O Love, the amorous lightThat beameth from yon fair one’s lovely eyesHath made me thine and hers in servant-guise.The splendor of her lovely eyes, it wroughtThat first thy flames were kindled in my breast,Passing thereto through mine;Yea, and thy virtue first unto my thoughtHer visage fair it was made manifest,Which picturing, I twineAnd lay before her shrineAll virtues, that to her I sacrifice,Become the new occasion of my sighs.Thus, dear my lord, thy vassal am I grownAnd of thy might obediently awaitGrace for my lowliness;Yet wot I not if wholly there be knownThe high desire that in my breast thou’st setAnd my sheer faith, no less,Of her who doth possessMy heart so that from none beneath the skies,Save her alone, peace would I take or prize.Wherefore I pray thee, sweet my lord and sire,Discover it to her and cause her tasteSome scantling of thy heatTo-me-ward,—for thou seest that in the fire,Loving, I languish and for torment wasteBy inches at her feet,—And eke in season meetCommend me to her favor on such wiseAs I would plead for thee, should need arise.
O Love, the amorous lightThat beameth from yon fair one’s lovely eyesHath made me thine and hers in servant-guise.The splendor of her lovely eyes, it wroughtThat first thy flames were kindled in my breast,Passing thereto through mine;Yea, and thy virtue first unto my thoughtHer visage fair it was made manifest,Which picturing, I twineAnd lay before her shrineAll virtues, that to her I sacrifice,Become the new occasion of my sighs.Thus, dear my lord, thy vassal am I grownAnd of thy might obediently awaitGrace for my lowliness;Yet wot I not if wholly there be knownThe high desire that in my breast thou’st setAnd my sheer faith, no less,Of her who doth possessMy heart so that from none beneath the skies,Save her alone, peace would I take or prize.Wherefore I pray thee, sweet my lord and sire,Discover it to her and cause her tasteSome scantling of thy heatTo-me-ward,—for thou seest that in the fire,Loving, I languish and for torment wasteBy inches at her feet,—And eke in season meetCommend me to her favor on such wiseAs I would plead for thee, should need arise.
O Love, the amorous lightThat beameth from yon fair one’s lovely eyesHath made me thine and hers in servant-guise.The splendor of her lovely eyes, it wroughtThat first thy flames were kindled in my breast,Passing thereto through mine;Yea, and thy virtue first unto my thoughtHer visage fair it was made manifest,Which picturing, I twineAnd lay before her shrineAll virtues, that to her I sacrifice,Become the new occasion of my sighs.Thus, dear my lord, thy vassal am I grownAnd of thy might obediently awaitGrace for my lowliness;Yet wot I not if wholly there be knownThe high desire that in my breast thou’st setAnd my sheer faith, no less,Of her who doth possessMy heart so that from none beneath the skies,Save her alone, peace would I take or prize.Wherefore I pray thee, sweet my lord and sire,Discover it to her and cause her tasteSome scantling of thy heatTo-me-ward,—for thou seest that in the fire,Loving, I languish and for torment wasteBy inches at her feet,—And eke in season meetCommend me to her favor on such wiseAs I would plead for thee, should need arise.
O Love, the amorous light
That beameth from yon fair one’s lovely eyes
Hath made me thine and hers in servant-guise.
The splendor of her lovely eyes, it wrought
That first thy flames were kindled in my breast,
Passing thereto through mine;
Yea, and thy virtue first unto my thought
Her visage fair it was made manifest,
Which picturing, I twine
And lay before her shrine
All virtues, that to her I sacrifice,
Become the new occasion of my sighs.
Thus, dear my lord, thy vassal am I grown
And of thy might obediently await
Grace for my lowliness;
Yet wot I not if wholly there be known
The high desire that in my breast thou’st set
And my sheer faith, no less,
Of her who doth possess
My heart so that from none beneath the skies,
Save her alone, peace would I take or prize.
Wherefore I pray thee, sweet my lord and sire,
Discover it to her and cause her taste
Some scantling of thy heat
To-me-ward,—for thou seest that in the fire,
Loving, I languish and for torment waste
By inches at her feet,—
And eke in season meet
Commend me to her favor on such wise
As I would plead for thee, should need arise.
A similar song, from the maiden’s viewpoint, appears at the close of the last story on the sixth day:
Then Pamfilo having, at his commandment, set up a dance, the king turned to Elisa and said courteously to her, “Fair damsel, thou hast today done me the honor of the crown and I purpose this evening to do thee that of the song; wherefore look thou sing such an one as most liketh thee.” Elisa answered, smiling, that she would well and with dulcet voice began on this wise:
Love, from thy clutches could I but win free,Hardly, methinks, againShall any other hook take hold on me.I entered in thy wars a youngling maid,Thinking thy strife was utmost peace and sweet,And all my weapons on the ground I laid,As one secure, undoubting of defeat;But thou, false tyrant, with rapacious heat,Didst fall on me amainWith all the grapnels of thine armory.Then, wound about and fettered with thy chains,To him, who for my death in evil hourWas born, thou gav’st me, bounden, full of painsAnd bitter tears; and syne within his powerHe hath me and his rule’s so harsh and dourNo sighs can move the swainNor all my wasting plaints to set me free.My prayers, the wild winds bear them all away;He hearkeneth unto none and none will hear;Wherefore each hour my torment waxeth aye;I cannot die, albeit life irks me drear.Ah, Lord, have pity on my heavy cheer;Do that I seek in vainAnd give him bounden in thy chains to me.An this thou wilt not, at the least undoThe bonds erewhen of hope that knitted were;Alack, O Lord, thereof to thee I sue,For, an thou do it, yet to waxen fairAgain I trust, as was my use whilere,And being quit of painMyself with white flowers and with red besee.
Love, from thy clutches could I but win free,Hardly, methinks, againShall any other hook take hold on me.I entered in thy wars a youngling maid,Thinking thy strife was utmost peace and sweet,And all my weapons on the ground I laid,As one secure, undoubting of defeat;But thou, false tyrant, with rapacious heat,Didst fall on me amainWith all the grapnels of thine armory.Then, wound about and fettered with thy chains,To him, who for my death in evil hourWas born, thou gav’st me, bounden, full of painsAnd bitter tears; and syne within his powerHe hath me and his rule’s so harsh and dourNo sighs can move the swainNor all my wasting plaints to set me free.My prayers, the wild winds bear them all away;He hearkeneth unto none and none will hear;Wherefore each hour my torment waxeth aye;I cannot die, albeit life irks me drear.Ah, Lord, have pity on my heavy cheer;Do that I seek in vainAnd give him bounden in thy chains to me.An this thou wilt not, at the least undoThe bonds erewhen of hope that knitted were;Alack, O Lord, thereof to thee I sue,For, an thou do it, yet to waxen fairAgain I trust, as was my use whilere,And being quit of painMyself with white flowers and with red besee.
Love, from thy clutches could I but win free,Hardly, methinks, againShall any other hook take hold on me.I entered in thy wars a youngling maid,Thinking thy strife was utmost peace and sweet,And all my weapons on the ground I laid,As one secure, undoubting of defeat;But thou, false tyrant, with rapacious heat,Didst fall on me amainWith all the grapnels of thine armory.
Love, from thy clutches could I but win free,
Hardly, methinks, again
Shall any other hook take hold on me.
I entered in thy wars a youngling maid,
Thinking thy strife was utmost peace and sweet,
And all my weapons on the ground I laid,
As one secure, undoubting of defeat;
But thou, false tyrant, with rapacious heat,
Didst fall on me amain
With all the grapnels of thine armory.
Then, wound about and fettered with thy chains,To him, who for my death in evil hourWas born, thou gav’st me, bounden, full of painsAnd bitter tears; and syne within his powerHe hath me and his rule’s so harsh and dourNo sighs can move the swainNor all my wasting plaints to set me free.My prayers, the wild winds bear them all away;He hearkeneth unto none and none will hear;Wherefore each hour my torment waxeth aye;I cannot die, albeit life irks me drear.Ah, Lord, have pity on my heavy cheer;Do that I seek in vainAnd give him bounden in thy chains to me.An this thou wilt not, at the least undoThe bonds erewhen of hope that knitted were;Alack, O Lord, thereof to thee I sue,For, an thou do it, yet to waxen fairAgain I trust, as was my use whilere,And being quit of painMyself with white flowers and with red besee.
Then, wound about and fettered with thy chains,
To him, who for my death in evil hour
Was born, thou gav’st me, bounden, full of pains
And bitter tears; and syne within his power
He hath me and his rule’s so harsh and dour
No sighs can move the swain
Nor all my wasting plaints to set me free.
My prayers, the wild winds bear them all away;
He hearkeneth unto none and none will hear;
Wherefore each hour my torment waxeth aye;
I cannot die, albeit life irks me drear.
Ah, Lord, have pity on my heavy cheer;
Do that I seek in vain
And give him bounden in thy chains to me.
An this thou wilt not, at the least undo
The bonds erewhen of hope that knitted were;
Alack, O Lord, thereof to thee I sue,
For, an thou do it, yet to waxen fair
Again I trust, as was my use whilere,
And being quit of pain
Myself with white flowers and with red besee.
Elisa ended her song with a very plaintive sigh, and albeit all marvelled at the words thereof, yet was there none who might conceive what it was that caused her sing thus. But the king, who was in a merry mood, calling for Tindaro, bade him bring out his bagpipes, to the sound whereof he let dance many dances.
Another song, sung by Pamfilo, who represents Boccaccio himself, refers to the author’s amours with the Princess Maria of Naples—Fiammetta.
The song occurs at the end of the eighth day:
At last, the queen, to ensue the fashion of her predecessors, commanded Pamfilo to sing a song, notwithstanding those which sundry of the company had already sung of their free will; and he readily began thus:
Such is thy pleasure, LoveAnd such the allegresse I feel therebyThat happy, burning in thy fire, am I.The abounding gladness in my heart that glows,For the high joy and dearWhereto thou hast me led,Unable to contain there, overflowsAnd in my face’s cheerDisplays my happihead: for being enamouredIn such a worship-worthy place and highMakes eath to me the burning I aby.I cannot with my finger what I feelLimn, Love, nor do I knowBy bliss in song to vent;Nay, though I knew it, needs must I conceal,For, once divulged, I trow’Twould turn to dreariment.Yet am I so content,All speech were halt and feeble, did I tryThe least thereof with words to signify.Who might conceive it that these arms of mineShould anywise attainWhereas I’ve held them aye,Or that my face should reach so fair a shrineAs that, of favor fainAnd grace, I’ve won to? Nay,Such fortune ne’er a dayBelieved me were; whence all afire am I,Hiding the source of my liesse thereby.
Such is thy pleasure, LoveAnd such the allegresse I feel therebyThat happy, burning in thy fire, am I.The abounding gladness in my heart that glows,For the high joy and dearWhereto thou hast me led,Unable to contain there, overflowsAnd in my face’s cheerDisplays my happihead: for being enamouredIn such a worship-worthy place and highMakes eath to me the burning I aby.I cannot with my finger what I feelLimn, Love, nor do I knowBy bliss in song to vent;Nay, though I knew it, needs must I conceal,For, once divulged, I trow’Twould turn to dreariment.Yet am I so content,All speech were halt and feeble, did I tryThe least thereof with words to signify.Who might conceive it that these arms of mineShould anywise attainWhereas I’ve held them aye,Or that my face should reach so fair a shrineAs that, of favor fainAnd grace, I’ve won to? Nay,Such fortune ne’er a dayBelieved me were; whence all afire am I,Hiding the source of my liesse thereby.
Such is thy pleasure, LoveAnd such the allegresse I feel therebyThat happy, burning in thy fire, am I.The abounding gladness in my heart that glows,For the high joy and dearWhereto thou hast me led,Unable to contain there, overflowsAnd in my face’s cheerDisplays my happihead: for being enamouredIn such a worship-worthy place and highMakes eath to me the burning I aby.I cannot with my finger what I feelLimn, Love, nor do I knowBy bliss in song to vent;Nay, though I knew it, needs must I conceal,For, once divulged, I trow’Twould turn to dreariment.Yet am I so content,All speech were halt and feeble, did I tryThe least thereof with words to signify.Who might conceive it that these arms of mineShould anywise attainWhereas I’ve held them aye,Or that my face should reach so fair a shrineAs that, of favor fainAnd grace, I’ve won to? Nay,Such fortune ne’er a dayBelieved me were; whence all afire am I,Hiding the source of my liesse thereby.
Such is thy pleasure, Love
And such the allegresse I feel thereby
That happy, burning in thy fire, am I.
The abounding gladness in my heart that glows,
For the high joy and dear
Whereto thou hast me led,
Unable to contain there, overflows
And in my face’s cheer
Displays my happihead: for being enamoured
In such a worship-worthy place and high
Makes eath to me the burning I aby.
I cannot with my finger what I feel
Limn, Love, nor do I know
By bliss in song to vent;
Nay, though I knew it, needs must I conceal,
For, once divulged, I trow
’Twould turn to dreariment.
Yet am I so content,
All speech were halt and feeble, did I try
The least thereof with words to signify.
Who might conceive it that these arms of mine
Should anywise attain
Whereas I’ve held them aye,
Or that my face should reach so fair a shrine
As that, of favor fain
And grace, I’ve won to? Nay,
Such fortune ne’er a day
Believed me were; whence all afire am I,
Hiding the source of my liesse thereby.
This was the end of Pamfilo’s song, whereto albeit it had been completely responded of all, there was none but noted the words thereof with more attentsolicitude than pertained unto him, studying to divine that which, as he sang, it behoved him to keep hidden from them; and although sundry went imagining various things, nevertheless none happened upon the truth of the case.
At the end of the ninth day, Neifile sings:
Supper at an end, they arose to the wonted dances, and after they had sung a thousand canzonets, more diverting of words than masterly of music, the king bade Neifile sing one in her own name; whereupon, with clear and blithesome voice, she cheerfully and without delay began thus:
A youngling maid am I and full of glee,Am fain to carol in the new-blown May,Love and sweet thoughts-a-mercy, blithe and free.I go about the meads, consideringThe vermeil flowers and golden and the white,Roses thorn-set and lilies snowy-bright,And one and all I fare a-likeningUnto his face who hath with love-likingTa’en and will hold me ever, having ayeNone other wish than as his pleasures be;Whereof when one I find me that doth show,Unto my seeming, likest him, full fainI cull and kiss and talk with it amainAnd all my heart to it, as best I know,Discover, with its store of wish and woe;Then it with others in a wreath I lay,Bound with my hair so golden-bright of blee.Ay, and that pleasure which the eye doth prove,By nature, of the flower’s view, like delightDoth give me as I saw the very wightWho hath inflamed me of his dulcet love,And what its scent thereover and aboveWorketh in me, no words indeed can say;But sighs thereof bear witness true for me,The which from out my bosom day nor nightNe’er, as with other ladies, fierce and wild,Storm up; nay, thence they issue warm and mildAnd straight betake them to my loved one’s sight,Who, hearing, moveth of himself, delightTo give me; ay, and when I’m like to say“Ah come, lest I despair,” still cometh he.Again, on the tenth day, Fiammetta sings:If love came but withouten jealousy,I know no lady bornSo blithe as I were, whosoe’er she be.If gladsome youthfulnessIn a fair lover might content a maid,Virtue and worth discreet,Valiance or gentilesse,wit and sweet speech and fashions all arrayedIn pleasantness complete,Certes. I’m she for whose behoof these meetIn one; for, love-o’erborne,All these in him who is my hope I see.But for that I perceiveThat other women are as wise as I,I tremble for affrightAnd tending to believeThe worst, in others the desire espyOf him who steals my spright;Thus this that is my good and chief delightEnforceth me, forlorn,Sigh sore and live in dole and misery.If I knew fealty suchIn him my lord as I know merit there,I were not jealous, I;But here is seen so muchLovers to tempt, how true they be soe’er,I hold all false; wherebyI’m all disconsolate and fain would die,Of each with doubting tornWho eyes him, lest she bear him off from me.Be, then, each lady prayedBy God that she in this be not intent’Gainst me to do amiss;For sure, if any maidShould or with words or becks or blandishmentMy detriment in thisSeek or procure and if I know’t, ywis,Be all my charms forswornBut I will make her rue it bitterly.
A youngling maid am I and full of glee,Am fain to carol in the new-blown May,Love and sweet thoughts-a-mercy, blithe and free.I go about the meads, consideringThe vermeil flowers and golden and the white,Roses thorn-set and lilies snowy-bright,And one and all I fare a-likeningUnto his face who hath with love-likingTa’en and will hold me ever, having ayeNone other wish than as his pleasures be;Whereof when one I find me that doth show,Unto my seeming, likest him, full fainI cull and kiss and talk with it amainAnd all my heart to it, as best I know,Discover, with its store of wish and woe;Then it with others in a wreath I lay,Bound with my hair so golden-bright of blee.Ay, and that pleasure which the eye doth prove,By nature, of the flower’s view, like delightDoth give me as I saw the very wightWho hath inflamed me of his dulcet love,And what its scent thereover and aboveWorketh in me, no words indeed can say;But sighs thereof bear witness true for me,The which from out my bosom day nor nightNe’er, as with other ladies, fierce and wild,Storm up; nay, thence they issue warm and mildAnd straight betake them to my loved one’s sight,Who, hearing, moveth of himself, delightTo give me; ay, and when I’m like to say“Ah come, lest I despair,” still cometh he.Again, on the tenth day, Fiammetta sings:If love came but withouten jealousy,I know no lady bornSo blithe as I were, whosoe’er she be.If gladsome youthfulnessIn a fair lover might content a maid,Virtue and worth discreet,Valiance or gentilesse,wit and sweet speech and fashions all arrayedIn pleasantness complete,Certes. I’m she for whose behoof these meetIn one; for, love-o’erborne,All these in him who is my hope I see.But for that I perceiveThat other women are as wise as I,I tremble for affrightAnd tending to believeThe worst, in others the desire espyOf him who steals my spright;Thus this that is my good and chief delightEnforceth me, forlorn,Sigh sore and live in dole and misery.If I knew fealty suchIn him my lord as I know merit there,I were not jealous, I;But here is seen so muchLovers to tempt, how true they be soe’er,I hold all false; wherebyI’m all disconsolate and fain would die,Of each with doubting tornWho eyes him, lest she bear him off from me.Be, then, each lady prayedBy God that she in this be not intent’Gainst me to do amiss;For sure, if any maidShould or with words or becks or blandishmentMy detriment in thisSeek or procure and if I know’t, ywis,Be all my charms forswornBut I will make her rue it bitterly.
A youngling maid am I and full of glee,Am fain to carol in the new-blown May,Love and sweet thoughts-a-mercy, blithe and free.I go about the meads, consideringThe vermeil flowers and golden and the white,Roses thorn-set and lilies snowy-bright,And one and all I fare a-likeningUnto his face who hath with love-likingTa’en and will hold me ever, having ayeNone other wish than as his pleasures be;Whereof when one I find me that doth show,Unto my seeming, likest him, full fainI cull and kiss and talk with it amainAnd all my heart to it, as best I know,Discover, with its store of wish and woe;Then it with others in a wreath I lay,Bound with my hair so golden-bright of blee.Ay, and that pleasure which the eye doth prove,By nature, of the flower’s view, like delightDoth give me as I saw the very wightWho hath inflamed me of his dulcet love,And what its scent thereover and aboveWorketh in me, no words indeed can say;But sighs thereof bear witness true for me,The which from out my bosom day nor nightNe’er, as with other ladies, fierce and wild,Storm up; nay, thence they issue warm and mildAnd straight betake them to my loved one’s sight,Who, hearing, moveth of himself, delightTo give me; ay, and when I’m like to say“Ah come, lest I despair,” still cometh he.Again, on the tenth day, Fiammetta sings:If love came but withouten jealousy,I know no lady bornSo blithe as I were, whosoe’er she be.If gladsome youthfulnessIn a fair lover might content a maid,Virtue and worth discreet,Valiance or gentilesse,wit and sweet speech and fashions all arrayedIn pleasantness complete,Certes. I’m she for whose behoof these meetIn one; for, love-o’erborne,All these in him who is my hope I see.But for that I perceiveThat other women are as wise as I,I tremble for affrightAnd tending to believeThe worst, in others the desire espyOf him who steals my spright;
A youngling maid am I and full of glee,
Am fain to carol in the new-blown May,
Love and sweet thoughts-a-mercy, blithe and free.
I go about the meads, considering
The vermeil flowers and golden and the white,
Roses thorn-set and lilies snowy-bright,
And one and all I fare a-likening
Unto his face who hath with love-liking
Ta’en and will hold me ever, having aye
None other wish than as his pleasures be;
Whereof when one I find me that doth show,
Unto my seeming, likest him, full fain
I cull and kiss and talk with it amain
And all my heart to it, as best I know,
Discover, with its store of wish and woe;
Then it with others in a wreath I lay,
Bound with my hair so golden-bright of blee.
Ay, and that pleasure which the eye doth prove,
By nature, of the flower’s view, like delight
Doth give me as I saw the very wight
Who hath inflamed me of his dulcet love,
And what its scent thereover and above
Worketh in me, no words indeed can say;
But sighs thereof bear witness true for me,
The which from out my bosom day nor night
Ne’er, as with other ladies, fierce and wild,
Storm up; nay, thence they issue warm and mild
And straight betake them to my loved one’s sight,
Who, hearing, moveth of himself, delight
To give me; ay, and when I’m like to say
“Ah come, lest I despair,” still cometh he.
Again, on the tenth day, Fiammetta sings:
If love came but withouten jealousy,
I know no lady born
So blithe as I were, whosoe’er she be.
If gladsome youthfulness
In a fair lover might content a maid,
Virtue and worth discreet,
Valiance or gentilesse,
wit and sweet speech and fashions all arrayed
In pleasantness complete,
Certes. I’m she for whose behoof these meet
In one; for, love-o’erborne,
All these in him who is my hope I see.
But for that I perceive
That other women are as wise as I,
I tremble for affright
And tending to believe
The worst, in others the desire espy
Of him who steals my spright;
Thus this that is my good and chief delightEnforceth me, forlorn,Sigh sore and live in dole and misery.If I knew fealty suchIn him my lord as I know merit there,I were not jealous, I;But here is seen so muchLovers to tempt, how true they be soe’er,I hold all false; wherebyI’m all disconsolate and fain would die,Of each with doubting tornWho eyes him, lest she bear him off from me.Be, then, each lady prayedBy God that she in this be not intent’Gainst me to do amiss;For sure, if any maidShould or with words or becks or blandishmentMy detriment in thisSeek or procure and if I know’t, ywis,Be all my charms forswornBut I will make her rue it bitterly.
Thus this that is my good and chief delight
Enforceth me, forlorn,
Sigh sore and live in dole and misery.
If I knew fealty such
In him my lord as I know merit there,
I were not jealous, I;
But here is seen so much
Lovers to tempt, how true they be soe’er,
I hold all false; whereby
I’m all disconsolate and fain would die,
Of each with doubting torn
Who eyes him, lest she bear him off from me.
Be, then, each lady prayed
By God that she in this be not intent
’Gainst me to do amiss;
For sure, if any maid
Should or with words or becks or blandishment
My detriment in this
Seek or procure and if I know’t, ywis,
Be all my charms forsworn
But I will make her rue it bitterly.
Scattered throughout the Decameron, there are other erotic songs too. At the end of the first day:
Emilia amorously warbled the following song:
I burn for mine own charms with such a fire,Methinketh that I ne’erOf other love shall reck or have desireWhene’er I mirror me, I see thereinThat good which still contenteth heart and spright;Nor fortune new nor thought of old can winTo dispossess me of such dear delight.What other object, then, could fill my sight,Enough of pleasance e’erTo kindle in my breast a new desire?This good flees not, what time soe’er I’m fainAfresh to view it for my solacement;Nay, at my pleasure, ever and againWith such a grace it doth itself presentSpeech cannot tell it nor its full intentBe known of mortal e’er,Except indeed he burn with like desire.And I, grown more enamoured every hour,The straitlier fixed mine eyes upon it be,Give all myself and yield me to its power,E’en tasting now of that it promised me,And greater joyance yet I hope to see,Of such a strain as ne’erWas proven here below of love-desire.
I burn for mine own charms with such a fire,Methinketh that I ne’erOf other love shall reck or have desireWhene’er I mirror me, I see thereinThat good which still contenteth heart and spright;Nor fortune new nor thought of old can winTo dispossess me of such dear delight.What other object, then, could fill my sight,Enough of pleasance e’erTo kindle in my breast a new desire?This good flees not, what time soe’er I’m fainAfresh to view it for my solacement;Nay, at my pleasure, ever and againWith such a grace it doth itself presentSpeech cannot tell it nor its full intentBe known of mortal e’er,Except indeed he burn with like desire.And I, grown more enamoured every hour,The straitlier fixed mine eyes upon it be,Give all myself and yield me to its power,E’en tasting now of that it promised me,And greater joyance yet I hope to see,Of such a strain as ne’erWas proven here below of love-desire.
I burn for mine own charms with such a fire,Methinketh that I ne’erOf other love shall reck or have desire
I burn for mine own charms with such a fire,
Methinketh that I ne’er
Of other love shall reck or have desire
Whene’er I mirror me, I see thereinThat good which still contenteth heart and spright;Nor fortune new nor thought of old can winTo dispossess me of such dear delight.What other object, then, could fill my sight,Enough of pleasance e’erTo kindle in my breast a new desire?
Whene’er I mirror me, I see therein
That good which still contenteth heart and spright;
Nor fortune new nor thought of old can win
To dispossess me of such dear delight.
What other object, then, could fill my sight,
Enough of pleasance e’er
To kindle in my breast a new desire?
This good flees not, what time soe’er I’m fainAfresh to view it for my solacement;Nay, at my pleasure, ever and againWith such a grace it doth itself presentSpeech cannot tell it nor its full intentBe known of mortal e’er,Except indeed he burn with like desire.
This good flees not, what time soe’er I’m fain
Afresh to view it for my solacement;
Nay, at my pleasure, ever and again
With such a grace it doth itself present
Speech cannot tell it nor its full intent
Be known of mortal e’er,
Except indeed he burn with like desire.
And I, grown more enamoured every hour,The straitlier fixed mine eyes upon it be,Give all myself and yield me to its power,E’en tasting now of that it promised me,And greater joyance yet I hope to see,Of such a strain as ne’erWas proven here below of love-desire.
And I, grown more enamoured every hour,
The straitlier fixed mine eyes upon it be,
Give all myself and yield me to its power,
E’en tasting now of that it promised me,
And greater joyance yet I hope to see,
Of such a strain as ne’er
Was proven here below of love-desire.
At the end of the second day, the ditty following was sung by Pampinea:
What lady aye should sing, and if not I,Who’m blest with all for which a maid can sigh.Come then, O love, thou source of all my weal,All hope and every issue glad and brightSing ye awhile yfereOf sighs nor bitter pains I erst did feel,That now but sweeten to me thy delight,Nay, but of that fire clear,Wherein I, burning, live in joy and cheer,And as my God, thy name do magnify.Thou settest, Love, before these eyes of mineWhenas thy fire I entered the first day,A youngling so beseenwith valor, worth and loveliness divine,That never might one find a goodlier, nay,Nor yet his match, I ween.So sore I burnt for him I still must e’enSing, blithe, of him with thee, my lord most high.And that in him which crowneth my liesseIs that I please him, as he pleaseth me,Thanks to Love debonair;Thus in this world my wish I do possessAnd in the next I trust at peace to be,Through that fast faith I bearTo him; sure God, who seeth this, will ne’erThe kingdom of His bliss to us deny.
What lady aye should sing, and if not I,Who’m blest with all for which a maid can sigh.Come then, O love, thou source of all my weal,All hope and every issue glad and brightSing ye awhile yfereOf sighs nor bitter pains I erst did feel,That now but sweeten to me thy delight,Nay, but of that fire clear,Wherein I, burning, live in joy and cheer,And as my God, thy name do magnify.Thou settest, Love, before these eyes of mineWhenas thy fire I entered the first day,A youngling so beseenwith valor, worth and loveliness divine,That never might one find a goodlier, nay,Nor yet his match, I ween.So sore I burnt for him I still must e’enSing, blithe, of him with thee, my lord most high.And that in him which crowneth my liesseIs that I please him, as he pleaseth me,Thanks to Love debonair;Thus in this world my wish I do possessAnd in the next I trust at peace to be,Through that fast faith I bearTo him; sure God, who seeth this, will ne’erThe kingdom of His bliss to us deny.
What lady aye should sing, and if not I,Who’m blest with all for which a maid can sigh.Come then, O love, thou source of all my weal,All hope and every issue glad and brightSing ye awhile yfereOf sighs nor bitter pains I erst did feel,That now but sweeten to me thy delight,Nay, but of that fire clear,Wherein I, burning, live in joy and cheer,And as my God, thy name do magnify.
What lady aye should sing, and if not I,
Who’m blest with all for which a maid can sigh.
Come then, O love, thou source of all my weal,
All hope and every issue glad and bright
Sing ye awhile yfere
Of sighs nor bitter pains I erst did feel,
That now but sweeten to me thy delight,
Nay, but of that fire clear,
Wherein I, burning, live in joy and cheer,
And as my God, thy name do magnify.
Thou settest, Love, before these eyes of mineWhenas thy fire I entered the first day,A youngling so beseenwith valor, worth and loveliness divine,That never might one find a goodlier, nay,Nor yet his match, I ween.So sore I burnt for him I still must e’enSing, blithe, of him with thee, my lord most high.
Thou settest, Love, before these eyes of mine
Whenas thy fire I entered the first day,
A youngling so beseen
with valor, worth and loveliness divine,
That never might one find a goodlier, nay,
Nor yet his match, I ween.
So sore I burnt for him I still must e’en
Sing, blithe, of him with thee, my lord most high.
And that in him which crowneth my liesseIs that I please him, as he pleaseth me,Thanks to Love debonair;Thus in this world my wish I do possessAnd in the next I trust at peace to be,Through that fast faith I bearTo him; sure God, who seeth this, will ne’erThe kingdom of His bliss to us deny.
And that in him which crowneth my liesse
Is that I please him, as he pleaseth me,
Thanks to Love debonair;
Thus in this world my wish I do possess
And in the next I trust at peace to be,
Through that fast faith I bear
To him; sure God, who seeth this, will ne’er
The kingdom of His bliss to us deny.
At the end of the third day, Lauretta began thus:
No maid disconsolate hath cause as I, alack!Who sigh for love in vain, to mourn her fate.He who moves heaven and all the stars in airmade me for His delightLovesome and sprightly, kind and debonair,E’en here below to give each lofty sprightSome inkling of that fairThat still in heaven abideth in His sight;But erring men’s unright,Ill knowing me, my worthAccepted not, nay, with dispraise did bate.Erst was there one who held me dear and fainTook me, a youngling maid,Into his arms and thought and heart and brain,Caught fire at my sweet eyes; yea, time, unstayedOf aught, that flits amainAnd lightly, all to wooing me he laid.I, courteous, nought gainsaidAnd held him worthy me;But now, woe’s me, of himI’m desolate.Then unto me there did himself presentA youngling proud and haught,Renowning him for valorous and gent;He took and holds me and with erring thoughtTo jealousy is bent;Whence I, alack! nigh to despair am wrought,As knowing myself,—broughtInto this world for goodOf many an one,—engrossed of one sole mate.The luckless hour I curse, in very deed,When I, alas! said yea,Vesture to change,—so fair in that dusk wedeI was and glad, whereas in this more gayA weary life I lead,Far less than erst held honest, welaway!Ah, dolorous bridal day,Would God I had been deadOr e’er I proved thee in such ill estate!O lover dear, with whom well pleased was IWhilere past all that be,—Who now before Him sittest in the skyWho fashioned us,—have pity upon meWho cannot, though I die,Forget thee for another; cause me seeThe flame that kindled theeFor me lives yet unquenchedAnd my recall up thither impetrate.
No maid disconsolate hath cause as I, alack!Who sigh for love in vain, to mourn her fate.He who moves heaven and all the stars in airmade me for His delightLovesome and sprightly, kind and debonair,E’en here below to give each lofty sprightSome inkling of that fairThat still in heaven abideth in His sight;But erring men’s unright,Ill knowing me, my worthAccepted not, nay, with dispraise did bate.Erst was there one who held me dear and fainTook me, a youngling maid,Into his arms and thought and heart and brain,Caught fire at my sweet eyes; yea, time, unstayedOf aught, that flits amainAnd lightly, all to wooing me he laid.I, courteous, nought gainsaidAnd held him worthy me;But now, woe’s me, of himI’m desolate.Then unto me there did himself presentA youngling proud and haught,Renowning him for valorous and gent;He took and holds me and with erring thoughtTo jealousy is bent;Whence I, alack! nigh to despair am wrought,As knowing myself,—broughtInto this world for goodOf many an one,—engrossed of one sole mate.The luckless hour I curse, in very deed,When I, alas! said yea,Vesture to change,—so fair in that dusk wedeI was and glad, whereas in this more gayA weary life I lead,Far less than erst held honest, welaway!Ah, dolorous bridal day,Would God I had been deadOr e’er I proved thee in such ill estate!O lover dear, with whom well pleased was IWhilere past all that be,—Who now before Him sittest in the skyWho fashioned us,—have pity upon meWho cannot, though I die,Forget thee for another; cause me seeThe flame that kindled theeFor me lives yet unquenchedAnd my recall up thither impetrate.
No maid disconsolate hath cause as I, alack!Who sigh for love in vain, to mourn her fate.
No maid disconsolate hath cause as I, alack!
Who sigh for love in vain, to mourn her fate.
He who moves heaven and all the stars in airmade me for His delightLovesome and sprightly, kind and debonair,E’en here below to give each lofty sprightSome inkling of that fairThat still in heaven abideth in His sight;But erring men’s unright,Ill knowing me, my worthAccepted not, nay, with dispraise did bate.Erst was there one who held me dear and fainTook me, a youngling maid,Into his arms and thought and heart and brain,Caught fire at my sweet eyes; yea, time, unstayedOf aught, that flits amainAnd lightly, all to wooing me he laid.I, courteous, nought gainsaidAnd held him worthy me;But now, woe’s me, of himI’m desolate.Then unto me there did himself presentA youngling proud and haught,Renowning him for valorous and gent;He took and holds me and with erring thoughtTo jealousy is bent;Whence I, alack! nigh to despair am wrought,As knowing myself,—broughtInto this world for goodOf many an one,—engrossed of one sole mate.
He who moves heaven and all the stars in air
made me for His delight
Lovesome and sprightly, kind and debonair,
E’en here below to give each lofty spright
Some inkling of that fair
That still in heaven abideth in His sight;
But erring men’s unright,
Ill knowing me, my worth
Accepted not, nay, with dispraise did bate.
Erst was there one who held me dear and fain
Took me, a youngling maid,
Into his arms and thought and heart and brain,
Caught fire at my sweet eyes; yea, time, unstayed
Of aught, that flits amain
And lightly, all to wooing me he laid.
I, courteous, nought gainsaid
And held him worthy me;
But now, woe’s me, of him
I’m desolate.
Then unto me there did himself present
A youngling proud and haught,
Renowning him for valorous and gent;
He took and holds me and with erring thought
To jealousy is bent;
Whence I, alack! nigh to despair am wrought,
As knowing myself,—brought
Into this world for good
Of many an one,—engrossed of one sole mate.
The luckless hour I curse, in very deed,When I, alas! said yea,Vesture to change,—so fair in that dusk wedeI was and glad, whereas in this more gayA weary life I lead,Far less than erst held honest, welaway!Ah, dolorous bridal day,Would God I had been deadOr e’er I proved thee in such ill estate!O lover dear, with whom well pleased was IWhilere past all that be,—Who now before Him sittest in the skyWho fashioned us,—have pity upon meWho cannot, though I die,Forget thee for another; cause me seeThe flame that kindled theeFor me lives yet unquenchedAnd my recall up thither impetrate.
The luckless hour I curse, in very deed,
When I, alas! said yea,
Vesture to change,—so fair in that dusk wede
I was and glad, whereas in this more gay
A weary life I lead,
Far less than erst held honest, welaway!
Ah, dolorous bridal day,
Would God I had been dead
Or e’er I proved thee in such ill estate!
O lover dear, with whom well pleased was I
Whilere past all that be,—
Who now before Him sittest in the sky
Who fashioned us,—have pity upon me
Who cannot, though I die,
Forget thee for another; cause me see
The flame that kindled thee
For me lives yet unquenched
And my recall up thither impetrate.
At the end of the fourth day Filostrato sang:
Weeping, I demonstrateHow sore with reason doth my heart complainOf love betrayed and plighted faith in vain.Love, whenas first there was of thee imprestThereon her image for whose sake I sigh,Sans hope of succour aye,So full of virtue didst thou her pourtray,That every torment light accounted IThat through thee to my breast,Grown full of drear unrestAnd dole, might come; but now, alack! I’m fainTo own my error, not withouten pain.Yea, of the cheat first was I made aware,Seeing myself of her forsaken sheer,In whom I hoped alone;For, when I deemed myself most fairly grownInto her favor and her servant dear,Without her thought or careOf my to-come despair,I found she had another’s merit ta’enTo heart and put me from her with disdain.Whenas I knew me banished from my stead,Straight in my heart a dolorous plaint there grew,That yet therein hath power,And oft I curse the day and eke the hourWhen first her lovesome visage met my view,Graced with high goodlihead;And more enamouredThan eye, my soul keeps up its dying strain,Faith, ardor, hope, blaspheming still amain.How void my misery is of all reliefThou may’st e’en feel, so sore I call thee, sire,With voice all full of woe;Ay, and I tell thee that it irks me soThat death for lesser torment I desire.Come, death, then; sheer the sheafOf this my life of griefAnd with thy stroke my madness eke assain;Go where I may, less dire will be my bane.No other way than death is left my spright,Ay, and none other solace for my dole;Then give it me straightway,Love; put an end withal to my dismay;Ah, do it; since fate’s spiteHath robbed me of delight;Gladden thou her, lord, with my death, love-slain,As thou hast cheered her with another swain.My song, though none to learn thee lend an ear,I reck the less thereof, indeed, that noneCould sing thee even as I;One only charge I give thee, ere I die,That thou find love and unto him aloneShow fully how undearThis bitter life and drearIs to me, craving of his might he deignSome better harborage I may attain.Weeping I demonstrateHow sore with reason doth my heart complainOf love betrayed and plighted faith in vain.
Weeping, I demonstrateHow sore with reason doth my heart complainOf love betrayed and plighted faith in vain.Love, whenas first there was of thee imprestThereon her image for whose sake I sigh,Sans hope of succour aye,So full of virtue didst thou her pourtray,That every torment light accounted IThat through thee to my breast,Grown full of drear unrestAnd dole, might come; but now, alack! I’m fainTo own my error, not withouten pain.Yea, of the cheat first was I made aware,Seeing myself of her forsaken sheer,In whom I hoped alone;For, when I deemed myself most fairly grownInto her favor and her servant dear,Without her thought or careOf my to-come despair,I found she had another’s merit ta’enTo heart and put me from her with disdain.Whenas I knew me banished from my stead,Straight in my heart a dolorous plaint there grew,That yet therein hath power,And oft I curse the day and eke the hourWhen first her lovesome visage met my view,Graced with high goodlihead;And more enamouredThan eye, my soul keeps up its dying strain,Faith, ardor, hope, blaspheming still amain.How void my misery is of all reliefThou may’st e’en feel, so sore I call thee, sire,With voice all full of woe;Ay, and I tell thee that it irks me soThat death for lesser torment I desire.Come, death, then; sheer the sheafOf this my life of griefAnd with thy stroke my madness eke assain;Go where I may, less dire will be my bane.No other way than death is left my spright,Ay, and none other solace for my dole;Then give it me straightway,Love; put an end withal to my dismay;Ah, do it; since fate’s spiteHath robbed me of delight;Gladden thou her, lord, with my death, love-slain,As thou hast cheered her with another swain.My song, though none to learn thee lend an ear,I reck the less thereof, indeed, that noneCould sing thee even as I;One only charge I give thee, ere I die,That thou find love and unto him aloneShow fully how undearThis bitter life and drearIs to me, craving of his might he deignSome better harborage I may attain.Weeping I demonstrateHow sore with reason doth my heart complainOf love betrayed and plighted faith in vain.
Weeping, I demonstrateHow sore with reason doth my heart complainOf love betrayed and plighted faith in vain.Love, whenas first there was of thee imprestThereon her image for whose sake I sigh,Sans hope of succour aye,So full of virtue didst thou her pourtray,That every torment light accounted IThat through thee to my breast,Grown full of drear unrestAnd dole, might come; but now, alack! I’m fainTo own my error, not withouten pain.Yea, of the cheat first was I made aware,Seeing myself of her forsaken sheer,In whom I hoped alone;For, when I deemed myself most fairly grownInto her favor and her servant dear,Without her thought or careOf my to-come despair,I found she had another’s merit ta’enTo heart and put me from her with disdain.
Weeping, I demonstrate
How sore with reason doth my heart complain
Of love betrayed and plighted faith in vain.
Love, whenas first there was of thee imprest
Thereon her image for whose sake I sigh,
Sans hope of succour aye,
So full of virtue didst thou her pourtray,
That every torment light accounted I
That through thee to my breast,
Grown full of drear unrest
And dole, might come; but now, alack! I’m fain
To own my error, not withouten pain.
Yea, of the cheat first was I made aware,
Seeing myself of her forsaken sheer,
In whom I hoped alone;
For, when I deemed myself most fairly grown
Into her favor and her servant dear,
Without her thought or care
Of my to-come despair,
I found she had another’s merit ta’en
To heart and put me from her with disdain.
Whenas I knew me banished from my stead,Straight in my heart a dolorous plaint there grew,That yet therein hath power,And oft I curse the day and eke the hourWhen first her lovesome visage met my view,Graced with high goodlihead;And more enamouredThan eye, my soul keeps up its dying strain,Faith, ardor, hope, blaspheming still amain.How void my misery is of all reliefThou may’st e’en feel, so sore I call thee, sire,With voice all full of woe;Ay, and I tell thee that it irks me soThat death for lesser torment I desire.Come, death, then; sheer the sheafOf this my life of griefAnd with thy stroke my madness eke assain;Go where I may, less dire will be my bane.
Whenas I knew me banished from my stead,
Straight in my heart a dolorous plaint there grew,
That yet therein hath power,
And oft I curse the day and eke the hour
When first her lovesome visage met my view,
Graced with high goodlihead;
And more enamoured
Than eye, my soul keeps up its dying strain,
Faith, ardor, hope, blaspheming still amain.
How void my misery is of all relief
Thou may’st e’en feel, so sore I call thee, sire,
With voice all full of woe;
Ay, and I tell thee that it irks me so
That death for lesser torment I desire.
Come, death, then; sheer the sheaf
Of this my life of grief
And with thy stroke my madness eke assain;
Go where I may, less dire will be my bane.
No other way than death is left my spright,Ay, and none other solace for my dole;Then give it me straightway,Love; put an end withal to my dismay;Ah, do it; since fate’s spiteHath robbed me of delight;Gladden thou her, lord, with my death, love-slain,As thou hast cheered her with another swain.
No other way than death is left my spright,
Ay, and none other solace for my dole;
Then give it me straightway,
Love; put an end withal to my dismay;
Ah, do it; since fate’s spite
Hath robbed me of delight;
Gladden thou her, lord, with my death, love-slain,
As thou hast cheered her with another swain.
My song, though none to learn thee lend an ear,I reck the less thereof, indeed, that noneCould sing thee even as I;One only charge I give thee, ere I die,That thou find love and unto him aloneShow fully how undearThis bitter life and drearIs to me, craving of his might he deignSome better harborage I may attain.Weeping I demonstrateHow sore with reason doth my heart complainOf love betrayed and plighted faith in vain.
My song, though none to learn thee lend an ear,
I reck the less thereof, indeed, that none
Could sing thee even as I;
One only charge I give thee, ere I die,
That thou find love and unto him alone
Show fully how undear
This bitter life and drear
Is to me, craving of his might he deign
Some better harborage I may attain.
Weeping I demonstrate
How sore with reason doth my heart complain
Of love betrayed and plighted faith in vain.
At the conclusion of the last story on the seventh day Filomena sings:
Alack, my life forlorn!Will’t ever chance I may once more regainTh’estate whence sorry fortune hath me torn?Certes, I know not, such a wish of fireI carry in my thoughtTo find me where, alas! I was whilere.O dear my treasure, thou my sole desire,That holdst my heart distraught,Tell it me, thou; for whom I know nor dareTo ask it otherwhere.Ah, dear my lord, oh, cause me hope again,So I may comfort me my spright wayworn.What was the charm I cannot rightly tellThat kindled in me suchA flame of love that rest nor day nor nightI find; for, by some strong unwonted spell,Hearing and touchAnd seeing each new fires in me did light,Wherein I burn outright;Nor other than thyself can soothe my painNor call my senses back, by love o’erborne.O tell me if and when, then, it shall beThat I shall find thee e’erWhereas I kissed those eyes that did me slay.O dear my good, my soul, ah, tell it me,When thou wilt come back there,And saying “Quickly,” comfort my dismaySomedele. Short be the stayuntil thou come, and long mayst thou remain!I’m so love-struck, I reck not of men’s scorn.If once again I chance to hold thee aye,I will not be so fondAs erst I was to suffer thee to fly;Nay, fast I’ll hold thee, hap of it what may,And having thee in bond,Of thy sweet mouth by lust I’ll satisfy.Now of nought else will IDiscourse. Quick, to thy bosom come me strain;The sheer thought bids me sing like lark at morn.
Alack, my life forlorn!Will’t ever chance I may once more regainTh’estate whence sorry fortune hath me torn?Certes, I know not, such a wish of fireI carry in my thoughtTo find me where, alas! I was whilere.O dear my treasure, thou my sole desire,That holdst my heart distraught,Tell it me, thou; for whom I know nor dareTo ask it otherwhere.Ah, dear my lord, oh, cause me hope again,So I may comfort me my spright wayworn.What was the charm I cannot rightly tellThat kindled in me suchA flame of love that rest nor day nor nightI find; for, by some strong unwonted spell,Hearing and touchAnd seeing each new fires in me did light,Wherein I burn outright;Nor other than thyself can soothe my painNor call my senses back, by love o’erborne.O tell me if and when, then, it shall beThat I shall find thee e’erWhereas I kissed those eyes that did me slay.O dear my good, my soul, ah, tell it me,When thou wilt come back there,And saying “Quickly,” comfort my dismaySomedele. Short be the stayuntil thou come, and long mayst thou remain!I’m so love-struck, I reck not of men’s scorn.If once again I chance to hold thee aye,I will not be so fondAs erst I was to suffer thee to fly;Nay, fast I’ll hold thee, hap of it what may,And having thee in bond,Of thy sweet mouth by lust I’ll satisfy.Now of nought else will IDiscourse. Quick, to thy bosom come me strain;The sheer thought bids me sing like lark at morn.
Alack, my life forlorn!Will’t ever chance I may once more regainTh’estate whence sorry fortune hath me torn?Certes, I know not, such a wish of fireI carry in my thoughtTo find me where, alas! I was whilere.O dear my treasure, thou my sole desire,That holdst my heart distraught,Tell it me, thou; for whom I know nor dareTo ask it otherwhere.Ah, dear my lord, oh, cause me hope again,So I may comfort me my spright wayworn.What was the charm I cannot rightly tellThat kindled in me suchA flame of love that rest nor day nor nightI find; for, by some strong unwonted spell,Hearing and touchAnd seeing each new fires in me did light,Wherein I burn outright;Nor other than thyself can soothe my painNor call my senses back, by love o’erborne.
Alack, my life forlorn!
Will’t ever chance I may once more regain
Th’estate whence sorry fortune hath me torn?
Certes, I know not, such a wish of fire
I carry in my thought
To find me where, alas! I was whilere.
O dear my treasure, thou my sole desire,
That holdst my heart distraught,
Tell it me, thou; for whom I know nor dare
To ask it otherwhere.
Ah, dear my lord, oh, cause me hope again,
So I may comfort me my spright wayworn.
What was the charm I cannot rightly tell
That kindled in me such
A flame of love that rest nor day nor night
I find; for, by some strong unwonted spell,
Hearing and touch
And seeing each new fires in me did light,
Wherein I burn outright;
Nor other than thyself can soothe my pain
Nor call my senses back, by love o’erborne.
O tell me if and when, then, it shall beThat I shall find thee e’erWhereas I kissed those eyes that did me slay.O dear my good, my soul, ah, tell it me,When thou wilt come back there,And saying “Quickly,” comfort my dismaySomedele. Short be the stayuntil thou come, and long mayst thou remain!I’m so love-struck, I reck not of men’s scorn.If once again I chance to hold thee aye,I will not be so fondAs erst I was to suffer thee to fly;Nay, fast I’ll hold thee, hap of it what may,And having thee in bond,Of thy sweet mouth by lust I’ll satisfy.Now of nought else will IDiscourse. Quick, to thy bosom come me strain;The sheer thought bids me sing like lark at morn.
O tell me if and when, then, it shall be
That I shall find thee e’er
Whereas I kissed those eyes that did me slay.
O dear my good, my soul, ah, tell it me,
When thou wilt come back there,
And saying “Quickly,” comfort my dismay
Somedele. Short be the stay
until thou come, and long mayst thou remain!
I’m so love-struck, I reck not of men’s scorn.
If once again I chance to hold thee aye,
I will not be so fond
As erst I was to suffer thee to fly;
Nay, fast I’ll hold thee, hap of it what may,
And having thee in bond,
Of thy sweet mouth by lust I’ll satisfy.
Now of nought else will I
Discourse. Quick, to thy bosom come me strain;
The sheer thought bids me sing like lark at morn.
Rabelais (1490–1553), in hisGargantua and Pantagruel, incorporates into his fantastic and satirical novel contemporary views and personal attitudes on a large variety of subjects—religious and cosmological, literary, metaphysical,and theological. Among the topics and discussions propounded by some of his odd characters is the problem of amatory stimuli:
When I say, quoth Rondibilis, that wine abateth lust, my meaning is, wine immoderately taken; for by intemperance proceeding from the excessive drinking of strong liquor, there is brought upon the body of such a swill-down bouser, a chilliness in the blood, a slackening in the sinews, a dissipation of the generative seed, a numbness and hebetation of the senses, with a perversive wryness and convulsion of the muscles; all of which are great lets and impediments to the act of generation. Hence it is, that Bacchus, the god of bibbers, tipplers, and drunkards, is most commonly painted beardless, and clad in a woman’s habit, as a person altogether effeminate, or like a libbed eunuch. Wine, nevertheless, taken moderately, worketh quite contrary effects, as is implied by the old proverb, which saith,—That Venus takes cold, when not accompanied with Ceres and Bacchus.
On another point in erotic investigations, Rabelais continues:
The fervency of Lust is abated by certain drugs, plants, herbs, and roots, which make the taker cold, maleficiated, unfit for, and unable to perform the act of generation; as hath been often experimented in the water-lily, Heraclea, Agnus Castus, willow-twigs, hemp-stalks, wood-bine, honey-suckle, tamarisk, chaste-tree, mandrake, bennet, keck-bugloss, the skin of a hippopotamus, and many other such, which, by convenient doses proportioned to the peccant humor and constitution of the patient, being duly and seasonably received within the body, what by their elementaryvirtues on the one side, and peculiar properties on the other,—do either benumb, mortify, and beclumpse with cold the prolific semence, or scatter and disperse the spirits, which ought to have gone along with, and conducted sperm to the places destinated and appointed for its reception,—or lastly, shut up, stop, and obstruct the ways, passages, and conduits through which the seed should have been expelled, evacuated, and ejected. We have nevertheless of those ingredients, which, being of a contrary operation, heat the blood, bend the nerves, unite the spirits, quicken the senses, strengthen the muscles, and thereby rouse up, provoke, excite, and enable a man to the vigorous accomplishment of the feat of amorous dalliance.
Obstructions to such dalliance are now discussed:
The ardor of lechery is very much subdued and check’d by frequent labor and continual toiling. For by painful exercises and laborious working, so great a dissolution is brought upon the whole body, that the blood, which runneth alongst the channels of the veins thereof, for the nourishment and alimentation of each of its members, hath neither time, leisure, nor power to afford the seminal resudation, or superfluity of the third concoction, which nature most carefully reserves for the conservation of the individual, whose preservation she more heedfully regardeth than the propagation of the species, and the multiplication of human land.
Metropolitan Museum of ArtEVEby Rodin
Metropolitan Museum of ArtEVEby Rodin
Metropolitan Museum of ArtEVEby Rodin
Metropolitan Museum of ArtETERNAL SPRINGTIMEby Rodin
Metropolitan Museum of ArtETERNAL SPRINGTIMEby Rodin
Metropolitan Museum of ArtETERNAL SPRINGTIMEby Rodin
On the other part, in opposition and repugnancy hereto, the philosophers say, That idleness is the mother of luxury. When it was asked Ovid, why Aegisthus became an adulterer? he made no other answer but this, Because he was idle. Who were able to rid the world of loitering and laziness might easily frustrate and disappoint Cupid of all his designs, aims, engines, and devices, and so disable and appal him that his bow, quiver, and darts should from thenceforth be a mere needless load and burthen to him, for that it could not lie in his power to strike, or wound any of either sex, with all the arms he had.
Again:
The tickling pricks of incontinency are blunted by an eager study; for from thence proceedeth an incredible resolution of the spirits, that oftentimes there do not remain so many behind as may suffice to push and thrust forwards the generative resudation to the places thereto appropriated, and there withal inflate the cavernous nerve, whose office is to ejaculate the moisture for the propagation of human progeny.
The English herbalist John Gerarde, who wrote a Herbal that was published in 1633, suggests a stimulating drink composed of juniper berries steeped in water. The juniper shrub itself was used medicinally, in cordials, and as an element in philtres.
The medieval writer Andreas Cisalpinus states that the tree called gossypion produced a juice that aided amatory efforts.
Emblica honey was, in the opinion of the thirteenth century Arab philosopher Avicenna, endowed with venereal virtues.
A plant that is native to both North and South Africaproduces as an exudation a gum resin called euphorbium, which was considered in the thirteenth century an invigorating agent.
The medieval philosopher Albertus Magnus mentions a stone called aquileus or echites, that is found near the Mediterranean littoral and in Persia, in eagles’ nests. This stone contains a smaller one that has an amatory character.
Babio, a twelfth century Latin comedy, presents the priest Babio himself apostrophizing women: Oh! What a guilty thing is a woman! The worst thing on earth. A seducer. There is no guile in the world that is missing in her. There is no evil so wicked as a long sequence of evils. Nobody considers the perils of a snake that has long been kept crushed. My wife is a thief. My slave is my guard. It’s a case of trouble and trickery. She is a she-wolf. He’s a lion. She holds me, while he fetters me. She casts me to the ground, he crushes me. She presses on me, he strikes me. She kills me, he crunches me.
In the medieval centuries the gum resin known as scammony, native to the Middle East, was suggested as a stimulus when mixed with honey.
A medieval potion that had Oriental ingredients was the following compound: Amber, aloes, musk, powdered together and soaked in spirits of wine. Heated in sand, then filtered, distilled, and hermetically sealed. The prescription required from three to five drops, taken in a broth.
In a number of twelfth century Latin comedies, particularlyDe Nuntio Sagaci, The Wily Messenger, nubile age is presented as in itself a strong amatory provocation. The messenger says.
Nubere tempus erat: iuveni tua forma placebat.
Nubere tempus erat: iuveni tua forma placebat.
Nubere tempus erat: iuveni tua forma placebat.
Nubere tempus erat: iuveni tua forma placebat.
This was the theme of the medieval students, so vociferously and consistently proclaimed in the Carmina Burana:
Iam aetas invaluit,Iam umor incubuit,Iam virgo maturuit,Iam tumescunt ubera,Iam frustra complacuitNisi fiant cetera.
Iam aetas invaluit,Iam umor incubuit,Iam virgo maturuit,Iam tumescunt ubera,Iam frustra complacuitNisi fiant cetera.
Iam aetas invaluit,Iam umor incubuit,Iam virgo maturuit,Iam tumescunt ubera,Iam frustra complacuitNisi fiant cetera.
Iam aetas invaluit,
Iam umor incubuit,
Iam virgo maturuit,
Iam tumescunt ubera,
Iam frustra complacuit
Nisi fiant cetera.
Again, the same view is determinedly expressed:
Si puer cum puellula,Moraretur in cellula,Felix coniunctio.Amore sucrescente,Pariter et medioAvulso procul taedio,Fit ludus ineffabilisMembris, lacertis, labiis.
Si puer cum puellula,Moraretur in cellula,Felix coniunctio.Amore sucrescente,Pariter et medioAvulso procul taedio,Fit ludus ineffabilisMembris, lacertis, labiis.
Si puer cum puellula,Moraretur in cellula,Felix coniunctio.Amore sucrescente,Pariter et medioAvulso procul taedio,Fit ludus ineffabilisMembris, lacertis, labiis.
Si puer cum puellula,
Moraretur in cellula,
Felix coniunctio.
Amore sucrescente,
Pariter et medio
Avulso procul taedio,
Fit ludus ineffabilis
Membris, lacertis, labiis.
Baucis et Traso, a Latin comedy belonging in the twelfth century, presents the methods used in the Middle Ages for the amatory enticements of the male. These methods, however, have never differed in essence: whether in the fifth century in Athens, in the second B.C. in Rome, or in contemporary days.
Baucis, who knows where her interests lie, urged by the hope of gain, acts as a counsellor to the maiden Glycerium. She summons Glycerium, adorns her, pays her little attentions. She shapes the girl’s lips, draws her cheeks down, skilfully refreshes her beauty, gives her a wide brow, spreadsout her hair in flowing tresses, makes her neck glow, makes shoulders narrow, lengthens her nails, makes her hands look shorter. With a needle, she shapes her arms, puts a girdle on her to produce an effect of slenderness. Baucis teaches her what she must do, how, and with whom.
And so Glycerium strolls up and down the streets, glances around, looks for lovers. In some cases, she encourages hope by her words, just as she herself has confidence in her guile. She gives warnings, invitations, asks them to observe her beautiful eyes. She promises them affection, delights, wine, food. They will have with this maiden conversation and intimacies, kisses and the final consummation itself.
Baucis gives the girl imaginary names. Sometimes she is called Glycerium, and again Philomena, as the whim takes her. By means of such changes of name she multiplies her gains.
Lovers come flocking in rivalry, some searching for Glycerium, others for Philomena.
While she regales the young men with her words, while she gives them a vain hope and meanwhile acquires monies, Thraso comes upon her.
Thraso’s glory is drink. His stomach is his god. Venus is his ever-ready companion. Baucis catches sight of him and, overjoyed, she approaches:
Baucis: O soldier, nurseling of Cupid, love’s honor, what is it you desire? Where are you off to? What fires inflame you? If you need a maiden, I have one at home. A flower, the true fruit of love. She has a maidenly glow, she shines with every adornment of beauty.
Thraso: Baucis, let me see her.
Baucis: She is asleep and I can’t waken her. She is delicate and a delicate girl needs much sleep. If she stays awake too long, she is sick. If she sleeps badly, she suffers.
Thraso burns up with restrained passion. He groans and pleads. He gives his gold ring to Baucis. Baucis relents. He buys provisions at the market and follows her home.
Suddenly, Baucis vanishes. All her talk, all her manoeuvers have been designed merely to tantalize his libidinous urgencies, to bring him suppliantly into her clutches. Thraso is left lamenting:
Thraso: O woman, noxious flame, gnawing wound, enemy to friendship. Woman, the sum of evil. Woman, deserving of death. Woman, who produces the seeds of putrefaction, who produces death. Foul procuress, monstrous in appearance, the image of the Chimera.
Later on, Thraso approaches Glycerium herself, but she refuses his advances. She is too young and inexperienced, she pleads:
Sum rudis in Venerem nec adhuc mea nubilis aetas:Intemerata manet dos mea virginea.Non novi quid amor, quid amoris sentiat ictus.Officium Veneris horreo, siste preces.
Sum rudis in Venerem nec adhuc mea nubilis aetas:Intemerata manet dos mea virginea.Non novi quid amor, quid amoris sentiat ictus.Officium Veneris horreo, siste preces.
Sum rudis in Venerem nec adhuc mea nubilis aetas:Intemerata manet dos mea virginea.Non novi quid amor, quid amoris sentiat ictus.Officium Veneris horreo, siste preces.
Sum rudis in Venerem nec adhuc mea nubilis aetas:
Intemerata manet dos mea virginea.
Non novi quid amor, quid amoris sentiat ictus.
Officium Veneris horreo, siste preces.
In Jay Fletchers playThe Wild-Goose Chase, there is mention of amber, a reputed amatory provocative. Mirabel, one of the leading characters, is offering a portrait of women:
Mirabel: Only the wenches are not for my diet;They are too lean and thin, their embraces brawn-fallen.Give me the plump Venetian, fat and lusty,That meets me soft and supple; smiles upon me,As if a cup of full wine leap’d to kiss me,These slight things I affect not.Pinac: They are ill-built;Pin-buttocked, like your dainty Barbaries,And weak i’ the pasterns; they’ll endure no hardness.Mirabel: There’s nothing good or handsome bred amongst us;Till we are travell’d, and live abroad, we are coxcombs.Ye talk of France—a slight unseason’d country,Abundance of gross food, which makes us blockheads.We are fair set out indeed, and so are fore-horses:—Men say, we are great courtiers,—men abuse us;We are wise, and valiant too,—non credo, signor;Our women the best linguists,—they are parrots;O’ this side the Alps they are nothing but mere drolleries.Ha! Roma la Santa, Italy for my money!Their policies, their customs, their frugalities,Their courtesies so open, yet so reserv’d too,As, when you think y’are known best, ye are a stranger.Their very pick-teeth speak more than we do.And season of more salt.Pinac: ’Tis a brave country;Not pester’d with your stubborn precise puppies,That turn all useful and allow’d contentmentsTo scabs and scruples—hang ’em, capon-worshippers.Belleur: I like that freedom well, and like their women too,And would fain do as others do; but I am so bashful,So naturally an ass! Look ye, I can look upon ’em,And very willingly I go to see ’em,(There’s no man willinger), and I can kiss ’em,And make a shift—Mirabel: But, if they chance to flout ye,Or say, “Ye are too bold! Fie, sir, remember!I pray, sit farther off—”Belleur:’Tis true—I am humbled,I am gone; I confess ingenuously, I am silenced;The spirit of amber cannot force me answer.
Mirabel: Only the wenches are not for my diet;They are too lean and thin, their embraces brawn-fallen.Give me the plump Venetian, fat and lusty,That meets me soft and supple; smiles upon me,As if a cup of full wine leap’d to kiss me,These slight things I affect not.Pinac: They are ill-built;Pin-buttocked, like your dainty Barbaries,And weak i’ the pasterns; they’ll endure no hardness.Mirabel: There’s nothing good or handsome bred amongst us;Till we are travell’d, and live abroad, we are coxcombs.Ye talk of France—a slight unseason’d country,Abundance of gross food, which makes us blockheads.We are fair set out indeed, and so are fore-horses:—Men say, we are great courtiers,—men abuse us;We are wise, and valiant too,—non credo, signor;Our women the best linguists,—they are parrots;O’ this side the Alps they are nothing but mere drolleries.Ha! Roma la Santa, Italy for my money!Their policies, their customs, their frugalities,Their courtesies so open, yet so reserv’d too,As, when you think y’are known best, ye are a stranger.Their very pick-teeth speak more than we do.And season of more salt.Pinac: ’Tis a brave country;Not pester’d with your stubborn precise puppies,That turn all useful and allow’d contentmentsTo scabs and scruples—hang ’em, capon-worshippers.Belleur: I like that freedom well, and like their women too,And would fain do as others do; but I am so bashful,So naturally an ass! Look ye, I can look upon ’em,And very willingly I go to see ’em,(There’s no man willinger), and I can kiss ’em,And make a shift—Mirabel: But, if they chance to flout ye,Or say, “Ye are too bold! Fie, sir, remember!I pray, sit farther off—”Belleur:’Tis true—I am humbled,I am gone; I confess ingenuously, I am silenced;The spirit of amber cannot force me answer.
Mirabel: Only the wenches are not for my diet;They are too lean and thin, their embraces brawn-fallen.Give me the plump Venetian, fat and lusty,That meets me soft and supple; smiles upon me,As if a cup of full wine leap’d to kiss me,These slight things I affect not.
Mirabel: Only the wenches are not for my diet;
They are too lean and thin, their embraces brawn-fallen.
Give me the plump Venetian, fat and lusty,
That meets me soft and supple; smiles upon me,
As if a cup of full wine leap’d to kiss me,
These slight things I affect not.
Pinac: They are ill-built;Pin-buttocked, like your dainty Barbaries,And weak i’ the pasterns; they’ll endure no hardness.
Pinac: They are ill-built;
Pin-buttocked, like your dainty Barbaries,
And weak i’ the pasterns; they’ll endure no hardness.
Mirabel: There’s nothing good or handsome bred amongst us;Till we are travell’d, and live abroad, we are coxcombs.Ye talk of France—a slight unseason’d country,Abundance of gross food, which makes us blockheads.We are fair set out indeed, and so are fore-horses:—Men say, we are great courtiers,—men abuse us;We are wise, and valiant too,—non credo, signor;Our women the best linguists,—they are parrots;O’ this side the Alps they are nothing but mere drolleries.Ha! Roma la Santa, Italy for my money!Their policies, their customs, their frugalities,Their courtesies so open, yet so reserv’d too,As, when you think y’are known best, ye are a stranger.Their very pick-teeth speak more than we do.And season of more salt.
Mirabel: There’s nothing good or handsome bred amongst us;
Till we are travell’d, and live abroad, we are coxcombs.
Ye talk of France—a slight unseason’d country,
Abundance of gross food, which makes us blockheads.
We are fair set out indeed, and so are fore-horses:—
Men say, we are great courtiers,—men abuse us;
We are wise, and valiant too,—non credo, signor;
Our women the best linguists,—they are parrots;
O’ this side the Alps they are nothing but mere drolleries.
Ha! Roma la Santa, Italy for my money!
Their policies, their customs, their frugalities,
Their courtesies so open, yet so reserv’d too,
As, when you think y’are known best, ye are a stranger.
Their very pick-teeth speak more than we do.
And season of more salt.
Pinac: ’Tis a brave country;Not pester’d with your stubborn precise puppies,That turn all useful and allow’d contentmentsTo scabs and scruples—hang ’em, capon-worshippers.
Pinac: ’Tis a brave country;
Not pester’d with your stubborn precise puppies,
That turn all useful and allow’d contentments
To scabs and scruples—hang ’em, capon-worshippers.
Belleur: I like that freedom well, and like their women too,And would fain do as others do; but I am so bashful,So naturally an ass! Look ye, I can look upon ’em,And very willingly I go to see ’em,(There’s no man willinger), and I can kiss ’em,And make a shift—
Belleur: I like that freedom well, and like their women too,
And would fain do as others do; but I am so bashful,
So naturally an ass! Look ye, I can look upon ’em,
And very willingly I go to see ’em,
(There’s no man willinger), and I can kiss ’em,
And make a shift—
Mirabel: But, if they chance to flout ye,Or say, “Ye are too bold! Fie, sir, remember!I pray, sit farther off—”
Mirabel: But, if they chance to flout ye,
Or say, “Ye are too bold! Fie, sir, remember!
I pray, sit farther off—”
Belleur:’Tis true—I am humbled,I am gone; I confess ingenuously, I am silenced;The spirit of amber cannot force me answer.
Belleur:’Tis true—I am humbled,
I am gone; I confess ingenuously, I am silenced;
The spirit of amber cannot force me answer.
In Ben Jonson’sThe Alchemist, there is reference to a means of securing amatory and rejuvenating capacity. Sir Epicure Mammon tries to impose his alchemical beliefs on Surly:
Mammon: I assure you,He that has once the flower of the sun,The perfect ruby, which we call elixir,Not only can do that, but by its virtue,Can confer honor, love, respect, long life;Give safety, valor, yea, and victory,To whom he will. In eight and twenty days,I’ll make an old man of fourscore, a child.Surly: No doubt; he’s that already.Mammon: Nay, I mean,Restore his years, renew him, like an eagle,To the fifth age; make him get sons and daughters,Young giants; as our philosophers have done,The ancient patriarchs, afore the flood,But taking, once a week, on a knife’s point,The quantity of a grain of mustard of it;Become stout Marses, and beget young Cupids.Surly: The decay’d vestals of Pickt-hatch would thank you,That keep the fire alive there.Mammon: ’Tis the secretOf nature naturiz’d ’gainst all infections,Cures all diseases coming of all causes;A month’s grief in a day, a year’s in twelve;And, of what age soever, in a month.Past all the doses of your drugging doctors.I’ll undertake, withal, to fright the plagueOut o’ the kingdom in three months.Surly: And I’llBe bound, the players shall sing your praises then,Without their poets.Mammon: Sir, I’ll do it. Meantime,I’ll give away so much unto my man,Shall serve th’ whole city with preservativeweekly; each house his dose, and at the rate—Surly: As he that built the Water-work does with water?Mammon: You are incredulous.Surly: Faith, I have a humor,I would not willingly be gull’d. Your stoneCannot transmute me.Mammon: Pertinax Surly,Will you believe antiquity? Records?I’ll show you a book where Moses, and his sister,And Solomon have written of the art;Ay, and a treatise penn’d by Adam—Surly: How!Mammon: Of the philosopher’s stone, and in High Dutch.Surly: Did Adam write, sir, in High Dutch?Mammon: He did;Which proves it was the primitive tongue.Surly: What paper?Mammon: On cedar board.Surly: O that, indeed, they say,Will last ’gainst worms.Mammon: ’Tis like your English wood’Gainst cobwebs. I have a piece of Jason’s fleece too,which was no other than a book of alchemy,Writ in large sheepskin, a good fat ram-vellum.Such was Pythagoras’ thigh, Pandora’s tub,And all that fable of Medea’s charms,The manner of our work; the bulls, our furnace,Still breathing fire; our argent-vive, the dragon:The dragon’s teeth, mercury sublimate,That keeps the whiteness, hardness, and the biting;And they are gather’d into Jason’s helm,Th’alembic, and then sow’d in Mars his field.And thence sublim’d so often, that they’re fix’d.Both this, th’ Hesperian garden, Cadmus’ story,Jove’s shower, the boom of Midas, Argus’ eyes,Boccace his Demogorgon, thousands more,All abstract riddles of our stone.—How now!
Mammon: I assure you,He that has once the flower of the sun,The perfect ruby, which we call elixir,Not only can do that, but by its virtue,Can confer honor, love, respect, long life;Give safety, valor, yea, and victory,To whom he will. In eight and twenty days,I’ll make an old man of fourscore, a child.Surly: No doubt; he’s that already.Mammon: Nay, I mean,Restore his years, renew him, like an eagle,To the fifth age; make him get sons and daughters,Young giants; as our philosophers have done,The ancient patriarchs, afore the flood,But taking, once a week, on a knife’s point,The quantity of a grain of mustard of it;Become stout Marses, and beget young Cupids.Surly: The decay’d vestals of Pickt-hatch would thank you,That keep the fire alive there.Mammon: ’Tis the secretOf nature naturiz’d ’gainst all infections,Cures all diseases coming of all causes;A month’s grief in a day, a year’s in twelve;And, of what age soever, in a month.Past all the doses of your drugging doctors.I’ll undertake, withal, to fright the plagueOut o’ the kingdom in three months.Surly: And I’llBe bound, the players shall sing your praises then,Without their poets.Mammon: Sir, I’ll do it. Meantime,I’ll give away so much unto my man,Shall serve th’ whole city with preservativeweekly; each house his dose, and at the rate—Surly: As he that built the Water-work does with water?Mammon: You are incredulous.Surly: Faith, I have a humor,I would not willingly be gull’d. Your stoneCannot transmute me.Mammon: Pertinax Surly,Will you believe antiquity? Records?I’ll show you a book where Moses, and his sister,And Solomon have written of the art;Ay, and a treatise penn’d by Adam—Surly: How!Mammon: Of the philosopher’s stone, and in High Dutch.Surly: Did Adam write, sir, in High Dutch?Mammon: He did;Which proves it was the primitive tongue.Surly: What paper?Mammon: On cedar board.Surly: O that, indeed, they say,Will last ’gainst worms.Mammon: ’Tis like your English wood’Gainst cobwebs. I have a piece of Jason’s fleece too,which was no other than a book of alchemy,Writ in large sheepskin, a good fat ram-vellum.Such was Pythagoras’ thigh, Pandora’s tub,And all that fable of Medea’s charms,The manner of our work; the bulls, our furnace,Still breathing fire; our argent-vive, the dragon:The dragon’s teeth, mercury sublimate,That keeps the whiteness, hardness, and the biting;And they are gather’d into Jason’s helm,Th’alembic, and then sow’d in Mars his field.And thence sublim’d so often, that they’re fix’d.Both this, th’ Hesperian garden, Cadmus’ story,Jove’s shower, the boom of Midas, Argus’ eyes,Boccace his Demogorgon, thousands more,All abstract riddles of our stone.—How now!
Mammon: I assure you,He that has once the flower of the sun,The perfect ruby, which we call elixir,Not only can do that, but by its virtue,Can confer honor, love, respect, long life;Give safety, valor, yea, and victory,To whom he will. In eight and twenty days,I’ll make an old man of fourscore, a child.
Mammon: I assure you,
He that has once the flower of the sun,
The perfect ruby, which we call elixir,
Not only can do that, but by its virtue,
Can confer honor, love, respect, long life;
Give safety, valor, yea, and victory,
To whom he will. In eight and twenty days,
I’ll make an old man of fourscore, a child.
Surly: No doubt; he’s that already.
Surly: No doubt; he’s that already.
Mammon: Nay, I mean,Restore his years, renew him, like an eagle,To the fifth age; make him get sons and daughters,Young giants; as our philosophers have done,The ancient patriarchs, afore the flood,But taking, once a week, on a knife’s point,The quantity of a grain of mustard of it;Become stout Marses, and beget young Cupids.
Mammon: Nay, I mean,
Restore his years, renew him, like an eagle,
To the fifth age; make him get sons and daughters,
Young giants; as our philosophers have done,
The ancient patriarchs, afore the flood,
But taking, once a week, on a knife’s point,
The quantity of a grain of mustard of it;
Become stout Marses, and beget young Cupids.
Surly: The decay’d vestals of Pickt-hatch would thank you,That keep the fire alive there.
Surly: The decay’d vestals of Pickt-hatch would thank you,
That keep the fire alive there.
Mammon: ’Tis the secretOf nature naturiz’d ’gainst all infections,Cures all diseases coming of all causes;A month’s grief in a day, a year’s in twelve;And, of what age soever, in a month.Past all the doses of your drugging doctors.I’ll undertake, withal, to fright the plagueOut o’ the kingdom in three months.
Mammon: ’Tis the secret
Of nature naturiz’d ’gainst all infections,
Cures all diseases coming of all causes;
A month’s grief in a day, a year’s in twelve;
And, of what age soever, in a month.
Past all the doses of your drugging doctors.
I’ll undertake, withal, to fright the plague
Out o’ the kingdom in three months.
Surly: And I’llBe bound, the players shall sing your praises then,Without their poets.
Surly: And I’ll
Be bound, the players shall sing your praises then,
Without their poets.
Mammon: Sir, I’ll do it. Meantime,I’ll give away so much unto my man,Shall serve th’ whole city with preservativeweekly; each house his dose, and at the rate—
Mammon: Sir, I’ll do it. Meantime,
I’ll give away so much unto my man,
Shall serve th’ whole city with preservative
weekly; each house his dose, and at the rate—
Surly: As he that built the Water-work does with water?
Surly: As he that built the Water-work does with water?
Mammon: You are incredulous.
Mammon: You are incredulous.
Surly: Faith, I have a humor,I would not willingly be gull’d. Your stoneCannot transmute me.
Surly: Faith, I have a humor,
I would not willingly be gull’d. Your stone
Cannot transmute me.
Mammon: Pertinax Surly,Will you believe antiquity? Records?I’ll show you a book where Moses, and his sister,And Solomon have written of the art;Ay, and a treatise penn’d by Adam—
Mammon: Pertinax Surly,
Will you believe antiquity? Records?
I’ll show you a book where Moses, and his sister,
And Solomon have written of the art;
Ay, and a treatise penn’d by Adam—
Surly: How!
Surly: How!
Mammon: Of the philosopher’s stone, and in High Dutch.
Mammon: Of the philosopher’s stone, and in High Dutch.
Surly: Did Adam write, sir, in High Dutch?
Surly: Did Adam write, sir, in High Dutch?
Mammon: He did;Which proves it was the primitive tongue.
Mammon: He did;
Which proves it was the primitive tongue.
Surly: What paper?
Surly: What paper?
Mammon: On cedar board.
Mammon: On cedar board.
Surly: O that, indeed, they say,Will last ’gainst worms.
Surly: O that, indeed, they say,
Will last ’gainst worms.
Mammon: ’Tis like your English wood’Gainst cobwebs. I have a piece of Jason’s fleece too,which was no other than a book of alchemy,Writ in large sheepskin, a good fat ram-vellum.Such was Pythagoras’ thigh, Pandora’s tub,And all that fable of Medea’s charms,The manner of our work; the bulls, our furnace,Still breathing fire; our argent-vive, the dragon:The dragon’s teeth, mercury sublimate,That keeps the whiteness, hardness, and the biting;And they are gather’d into Jason’s helm,Th’alembic, and then sow’d in Mars his field.And thence sublim’d so often, that they’re fix’d.Both this, th’ Hesperian garden, Cadmus’ story,Jove’s shower, the boom of Midas, Argus’ eyes,Boccace his Demogorgon, thousands more,All abstract riddles of our stone.—How now!
Mammon: ’Tis like your English wood
’Gainst cobwebs. I have a piece of Jason’s fleece too,
which was no other than a book of alchemy,
Writ in large sheepskin, a good fat ram-vellum.
Such was Pythagoras’ thigh, Pandora’s tub,
And all that fable of Medea’s charms,
The manner of our work; the bulls, our furnace,
Still breathing fire; our argent-vive, the dragon:
The dragon’s teeth, mercury sublimate,
That keeps the whiteness, hardness, and the biting;
And they are gather’d into Jason’s helm,
Th’alembic, and then sow’d in Mars his field.
And thence sublim’d so often, that they’re fix’d.
Both this, th’ Hesperian garden, Cadmus’ story,
Jove’s shower, the boom of Midas, Argus’ eyes,
Boccace his Demogorgon, thousands more,
All abstract riddles of our stone.—How now!
In another scene, amatory potency is expressed in lavish rhetorical imagery: