XLII. Æmelia Lanyer

THRICE happy women! that obtain’d such grace

From Him whose worth the world could not containe,

Immediately to turne about his face,

As not remembering his great griefe and paine,

To comfort you, whose teares powr’d forth apace

On Flora’s bankes, like showers of April’s raine:

Your cries inforced mercie, grace, and loue,

From Him whom greatest princes would not moue.

To speake one word, nor once to lift his eyes,

Vnto proud Pilate—no, nor Herod, king,

By all the questions that they would deuise,

Could make him answere to no manner of thing:

Yet these poore women, by their piteous cries,

Did mooue their Lord, their louer, and their king,

To take compassion, turne about and speake

To them whose hearts were ready now to breake.

Most blessed daughters of Jerusalem,

Who found such favour in your Sauior’s sight,

To turne his face when you did pitie him;

Youre tearefull eyes beheld his eies more bright;

Your faith and loue vnto such grace did clime

To haue reflection from this heau’nly light:

Your eagles’ eyes did gaze against this sunne,

Your hearts did think, he dead, the world were done.

When spightful men with torments did oppresse

Th’ afflicted body of this innocent doue,

Poore women, seeing how much they did transgresse,

By teares, by sighes, by cries intreat,—nay, proue

What may be done among the thickest presse;

They labour still these tyrants’ hearts to moue,

In pitie and compassion to forbeare

Their whipping, spurning, tearing of his haire.

But all in vaine—their malice hath no end;

Their hearts more hard than flint, or marble stone:

Now, to his griefe, his greatnesse they attend,

Where he, God knowes, had rather be alone;

They are his guard, yet seeke all meanes to offend:

Well may he grieve, well may he sigh and groane;

Vnder the burden of a heauy crosse

He faintly goes to make their gaine his losse.