke stoode.
Mi plates wer spredde all on brede,
THat was my body vppon a tree;
Myne helme couered all with manhede,
THe strengh therof may no man see;
THe croune of thorne that garte me blede,
Itt bemenes my dignité.
Mi diademe sais, withouten drede,
THat dede schall I neuere be.
A, blessid body that bale wolde beete,
Dere haste thou bought mankynne.
Thy woundes hath made thi body wete
With bloode that was the withinne.
Nayled thou was thurgh hande and feete,
And all was for oure synne.
Full grissely muste we caitiffis grete-
Of bale howe schulde I blynne?
To se this ferly foode
THus ruffully dight, Page 359
Rugged and rente on a roode,
THis is a rewfull sight;
And all is for oure goode,
And nothyng for his plight.
Spilte thus is his bloode,
For ilke a synfull wight.
To my God and my fadir dere,
To hym als-swithe I schall assende,
For I schall nowe noyot longe dwelle here,
I haue done als my fadir me kende;
And therfore loke that ilke man lere
Howe that in erthe ther liffe may mende.
All that me loues I schall drawe nere
Mi fadirs blisse that neuere schall ende.
Alle for joie me likes to synge,
Myne herte is gladder thanne the glee,
And all for joie of thy risyng
That suffered dede vpponne a tree.
Of luffe nowe is thou crouned kyng,
Is none so trewe levand more free.
Thy loue passis all erthely thyng,
Lorde, blissed motte thou euere bee.
To Galilé schall thou wende
Marie, my doghtir dere,
Vnto my brethir hende,
THer thei are all in fere.
Telle thame ilke worde to ende
THat thou spake with me here.
Mi blissing on the lende,
And all that we leffe here. Page 360