Tap the page, move to the top or bottom edge, swipe down, or press Tab to reveal reading controls. Use the arrow keys or swipe sideways to turn pages.
Let Simonides, Mantuan, Platina, Pietro Aretino and such woman-haters bear the blame if anything has been said amiss. I have not written a tenth of what might be brought forward from them and others: “All the invectives and satires written against women cannot be contained in one volume.”
And, to tell the truth, what I have said concerns women no more than men, though women are named more often in this treatise. To make my defence once and for all, I am neither prejudiced against them nor bitter on that account. What is said of one sex, “with the name changed,” may for the most part be understood of the other.
My words are like the picture by Passus in Lucian. A fellow commissioned him to paint a horse with its heels in the air, rolling on its back; he painted it walking. When the man came for his picture, he was very angry and said that it was the exact opposite of what he wanted. But Passus immediately turned the picture upside down, showing him the horse in the position he had requested, and so satisfied him. If anyone objects to my words, let him change the name, read “him” for “her,” and the meaning is just the same.
But to my point: if women in general are so bad, and men worse than they are, what a risk it is to marry! Where will a man find a good wife, or a woman a good husband? A man may avoid a woman, but not a wife. A wedding is an undoing, some say; marrying is marring, wooing is woeing. “A wife is a wasting fever,” as Scaliger calls her, “cured only by death.” As Athenaeus adds, quoting Menander:
You throw yourself into a sea of troubles— Not the Libyan or Aegean, where out of thirty ships Not three are lost: no man who takes a wife is saved at all.
You wade into a very sea of woes; In the Libyan and Aegean seas everyone knows That fewer than three ships out of thirty are wrecked, But on this rock, I say, not one escapes.
For the worldly cares, miseries and discontents that accompany marriage, please learn from those who have experience; I have none. “I have begotten writings as my children”; “books are the mind’s children.” For my part, I will pretend along with the poet:
Keep far away, nymphs; keep away, girls, deceitful race: A life under the yoke does not suit my nature. I delight in—etc.
Many married men cry out against its miseries and rail openly at wives. I have never tried it, but I hear some of them say:
The sea is no sea; you are the fiercest sea.
An Irish Sea is less turbulent and raging than a quarrelsome wife.
Scylla and Charybdis, churning the Sicilian straits, Are less to be feared; every wild beast is better.
Scylla and Charybdis are less dangerous; No beast is so harmful.
This presumably made the Devil—as most interpreters maintain—leave Job his wicked wife after taking away his possessions, “the goods of body and fortune,” his health, children and friends, so as to persecute him still more. Pineda proves this from Tertullian, Cyprian, Augustine, Chrysostom, Prosper, Gaudentius and others: “so that a new kind of calamity might arise for the man from this,” to vex and torment him worse “than all hell,” worse than all its devils, knowing as he did the character of a bad woman.
“Jupiter has given man no more destructive evil,” says Simonides. “Better to dwell with a dragon or a lion than to keep house with a wicked wife,” Ecclesiasticus 25:18; “better to live in a wilderness,” Proverbs 21:19. “No wickedness is like hers,” Ecclesiasticus 25:22. “She causes a grieving heart, a sorrowful face, a wounded mind, weak hands and feeble knees,” verse 25. “A woman and death are the two bitterest things in the world.”
“I must take a wife today: he seemed to me to be saying, ‘Go home and hang yourself,’” Terence, Andria 1.5. Yet for all this, we bachelors wish to marry; like that Vestal virgin, we long for it:
Happy married women! May I die if marrying is not sweet.
“It is the sweetest thing in the world; I wish I had a wife,” he says:
For gladly would I leave the single life, If I could find myself a good wife.
“Heigh-ho for a husband!” she cries. A bad husband—indeed, the worst that ever was—is better than none. O blissful marriage, O most welcome marriage! Happy are those who are joined in this way. We eagerly seek it and are never at ease until we have achieved it.
But with what outcome? We are like the birds in the emblem that fed around a cage: as long as they could fly away whenever they wished, they liked it well enough. But once they were caught and could not get free, although they had the same food, they pined away in dejection and would not eat. So we praise marriage:
While we poor wretches are still free And gaze upon our mistress; but once, alas, the door is shut, What was honey becomes gall within.
As long as we are wooers, free to kiss and embrace whenever we please, nothing is so sweet: we think ourselves in heaven. But once we are bound and have lost our liberty, marriage is a hell: “Give me my yellow stockings again!” A mouse in a trap lives just as merrily; some of us are in purgatory, if not hell itself.
“War is sweet to those who have not experienced it,” as the proverb goes. It is fine to talk of war, and marriage is sweet to contemplate until it is tried. Then, just as war is terribly dangerous and distressing, with death at the door every minute, so is—etc.
When those wild Irish noblemen, says Stanihurst, were entertained by King Henry II when he kept Christmas in Dublin, they tasted his princely hospitality, fine wines and delicate food; they saw his heavy silver and gold plate, enamelled and set with jewels, golden candlesticks, splendid rich hangings and magnificent furnishings; they heard his trumpets, fifes and drums and his exquisite music of every kind.