By Counsel and Persuasion, the Foulness of the Deed, the Faults of Men And…
Because he had seen the private parts of the naked body,
The love that had been racing came to a halt.
The love that ran at full speed stood still
Once it saw those parts that should stay hidden.
It is reported that Seleucus, king of Syria, happened to see his wife Stratonice’s bald head as she undressed and could never love her afterwards. The physician Raymond Lull, discovering an ulcer or cancer in the breast of the mistress he loved so dearly, abhorred the sight of her from that day on.
Philip, king of France, as William of Newburgh relates in book 4, chapter 24, married the king of Denmark’s daughter; after sleeping with her as his wife for one night, he sent her back to her father, they say, because her breath stank or because of some other hidden defect.
Pierre Matthieu, in his life of Louis XI, criticizes our English chronicles for saying that Margaret, daughter of the king of Scots and wife of Louis XI of France, was rejected by her husband “because of the foul smell of her breath.”
Many such marriages are made for ulterior considerations or some outward beauty; after the honeymoon is past they turn to bitterness. Burning lust is only a flash, a gunpowder passion; intense hatred often follows, along with dislike and contempt.
When the dry skin sags
And the teeth grow dark:
when women grow old and unattractive, their lovers commonly cannot bear them any longer.
“Now you are a burden to us”—be gone! They grow stale, disgusting, repulsive, hateful: you are a beastly, filthy slut,
You have the face of Phoebus taking a shit,
you are “Saturn’s arse,” withered and dried up, “insipid and old,”
Because wrinkles and the snow upon your head disfigure you,
be gone, I say: “The gates are open; depart.”
Yes, but you will argue that your mistress is perfect, with a faultless figure in everyone’s opinion. No objection can be made to her: nothing can be added to her appearance or taken away. In beauty, comeliness and pleasing grace she is the model of womanhood, beyond imitation, “sheer delight, sheer charm”; she is “Venus’s perfume box, the casket of the Graces,” a complete storehouse of natural perfections. She has all the charms of Venus and all the Graces,
A thousand torches and a thousand forms,
perfect and complete in every part,
Radiant in her cheeks, radiant in her rosy mouth, radiant in her roving eyes:
admirable in her appearance, an utterly incomparable, matchless creature, “a golden offspring, fashioned in the likeness of some divinity, a phoenix, a little Venus in the bloom of youth,” a nymph, a fairy, like Venus herself when she was a maiden, “second to none,” perfection distilled, “breathing flowers and marjoram, a wonder of a woman.” Suppose she is: how long will she remain so?
Each passing day plucks away the flower of beauty.
Every day takes something from her appearance; this beauty is “a fragile good,” a mere flash, a Venetian glass, quickly broken,
Beauty is a doubtful blessing for mortals,
A brief gift of a little time.
It will not last. As that beautiful flower of Adonis, which we call an anemone, blooms for only a month, so this graceful, all-commanding beauty fades in an instant. It is a jewel soon lost, the painter’s goddess, “a false truth,” a mere picture. “Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting,” Proverbs 31:30.
Fair beauty is a little glass jewel, a passing bubble,
Snow, a rose, dew, smoke, wind and a breeze—nothing.
Pale beauty is a brittle gem, a bubble,
A rose, dew, snow, smoke, wind, air—nothing at all.
If she is beautiful, as the saying goes, she is commonly a fool; if proud, she is scornful, “and pride follows beauty”; or she is unchaste, for “beauty and chastity seldom agree.” Can she be beautiful and chaste too? Ariston, son of Agesicles, married a Spartan girl, the most beautiful woman in all Greece after Helen, but in character the most abominable, beastly creature in the world.
So I would have you follow Seneca in valuing her qualities rather than her appearance. Will you call a blade good because it has a gilded scabbard, decorated with gold and jewels? No: call it good if it has a good edge and point, well-tempered metal and the strength to withstand resistance.
This beauty belongs to the body alone; and what is it but, as Gregory Nazianzen tells us, “the plaything of time and sickness”? Or, as Boethius says, “as changeable as a flower”; it is not nature that makes us seem so, but chiefly the weakness of the beholder.
Ask someone else: he sees nothing of the sort. “Please tell me what you think of him”—tell me, I beg you, how you like my sweetheart, as the woman in Aristaenetus asked her sister: “I admire him so much; I think he is the sweetest gentleman, the handsomest man I ever saw. But I am in love, I confess”—“and I am not ashamed to admit it”—“so I cannot judge properly.”
But suppose she is truly beautiful, golden-haired like Anacreon’s Bathyllus; to examine the details, suppose she has
Little fiery eyes and a milk-white neck,
a clear, rosy complexion, a little mouth, coral lips, white teeth, a soft, plump neck, body, hands and feet, all beautiful and lovely to look at, made up of every grace and elegance, a perfect creation,