The Anatomy of Melancholy

If her nose is flat, she is lovely; if hooked, regal; if she is dwarfish and little, pretty; if tall, handsome and manly—our valiant British Boudicca; if crooked, wise; if monstrous, comely. Her defects are no defects at all: she has no deformities. “Indeed, even the beloved’s own shit does not stink.” Though she is as filthy and disgusting as Sostratus’s bitch or Parmeno’s sow, though you would as willingly have a snake in your bosom or a toad in your dish, and call her witch, devil and hag, with every filthy name you can invent, he, on the other hand, admires her. She is his idol, lady, mistress, little Venus, queen, the essence of beauty, an angel, a star, a goddess.

You are my Vesta, you are my goddess; Your only hallowed temple is my heart.

The fragrance of a thousand courtesans is in her face. “This is no portrait of lovely Venus or Stratonice.” That is not a picture of Venus or the Spanish Infanta, as you suppose, good sir—no princess or king’s daughter. No, no: it is his divine mistress, indeed, his dainty Dulcinea, his dear Antiphila, to whose service he is wholly consecrated, the only one he adores.

Compared with her, a peacock would be ugly, A squirrel unlovable, and a phoenix commonplace.

Compared with her a peacock is unsightly, A squirrel unappealing, a phoenix too common.

All graces, charms of love, refinements and pleasures attend her. He prefers her to ten thousand ladies of the court.

Whoever praises Phyllis or Nerea, Or Amaryllis or Galatea, Tityrus or Meliboea—by your leave, Let him be silent: let this lover’s beloved have the praise.

Indeed, he prefers her to all the gods and goddesses themselves. So Quintus Catulus admired his cross-eyed friend Roscius:

With your leave, heavenly ones, let me say it: A mortal seemed more beautiful than a god.

By your leave, gentle gods, I shall speak truly: Not one of you has so beautiful a face.

He bestows upon her every inflated epithet and passionate description—incomparably beautiful, exquisitely neat, divine, sweet, dainty, delicious—and pretty diminutive, “little heart,” “little kiss,” and every fond name that can be invented: bird, mouse, lamb, puss, pigeon, pig’s eye, kid, honey, love, dove, chick and so on.

My honey, my sweetness, my heart, My little kiss, my delight.

My life, my light, my jewel, my glory, “beautiful Margaret, beside whom all the precious things of the world are worthless”; my sweet Margaret, my only delight and darling. And as Rodomont courted Isabella:

With every kind word and gesture in his power, He calls her his dear heart, his only beloved, His joyful comfort and his sweet delight, His mistress and his goddess, and the names That loving knights bestow upon lovely ladies.

Every garment she wears, every fashion pleases him beyond measure; her hand—