The Anatomy of Melancholy

Almost every physician has discussed it separately or in his works: Arnoldus Villanovanus; Valleriola, Medical Observations, book 2, observation 7; Elianus Montalto and Laurentius in their treatises on melancholy; Jason Pratensis, On Diseases of the Head; Valescus de Taranta, Gordon, Hercules de Saxonia, Savonarola, Lange, and others. I therefore defend myself with Peter Godefridus, Valleriola and Ficino, and in Lange’s words: Cadmus of Miletus wrote fourteen books on love; why should I be ashamed to write a letter on the subject for the benefit of young men?

Some stern readers disapprove of the second book of the Aeneid, and question Virgil’s seriousness, because he introduces such amorous passions into an epic subject. But his commentator Servius rightly defends the poet’s merit, wisdom and judgement in doing so. Castellio would not have young men read the Song of Songs because he thought it too frivolous and amorous a work—a “Ballad of Ballads,” as our old English translation calls it.

He might as well forbid Genesis because of Jacob’s love for Rachel and the stories of Shechem and Dinah, Judah and Tamar; reject Numbers for the Israelites’ fornication with the Moabites; Judges for Samson’s embraces with Delilah; the books of Kings for David and Bathsheba’s adultery, Amnon’s incest with Tamar, Solomon’s concubines and so on; or the stories of Esther, Judith, Susanna and many others.

Dicaearchus and others find fault with Plato’s dignity for his condescending to write such amorous trifles, among them this dalliance with Agathon:

Kissing Agathon, I held my soul upon my lips; For the poor thing hurried there, as though about to leave.

“For my part,” says Maximus of Tyre, himself a great Platonist, “I am seized not only by wonder but by astonishment”: I do not merely marvel but stand amazed to read that Plato and Socrates should both expel Homer from their city because he wrote of such frivolous and licentious subjects. “He brings Juno and Jupiter together in bed on Ida, covered by an immortal cloud”; there are Vulcan’s net and the follies of Mars and Venus before all the gods; Apollo flees when Achilles pursues him; the gods are wounded and run away whining, like Mars, who roared louder than Stentor and covered nine acres of ground when he fell.

Vulcan spent a summer’s day falling from heaven and broke his leg on the island of Lemnos, and there are other such ridiculous passages. Yet Socrates and Plato, according to his testimony, wrote more frivolously themselves. “For what is so far apart,” he continues, “as a lover from a temperate man, an admirer of beauty from a madman?” What could be more absurd than for serious philosophers to treat such follies: to admire Autolycus and Alcibiades for their beauty, as they did; to pursue, gaze at and dote on handsome Phaedrus, delicate Agathon, young Lysis and fine Charmides? “Do these things befit a philosopher?” Does this become serious philosophers?