Back in the good old Roman days, the poet Virgil invented the phrase: Omnia Vincit Amor . . . Love Conquers All. Geoffrey Chaucer picked it up for “The Canterbury Tales,” slightly altering the word order (Amor Vincit Omnia) but retaining the meaning: that Love can overcome all obstacles. Nice if that were true, but then we’d lose some interesting poetry about those very obstacles.
In our last column, we quoted the lyricist Ira Gershwin with brother George celebrating an unexpected entry of love:
Love walked right in and drove the shadows away;
Love walked right in and brought my sunniest day.
One magic moment, and my heart seemed to know
That love said “Hello!” —
Though not a word was spoken.
Thereafter, they continued:
It’s very clear
Our love is here to stay;
Not for a year,
But ever and a day.
In time the Rockies may crumble,
Gibraltar may tumble
(There’re only made of clay)
But — our love is here to stay.
Here to stay? Well, maybe not, as this column will suggest, and as Ira Gershwin was to complain, now singing, you might say, a different tune:
They’re writing songs of love,
But not for me;
A lucky star’s above,
But not for me.
With Love to lead the way,
I’ve found more clouds of gray
Than any Russian play
Could guarantee.
It all began so well,
But what an end!
This is the time a Fell-
Er needs a friend:
When ev’ry happy plot
Ends with the marriage knot —
And there’s no knot for me.
So love without marriage is one way things can end. And among others there can be inescapable poetic tragedies, such as lovers lost at sea or killed in battle. But one familiar situation that love doesn’t easily conquer involves The Break-Up. The finding of new lovers. The fleeing from the old. Poetry loves inconstancy. Here’s a look. A flip of the coin . . . women first.
* * *
The usually genial Irish poet, Thomas Moore (1779-1852), takes a somewhat snarky approach to his description of woman’s inconstancy.
And do I then wonder that Julia deceives me,
When surely there’s nothing in nature more common?
She vows to be true, and while vowing she leaves me–
And could I expect any more from a woman?
Oh, woman! your heart is a pitiful treasure;
And Mahomet’s doctrine was not too severe,
When he held that you were but materials of pleasure,
And reason and thinking were out of your sphere.
By your heart, when the fond sighing lover can win it,
He thinks that an age of anxiety’s paid;
But, oh, while he’s blest, let him die at the minute–
If he live but a day, he’ll be surely betrayed.
On the other hand, William Congreve (1670-1729) asks us to cut the ladies a little slack. There were some good times after all.
False though she be to me and love,
I’ll ne’er pursue revenge;
For still the charmer I approve,
Though I deplore her change.
In hours of bliss we oft have met:
They could not always last;
And though the present I regret,
I’m grateful for the past.
* * *
By poetic count, men are more apt to wander from a relationship, and, no surprise, they think they can explain away everything. Just ask Robert Burns (1739-1796).
Let not woman e’er complain
Of inconstancy in love;
Let not woman e’er complain
Fickle man is apt to rove;
Look abroad through Nature’s range,
Nature’s mighty law is change;
Ladies, would it not be strange
Man should then a monster prove?
Mark the winds, and mark the skies,
Ocean’s ebb and ocean’s flow;
Sun and moon but set to rise,
Round and round the seasons go.
Why then ask of silly man
To oppose great Nature’s plan?
We’ll be constant while we can —
You can be no more, you know.
Women are not about to take this lying down. (Forgive me) With a little help from John Dryden (1631-1700), they might offer this response.
Farewell ungrateful traitor,
Farewell my perjured swain,
Let never injured creature
Believe a man again.
The pleasure of possessing
Surpasses all expressing,
But ’tis too short a blessing,
And love too long a pain.
‘Tis easy to deceive us
In pity of your pain,
But when we love you leave us
To rail at you in vain.
Before we have descried it,
There is no bliss beside it,
But she that once has tried it
Will never love again.
The passion you pretended
Was only to obtain,
But when the charm is ended
The charmer you disdain.
Your love by ours we measure
Till we have lost our treasure,
But dying is a pleasure,
When living is a pain.
As ever, leave it to Shakespeare to offer some concluding advice. This is from “Much Ado About Nothing.” The word “leavy” means “leafy” and “mo” is not a misprint!
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever;
One foot in sea, and one on shore,
To one thing constant never.
Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into hey nonny, nonny.
Sing no more ditties, sing no mo
Of dumps so dull and heavy;
The fraud of men was ever so,
Since summer first was leavy.
Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into hey, nonny, nonny.
* * *
But so much for serious verse, and welcome to our video. Here are some lighter examples of how love can go astray, with frequent surprises and unexpected results.
First, Cynthia Herman tells us about three shapes of love. The poet is Sheldon Harnick (1924 – ), celebrated Broadway lyricist of “Fiorello!” “She Loves Me,” and “Fiddler on the Roof.”
Second, from our last column you may recall Roger McGough’s poem about a love-filled “Summer with Monica.” Well, the summer is now over, and as Jim Dale discovers, things have taken a sorry turn.
Finally, in the setting of the world-famous Avon Lounge high atop the beautiful Stratford Hotel, the First Poetry Quartet with Larry Lane at the piano present a love poetry mash-up of Noël Coward, Lord Byron and our own Alfred Lord Tennyson.
CLICK ON THIS LINK FOR VIDEO: LOVE CONQUERS ALL
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