our modern Ariostos and Boiardos, the authors of Arcadia, Urania and The Faerie Queene; Marullus, Leotichius, Angerianus, Stroza, Secundus, Capellanus, and the other witty modern poets who have written in this vein: all are so many symptoms of love. Their entire books are a synopsis or compendium of love, love’s breviary, legends of lovers’ lives and deaths and of their memorable adventures.

More than that, “they owe it to love that they are read and praised.” As the lawyer Nevisanus maintains, “There was never an excellent poet who invented good tales or composed admirable verse without being in love himself.” Had he not taken a quill from Cupid’s wings, he could never have written as amorously as he did.

Cynthia made you a poet, wanton Propertius; Beautiful Lycoris holds Gallus’s inspiration. Lovely Nemesis is the fame of subtle Tibullus; Lesbia dictated to you, learned Catullus. Neither the Paelignian nor Mantua will scorn me as a poet, If I have a Corinna or an Alexis.

Wanton Propertius, and witty Gallus, Subtle Tibullus, and learned Catullus: Cynthia, Lesbia and Lycoris Made poets of you all; and if Alexis Or Corinna happens to become my lover, Virgil and Ovid shall not despise me.

Neither Thracian Orpheus nor Linus Will surpass me in song.

Petrarch’s Laura made him so famous; Stella did the same for Astrophel. Jovianus Pontanus’s mistress inspired his Roses, Violets, Lilies, Wantonness, Caresses, Jests, Beauty, Spikenard, Spring, Garland, Frankincense, Mars, Pallas, Venus, Grace, Saffron, Laurel, Perfume, Costus, Tears, Myrrh, Muses and his other poems. Why are Italians nowadays generally such good poets and painters? Because every man of any standing among them has his mistress.

Even the country folk and pig-tenders, Menalcas and Corydon, “who stink of horse dung”—those foul fellows—are instantly inspired once they taste this liquor of love. Instead of carefully wrought emblems, intricate symbolic devices, splendid masques, jousts and tournaments, they have their wakes, Whitsun ales, shepherds’ feasts, holiday gatherings, country dances, roundelays, names carved on trees, true lovers’ knots and pretty gifts.

With keepsakes, divided hearts and half-rings, Shepherds in love are as fastidious as kings.

Choosing lords, ladies, kings, queens and valentines, they go in pairs,

Corydon’s Phyllis, Nysa and Mopsus, With dainty Dousibel and Sir Tophus.

Instead of odes, epigrams and elegies, they have their ballads, country tunes—“O the broom, the bonny, bonny broom”—ditties and songs—“Bess a Bell, she does excel.” They too must write, composing everything in rhyme.

You honeysuckle of the hawthorn hedge, Accept my heart’s toast in Cupid’s cup; My heart’s dear blood, sweet Cis, is your draught, Worth all the ale in old Mistress Gubbins’s house. I say no more: my duties call me away; My father’s horse is waiting for its fodder. Be Lady Cressetlight to me, And I will be Sir Trolly Lolly to you. Written in haste: farewell, my sweet cowslip; Let us meet at the alehouse on Sunday.

Your sternest Stoics and most austere philosophers melt under this passion. If Athenaeus does not misrepresent them, Aristippus, Apollidorus, Antiphanes and others wrote love songs and accounts praising their mistresses. Orators write letters; princes give titles, honours—what will they not give? Xerxes gave Themistocles Lampsacus to supply his wine, Magnesia his bread, and Myus the rest of his food.

The Persian kings allotted entire cities to similar purposes: “Let this city supply the woman’s headband, this one her neck ornaments, this one her hair ornaments.” One whole city served to adorn her hair, another her neck, a third her headdress. Ahasuerus would have given Esther half his empire, and Herod told Herodias to ask whatever she wished: she should have it.

Caligula gave his courtesan 100,000 sesterces at the first word, to buy her pins; yet when the Senate asked him to contribute to repairing Rome’s crumbling walls for the public good, he would give no more than 6,000 sesterces.

Dionysius, the Sicilian tyrant, rejected all his privy councillors and was so besotted with his favourite and mistress Mirrha that he would appoint no one to office or act in the kingdom’s most important affairs without her special advice. He would promote, remove, dispatch or receive no man, however worthy and deserving, without her consent; while anyone she recommended, however unfit and unworthy, received the highest approval.

Instead of poems, kings and emperors build cities. Hadrian built Antinoa in Egypt, besides constellations, temples, altars, statues and images in honour of his Antinous. Alexander spent immense sums to perpetuate the glory of his Hephaestion.

Socrates professes himself “Love’s servant,” ignorant of every art and science, a master only in matters of love. “Although he disclaimed knowledge of all other things,” says his follower Maximus of Tyre, “he professed expertise in this business.” He said this openly, at home and abroad, at public feasts, in the Academy, “in the Piraeus, in the Lyceum, beneath the plane tree,” and elsewhere—the very bloodhound of beauty, as others call him.

But I conclude that love’s symptoms have no end: they are a bottomless pit. Love admits of no dimensions and cannot be surveyed by any art or instrument. Besides, I agree with Haedus: “No one can discuss matters of love, or judge them rightly, without having tried them in person”; or, as Aeneas Sylvius adds, without having been a little infatuated, mad or lovesick himself. I confess that I am only a beginner, only an observer:

I do not know what love is, nor am I in love—

I have a touch of it—for why should I lie, conceal it or make excuses? Yet “I am human,” and not altogether inexperienced in this subject. “I am no teacher of the art of love.” What I say comes merely from reading, “perhaps from other people’s follies,” from my own observation and from others’ reports.