The Anatomy of Melancholy

It is somewhat sharp, I admit. Pungent sauces stimulate the appetite, as someone said: sharp sauces increase appetite. Even food gives no pleasure without vinegar’s bite. Object and quibble as you please: I fend it all off with Democritus’s shield; his medicine will heal the wound. Strike wherever and whenever you like: Democritus said it, and Democritus will answer for it.

It was written by an idle fellow in idle hours, around the time of our Saturnalian or Dionysian feasts, when, as someone said, freedom is in no danger: servants in ancient Rome were free to say and do whatever they pleased.

While our countrymen sacrificed to their goddess Vacuna and sat drinking by their Vacunalian fires, I wrote and published this: Nobody was speaking; it is nothing by Nobody. The time, place, people, and every circumstance speak in my defence. Why, then, may I not be idle with the rest and speak my mind freely? If you deny me this liberty, I shall take it on these grounds. I say again: I shall take it.

If anyone thinks that I have spoken Too harshly against him, let him think so. If anyone objects, let him turn his belt buckle around; I do not care. I owe you nothing, reader. I look for no favour from you. I depend on no one. I am not afraid.

No, I take it back; I will not. I do care, I am afraid. I confess my fault and acknowledge a great offence: better to calm the troubled waves. I have gone too far. I have spoken foolishly, rashly, thoughtlessly, absurdly. I have dissected my own folly.

And now, suddenly, I seem to have woken from a dream. I have had a raving fit, a fit of wild fancy, wandered up and down, in and out, jeered at most kinds of people, abused some, offended others, and done myself harm;

and now, recovered and aware of my error, I cry with Orlando, “Untie me!” Good people, pardon what is past, and I will make amends in what follows. I promise you a more sober discussion in the treatise to come.

If weakness, folly, passion, discontent, or ignorance has made me say anything wrong, let it be forgotten and forgiven. I acknowledge the truth of Tacitus’s observation: biting jokes, when they come too close to the truth, leave an acrid memory behind. A bitter jest leaves a sting; and, as an honourable man observes, people fear a satirist’s wit, while he fears their memories.

I have good reason to fear the worst. Though I hope I have wronged no one, I shall ask forgiveness in Medea’s words: This I ask in my final words: If my troubled grief has poured out anything, Do not let those words remain in your mind. Let a kinder memory of me take their place; Let these words, given to anger, be erased.

And in my final words I ask That what I said in passion or in anger Be forgotten, and that you think better of me As you judge what follows. I earnestly ask every individual reader, as Scaliger asked Cardan, not to take offence.