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An Explanation of the Frontispiece.
Ten separate panels you see here Are joined as one by the engraver’s art.
1 Old Democritus, beneath a tree, Sits on a stone, a book upon his knee; Around him hang the bodies Of cats, dogs and similar creatures, Which he dissects To find the seat of black bile. Above his head appears the sky, And Saturn, lord of melancholy.
2 On the left, a landscape of jealousy Presents itself to your eye. A kingfisher, a swan, a heron, And two fighting cocks can be seen; Two roaring bulls rush at each other, To fight over mating. These are symbols; I say no more. Infer the rest from what came before.
3 The next gives a clear picture Of solitude: A sleeping dog and cat; buck and doe, Hares and rabbits roam the wilderness; Bats and owls above the shaded bowers Hover in melancholy darkness. Look carefully: if it is not as it should be, Blame the poor engraver, not me.
4 In the panel below there stands The lover, with his hands folded; His head droops, neat and elegant; Surely he is composing some song. His lute and books lie around him, Signs of his foolishness. If this does not reveal enough To picture him, take yourself by the nose.
5 The sufferer from hypochondriac melancholy leans on his arm; Wind in his side does him much harm, And troubles him severely, God knows. He has much pain and many sorrows. Around him lie pots and glass vessels, Newly brought from his apothecary. Saturn’s aspects signify this; You see them depicted in the sky.
6 Beneath them, kneeling, You see a superstitious man: He fasts and prays, intent upon his idol, Tormented between hope and fear. Perhaps he takes more trouble to reach hell Than you take to gain heaven itself. Alas, poor soul, I pity you: What stars incline you to be this way?
7 But see the madman rage outright, With furious looks, a ghastly sight. He lies naked, bound in chains, And roars loudly, though he knows not why. Observe him: as in a mirror, There was your own angry portrait. Keep his picture always before you; There is no difference between him and you.
8 9 Borage and hellebore fill two scenes: Supreme plants for purging the veins Of melancholy and cheering the heart, Clearing the black fumes that make it ache; For clearing the brain of misty fogs That dull our senses and clog the soul. The best medicine God ever made For this illness, if properly applied.
10 Last of all, to fill a space, The author’s face is presented; In the clothing that he wears, His image appears before the world. No art can properly express his mind; You may judge that from his writings. It was neither pride nor vanity (Though others commonly act from those)
That made him do this: if you must know, The printer insisted on it. So do not frown or scoff at it; Do not mock or belittle it at all. For however you treat him, He will surely treat you in return. Look at it, then; look closely and see: As you like it, so it likes you.
And I will stand here on its behalf, At your command. Reader, farewell.