SECTION 1. MEMBER 1. SUBSECTION 1 The preface

I presume there will be someone or other who strongly disapproves of part of this treatise on love melancholy, objecting—as Erasmus anticipates about his own work in his preface to Sir Thomas More—that it is too frivolous for a clergyman, too comic a subject: to discuss the symptoms of love is too fanciful, fit only for a licentious poet, a sensitive young lovesick gallant, an effeminate courtier or some such idle person.

And what they say is true: human wickedness has brought things to such a pass, as Caussin observes, “that the word love is suspect and hateful to chaste ears”—the very name of love is offensive to more modest ears. So some, putting on an air of solemnity, will reject the whole work for its name before reading a word. Like the character in Petronius, they pretend to be angry that such obscene talk offends their ears, hoping to be admired as serious philosophers with sober manners.

They cannot bear talk of love’s trifles or amorous subjects; “in expression, gesture and eyes,” their outward behaviour shows aversion, yet in their thoughts they are every bit as bad as others, if not worse.

Lucretia blushed and put my book aside, But only before Brutus. Brutus, leave: she reads.

But let these faultfinders and counterfeit Catos know that, as Lord John answered the queen in the Italian Guazzo, an older, serious and judicious man is best fitted to discuss matters of love. He is likely to have more experience, to have observed more and to have sounder judgement. He can better distinguish, decide, examine and advise; give better warnings and firmer precepts; instruct his listeners better on such a subject; and, because of his mature years, more readily turn them away from it.

Besides, “there is nothing to fear in this word love”; there is nothing here to object to. Love is a kind of melancholy and a necessary part of this treatise of mine, which I cannot omit. “The work undertaken had to be served”: so Jacobus Micyllus pleads for himself in his translation of Lucian’s Dialogues, and so do I. I must and will carry out my task. And I shall adopt Mercerus’ brief excuse for his edition of Aristaenetus: if I have wasted my time writing, let them not be so idle as to read.

But I am convinced my time is not so ill spent. I need neither excuse nor regret this subject, on which many serious and worthy men have written whole volumes: Plato, Plutarch, Plotinus, Maximus of Tyre, Alcinous, Avicenna, Leone Ebreo in three long dialogues, Xenophon in his Symposium, Theophrastus—if we may believe Athenaeus, book 13, chapter 9—Pico della Mirandola and Mario Equicola, both in Italian; Kornmann, On the Line of Love, book 3; Petrus Godefridus, who has treated it in three books; and P. Haedus.

Almost every physician has discussed it separately or in his works: Arnoldus Villanovanus; Valleriola, Medical Observations, book 2, observation 7; Elianus Montalto and Laurentius in their treatises on melancholy; Jason Pratensis, On Diseases of the Head; Valescus de Taranta, Gordon, Hercules de Saxonia, Savonarola, Lange, and others. I therefore defend myself with Peter Godefridus, Valleriola and Ficino, and in Lange’s words: Cadmus of Miletus wrote fourteen books on love; why should I be ashamed to write a letter on the subject for the benefit of young men?

Some stern readers disapprove of the second book of the Aeneid, and question Virgil’s seriousness, because he introduces such amorous passions into an epic subject. But his commentator Servius rightly defends the poet’s merit, wisdom and judgement in doing so. Castellio would not have young men read the Song of Songs because he thought it too frivolous and amorous a work—a “Ballad of Ballads,” as our old English translation calls it.

He might as well forbid Genesis because of Jacob’s love for Rachel and the stories of Shechem and Dinah, Judah and Tamar; reject Numbers for the Israelites’ fornication with the Moabites; Judges for Samson’s embraces with Delilah; the books of Kings for David and Bathsheba’s adultery, Amnon’s incest with Tamar, Solomon’s concubines and so on; or the stories of Esther, Judith, Susanna and many others.

Dicaearchus and others find fault with Plato’s dignity for his condescending to write such amorous trifles, among them this dalliance with Agathon:

Kissing Agathon, I held my soul upon my lips; For the poor thing hurried there, as though about to leave.

“For my part,” says Maximus of Tyre, himself a great Platonist, “I am seized not only by wonder but by astonishment”: I do not merely marvel but stand amazed to read that Plato and Socrates should both expel Homer from their city because he wrote of such frivolous and licentious subjects. “He brings Juno and Jupiter together in bed on Ida, covered by an immortal cloud”; there are Vulcan’s net and the follies of Mars and Venus before all the gods; Apollo flees when Achilles pursues him; the gods are wounded and run away whining, like Mars, who roared louder than Stentor and covered nine acres of ground when he fell.

Vulcan spent a summer’s day falling from heaven and broke his leg on the island of Lemnos, and there are other such ridiculous passages. Yet Socrates and Plato, according to his testimony, wrote more frivolously themselves. “For what is so far apart,” he continues, “as a lover from a temperate man, an admirer of beauty from a madman?” What could be more absurd than for serious philosophers to treat such follies: to admire Autolycus and Alcibiades for their beauty, as they did; to pursue, gaze at and dote on handsome Phaedrus, delicate Agathon, young Lysis and fine Charmides? “Do these things befit a philosopher?” Does this become serious philosophers?