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Felix Plater, Observations, book 1, had a baker as his patient, nearly mad with love for his maid and desperate. By having her removed from him, he was cured in a short time.
Isaeus, a philosopher of Assyria, lived most dissolutely in his youth, “openly indulging in lust,” falling in love with everyone he met. But after taking his friends’ advice, turning to study and leaving women’s company, he changed so completely that he no longer cared for plays, feasts, masques, songs, verses, fine clothes or any such amorous trifles. He suddenly became a new man, “as if he had lost his former eyes,” as my author says.
In the last chapter of his third book, Peter Godefridus tells a story from Saint Ambrose of a young man who met his former love after a long absence. Though once deeply infatuated with her, he scarcely acknowledged her. Astonished that he valued her so lightly, she called to him again, “soothing his heart with words,” and told him who she was. “It is I,” she said. “But I am no longer I,” he answered: he was not the same man. “At last he rushed away,” as Dido fled from Aeneas, refusing her any further conversation, disgusted by his folly and ashamed of what he had formerly done.
I am no longer a fool as before, Neaera.
O Neaera, from now on try your tricks and schemes on somebody else; you shall fool me no longer.
Petrarch has another such tale of a young gallant who loved a girl with one eye, and for that reason was sent by his parents to travel in distant countries. After some years he returned. Meeting the girl for whose sake he had been sent abroad, he asked how she had come to lose her eye. “No,” she said, “I have lost none; you have found yours.”
She meant that all lovers were blind, as Fabius says: “lovers cannot judge beauty,” nor scarcely anything else. They will readily confess this once some interruption or better advice has brought them back to themselves. They wonder at their own folly, madness, stupidity and blindness, feel deeply ashamed, “and laugh at love, and call it an idle thing,” condemn themselves for ever having been so infatuated or misled, and rejoice heartily that they have escaped so happily.
If a change of place fails to bring about this alteration, which seldom happens, other remedies must be added, fair means and foul: persuasion, promises, threats, fright, or diversion through some contrary passion, rumour, story, news or clever invention, to alter his affection. “Drive out the smaller sorrow by a greater,” says Gordonius: tell him his house is on fire, his best friend dead or his money stolen; or that he has been made a great governor, received an honour or office, or come into an inheritance, and will be a knight or baron. Or use some false accusation, as people do to those with hiccups, to make them forget them.
Saint Jerome, book 2, letter 16, to the monk Rusticus, gives the example of a young Greek living in a monastery in Egypt, whom no labour, abstinence or persuasion could divert, but who was finally delivered by this trick. The abbot set one of his community to quarrel with him, defame him before others with some scandalous accusation, and then be the first to lodge a complaint. Witnesses were also bribed or induced to give false evidence for the complainant. The young man wept; when everyone was against him, the abbot cunningly took his side, lest he be overwhelmed by excessive grief. But why prolong the story? By this device he was cured and drawn away from his former thoughts of love.
Injuries, slanders, contempt, disgrace,
and the insult of beauty scorned,
are very powerful ways to turn people’s affections aside. As Lucian says, “lovers subjected to insult cease to love.” Lovers abused or neglected, despised or mistreated, turn love to hatred. “Shall I return? Not if she begs me!” “I’ll never love you more.” “What, I love her—who loves him, who treats me—who does not—?”
So Zephyrus hated Hyacinthus because he scorned him and preferred his rival Apollo: Palaephatus, Fabulous Narratives. Such a lover will not come again even when invited.
Just tell him how he was mocked behind his back—this is Avicenna’s advice—that his love is unfaithful, entertains another, rejects him or cares nothing for him; or that she is a fool, a filthy whore, a sloven, a vixen, a scold or a devil. Or, as Italians commonly do, say that he or she has some disgusting, filthy disease: gout, stone, painful dribbling urination or epilepsy, and that these are hereditary and unavoidable; that he is prone to wasting disease, has the pox or three or four incurable skin eruptions or draining sores; that she is bald, her breath stinks, she is mad by inheritance, as are all her relatives, and is scatterbrained, with many other hidden ailments belonging to women which I will not even name.
Say that he is a hermaphrodite, a eunuch, physically defective or impotent; a spendthrift, gambler, fool, dupe, beggar or whoremonger, deeply in debt and unable to support her; a habitual drunkard whose mother was a witch and whose father was hanged; that he has an ulcer in his breast, a sore leg, leprosy or some incurable disease; that he will certainly beat her, cannot hold his urine, cries out or walks at night, will stab his bedfellow or reveal all his secrets in his sleep, so that nobody dares sleep beside him; that his house is haunted by spirits. Use such frightening and tragic things as could repel and terrify any man or woman alive.
Gordonius, part 2, chapter 20, advises in this manner: