The Anatomy of Melancholy

They are Love’s bird-catchers, “love’s bird-snare,” its shoehorns, its hooks, as Arandus has it: the guides, touchstone and judges that in a moment cure madmen and drive sane people mad, the body’s watchmen. What do they not do? In what way do they not torment us? All this is true; and, as Athenaeus holds in his Deipnosophists, book 13, chapter 5, and Tatius too, they are the chief seats of love. James Lernutius wittily expresses it in an elegant ode:

I saw Love in my mistress’s fiery eyes, Seated there—believe me, generations to come— And his brothers sporting all around, Fluttering with quiver and bow, and so on.

I saw Love sitting in my mistress’s sparkling eyes— Believe it, all posterity— And his attendants playing all around, With bow and arrows ready to fly.

Scaliger calls the eyes Cupid’s arrows, the tongue Love’s lightning, and the breasts Love’s tents; Baldassare Castiglione calls the eyes love’s causes, chariots and lamps.

——eyes that rival the stars, Eyes that could stir even the gods.

Eyes that rival stars in light, Enticing gods at the first sight;

Love’s orators, says Petronius:

Oh, those alluring eyes, oh, those charming eyes, Speaking in a language of their own! There are Venus and playful Loves, And in their midst sits Pleasure herself.

Oh, sweet and pretty speaking eyes, Where Venus, love and pleasure dwell!

Love’s torches, powder-box, naphtha and matches, says Tibullus:

When fierce Love wishes to set the gods ablaze, He lights twin torches from her eyes.

Fierce Love, when he wishes to set the gods on fire, Lights eyes like torches to kindle desire.

Leander was set on fire at his first sight of Hero’s eyes, says Musaeus:

At once in the rays of her eyes love’s torch grew brighter, And his heart seethed under the force of the invading fire; For the renowned beauty of a pure maiden Is sharper for men than a swift arrow. The eye is its path: from the eye’s blows The wound spreads and flows into a man’s heart.

Love’s torches first began to burn in her eyes And set his heart on fire, a fire that never dies; For the lovely beauty of a pure maiden Is sharper than a dart, and inflicts A deeper wound, piercing through the eyes To the heart, and causing such cruel pain.

A modern poet presents Amnon lamenting over Tamar:

——and with their spell they kill me: That smile and charm of form, That radiance, that grace and true beauty, Those cheeks that rival purple and roses, Those eyes, and hair tied in a golden knot.——

It was your beauty, your pleasing smile, Your grace and loveliness that bewitched me; Your rose-like cheeks, beautiful as purple, Your lovely eyes and golden, knotted hair.