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Who dares do things love does not dare?
Of every law, love’s unaware,
But to love’s law, at his behest,
Fish, fowl, man, beast and all the rest
Of this world’s creatures will bow low,
For love fears nothing, as we know:
In man’s own heart, wherein love sits,
Man counts no more among his wits
What’s well than any woeful ill,
No more what’s hot than what will chill,
No more what’s wet than what is dry,
No more to live long than to die.
So, looking forward or behind,
He nothing sees, but being blind
Of insight, heart and soul to gauge,
He will do marvels in his rage.
Whatever thing to him he’ll draw,
There is no god, there is no law
Of which he will take any heed,
But like Bayard, the blinded steed,
Until he falls down in a ditch,
He goes where no one bids him, which
Makes him so far out of control,
There is no wisdom rules his soul.
And thus, to tell of love what’s true,
Full many a wondrous thing he’ll do
That was far better left undone.
Among them Witchcraft is just one,
Which some men have called Sorcery,
That for to win his jewel, he
In many a circumstance will use:
There is no aspect he’ll refuse.
The craft that came from Saturn’s hand,
Of making markings in the sand,
That’s known as Geomancy: this
Full often he will use amiss;
Of waters, his Hydromancy,
And of the fire, Pyromancy,
With questions for each one of those
He’ll probe quite often, and he knows
Aeromancy, to whose judgment
In love, he brings his own assent,
And all these crafts, as I do find,
A man may do by way of kind
Objectives, yet while good intent
Was his, that’s not the way it went.
For rather than his hopes should fail,
With such black magic he’ll assail
His target, making incantations,
Incense for his fumigations.
Scapula, which you may note
Is used quite commonly by rote
Among the pagans, he may seek;
Crafts authored by old Toz the Greek
He works on, moving down the row:
Razel’s not one he does not know,
Nor Solomon’s nine candlesticks,
Eutonie, Ydeac: those tricks
In books of figures, and withal,
From Balamuz, and from Ghenbal,
The seal whereon an image is
Of Thebith, his advantages
He takes, and something of Gibiere,
Which is of help in his affair.
Great Babylon, with planets seven,
Which renounced was by God’s heaven,
Using figures square and round,
He traces often on the ground
When he will make an invocation;
And to get full information,
That school which Honorius
Wrought, he pursues; and then, lo, thus
Its magic he will use to win
His love, and sparing naught for sin,
And for love’s folly, swamped he’ll be,
Just as he seeks out Sorcery
Of those who claim to be Magicians.
Right so, of the Naturicians
In the stars far up above,
A way he’ll seek to get to love,
As far as he can understand them.
Sundry ways, he’ll come to mayhem:
He makes paintings, he makes sculptures,
He writes spells, and he makes figures,
He will make his calculations,
He will make his demonstrations;
Books of astronomic art
He’ll keep, as they concern that part
Belonging to his close inspection
Of his love and his affection;
He’ll seek out the deepest reach
Of Hell, the Devil to beseech
If he desires to make speed
And get of love his lusty need,
Whereon his heart is firmly set.
He thinks there is no better bet,
Nor does he know of Heaven more.
My son, if schooled in such a lore
You’ve been ere this, I bid thee leave.
My holy father, please believe
Of all that you have spoken here
To touch this matter, and make clear
You tell the truth, as I deem good,
Not one word have I understood.
I won’t say, though it sounds uncouth,
I would not, in my lusty youth,
Beneath in Hell, and up above,
To win out with my lady love,
Have done all that I ever might,
For I had not the least insight
What state I’d afterwards be in,
Just so I’d overcome, and win
Her love, which I’d most coveted.
My Son, on harsh paths you were led,
But this I may well tell, forsooth,
A man who does these things, in truth,
For all the spells of craft he’ll cast,
He will not have his wish, at last,
For he that will to guile descend
By his own trickery is penned,
And the beguiler is beguiled,
As I find in a book compiled
About this thing: a history,
Which comes now to my memory;
A great example you may see
Against the vice of Sorcery,
Whereof no ending may be good.
But how in days long gone it stood,
A tale that it is good to know,
On you, my Son, I shall bestow.
© 2010 by Ellin
Anderson. All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be copied or used in any way
without written permission from the author.
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