fell in love with Heloise, he no longer wished to visit the schools or spend time with scholars. “It became very tedious for me,” as he confesses, “to go to the schools or remain there.” His whole mind was on his new mistress.

Now, to this end, if there is any hope of succeeding in his suit, he will exhaust himself, his possessions and his fortune in pursuing her—even though he loses and alienates all his friends, is threatened, cast off and disinherited. For, as the poet says, “Who can lay down a law for love?” Though it utterly ruins and disgraces him and reduces him to begging, for her sweet sake, to possess her, he will willingly beg and risk everything he has: goods, lands, shame, scandal, reputation and life itself.

I shall not withdraw or rest, by night or day, Until I have surely found either her or death.

I’ll never rest or cease my suit Till she or death has silenced me.

Parthenis in Aristaenetus was firmly resolved to do as much. “I admit I could make better marriages, but farewell shame, farewell honour, farewell chastity, farewell friends and fortunes, and all the rest. O Harpedona, keep my secret. I will leave everything for his sweet sake. I will have him; say no more. Against the whole world, I am resolved: I will have him.”

When the captain Gobrias saw Rhodanthe, the beautiful captive maiden, he fell on his knees before the general Mystilus. With tears, vows and all the eloquence he could muster, he appealed to the scars he had received, the good service he had done and everything else dear to the general, begging his commander to give him the captive maiden as his wife, “the prize of his valour,” as a reward for his worth and service. Moreover, he would release him from the money owed and all other outstanding payments. “I ask nothing more, no share of booty, no portion, only Rhodanthe as my wife.” When he could not obtain her by peaceful means, he resorted to treachery, force and villainy, finally staking his life to fulfil his desire.

This is a common disposition, a passion shared by all lovers. As Emilia told the courtier Aretino in Castiglione’s dialogue: “Surely, Aretino, if you were not truly like this, you were not in love. Admit it honestly: if you had been thoroughly in love, you would have desired nothing more than to please your mistress. For love’s law is to desire and reject the same things.”

To desire and reject only what the beloved desires and rejects.

This can undoubtedly be said of them all: for the time being they are absolute slaves and drudges, madmen, fools, simpletons, “sufferers from black bile,” beside themselves and as blind as beetles. Their infatuation is unmistakable. “Even Jupiter is not granted the power to love and be wise at the same time,” as Seneca maintains: Jupiter himself cannot be in love and be wise together. Even the best of them, once overtaken by this passion—the steadiest, most prudent, dignified, noble-minded and wise, otherwise capable of governing themselves—commit many absurdities and improprieties, unworthy of their dignity and standing.

Whoever loves is a slave, follows the lover as a captive, And bears the yoke upon a subdued neck.

Samson, David, Solomon, Hercules, Socrates and others are rightly charged with imprudence in this respect. Those of middling ability are caught between one thing and another; although they perceive and acknowledge their own infatuation, weakness and frenzy, they cannot resist it. Dido’s protests and confessions in Virgil bear witness:

She begins to speak, and stops in the middle of her utterance.

Phaedra, in Seneca:

Whatever reason can achieve, passion conquers and reigns, And the mighty god rules over the whole mind.

Myrrha, in Ovid:

She indeed understands, and struggles against her shameful love, Saying to herself, “Where is my mind carrying me? What am I attempting? Gods, I pray, and reverence for family ties…”

She sees and knows her fault, and resists, Struggling against her filthy lust. “Where am I going? What am I doing? God forbid!” Yet in the end she does it.

Again:

An unceasing, untamed fire Consumes her; she returns to her frenzied desires, Now despairs, now wishes to attempt them; she is ashamed And longs for them, and cannot discover what to do.

She burns with raging lust, now recalls Her vow, then despairs; when that has passed, She will hasten to pursue her former thoughts, And finally does not know what to do.

She wills it and refuses it, abhors it, yet does it, as Medea did:

A strange new force drags me against my will; desire urges one thing, Reason another. I see the better course and approve it; I follow the worse.

Reason pulls one way, burning lust another; She sees and knows what is good, but does not do it.

O deceit, and love, and frenzy of a disordered mind, Where have you carried me?

Most lovers are carried headlong like so many brute beasts. Reason counsels one course: consider your friends, your fortunes, shame, disgrace, danger and the ocean of cares that will certainly follow. Yet this furious lust hurls them forward, counterbalances all this and outweighs it on the other side. Though it means their utter ruin, lasting disgrace and loss, they will do it. At last they become “senseless,” devoid of judgement, and degenerate into dogs, pigs, asses and beasts: as Jupiter became a bull, Apuleius an ass, Lycaon a wolf, Tereus a lapwing, Callisto a bear, and Elpenor and Gryllus were turned into pigs by Circe.

For what else can we think those ingenious poets intended to represent in their clever fictions and poems, except that someone once surrendered to lust is no better than a beast? So Fulgentius interprets the story in Apuleius, and Alciato that of Tereus.