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; A manly courage with a woman's fear, The madman's phrenzy in a reasoning mind, The strength of steel, the fury of a beast, The ambition of a hero—something 'tis, But by Minerva and the gods I swear! I know not what this nameless something is.—CUMBERLAND. * * * * * EUBULUS. (Book xiii. § 13, p. 899.) Why, foolish painter, give those wings to Love? Love is not light, as my sad heart can prove: Love hath no wings, or none that I can see; If he can fly—oh! bid him fly from me!—CUMBERLAND. * * * * * THEOPHILUS. (Book xiii. § 14, p. 900.) He who affirms that lovers are all mad, Or fools, gives no strong proof of his own sense; For if from human life we take the joys And the delights of love, what is there left That can deserve a better name than death? For instance, now, I love a music girl, A virgin too, and am I therefore mad? For she's a paragon of female beauty; Her form and figure excellent; her voice Melodiously sweet; and then her air Has dignity and grace. With what delight I gaze upon her charms! More than you feel At sight of him who for the public shows Gives you free entrance to the theatre.—ANON. _The same._