The Anatomy of Melancholy

He wants to please his mistress, me and her attendant, The servants, the maids too, and my little dog.

He strives to please his mistress and her maid, Her servants and her dog, and is well content.

If he obtains any little thing of hers—a bodice lace, a feather from her fan, a shoelace, a ribbon, a ring or a bracelet of hair—

A token snatched from her arms, Or from a finger that hardly resists,

He wears it as a love-token on his arm, in his hat, on his finger or beside his heart. He worships her portrait twice a day and will gaze at it for two hours together without looking away, as Laodamia did when Protesilaus went to war: “Sit at home with his image before her.” A garter or bracelet of hers is more precious than any saint’s relic. He stores it in his casket—O blessed relic!—and kisses it every day. In her presence his eyes never leave her; he will drink where she drank, if possible at the very same spot, and so on.

If she is absent, he will walk along the path she walked, sit beneath the tree where she used to sit, in that bower, on that very seat,

And, wretched man, he presses kisses on the doors.

Sometimes many years afterwards, although she is far away and lives many miles off, he still loves to walk that way and have his chamber window face that direction. He loves to walk beside the river that, though far away, runs past the house where she lives; he loves the wind that blows towards that region.

Oh, how often I have said to the west winds hurrying there: “Happy winds, you will see beautiful Amaryllis!”

O happy western winds that blow that way, For you will see my love’s fair face today.

He will send her a message by the wind:

You Alpine breezes, breezes from the peaceful mountains, Carry these words to her.

He longs to speak with one of her acquaintances, for his heart is always with her; to talk about her, admiring and praising her, lamenting and moaning, wishing himself anything for her sake, if only it would give him a chance to see her. Oh, if he could only enjoy her presence! So Philostratus addressed his mistress: “O happy ground on which she treads! And happy would I be if she would tread on me. I think her face could make rivers stand still; and when she comes out, birds will sing and gather round her.”

The valleys will laugh; Tempe will laugh to meet her; The green earth will burst at once into flower.

The fields will laugh, the pleasant valleys burn, And all the grass will turn into flowers.

Every breeze will breathe ambrosia.