The workes of Geffray Chaucer newlye printed, wyth dyuers workes whych were neuer in print before: as in the table more playnly doth appere. Cum priuilegio ad imprimendum solum.

¶Thus endeth the Testament of Loue And here after foloweth The lamentatyon of Mary Magdaleyne.

PLonged in the wawe of mortall dystresse Alas for wo, to whom shall I compleyne Or who shall deuoyde thys great heuynesse Fro me wofull Mary, wo∣full Magdaleyne my lord is gon, alas who wrouʒt this treine This sodeine chaūce, perseth my hert so depe That nothing can I do, but wayle and wepe

My lorde is gone, y^t here in graue was layde After hys great passion, and deth cruell who hath hym thus agayne betrayde? Or what man here about can me tell where he is become, the prynce of Israell Iesus of Nazareth, my gostly socour My parfyte loue, and hope of all honour

what creature hath hym hence caryed? Or howe myght thys so sodeynly befall? I wolde I had here wyth hym taryed And so shulde I haue had my purpose all I bought oyntmentes full precious & royall wherwyth I hoped his corps to anoynted But he thus gone, my mynde is dyspoynted

whyle I therfore aduertyse and beholde This pytous chaunce, here in my presence Ful lytel maruayle though my herte be colde Consydrynge lo, my lordes absence Alas that I so full of negligence Shulde be founde, bycause I come so late All men may faye I am infortunate

Cause of my sorowe, mē maye vnderstande (Quia tulerunt dominum meum) Another is, that I ne maye fonde I wotnere, Vbi posuerunt eum Thus I muste bewayle, Dolorem meum wyth herty wepyng, I can no better deserue Tyl deth approche, my herte for to kerue

My herte opprest wyth sodeyne auenture By feruent anguyshe is be wrapped so That longe thys lyfe I may not endure Such is my payne, suche is my mortall wo Neuerthelesse, to what partye shall I go In hope to fynde myne owne turtyll true My lyues ioye, my souerayne Lorde Iesu

Syth all my ioye, that I call hys presence Is thus remoued, nowe I am ful of mone Alas the whyle, I made no prouidence For thys myshap, wherfore I sygh & grone Socour to find, to what place might I gone Fayne I wolde to some man my herte breke I note to whom I may complayne or speke

Alone here I stande, ful sory and ful sadde which hoped to haue sene my lorde & kynge Small cause haue I to be mery or gladde Remembrynge thys bytterfull departynge In thys worlde is no creature lyuynge That was to me so good and gracious Hys loue also then golde more precious

Ful sore I sygh, wythout comforte agayne There is no cure to my saluation Hys brēnyng loue, my herte so doth cōstraine Alas here is a wofull permutacion wherof I fynde no ioye nor consolacion Therfore my payne all onely to confesse wyth dethe I feare woll ende my heuynesse

Thys wo and anguyshe is intollerable

Yf I byde here, lyfe can I not sustayne Yf I go hence my paynes be vncurable wher hī to fynde, I knowe no place certayne And thus I not of these thynges twayne whych I maye take, & whych I may refuse My hert is woūded heron to thynke or muse

A whyle I shall stande in thys mournyng In hope yf any vysyon wol appere That of my loue might tel some good tiding whych into ioy, myght chaūge my wepynge there I trust in his grace & hys mercy dere But at the leest, though I therwyth me kyll I shal not spare to wayle and wepe my fyll

And yf that I dye in suche auenture I can nomore, but welcome as my chaunce My bones shall rest here in thys sepulture My lyfe, my dethe, is at hys ordinaunce It shalbe tolde in euerlastyng remembraūce Thus to departe, is to me no shame And also therof I am nothynge to blame

Hope agaynst me hath her course ytake There is nomore, but thus shall I dye I se ryght wel my lorde hath me forsake But in my cōceyte, cause knowe I none why Though he be farre hence, and nothyng nye Yet my wofull herte after hym doth seke And causeth teeres to ren down by my cheke

Thynkyng alas, I haue lost hys presence whych in this worlde was al my sustenaūce I crye and cal wyth herty dyligence But there is no wyght gyueth attendaunce Me to certifye of myne enquyraunce wherfore I wyll to al thys worlde bewraye Howe that my lorde is slayne & borne awaye

Though I mourne it is no great wonder Syth he is al my ioye in speciall And nowe I thynke we be so farre a sonder That hym to se I feare neuer I shall It helpeth no more after hym to call Ne after hym to enquyre in any coste Alas howe is he thus gone and loste?

The iewes I thynke full of mysery Sette in malyce, by theyr besy cure wyth force and myght of gylefull trechery Hath entermyned my lordes sepulture And borne awaye that precious fygure Leuynge of it nothynge, yf they haue done so Marred I am, alas what shall I do

wyth theyr vengeaunce insaciable Nowe haue they hym entreated so That to reporte it is to lamentable They bete hys body from toppe to the too Neuer man was borne that felte suche wo They wounded hym alas wyth al greuaūce The blode downe reyled in most habūdaūce

The blody rowes stremed downe ouer all They hym assayled so malycyously wyth theyr scourges and strokes beestyall They spared not, but smote incessauntly To satisfye theyr malyce they were full besy They spit in his face, they smote here & there He groned ful sore, and swette many a tere

They crowned him w^t thornes sharpe & kene The vaynes rent, the blode ran downe apace wyth bloode ouercome were both hys eyen And bolne with strokes was his blessed face They hym entreated, as men without grace They kneled to hym, & made many a scorne Lyke helhoundes they haue hym al to corne

Vpon a myghty crosse in length and brede These turmētours shewed theyr cursydnesse they nayled hym wythout pyte or brede Hys precious bloode brast out in largenesse They strayned him alonge, as mē mercylesse The very ioyntes all to myne apparence Ryued asonder, for theyr great vyolence

All thys I beholdyng w^t myne eyen twayne Stode there besyde, wyth rufull attendaūce And euer me thought, he beyng in that paine Loked on me, wyth deedly councenaunce As he had sayd in hys speciall remembraūce Farewell Magdalen, departe must I nedes hens My herte is, Tāquā cera liquescens

whych rufull syght when I gan beholde Out of my wytte I almost dystraught Tare my heere, my handes wrange & solde And of y^e sight my herte drāke such a draught That many a fal swounyng there I caught I brused my body, fallyng on the grounde wherof I fele many a greuous woūde

Thē these wretches, full of al frowardnesse

Gaue him to drynke eysell tempred with gal Alas, that poyson full of bytternesse My loues chere caused than to appall And yet therof might he nat drinke at all But spake these wordes, as him thought best Father of heuen, Consummatum est

Than kneled I downe, in paynes outrage Clipping y^e crosse within myn armes twayn His bloode distylled downe on my vysage My clothes eke the droppes dyd distayne To haue dyed for him I wolde full fayne But what shulde it auayle yf I dyd so Sythe he is, Suspensus in patibulo

Thus my lorde full dere was all disgysed with bloode, payne, and woundes many one His veynes brast, hys ioyntes all to ryued Partyng a sonder the fleshe fro the bone But I sawe he hynge nat there alone For Cum iniquis deputatus est Nat lyke a man, but lyke a leprous beest

A blynde knyght men called Longias wyth a speare aproched vnto my souerayne Launsyng his syde full pytously alas That his precious herte he claue in twayne The purple bloode eke fro the hertes vayne Down rayled right fast, in moste ruful wyse wyth christal water brought out of paradyse

whan I behelde thys wofull passyon I wote nat howe, by sodayne auenture My herte was peersed with very compassyō That in me remayned no lyfe of nature Strokes of dethe I felte wythout measure My dethes woūde I caught, w^t wo opprest And brought to poynt as my hert shuld brest

The woūde, hert, and blood of my darlyng Shall neuer slyde fro my remoriall The bytter paynes also of tourmentyng wythin my soule be grauen principall The speare alas, that was so sharpe withall So thrilled my herte, as to my felyng That body and soule were at departyng

As sone as I might I releued vp agayne My brethe I coude nat very well restore Felyng my selfe drowned in so great payne Both body & soul me thought were al to tore Vyolent falles greued me right sore I wepte, I bledde, & with my selfe I fared As one that for his lyfe nothyng had cared

I lokyng vp to that rufull Roode Sawe first the vysage pale of that fygure But so pytous a syght spotted wyth bloode Sawe neuer yet no lyueng creature So it exceded the boundes of measure That mānes mynd, with al his wyttes fyue Is nothynge able, that payne for to diseryue

Than gan I there myne armes to vnbrace Vp lyftyng my handes full mournyngly I syghed and sore sobbed in that place Both heuen & erth might haue herde me crye wepyng, and sayd alas incessauntly Ah my swete herte, my gostly paramour Alas I may nat thy body socour

O blessed lorde, howe feirse and howe cruell These cursed wightes nowe hath the slayne Kernyng alas thy body euerydell woūde within woūd, ful bytter is thy payne Nowe wolde that I might to the attayne To nayle my body fast vnto thy tree So that of this payne thou might go free

I can nat reporte ne make no rehersayle Of my demenyng, wyth the cyrcumstaunce But wel I wote the speare with euery nayle Thirled my soule by inwarde resemblaunce whiche neuer shall out of my remembraunce Duryng my lyfe it woll cause me to wayle As ofte as I remembre that batayle

Ah ye iewes, worse than dogges rabyate what moued you thus cruelly him to aray He neuer displeased you nor caused debate Your loue and true hertes he coueyted aye He preched, he teched, he shewed y^e right way wherfore ye lyke tyrantes wode & wayward Now haue him thus slayne for his rewarde

Ye ought to haue remēbred one thing special His fauour, his grace, and his magnifycence He was your prince borne, and lorde ouer all Howe be it ye toke him in small reuerence He was full meke in suffryng your offence Neuertheles ye deuoured him w^t one assent As hungry wolues dothe the lambe innocēt

where was your pyte, o people mercylesse

Armyng your self with falsheed and treason On my lord ye haue shewed your woodnesse Lyke no men, but beestes without reason Your malyce he suffred all for the season Your payne wol come, thynke it nat to slacke Man without mercy of mercy shall lacke

O ye traytours & mayntayners of madnesse Vnto your folly I ascribe all my payne Ye haue me depriued of ioye and gladnesse So dealyng with my lorde and souerayne Nothyng shulde I nede thus to complayne If he had lyued in peace and tranquillyte whom ye haue slayne through your iniquite

Farwel your noblenesse y^t sōtyme dyd rayne Farewel your worshyp, glorie and fame Here after to lyue in hate and disdayne Maruayle ye nat, for your trespas & blame Vnto shame is turned all your good name Vpon you nowe woll wonder euery nacion As people of most. vyle reputacion

These wycked wretches, these hoūdes of hel As I haue tolde playne here in this sentence were nat content my dere loue thus to quell But yet they muste embesyle his presence As I perceyue by couert vyolence They haue him conueyed to my displesure For here is lafte but naked sepulture

Wherfore of truthe and rightfull iugement That their malyce agayne may be acquyted After my verdyte and auysement Of false murder they shall be endyted Of thefte also, whiche shall nat be respyted And in all haste they shal be hanged & drawe I woll my selfe plede this cause in the lawe

Alas yf I with true attendaunce Had styll abydden with my lordes corse And kept it styll wyth trewe perceueraunce Than had nat befall thys wofull deuorse But as for my payne welcome and no force This shall be my songe where so euer I go Departyng is grounde of all my wo

I se right wel nowe in my paynes smerte There is no wounde of so greuous dolour As is the wounde of my carefull herte Sythe I haue loste thus my paramour All swetnesse is tourned in to sour Myrthe to my herte nothyng may conuey But he that beareth therof bothe locke & key

The ioye excellent of blyssed paradyse Maye me alas in no wyse recomforte Songe of angell nothyng may me suffyse As in myne herte nowe to make disporte All I refuse, but that I might resorte Vnto my loue, the well of goodlyheed For whose longyng I trowe I shalbe deed

Of paynfull labour and tourment corporall I make therof none exceptioun Paynes of hell I woll passe ouer all My loue to fynde in myne affectioun So great to him is my dilectatioun A thousande tymes martred wolde I be His blyssed body ones yf I might se

About this worlde so large in all compace I shall nat spare to renne my lyfe duryng My fete also shall nat rest in one place Tyll of my loue I may here some tidyng For whose absence my hādes now I wryng To thinke on him, cease shal neuer my mynd O gentyll Iesu where shall I the fynde

Ierusalem wol I sertche place fro place Syon, the vale of Iosophath also And yf I fynde hym nat in all this space By mount Olyuet to Bethany woll I go These wayes woll I wander and many mo Nazareth, Bethleem, Mountana Iude No traueyle shall me payne hym for to se

His blyssed face yf I might se and fynde Sertche I wolde euery coste and countrey The fardest parte of Egipt or hote Inde Shulde be to me but a lytell iourney Howe is he thus gone or taken away Yf I knewe the full trouthe and certente Yet from this care released might I be

In to wyldernesse I thynke best to go Sith I can no more tidynges of him here There may I my lyfe lede to and fro There may I dwell, and to no man appere To towne ne vyllage woll I come nere Alone in woodes, in rockes, & in caues depe I may at myne own wil both wayle & wepe

Myne eyen twayne withouten varyaunce

Shall neuer cease, I promyse faithfully There to wepe wyth great abundaunce Bytter teares rennyng incessauntly The whiche teares medled ful pitously wyth the very blode euer shall renne also Expressyng in myne herte the greuous wo

worldly fode and sustenaunce I desyre none Suche lyueng as I fynde, such woll I take Rotes that growen on the craggy stone Shall me suffyse wyth water of the lake Than thus may I say for my lordes sake (Fuerunt mihi lachrime mee) (In deserto panes die ac nocte)

My body to clothe it maketh no force A mournyng mantell shalbe suffycient The greuous woundes of hys pytous corse Shalbe to me a full royall garnement He departed thus, I am best content His crosse with nayles and scourges withal Shalbe my thought and payne speciall

Thus woll I lyue, as I haue here tolde Yf I may any longe tyme endure But I feare dethe is ouer me so bolde That of my purpose I can nat be sure My paynes encrease wythout measure For of longe lyfe who can lay any reason All thyng is mortall, and hath but a season

I syghe full sore, and it is ferre yfet Myne herte I fele nowe bledeth inwardly The blody teares I may in no wyse let Sythe of my payne I fynde no remedy I thanke god of all yf I nowe dye His wyl perfourmed I holde me content My soule let hym take that hath it me lent

For lenger to endure it is intollerable My wofull herte is enflamed so huge That no sorowe to myne is comparable Sythe of my mynde I fynde no refuge Yet I hym requyre as ryghtfull iuge To deuoyde fro me the inwarde sorowe Lest I lyue nat to the nexte morowe

wythin myne herte is impressed full sore His royall forme, his shappe, his semelynesse His porte, his chere, his goodnesse euermore Hys noble persone wyth all gentylnesse He is the welle of all parfytnesse The very redemer of all mankynde Him loue I best, with hert, soule and mynde

In his absence my paynes full bytter be Rightwell I maye it fele nowe inwardly No wonder is though they hurte or slee me They cause me to crye so rewefully Myne herte oppressed is so wonderfully Onely for hym, whiche is so bright of blee Alas I trowe I shall hym neuer se

My ioye is traslate full farre in exile My myrthe is chaunged in to paynes colde My lyfe I thynke endureth but a whyle Anguyshe and payne is that I beholde wherfore my handes thus I wrynge & folde In to this graue I loke, I call, I pray Dethe remayneth, and lyfe is borne away

Nowe must I walke & wander here & there God wote to what partes I shall me dresse wyth quakyng herte, wepyng many a tere To seke out my loue and all my swetnesse I wolde he wyst what mortall heuynesse About myne herte reneweth more and more Than wolde he nat kepe pyte long in store

wythout hym I may nat long endure Hys loue so sore worketh wythin my brest And euer I wepe before thys sepulture Sighyng ful sore, as myne hert shulde brest Duryng my lyfe I shall optayne no rest But mourne & wepe, where that euer I go Makyng complaynt of all my mortall wo

Fast I crye, but there is no audyence My commyng hider was him for to please My soule opprest is here with his absence Alas he lyst nat to sette myne hert in ease wherfore to payne my selfe withall disease I shall nat spare tyll he take me to grace Or els shall I sterue here in this place

Ones yf I myght wyth him speke It were all my ioye, with parfyte plesaunce So that I myght to him myne hert breke I shulde anone deuoyde all my greuaunce For he is the blysse of very recreaunce But nowe alas, I can nothyng do so For in stede of ioye naught haue I but wo

His noble corse within myne herfes rote

Depe is graued, whiche shall neuer slake Nowe is he gone, to what place I ne wote I mourne, I wepe, and all is for his sake Sythe he is paste, here a vowe I make wyth hertely promyse, & therto I me bynde Neuer to cease tyll I may hym fynde

Vnto hys mother I thynke for to go Of her haply some comforte may I take But one thyng yet me feareth and no mo Yf I any mention of hym make Of my wordes she wold trymble and quake And who coude her blame, she hauīg but one The son borne away, the mother woll mone

Sorowes many hath she suffred trewly Syth that she fyrst conceyued hym and bare And seuyn thynges there be most specially That drowneth her hert in sorowe and care Yet lo, in no wyse may they compare wyth this one nowe, the which yf she knewe She wolde her paynes euerichone renewe

Great was her sorowe by mennes sayeng When in the temple Symeon Iustus Shewyng to her, these wordes prophesieng (Cuam anumam pertransidit glaoius) Also whan Herode that tyrant ••urious Her chylde pursued in euery place For his lyfe went neyther mercy ne grace

She mourned whan she knewe hym gone Ful long she sought or she him founde ayene whan he went to dethe hys crosse him vpon It was to her syght a rewefull payne whā he hong theron, betwene theues twayn And the speare vnto his hert thrust ryght She swouned, & to the grounde there pight

Whan deed and blody in her lappe lay Hys blessed body, both handes & fete all tore She cryed out and sayd, nowe welaway Thus arayde was neuer man before whan haste was made his body to be bore Vnto hys sepulture here to remayne Vnnethes for wo she coude her sustayne

These sorowes seuyn, lyke swerds eueryone Hys mothers hert wounded fro syde to syde But yf she knewe her sonne thus gone Out of this worlde she shuld with deth ryde For care she coude no lenger here abyde Hauyng no more ioye nor consolatioun Than I here standyng in this statioun

Wherfore her to se I dare nat presume Fro her presence I woll my selfe refrayne Yet had I leuer to dye and consume Thā his mother shuld haue any more payne Neuerthelesse her sonne wold I se ful fayne His presence was very ioye and swetnesse Hys absence is but sorowe and heuynesse

There is no more, syth I may him nat mete whom I desyre aboue all other thyng Nedes I must take the soure with the swete For of hys noble corse I here no tydyng Full ofte I crye, and my handes wryng Myne herte alas, relenteth all in payne whyche wol brast bothe senewe and vayne

Alas howe vnhappy was this wofull houre wherin is thus myspended my seruyce For myne entente and eke my trewe labour To none effecte may come in any wyse Alas I thynke yf he do me dyspise And lyst nat to take my symple obseruaunce There is no more, but deth is my fynaunce

I haue him called, Sed non respondit mihi wherfore my myrth is tourned to mourning O dere lorde, Quid mali feci tibi That me to cōforte I fynde non erthly thing Alas, haue compassyon of my cryeng If fro me, Faciem tuam abscondis There is no more, but Comsumere me vis

wythin myne hert is grounded thy fygure That all this worldes horryble tourment May nat it aswage, it is so without measure It is so brennyng, it is so feruent Remembre lorde I haue ben dilygent Euer the to please onely and no mo Myne herte is with the where soeuer I go

Therfore my dere darling, Trahe me post te And let me nat stande thus desolate (Quia non est, qui consoletur me) Myne herte for the is disconsolate My paynes also nothyng me moderate Nowe yf it lyste the to speke with me a lyue Come in hast, for my hert a sonder wyll ryue

To the I profer lo my poore seruyce

The for to please after myne owne entent I offre here, as in deuout sacrifyce My boxe replete with precious oyntment Myne eyen twayne, wepyng suffycient Myne herte with anguyshe fulfylled is alas My soule eke redy for loue about to pas

Naught els haue I the to please or pay For if myne hert were gold or precious stone It shulde be thyne without any delay wyth hertely chere y^u shuldest haue it anone why suffrest thou me than to stande alone Thou hast I trowe my wepyng in disdayne Or els thou knowest nat what is my payne

Yf thou withdrawe thy noble dalyaunce For ought that euer I displeased the Thou knowest ryghtwel it is but ignoraūce And of no knowlege for certaynte If I haue offended lorde forgyue it me Gladde I am for to make full repentaunce Of all thyng that hath ben to thy greuaunce

Myne herte alas, swelleth wythin my brest So sore opprest with anguishe & with payne That all to peces forsothe it woll brest But yf I se thy blessed corse agayne For lyfe ne dethe I can nat me refrayne If thou make delay thou mayst be sure Myne herte wol leape in to this sepulture

Alas my lord, why farest thou thus with me My tribulation yet haue in mynde where is thy mercy? where is thy pyte? whiche euer I trusted in the to fynde Sōtyme thou were to me both good & kynde Lette it please the my prayer to accept whiche with teares I haue here bewept

On me thou oughtest to haue very routh Syth for the is all thys mournyng For sythe I to the aplyghted fyrst my trouth I neuer varyed with discordyng That knowest thou best myne owne darling why constraynest thou me thus to wayle? My wo forsoth can the nothyng auayle

I haue endured wythout variaunce Right as thou knowest, thy louer iust & trew with hert & thought aye, at thyne ordynaūce Lyke to the saphire alwaye in one hewe I neuer chaunged the for no newe why withdrawest thou my presence Sith all my thought is for thyne absence

wyth herte entier, swete lorde I crye to the Enclyne thyne eares to my petycioun And come, Velociter exaudi me Remembre myne hertes dispositioun It maye nat endure in this conditioun Therfore out of these paynes, Libera me And where thou arte, Pone me iuxta te

Lette me beholde, O Iesu thy blyssed face Thy faire glorious angelyke visage Bowe thyne eares to my complaynt, alas For to conuey me out of this rage Alas my lorde, take fro me this dōmage And to my desyre for mercy condiscende For non but thou, may my greuaūce amende

Nowe yet good lorde, I the beseche and pray As thou raysed my brother Lazarous Frome dethe to lyfe the fourth day Come ayen in body and soule precious As great a thyng mayst thou shewe vnto vs Of thy selfe, by power of thy goodheed As thou dyd of hym, lyenge in graue deed

Myne hert is wounded with thy charite It brenneth, it flameth incessauntly Come my dere lorde, Ad adiuuandum me Nowe be nat longe my payne to mulpiply Lest in the meane tyme I departe and dye In thy grace I put bothe hope and cōfidence To do as it pleaseth thy hye magnifycence

Floodes of dethe, and tribulatyon In to my soule I fele entred full depe Alas that here is no consolatioun Euer I wayle, euer I mourne and wepe And sorow hath woūded myne hert ful depe O dere loue, no marueyle though I dye (Sagitte tue infixe sunt mihi)

Wandryng in this place, as in wyldernesse No comforte haue I, ne yet assuraunce Desolate of ioye, replete with fayntnesse No answere receyuyng of myne enquiraūce Myne herte also graued wyth displesaunce wherfore I may saye, O deus deus (Non est dolor sicut dolor meus)

Myne hert expresseth, Quod dilexi multum

I may nat endure though I wolde fayne For now, Solum superest sepulchrum I knowe it right well by my huge payne Thus for loue I may nat lyfe sustayne But o god, I muse what ayleth the (Quod sic repente precipitas me)

Alas, I se it wyll none otherwyse be Nowe must I take my leaue for euermore This bytter payne hath almost discōfyte me My loues corse I can in no wyse restore Alas to this wo that euer I was bore Here at his tombe now muste I dye & starue Dethe is aboute my herte for to carue

My testament I wolde begyn to make To god the father, my soule I commende To Iesu my loue, that dyed for my sake My herte and all, bothe I gyue and sende In whose loue my lyfe maketh an ende My body also to this monument I here bequeth, bothe boxe and oyntment

Of all my wylles, lo nowe I make the last Right in this place within this sepulture I wol be buryed whan I am deed and past And vpon my graue I woll haue this scrip∣ture Here within resteth a goostly creature Christes trewe louer, Mary Magdalayne whose hert for loue, brake in peces twayne

Ye vertuous women, tender of nature Full of pyte and of compassyoun Resorte I pray you, vnto my sepulture To synge my di••ige with great deuotioun Shewe your charyte in this condicioun Syng with pyte, and let your hertes wepe Remembring I am deed and layde to slepe

Than whan ye begyn to parte me fro And ended haue your mournyng obseruaūce Remembre where so euer that ye go Alway to sertche and make due enqueraunce After my loue, myne hertes sustenaunce In euery towne and in euery vyllage Yf ye maye here of this noble ymage

And yf it happe by any grace at laste That ye my treweloue fynde in any cost Say that his Magdaleyne is deed and past For his pure loue hath yelded vp the gost Say that of all thyng I loued him most And that I might nat this dethe eschewe My paynes so sore dyde euer renewe

And in token of loue perpetuall whan I am buryed in this place present Take out myne hert, the very rote and all And close it within this boxe of oyntment To my dere loue make therof a present Knelyng downe with wordes lamentable Do your message, speke fayre and tretable

Say that to him my selfe I commende A thousande tymes with herte so free This poore token say to hym I sende Pleaseth his goodnesse to take it in gree It is hys owne of ryght, it is hys see whyche he asked, whan he sayd longe before Gyue me thy herte, and I desyre no more

A due my lorde, my loue so fayre of face A due my turtel doue so freshe of hue A due my myrthe, a due al my solace A due alas, my sauyour lorde Iesu A due the gentyllest that euer I knewe A due my most excellent paramour Fayrer than rose, sweter than Lylly flour

A due my hope of all plesure eternall My lyfe, my welth, and my prosperite Myne herte of golde, my peerle orientall Myne adamant of parfyte charite My chefe refuge and my felycite My comforte, and all my recreatioun Farwell my perpetuall saluatioun

Farewell myne Emperour celestyall Most beautyful prince of al mankynde A due my lorde, of herte most lyberall Farwell my swetest, bothe soule and mynde So louyng a spouse shall I neuer fynde A due my souerayne, and very gentylman Farewell dere herte, as hertely as I can

Thy wordes eloquent flowing in swetnesse Shall no more alas, my mynde reconforte wherfore my lyfe must ende in bytternesse For in this worlde shall I neuer resorte To the, whiche was myne heuenly disporte I se alas it woll none other be Nowe farwell the grounde of all dignite

A due the fayrest that euer was bore

Alas I may not se your blessed face Nowe welaway that I shal se no more Thy blessed vysage, so replete wyth grace wherin is printed my parfyte solace A due myne hertes roote and al for euer Nowe farewel, I must from the disceuer

My soule for anguysh is nowe full thursty I faynt ryght sore for heuynesse My lorde, my spouse: Cur me dereliquisti? Syth I for the suffre al thys distresse what causeth the to seme thus mercylesse Sith it the pleaseth of me to make an ende (In manus tuas) my spirite I cōmende.

¶Finis.