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Lucian presents Jupiter complaining that Cupid would give him no peace, and the Moon lamenting how helplessly infatuated she was with Endymion. Even Venus herself confesses how badly her own son Cupid treated her, his mother: “Now dragging her to Mount Ida for love of the Trojan Anchises, now to Lebanon for the sake of that Assyrian youth. Although she threatened to break his bow and arrows and clip his wings, and even whipped his bare buttocks with her slipper, none of it worked: he was too headstrong and unruly.”
That conqueror of monsters, Hercules, was tamed by him:
The man whom a thousand beasts, the son of Sthenelus, And Juno could not conquer, Love conquered.
The man whom neither beasts nor enemies could tame, Nor Juno’s might subdue, was overcome by Love.
Your bravest soldiers and noblest spirits are weakened by it, “when they surrender to women’s blandishments and are defiled by their embraces.” Apollo, who undertook to cure every disease, could not cure himself of this one. Socrates therefore calls Love a tyrant and depicts him riding in triumph in a chariot. Petrarch imitates him in his Triumph of Love, and Fracastoro develops the picture in an elegant poem: Cupid rides, Mars and Apollo follow his chariot, Psyche weeps, and so forth.
Love’s sovereignty over plants can be demonstrated by many compelling proofs and familiar examples, especially palm trees. These are male and female, and display not merely a sympathetic affinity but a passion of love, confirmed by many observations.
The leaves live for love; every fruitful tree Loves in return. Palms nod their mutual pledges; Poplar sighs at poplar’s touch, Plane whispers to plane, and alder to alder.
Constantine, in On Agriculture, book 10, chapter 4, gives an example from Florentius’s Georgics of a palm tree that loved most ardently, “and would not be comforted until her beloved drew close to her. You could see the two trees bend and voluntarily stretch out their branches to embrace and kiss one another. They give unmistakable signs of mutual love.”
Ammianus Marcellinus, book 24, reports that they marry one another and fall in love if they grow within sight; when the wind carries their scent to one another, they are wonderfully moved. Philostratus, in his Images, observes the same, as does Galen in On the Affected Parts, book 6, chapter 5. They fall sick for love, ready to die and waste away. Farmers, noticing this, says Constantine, “stroke several palms growing together, and then stroke the lovesick palm in turn, carrying kisses from one to the other.”
Or they tie the leaves and branches of one to the trunk of the other, making both flourish and prosper much better. “They can tell which are in love by the bending of their branches and the leaning of their trunks.”
If anyone thinks what I say is a fable, let him read the story of two palm trees in Italy, the male growing at Brindisi and the female at Otranto. Giovanni Pontano relates it in an excellent poem; he was once tutor to the younger Alfonso, king of Naples, his secretary of state, and a great philosopher. The trees “were barren, and remained so for a long time,” until, growing taller, they came within sight of one another, although many stadia apart.
Pierio Valeriano, in his Hieroglyphics, and Melchior Guilandinus, in the third section of his treatise On Papyrus, cite Pontano’s story as true. See further Salmuth’s commentary on Panciroli’s New Discoveries, title 1, “On the New World”; Mizaldus’s Secrets, book 2; and Sandys’s Travels, book 2, page 103, and so forth.
If there is such frenzy in plants, what are we to think of sentient creatures? How much more violent and evident must it be in them!
Every race on earth, of humans and wild beasts, The creatures of the sea, the herds and brightly coloured birds, Rush into frenzy and fire: love is the same for all.
All kinds of creatures on the earth, And fishes in the sea, And brightly coloured birds rage alike: This love rules all equally.
This god subdues both the lands and the deep seas.
Common experience and our senses show us how violently animals are carried away by this passion, horses above all—
The frenzy of mares is extraordinary.
In Lucian, Cupid tells his mother Venus to be cheerful: he has now become familiar with lions, often climbs on their backs, holds them by the mane and rides them about like horses, while they fawn on him with their tails.
Bulls, bears and boars are so furious in this passion that they kill one another; especially cocks, lions and stags. The stags are so fierce that you can hear them fight half a mile away, says Turbervile. Often they kill each other or force their rivals to abandon the rut, so that they may remain masters in their place. “When one has driven his rival away, he raises his nose into the air and looks upwards as though thanking nature,” which affords him such great delight.
How birds are affected in this way appears in Aristotle: he maintains that they sing “in anticipation of mating,” from joy or hope of the sexual pleasure to come.
First the birds of the air proclaim you, goddess, And your arrival, their hearts struck by your power.
“Fish waste away for love and grow thin,” if we may accept Gomesius’s authority; some of them are sexually ravenous too. Pierre Gilles, in his History of Animals, book 10, tells wonders of a Triton in Epirus. There was a well near the shore where country girls fetched water. These Tritons would attack them “for the purpose of sexual violation,” carry them into the sea and drown them if they would not submit. So love tyrannizes over creatures without speech.