Just as I was dispatching this, a mail came in from Spain, that gave us an account of the king of France’s having extended his dominions over the plate-fleet; but whilst he was drinking Chateau-Renault’s health, some two or three merry English boys run away with it all; which has given Loüis and his grandson such a fit of the cholick, that they are not expected to live long under such terrible agonies: whereupon the Devil has order’d a thousand chaldron of fresh brimstone to air their apartments against they should come.
Cornelius Gallus to the Lady Dilliana at Bath.
Charming Dilliana,
I SHALL not blush to own I have been in love, since the wisest men that ever were yet, have found their philosophy too weak to prevent the tyranny of the blind boy. However, though they were sensible of the powers of beauty, yet they were all ignorant of its cause. The painter that first drew Cupid with a fillet over his eyes, did not mean that he was blind; but that it was impossible to express their various motions: sometimes eager desire adds new darts to their sparkling rages: sometimes chilling fear in a minute overcasts their glittering beams; joy drowns ’em in an unusual moisture, and irresolution gives ’em a gentle trembling despair, sinks ’em into their orbits: jealousy re-ascends the expiring flame: and one kind look from the person we adore, sweetly sooths ’em up again; and it is easy to remark from their sudden composedness the new calm and tranquillity of the mind. We may say as much of love as of beauty, we all knew there is such a thing, but none of us can tell what it is; ’tis not youth alone that is expos’d to the fatal tempest of this raging passion: age itself has yielded to its attacks; and we have seen some look gaily in their love, tho’ they were stepping into their graves. It laughs at the most ambitious man, and makes a monarch turn vassal to his own subjects: it makes the miser lavish of his ador’d dust and the hoarded ore profusely scatter’d at his charmer’s feet: nay, the poets themselves did not feign Cupid so extravagant, as many philosophers felt him: however, love is the great springhead from whence all our felicities flow; and our condition would be worse than that of the very beasts, if it were exempted from this darling passion: yet it is as true too, that there is nothing upon the earth so enormous and detestable, but love has been the occasion of it at one time or other. That glorious emanation of divinity, the breath of life which gave us the similitude of our Creator, is often stifled by this raging passion, reason revolts, and joining partly with love, proves our ruin, by justifying a thousand absurdities: and there is no misery to which mankind may be said to be subject to, that is not caused by love. There would be no sorrow, no fear, no desire, no despair, no jealousy, no hatred, if there were no love. The soul becomes a restless sea whose tumultuous waves are continually foaming, every sense is an inlet to this violent passion: and there are but few objects which can affect the soul, that do not give it birth: as heat produces some things and destroys others, so love, not unlike it, is the origin of good and evil. It may be call’d the school of honour and virtue; and yet not improperly a theatre of horror and confusion too.
’Tis the powerful and pleasing band of human society; without it there would be no families, no kingdoms; and yet we read of an Alexander that sacrific’d a whole city to a smile of a mistress. Anthony disputed the world with Cæsar, yet chose rather to lose it than be absent from Cleopatra’s arms. David forgot the august character of a man after God’s own heart, and though so famous for prowess as well as piety, basely murther’d the injur’d Uriah, the more freely to enjoy the lovely adulteress. Charming Sempronia, the fire is pure in itself, ’tis the matter only that sends up all those offensive clouds of smoak; and if nature were not depraved, love would not cause these disorders: ’twou’d not mix poyson with wine to destroy a rival, and thro’ a sea of blood and tears wade to its object. Love is the most formidable enemy a wise man can have, and is the only passion against which he has no defence. If anger surprise him, it lasts not long, and the same minute concludes it as commenc’d it: If by a slower fire his choler boils, he prevents its running over; but love steals so secretly, and so sweetly withal; into every corner of our hearts, into every faculty of the soul, that it is absolutely master before we can perceive it. When once we discover it, we are quite undone: at the same time he triumphs over our wisdom, and our reason too, and makes them both his vassals to maintain his tyranny: what else could mean those numerous follies of the adulterous gods descending in viler forms to commit their rapes?——
The first wound that beauty makes is almost insensible, and though the deadly poison spreads through every part; we hardly suspect we are in danger. At first indeed we are only pleas’d with seeing the person or talking of ’em, affecting an humble complaisance for all they say, or do, the very thinking on them is charming; and the desires we have as yet, are so far from impetuosity, that no philosopher could be so rigid as to condemn us.
Hitherto ’tis well, but ’tis hardly love, for that like a bee, forfeits its name if it has no sting. But alas! the lurking fire quickly bursts out, and that pleasing idea which represented itself so sweetly and so respectfully to the soul one moment before, now insolently obtrudes upon our most serious thoughts, and makes us impious even at the horns of the altar; she perfidiously betrays us in our very sleep itself, sometimes appearing haughty and scornfully, sometimes yielding and kind; and this too when there is no reason for either. The infant-passion is now become a cruel father of all other passions; cruel indeed, for he has no sooner given birth to one, but he stifles it to introduce another; whose short-liv’d fate is just the same, and destroy’d the next moment it is born.
Hope and despair, joy and sorrow, courage and fear, continually succeed each other; anger, jealousy, and revenge, distract the mind; and all these mingled, their fury is like a storm blowing from every corner of the heavens: then the lover, like the ocean, agitated by such boisterous winds, he foams and roars, the swelling waves of his boiling appetite dash each other to pieces, the foggy clouds of melancholy and disappointment intercept the glittering rays of reason’s sun; the rattling thunder of jealous rage breaks thro’ his trembling sphere, when his understanding returns but for a moment, ’tis like darted lightning piercing thro’ the obscure of violent passions, and shews nature in every lover a confusion almost equal to her original chaos.
Whoever was really in love (charming Sempronia) will readily confess the allegory to be just. Tho’ nothing has surprised me more in affairs of this nature than that most men who have been sensible of this passion do not care to own it, when once their more indulgent fate has put a period to it; as if it were a calling their judgment in question to believe they thought a woman handsom. Your eyes justify our adoration, and will ever constitute the felicity of
Corn. Gallus.