The Anatomy of Melancholy

“Wife is a title of dignity, not of pleasure,” as he said: a wife is a name of honour, not of pleasure. She is fit to hold the office, govern a household, bring up children, sit at the head of the table and carve—as some lustful men think and say. They would rather visit brothels or snatch an encounter now and then when they can, borrowing from their neighbours, than have wives of their own; unless, like some princes and great men, they may keep as many courtesans as they please and stray “with impunity,”

Grind away at other men’s wives.

Unless the Turks’ polygamy, the Julian law that Caesar once enforced in Rome—though Levinus Torrentius and others doubt it—“allowing them as many wives, and whichever wives, they wished,” so that every great man might marry and keep as many wives as he wanted, or Irish divorce, were customary:

As things stand, marriage is hard and does not give these sensual men—beastly men, as too many are—the satisfaction they want. “What, always the same one?” To be bound to one woman, however beautiful or virtuous, to love one for long, is more than they can endure. Say what you please and pretend as you like: as Parmeno told Thais, “Nor will you be content with one.” One man will never satisfy you; nor will one woman satisfy many men.

But, as Pan replied to his father Mercury when asked whether he was married, “Not at all, father, for I am a lover,” etc. “No, father, no, I am still a lover and cannot be content with one woman.” Pythias, Echo, the Maenads and I do not know how many others were his mistresses: he could not bear marriage.

“Variety delights.” Marriage is disgusting and tedious: what, always the same one? What the satirist said of Iberina proves true of most:

Does one man satisfy Iberina? You will sooner Force her to be content with a single eye.

One man will not suffice her, if she has her will; She would as soon have one eye as always one man.

As receptive to any impression as “prime matter” itself, which always desires new forms, their affections ebb and flow like the sea. For some women a husband is a cloak to hide their wickedness: once married, a woman may stray as she pleases; the title of husband is a sanctuary that makes everything acceptable. “Things have come to such a pass,” says Seneca, “that no woman has a husband except to excite a lover.”

They are upright and true, as faithful a band as my hostess’s daughter—that Spanish girl in Ariosto—and as good wives as Messalina. Many men are just as constant in their choice and as good husbands as Nero himself: they must have their pleasure with everyone they see and are, in a word, far more fickle than any woman.

For either they are full of jealousy, Or domineering, or in love with novelty, etc.