The Anatomy of Melancholy

And “hard is the choice,” as it says in Euphues, “when one is forced either to die of grief through silence, or to live in shame through speaking.” The beautiful Lady Elizabeth, Edward IV’s daughter, was almost in this position when she fell in love with Henry VII, that noble young prince, newly hailed as king, and burst into this passionate speech:

“Oh, if only I were worthy of that handsome prince! But my father is dead, and I lack friends to propose such a matter. What shall I say? I am all alone, and dare not reveal my thoughts to anyone. What if I tell my mother? Shyness forbids it. What if I tell one of the lords? I lack the boldness. Oh, if only I might speak with him! Perhaps in conversation I might let slip a word that would reveal my intention.”

How many modest maidens may this concern! “I am a poor servant: what shall I do? I am a fatherless child and lack means. I am cheerful and lively, young and vigorous, but I have no suitor. The fools expect me to come and ask them,” as she said. A pack of silly fellows apparently expect me to woo them and speak first. Gladly would these women woo, but they cannot:

What opening words shall I choose?

Confined to a passive role, they may not make advances, with many other such obstacles and difficulties that I know nothing of. What shall we do in such a case? Sing “Fortune my Foe”?

Some are so particular in this matter—the ancient Romans, our modern Venetians, Dutch and French—that if two people dearly love each other, one noble and the other of common birth, their laws forbid them to marry, though otherwise equal in age, fortune, education and all sincere affection. In Germany they scorn to marry anyone who cannot prove gentle birth through three generations.

A nobleman must marry a noblewoman; a baron, a baron’s daughter; a knight, a knight’s; a gentleman, a gentleman’s. They sort ranks and families as roofers sort their slates. However rich, beautiful or otherwise accomplished she may be, they will make him abandon her. Spaniards abhor all widows; Turks consider women old if they are over twenty-five. But these laws are too severe, these customs too strict: “Something must be allowed to love.” We are all Adam’s sons. It is contrary to nature; it ought not to be so.

Again, he loves her uncontrollably, but she does not love him, and vice versa. Pan loved Echo, Echo a satyr, and the satyr Lyda.

As much as any one of them hated a lover, So much, as a lover, he himself was hated.

They love and loathe in every combination: he loves her, she hates him, and the man she dotes on loathes her. Cupid has two darts: one to compel love, entirely of gold and sharp—“The one that creates it is gilded”—and another blunt one of lead to prevent it: “This drives love away; that creates it.”