A Farewell to False Love
Lying is one of the oldest human foibles. In the Bible, it goes back to the story of creation in Genesis, where Adam and Eve were evasive in the face of God’s questioning. And when questioned over the whereabouts of his brother Abel, the murderous Cain replied, “I do not know. Am I my brother’s keeper?”
That’s how deeply ingrained lying is to the human condition. And it seems like every day in the news, we’re greeted with more stories about lying.
Why do we lie? Usually it’s to cover up other wrongdoings or actions that we’re ashamed of. We lie to others to keep ourselves from getting into further trouble, or to save face.
My parents raised me to understand that they’d rather hear from me directly about any infractions I may have committed, rather than hearing from someone else. They warned me that I’d be in more serious trouble for lying rather than for the underlying offense.
When we pick our heroes, allies or romantic interests, we tend to see what we want to see. Which means we might also ignore what doesn’t fit our narrative. When that narrative (love) is dashed by facts that are exposed by a third party — or perhaps by the object of interest themselves — we can become disillusioned.
Sir Walter Raleigh’s “A Farewell to False Love” shows how it hurts to be lied to —and to realize it. This goes beyond romantic love. This is about the fundamentals of trust and the betrayal of that trust.
“A Farewell to False Love” by Sir Walter Raleigh
Farewell, false love, the oracle of lies,
A mortal foe and enemy to rest,
An envious boy, from whom all cares arise,
A bastard vile, a beast with rage possessed,
A way of error, a temple full of treason,
In all effects contrary unto reason.
A poisoned serpent covered all with flowers,
Mother of sighs, and murderer of repose,
A sea of sorrows whence are drawn such showers
As moisture lend to every grief that grows;
A school of guile, a net of deep deceit,
A gilded hook that holds a poisoned bait.
A fortress foiled, which reason did defend,
A siren song, a fever of the mind,
A maze wherein affection finds no end,
A raging cloud that runs before the wind,
A substance like the shadow of the sun,
A goal of grief for which the wisest run.
A quenchless fire, a nurse of trembling fear,
A path that leads to peril and mishap,
A true retreat of sorrow and despair,
An idle boy that sleeps in pleasure’s lap,
A deep mistrust of that which certain seems,
A hope of that which reason doubtful deems.
Sith then thy trains my younger years betrayed,
And for my faith ingratitude I find;
And sith repentance hath my wrongs bewrayed,
Whose course was ever contrary to kind:
False love, desire, and beauty frail, adieu!
Dead is the root whence all these fancies grew.
I write about Timeless Wisdom — applying insights from the classics to the challenges of today — at ScottMonty.com. I hope you’ll join me there.
