Spare me while I hurry there; drown me as I return.

It is their common disposition in this situation to scorn death, wish for death and face death: “For neither wild beast, fire, precipice, sea, sword nor noose seems dreadful to them.” “They desire to die,” says Tyrius.

He does not fear death; he longs to go Straight against the swords themselves.

Though a thousand dragons or devils guard the gates, though Cerberus himself, Sciron and Procrustes lie in wait, and the way is as dangerous and inaccessible as hell, through flames and over burning ploughshares, he will venture on despite it all. As Peter Abelard lost his testicles for his Heloise, so, I say, he will risk not merely an incision but life itself. How many gallants in those days offered to lose their lives for a night with Cleopatra! And at the very moment of death their only comfort is to remember their dear mistress: Zerbino, killed in France, and Brandimart in Barbary, as Arcite remembered his Emily.

When he felt death, His eyes grew dim, his breath faded; Yet still he cast his eye upon his lady. His last word was, “Mercy, Emily!” His spirit changed and passed away— Whither I cannot tell, nor where.

When Captain Gobrius received his fatal wound in an unfortunate accident, “Alas, wretched me!” he exclaimed. Instead of other devotions, he cried: “Shall I die before I see Rodanthe, my sweetheart?” “Thus love despises death,” says my author, “or anything that happens to human beings.” So love triumphs over death itself, scorns it and exults over it.

Thirteen handsome young men lost their lives for the beautiful Hippodamia, daughter of Oenomaus, king of Elis. When faced with the harsh condition of death or victory, they disregarded it and courageously died for love, until Pelops finally won her by a trick. As many gallants recklessly risked their precious lives for Atalanta, daughter of Schoeneus, in the hope of marriage. All were defeated and overcome, until Hippomenes succeeded in his suit with a few golden apples.

Perseus of old fought a sea-monster for Andromeda’s sake; and our Saint George, in a terrible combat, rescued the king of Sabea’s daughter, who had been exposed to a dragon—the Golden Legend is my source. I hope our knights-errant and the Sir Lancelots of today will risk as much for ladies’ favour as the Squire of Dames, the Knight of the Sun, Sir Bevis of Southampton, or that renowned nobleman,

Orlando, who for a long time dearly loved Fair Angelica, and for her sake Throughout the world, in nations far and near, Performed and undertook great enterprises.

He is an utter craven, a coward, a blockhead and a beast who will not do as much. But surely they will—they will! These lovers of our own time commonly say and do still more: stab their arms, drink toasts in blood, or act like that Thessalian Thero, who bit off his own thumb, “challenging his rival to match the deed,” to make his competitor do the same. They frequently issue challenges to combat for their lady and mistress, and charge in a joust,

So that each knocks the other down Beneath the horses’ feet—so furiously they meet.

Then up and at it again:

And both rain down such heavy blows with their axes That neither plate nor chainmail withstands the onslaught, But crumples and breaks apart like rotten wood, And fire flashes like lightning after thunder.

And to fight in her cause until “their helmets and shields are all broken, and their swords notched like so many saws.” They cannot bear to see her insulted in any way: to speak against her is blasphemy; to name her without every mark of respect is dishonour. These creatures commonly kneel on their bare knees to drink toasts; though the cup were a mile deep, whatever the mixture, down it goes.

If she orders it, they will go barefoot to Jerusalem, to the Great Khan’s court, to the East Indies to fetch her a bird to wear in her hat. They will sail around the world with Drake and Cavendish for her sweet sake, “against contrary winds”; serve twice seven years, as Jacob did for Rachel; do as much as Ghismonda, daughter of Tancred, prince of Salerno, who ate the heart of her true love Guiscardo when he died; or as Artemisia, who drank her husband’s powdered bones and so buried him within herself; and endure more torments than Theseus or Paris. “Venus is worshipped more by these things than by incense and sacrificial victims”: such sacrifices, as Aristaenetus maintains, please Venus well.

In general, they undertake any hardship, labour or toil for their mistress’s sake. They love and admire, acting as servants not only to her but to all her friends and attendants, whom they hug and embrace for her sake. Her dog, her portrait, everything she wears—they worship it as a relic. If anyone comes from her, they feast him, reward him, will not leave his company and do him every service, always remembering her, always talking of her:

For if the one you love is absent, images are still at hand, And that sweet name keeps hovering about your ears.

Even the messenger who comes from him to her is a most welcome guest. If he brings a letter, she will read it twenty times over and, as Lucretia did with Euryalus’s, “kiss the letter a thousand times in succession, and then read it.” And Chelidonia, receiving Philonius’s letter, put it in her bosom after many sweet kisses,

And kiss it again, and often look at it, And detain the messenger who wishes to leave.

And ask many little questions over and over again: how did he look, what did he do, what did he say? In a word: