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SUBSECTION 5 The last and best cure for love melancholy is to let lovers have their desire.
The last refuge and surest remedy, to be tried as a final resort when no other means will work, is to let them come together and enjoy one another: “The most effective cure is for the lovesick man to possess his beloved,” says Guianerius, chapter 15, treatise 15.
Aesculapius himself can invent no better remedy for this malady “than that the beloved yield to the lover”—Jason Pratensis—than that a lover have his desire.
And let the two be joined together in one little bed, And let Lavinia be given as wife to handsome Aeneas.
And let them both be joined in a bed, And let Aeneas wed fair Lavinia.
The specific cure is to let them bleed in “Hymen’s vein,” for love is a pleurisy; and if possible, let it be so:
And let them enjoy the pleasures they desire.
Arculanus holds it the quickest and best cure. It is Savonarola’s last instruction, a principal and infallible remedy, the last, only and safest refuge.
Julia, you alone can extinguish my flames, Not with snow or ice, but with an equal fire.
Julian alone can quench my desire, With neither ice nor snow, but with a matching fire.
When all else has been tried, says Avicenna, there is no quicker or safer course than to unite the parties according to their desires and wishes, and the custom and form of law. We have thus seen a man who had wasted away to skin and bones quickly restored to his former health. Once his desire was satisfied, his distress ceased, and we thought it remarkable. Our opinion, therefore, is that in such cases nature should be obeyed.
Aretaeus, an ancient author, in book 3, chapter 3, gives an example of a young man who, when no other means could help, was quickly relieved in this way. What remains, then, but to join them in marriage?
Then they may secretly exchange Kisses and little bites, cherish one another’s Embraces, and take their pleasure.
They may then kiss and embrace, lie gazing at their tiny reflections in one another’s eyes, as their fathers did before them; they may then satisfy themselves with love’s pleasures, which they have so long desired and awaited.
And let them rest together in one bed, Kiss with their mouths joined together, And sleep together in one peaceful rest.
Yes, but “here is the labour, here the task”: this cannot readily be done, because of many different obstacles. Sometimes the parties themselves are not agreed. Parents, tutors, masters and guardians will not consent; laws, customs and statutes stand in the way; poverty, superstition, fear and suspicion. Many men dote on one woman “all at the same time.” She dotes just as much on him, or them, yet in modesty she must not, cannot woo, as reluctant to confess as she is willing to love. She dares not make it known, show her affection or speak her mind.
And “hard is the choice,” as it says in Euphues, “when one is forced either to die of grief through silence, or to live in shame through speaking.” The beautiful Lady Elizabeth, Edward IV’s daughter, was almost in this position when she fell in love with Henry VII, that noble young prince, newly hailed as king, and burst into this passionate speech:
“Oh, if only I were worthy of that handsome prince! But my father is dead, and I lack friends to propose such a matter. What shall I say? I am all alone, and dare not reveal my thoughts to anyone. What if I tell my mother? Shyness forbids it. What if I tell one of the lords? I lack the boldness. Oh, if only I might speak with him! Perhaps in conversation I might let slip a word that would reveal my intention.”
How many modest maidens may this concern! “I am a poor servant: what shall I do? I am a fatherless child and lack means. I am cheerful and lively, young and vigorous, but I have no suitor. The fools expect me to come and ask them,” as she said. A pack of silly fellows apparently expect me to woo them and speak first. Gladly would these women woo, but they cannot:
What opening words shall I choose?
Confined to a passive role, they may not make advances, with many other such obstacles and difficulties that I know nothing of. What shall we do in such a case? Sing “Fortune my Foe”?
Some are so particular in this matter—the ancient Romans, our modern Venetians, Dutch and French—that if two people dearly love each other, one noble and the other of common birth, their laws forbid them to marry, though otherwise equal in age, fortune, education and all sincere affection. In Germany they scorn to marry anyone who cannot prove gentle birth through three generations.
A nobleman must marry a noblewoman; a baron, a baron’s daughter; a knight, a knight’s; a gentleman, a gentleman’s. They sort ranks and families as roofers sort their slates. However rich, beautiful or otherwise accomplished she may be, they will make him abandon her. Spaniards abhor all widows; Turks consider women old if they are over twenty-five. But these laws are too severe, these customs too strict: “Something must be allowed to love.” We are all Adam’s sons. It is contrary to nature; it ought not to be so.
Again, he loves her uncontrollably, but she does not love him, and vice versa. Pan loved Echo, Echo a satyr, and the satyr Lyda.
As much as any one of them hated a lover, So much, as a lover, he himself was hated.
They love and loathe in every combination: he loves her, she hates him, and the man she dotes on loathes her. Cupid has two darts: one to compel love, entirely of gold and sharp—“The one that creates it is gilded”—and another blunt one of lead to prevent it: “This drives love away; that creates it.”