The Anatomy of Melancholy

“Someone who plunges headlong into love perishes more miserably than someone who leaps from a rock.” A person who rushes headlong from the top of a cliff is not in so bad a plight as one who falls into this gulf of love. For from it, says Platina, “come regret and folly: they lose themselves and their wits, and altogether wreck their fortunes”; madness, killing themselves and others, violent death.

“The prognosis is this,” says Gordonius: “Unless they receive help, they either fall into madness or die.” The prediction is that they will either go mad or die. For if this passion continues, says Aelianus Montaltus, “it makes the blood hot, thick and black; and if the inflammation reaches the brain, constant brooding and sleeplessness dry it out so much that madness follows, or else they kill themselves.”

Corydon, Corydon, what madness has seized you?

Now, as Arnoldus adds, it will soon produce these effects unless it is promptly treated: “They will waste away, go mad and suddenly die.” “They readily fall into madness,” says Valescus—quickly go mad—“unless help is given,” unless proper measures are taken.

Alas, whoever bears love’s sorrowful yoke Perishes before he knows that he is lost.

Oh, heavy yoke of love: whoever bears it Is utterly undone, and unawares.

So the woman in the poet confessed of herself:

I shall go mad before anyone notices; I am scarcely a hair’s breadth from madness.

I shall be mad before anyone sees it; Scarcely a hair’s breadth away, already distraught.

As mad as Orlando over his Angelica, or Hercules over his Hylas:

But he rushed in frenzy wherever his feet led him, For within him a cruel god was tearing his liver.

He went he cared not where, so mad he was; The cruel god tormented him so, alas.

At the sight of Hero, I cannot tell how many went mad,

Another, hiding his wound, goes mad over the girl’s beauty.

And while he conceals his grief, Madness steals upon him like a thief.

Go to Bedlam for examples. Every village knows so well how many have either died of love or deliberately killed themselves that I need not labour to prove it: “Love finds neither limit nor rest except in death.” Death is the usual catastrophe for such people.

May death be granted me: there can be No other release at all from these sorrows.

Would that I were dead, for God knows nothing But death can free me from these woes.