The Anatomy of Melancholy

“A king’s palace was not so closely attended,” says Aretino’s Lucretia, “as my house when I lived in Rome. The porch and street were always full of people walking or riding there expressly to see me. As they passed, their eyes remained on my window. They could not help looking back at my house after they had gone by, and would sometimes clear their throats or cough, or seize some irrelevant occasion to speak loudly, so that I might look out and notice them.”

It is the same elsewhere; it is common to every lover. All his happiness lies in being with her and talking to her. He is never at ease except in her company, and will walk seven or eight times a day through the street where she lives, inventing pointless errands to see her, always planning where, when and how to visit her:

And soft whispers at nightfall Are sought again at the appointed hour.

Once he has left, every minute seems an hour, every hour as long as a day, ten days a whole year, until he sees her again.

If you count the time—and we lovers count it well.

If you are in love, you will say so too. “And a long farewell, beautiful one”; farewell, sweetheart; “farewell, dearest Argenis.” Farewell, my dear Argenis; once more farewell, farewell. Although they have arranged to meet again very soon, perhaps tomorrow, he is reluctant to leave. He says goodbye again and again, then comes back, looks after her, waves his hand, waves his hat from far away. Once gone, he finds the wait until he sees her again too long, and she feels the same about him. Surely the clocks have been put back; the appointed hour is past:

Demophoon, I, your hostess Phyllis of Rhodope, Complain that you are absent beyond the promised time.

She keeps looking out of the window to see whether he is coming. Phyllis is said to have gone to the shore nine times that day to see whether her Demophoon was approaching; and Troilus went to the city gates to look for his Cressida. She is uneasy and sick until she sees him again: meanwhile irritable, dissatisfied, dejected and sad. Why does he not come? Where is he? Why does he break his promise? Why does he take so long? Surely he is unwell; surely some accident has befallen him; surely he has forgotten himself and me—and countless other such thoughts.

Then she grows confident again: up she gets, out she looks, listening and asking, straining her ears and searching the distance. Surely every far-off man is he; every movement in the street means he is there. That is he! “She curses the dawn, curses the sun, and swears.” It is the longest day there ever was. So she raves, restless and impatient, for “love allows no delays”: love will not wait. Time spent with her passes quickly; the miles are short, the road pleasant. All weather is good while he travels to her house. Heat or cold—even if his teeth chatter—does not trouble him. Wet or dry, it is all the same; soaked to the skin, he does not feel it, or at least does not care. He readily endures it and much more, because he does it gladly for his sweet mistress’s sake. However heavy the burden, love makes it light.