Not the dire Libyan, nor Ægean sea,
Where out of thirty ships scarce perish three;
But that, where daring fools most dearly pay,
Where all that sail are surely cast away.—Fawkes.
Alexis. (Book xiii. § 13, p. 899.)
As slowly I return'd from the Piræus,
My mind impress'd with all the various pains,
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,
The weak timidity of helpless woman;
In folly furious, yet in prudence wise
And circumspect. Mad as an untamed beast,
In strength and hardihood invincible,
Then for ambition he's a very demon.
I swear by sage Minerva and the gods,
I do not know his likeness, one whose nature
Is so endued with qualities unlike
The gentle name he bears.—Anon.
The same.
One day as slowly sauntering from the port,
A thousand cares conflicting in my breast,
Thus I began to commune with myself—
Methinks these painters misapply their art,
And never knew the being which they draw;
For mark! their many false conceits of Love.
Love is nor male nor female, man nor god,
Nor with intelligence nor yet without it,
But a strange compound of all these, uniting
In one mix'd essence many opposites;
