The Anatomy of Melancholy

Do not scowl, Mariana; do not despise my grey hairs, For, goddess, you can turn an old man back into a youth.

Sweet Marian, do not disdain my age, For you can make an old man young again.

They are always singing love songs and ditties, especially when young, and cannot stop even while going to church, or when they ought to be there. We have an entertaining story of this in Westmonasteriensis, an old writer of ours—if you care to believe it. In AD 1012, at Colewiz in Saxony, on Christmas Eve, while the priest was saying Mass in church, a group of young men and girls were singing catches and love songs in the churchyard. He sent word asking them to make less noise, but they went on singing; and, if you please, here is the very song itself.

A man rode through the leafy wood, Taking beautiful Meswinde with him. Why are we standing here? Why do we not go?

A fellow rode beside the greenwood, And fair Meswinde was his bride. Why do we stand here and not go?

They sang this while he fumed, until at last, losing patience, he prayed to St Magnus, patron of the church, that all three of them might sing and dance until that day twelve months later. And so they did, without food or drink, without growing tired or stopping, until at the year’s end they ceased singing and were absolved by Heribert, Archbishop of Cologne.

They will do this everywhere, especially the young: read love stories, talk of this young man or that beautiful girl, sing, tell or listen to lascivious tales and bawdy songs. Such things are their only delight and their constant preoccupation. As Guastavini adds, in his commentary on Aristotle’s Problems, section 4, problem 27, “because of an abundance of semen, thoughts recur, Venus is often remembered, and pleasure itches for satisfaction,” and so on. From this comes an eager longing, “an itching body, an itching soul,” amorous fancies, titillating thoughts, sweet and pleasant hopes. Hence they can think or speak of almost nothing else, and willingly discuss no other subject.

Their one desire is to see their future husband’s image in a mirror, if magic can accomplish it. They will give anything to know when they will marry and how many husbands they will have: by cromnyomancy, a kind of divination using onions laid on the altar on Christmas Eve; by fasting on St Anne’s eve or night to discover who their first husband will be; or by amphitomancy, using beans in a cake and burning it, and so forth.

This love is the cause of all fine fancies, neatness, adornment, games, elegance, delights, pleasant expressions, graceful movements and gestures, joys, comforts, exultation, and all the sweetness of our life. “What sort of life would it be, or what pleasure could there be, without golden Venus? Let me die when I no longer care for her.” Let me live no longer than I can love, says a mad, merry fellow in Mimnermus.