The Anatomy of Melancholy

He would rather have her than any woman in the world. If he were a king, she alone would be his queen, his empress. If only he had the wealth and treasure of both the Indies to bestow upon her, a shipload of diamonds, a chain of pearls, a jewelled necklace—a pair of calfskin gloves costing fourpence would be more fitting—or some such trinket to send as a love-token! She would have it with all his heart. He would spend tens of thousands of crowns for her sake. Venus herself, Panthea, Cleopatra, Tarquin’s Tanaquil, Herod’s Mariamne or Mary of Burgundy, if she were alive, could not match her.

She will surpass the face of Tyndareus’s daughter, Which set dreadful wars in motion.

Let Paris himself judge: renowned Helen falls short. That Rhodopean Phyllis, Larissaean Coronis, Babylonian Thisbe, Polyxena, Laura, Lesbia and the rest—your imagined ladies were never as beautiful as she is.

Whatever there is of gentleness, charm, grace and wit, You embody, a living Pandora of all the gods.

Whatever is pretty, pleasant, witty, good, Whatever Pandora possessed, she surpasses.

I used to say that the beauty of Diana of the crossroads was nothing.

Diana could not compare with her, nor Juno, Minerva or any goddess. Thetis’s feet were bright as silver, Hebe’s ankles clearer than crystal, Aurora’s arms rosy as the rose, Juno’s breasts white as snow; Minerva was wise, Venus beautiful. But what of that? Come to me, my sweet one. She is everything in one:

Celia laughing Is Venus; walking, Juno; speaking, Minerva.

Fairest of the fair, surpassing beauty itself.

Ephemerus in Aristaenetus so admires his mistress’s fine qualities that he proclaims them and challenges all comers on her behalf. “Whoever has seen the beauties of the East or West, let them come from every quarter, all of them, and say truthfully whether they ever saw beauty as excellent as this.” A fellow in Petronius cries out that no tongue can describe or express his lady’s lovely appearance: “Whatever you say will fall short.”

No tongue can describe her perfections; On each part of her all tongues could dwell.

Most of your lovers share his disposition and opinion. She is “second to none,” a rare creature, a phoenix, the sole ruler of his thoughts, queen of his desires, his only delight—as the lovesick sea-god Triton now sings with feeling:

Fair Leucothe pleases me, and dark Melaene pleases me, But Galatea alone pleases me far more than all the rest.

Fair Leucothe and dark Melaene please me well, But Galatea far surpasses all the rest.

All the flattering praises, metaphors and extravagant comparisons with the best things in the world, all the most glorious names—everything, I say, that is pleasant, lovable, sweet, delightful and delicious—are too little for her: