And pungent griefs, that torture human life,
I thus began to reason with myself.
The painters and the sculptors, who pretend
By cunning art to give the form of Love,
Know nothing of his nature, for in truth
He's neither male nor female, god or man,
Nor wise, nor foolish, but a compound strange,
Partaking of the qualities of each,
And an epitome of all in one.
He has the strength and prowess of a man,