SOURCE: Daly, Peter M. “Southwell's ‘Burning Babe’ and the Emblematic Practice.” Wascana Review 3, no. 2 (1968): 29-44.

[In the following essay, Daly maintains that the imagery of “The Burning Babe” is best understood in light of the emblematic tradition, familiar to seventeenth-century readers.]

I

As I in hoarie Winters night stood shivering in the snowe,
Surpris'd I was with sodaine heate, which made my hart to glowe;
And lifting up a fearefull eye, to view what fire was neere,
A prettie Babe all burning bright did in the ayre appeare;
Who, scorched with excessive heate, such floods of teares did shed, (5)
As though his floods should quench his flames, which with his teares were (fedd):
Alas, (quoth he) but newly borne, in fierie heates I frie,
Yet none approach to warme their harts, or feele my fire but I;
My faultlesse breast the furnace is, the fuell wounding thornes:
Love is the fire, and sighes the smoake, the ashes shames and scornes; (10)
The fewell Iustice layeth on, and Mercie blowes the coales,
The metall in this furnace wrought, are mens defiled soules:
For which, as now on fire I am to worke them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath, to wash them in my blood.
With this vanisht out of sight, and swiftly shrunk away, (15)
And straight I called unto minde, that it was Christmasse day.

This, Southwell's best-known poem, may discomfort some modern readers with its undisguised didacticism, not to mention the image of Christ's breast as a furnace in which men's souls are refined. One can say that this is not to one's taste, though such a response may reveal more about the speaker than the object of his comment. But the poem cannot be dismissed as far-fetched or in bad taste, since in its use of antithesis and the expanded image “The Burning Babe” remains in the mainstream of the emblematic and meditative traditions. The question of taste is difficult, because taste is largely determined by fashion and prejudice. A comment or work of art is said to be in bad taste when it brings into close association things and values that are assumed to be incompatible, whether it be the violence with which the idea of separated lovers is yoked together with the image of a pair of compasses, or as here, the association of Christ's breast with a furnace. However, what is incompatible for one generation or culture is not necessarily incompatible for another, and thus in questions of taste it behoves us to be modest and wary.

Louis Martz has written convincingly of the influence of continental practices of meditation on English religious poetry of the later sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. We can but agree with his observation that the peculiar timbre of Southwell's poem “looks like ‘an application of the senses,’ following after, and gathering up the results of, ordinary meditation of the three powers.¹ Thus the author can give, in the first six lines, a particularly vivid ‘composition,’ and can then both see and hear the babe explaining the Incarnation and Passion in such a way that the doctrine is inseparable from the concrete imagery which sets it forth.”² “Composition” or “seeing the spot” is a preparatory step, by which the meditator imagines himself in the physical presence of the object of his meditation, and may well help to account for the dramatic opening of many metaphysical poems.

Illuminating though Martz's discussion of the poem is, it does not account for the striking imagery of the poem, which will only properly be understood in the light of the emblematic tradition. The roots of the emblem have been traced back to the hieroglyphics of ancient Egypt. Horapollo made a collection of hieroglyphics, which was translated into Greek and brought to Italy, where in 1517 it was translated into Latin and recommended for decorative purposes. Alciatus, who produced the first emblem-book in 1531, also recommended his emblems as decorative motifs. Leonardo da Vinci, Giovani Bellini and Albrecht Dürer were among the many artists who incorporated emblems in their works. Very soon the emblem became associated with the Physiologus, and medieval animal books, in which the characteristics of certain animals, birds and natural objects, together with some fantastic stories connected with them, are given Christian interpretations. The emblem also drew on renaissance hieroglyphics and heraldics as well as such allegorical sources as the signs and symbols of the early Christians and classical allegories and stories.

As an art form in its own right the emblem combines both word and picture, and properly speaking the term should not be used to denote the picture alone. In many cases the emblem is introduced with a short motto or quotation which functions as the inscriptio; immediately beneath this there comes the pictura and beneath the picture a prose or verse quotation from some learned source or from the emblem writer himself, which functions as the subscriptio. It is also not uncommon to find on the page facing the emblem an explanatory poem in the vernacular tongue of the emblematist. It is impossible to make a definition of the relationship between the picture and the words which would apply to all emblem-books; however, it appears that in the earlier and simpler emblem-books the words are quite closely and naturally related to the pictures. Some later baroque writers are inclined to indulge in the more enigmatic possibilities of the emblem, and in such instances the distance between picture and meaning can be sufficiently great to warrant describing the word component as the key to the meaning of the picture.

The emblem picture presents us with an object, or a group of objects which conveys a definite meaning. The modern reader completely ignorant of the emblematic background may nevertheless find that he understands the meaning of certain motifs in the emblem-books. He will recognize, e.g., that the crown and scepter stand for power and royalty, that the palm branch and the laurel wreath denote victory and peace, that the nest of thorns stands for misfortune and tribulation. The same reader may, however, be somewhat surprised by the picture of a hand appearing from a cloud with an eye inset in the palm, or by a picture of a heart out of which corn grows and upon which both sun and rain beat down. The full meaning of the eagle and the porcupine will probably escape him. However, all these motifs are expressions of the emblematic mind and its fundamentally allegorical way of experiencing the world.

The world-picture which favoured the growth of all the baroque arts was in some respects still more medieval than modern. It fostered the art of meditation and the development of the emblem-book, in which both the products of nature as well as fantastic imagination (where supported by an authoritative source) are held up for contemplation. For seventeenth-century man the world is indeed a book where man may read of God and his plan for human salvation. For example, the blue colour of the forget-me-not reminds the baroque poetess C. R. v. Greiffenberg of the greatness and majesty of God (compare the blue dress of many a medieval Queen of Heaven); the five petals remind her of the five wounds which Christ endured on the cross for man; the green of the flower's stem and leaves teaches her to have hope and faith that God will not forget man in spite of the evils that befall him (in German to this day green is the proverbial colour of hope). The poetess concludes her sonnet³ by praising the “great wisdom” of the little flower. The world and everything in it is meaningful, but this does not imply that each creature or natural object has only one clearly defined meaning. Indeed, many often unrelated meanings are attached to or read out of these natural phenomena so that frequently the context alone makes the meaning clear. The hare which sleeps with its eyes open illustrates for Guillaume de la Perrière a bad conscience which cannot sleep, whilst Camerarius interprets it as exemplary vigilance. In Mannich's Sacra Emblemata … (1624) the cross carries three distinct meanings: man's burden of sin, Christ's salvation of man, and man's burden of hardship and misfortune. At times only the context, i.e. the picture and printed word, reveals which of these meanings is intended. With the increasing specialisation of emblem-books in the seventeenth century—religious, ethical, political, erotic, and “scientific”—it is inevitable that many emblems are re-interpreted.

Emblem-books played an important role in the transmission of knowledge and wisdom of all kinds. As early as 1571 Georgette de Montenay had enlisted the emblem in the service of Christianity. The Jesuit order, of which Southwell became a member receiving education at Douai, Paris, and Rome, cradle of the Baroque, was not slow in recognizing the value of the emblem-book. The wisdom of the emblem-book ranged from plain common sense down to accumulated botanical and zoological knowledge. An extreme example of the baroque emblem-book is Maiers's Atlanta fugiens … (1618) in which all kinds of emblematic pictures are accompanied by a musical score, German verses and a Latin discourse.

We are hardly surprised to find distinct and often detailed similarities between the pictures and often the words of the emblem-book and passages of poetry of the period. The close correspondence between an emblem and an image in a poem does not necessarily indicate plagiarism (which is an inappropriate concept for a culture which did not enshrine originality in the modern manner), since both may have been inspired by a common source. In pointing to similarities between the emblem and the poem the primary concern is to establish the relationship between the two art forms, which will pave the way for a better understanding of both.

As has already been suggested, Martz's perceptive discussion of “The Burning Babe” as a meditative poem does not completely account for either the choice and use of motif, the “combining art” of this baroque piece, or the subtle, intense play of contraries. Continental baroque poetry and the emblematic tradition will help us get closer to this fine poem and others like it. If we can see this poem in terms of meditation, baroque art and the emblem, we shall perhaps experience it as did Southwell's contemporaries and thereby avoid some of the pitfalls of prejudice and ignorance. The attempt is not unlike the work of the art restorer, who cleans the painting to reveal its original colour, darkened and altered by the years; the difference is that our perception and not the work of art needs refreshing. This visual comparison is not inappropriate, since the emblem appeals directly to the eye, as does much of the poetry of the period. One difficulty for the modern reader lies in his tendency to read abstractly both commonplace and startling passages. However, the emblem-books treat both kinds of motif visually. For instance, Georgette de Montenay's emblem 30 of her Emblèmes, ou Devises Chrestiennes … (1571) illustrates the maxim “dominus custodiat introitum tuum,” the first line of the subscriptio reading “Le coeur du Roy est en la main de Dieu”. The picture depicts a hand appearing from a cloud holding a human heart which wears the crown.

Emblem 27 of the same work shows a man carrying a large money bag containing a human heart, illustrating the words “ils ont le coeur à ce qu'ils aiment mieux.” Mannich's emblem 49 depicts a woman with a sack of gold on which a human heart rests. Similarly, Cramer's emblem 32⁴ shows a man kneeling before a large treasure chest full of money on which a heart sits; above the picture we read “Wo ewer Schatz ist, da ist auch ewer Hertz.” The modern reader is inclined to read these commonplace statements abstractly, whereas the seventeenth-century poet and emblematist often took them visually. We find a striking example of the dramatic visualisation of such a standing phrase in H. Hugo's emblem 38⁵ which illustrates the words from Romans 7,24 “who shall deliver me from the body of this death.” A large skeleton sits lightly on the earth, its bony hand gently supporting its smiling skull; inside the ribs stands the praying figure of a girl (the soul).

From this literal and visual basis the baroque artist and poet proceeds to pun and combine his motifs, producing at times strange results, which because they are uncommon today are either dismissed as bad baroque taste, or simplified and made abstract in reading. In a sonnet on the theodicy problem the Austrian poetess C. R. v. Greiffenberg has the following image: God tests the gold of faith in the crucible of our body, but so regulates the fire of the cross that both gold and crucible remain unharmed.⁶ There has been disagreement whether phrases like “fire of the cross” are figurative or abstract. Lexicographers like Grimm tend to deny the word any metaphoric meaning, insisting the word is an abstraction in such combinations as the fire, or steel, or stone of the cross. In many instances, however, the poet intends us to take the strange combination at its face value, as Southwell does with his “fewell wounding thornes.” Some insight into the pictorial intention of the baroque writer may be gained by comparing the emblematic illustration which accompanies an anonymous dedicatory poem to Stubenberg's translation of Bacon's Getreue Reden. …

The picture shows thorn bushes growing over a horizontally placed cross, out of which a plant grows up towards the sun. Half-way up the picture the plant breaks through a dark circle of lightning clouds and bursts into leaf in the light of the sun. The sonnet explaining the emblem mentions “Unglücks-Erd,” “unglückvolle Wolken” and the “Unglückdornen-grund.” The thorns and clouds are alluded to, but not the cross, although it appears in the picture, which in all probability preceded the writing of the explanatory sonnet.

The pictorial presence of the cross and the absence of the word demonstrates that the cross can function visually, figuratively and in a variety of combinations. Van Haeften has an emblem depicting a Christ-cupid in the “winepress of the cross,” beside which kneels a girl who catches the wine in a heart.

With these characteristic examples of visual intention in mind let us consider Southwell's poem. In his dramatic opening lines with their antithesis of winter cold and inner heat the poet is “seeing the spot,” a common meditative practice whereby the individual imagines himself in the physical presence of the object of his meditation. The first and last couplets form a framework surrounding the emblematic meditation on the meaning of Christmas, in which the poet imagines himself seeing, hearing and understanding the Christ child. The meditation has three movements, progressing from the fire-tears cluster, through the furnace image to the final fire-blood antithesis. The expanded image of Christ as a furnace in which men's souls are refined is inescapably visual in all its detail, Justice and Mercy are obviously allegorical figures. The reader who is disturbed by this is also likely to read through the water-fire antithesis to the abstract meaning behind and disapprove of the lines, especially if he has no time for poetic rhetoric. In fact lines 5 and 6 are superbly balanced in their use of point and counterpoint: line 5 divides naturally at its caesura producing an effect of balancing “excessive heate” against “floods of teares,” whilst line 6, dispensing with the central caesura plays off “floods” against “flames,” against “teares.” However, it is the visual quality implied by this antithesis that needs to be stressed. The water-fire antithesis in its many variations is a baroque commonplace. In Southwell's poem the fire of love (cf. line 10) producing a flood of tears is a religious use of an age-old paradox of profane love poetry, which goes back to Petrarch. With the progress of the years these stock-in-trade motifs and metaphors became tarnished and worn, only to be revitalised by the art of the emblematist, who gave them a new visual freshness. Thus we find Maurice Scève adding emblems to the pages of his Delie (1544). Emblem 23 has as its motto the words “Mes pleurs mon feu decelent,” which, as Praz has shown, may be traced to Petrarch.⁷ The picture represents an alembic. In emblem 79 of his Theatre des bons engins … (1539) Guillaume de la Perrière also uses the alembic, but adds the figure of a blindfold cupid who with a pair of bellows blows the fire under the alembic in which we see a flaming heart. Subsequent emblematists add further details to this complex, such as a pair of lovers sitting in a shady arbor of a French garden.⁸ In these and emblems like them the process of distillation produces pure tears of sorrow, caused by the fire of unrequited love. The picture of a heart in the fire throws light on Southwell's use of the furnace image. In the first movement of Southwell's meditation the Christ child expresses similar sentiments which recall the alembic of Scève and La Perrière, and the words accompanying van Veen's alembic emblem (p. 189) of his Amorum Emblemata … (1608):

Amour me fait en pleurs destiller goute à goute,
Sa flamme sert de feu, de fournaise mon coeur,
Et mes soupirs de vents, norrissants ma châleur,
Mes yeux d'un alambic, qui mes larmes esgoute!

The Babe's “excessive heate” and “flammes” are caused by the fire of love, as explained in line 10, “love is the fire,” but this love remains unrequited, “none approach to warme their harts or feele my fire.” In converting the pictures of the emblematist and the methods of secular love poetry to the service of God, Southwell is following a well-established continental practice.

In the early seventeenth century, to adapt a contemporary English comment, “a mob of Jesuits wrote emblem-books with ease,” translating the secular love emblem with its cupids and hearts to the religious sphere. This development ran parallel with the growth of the cult of the Christ child, each influencing the other. The emblems of van Veen and Hugo present us with a modestly attired Christ-cupid, equipped with quiver, bow and halo, who woos, torments, instructs and saves the Soul, who appears as the young girl in a simple, long dress. Hand in hand with the growth of the cult of the Infant Jesus went the cult of the heart of Jesus. Indeed the heart, which appears in several of Georgette de Montenay's emblems, was to become one of the favourite emblems of the seventeenth century. By 1630 Cramer, Mannich and van Haeften had devoted whole emblem-books to the heart; the heart is hammered on an anvil, tied with rope, bound in thorns, crushed in a press, weighed in scales, nailed to the cross, crowned with thorns, lit up with a torch, reflected in a mirror, tied to a stone, finally it wings its way to heaven. Southwell's religious use of the fire-tears alembic emblem is not without religious parallel: Picinelli's Mondo simbolico … (1653), which ran through many editions and was intended as an encyclopedia for preachers, records the religious use of the dripping alembic to depict the grief of a royal widow.⁹

In the second movement of the meditation Southwell takes up the motif of fire, and works out its application to the theme of Christian salvation. The alembic is replaced by the furnace in which “men's defiled soules” are refined by justice, love and mercy. This meditation on the Nativity is simultaneously a meditation on the Crucifixion with the references to “wounding thornes” which “Justice layeth on” and the ashes which are “shames and scornes,” all of which the Christ child fervently desires for man's salvation. A comparison with several similar emblems will cast light on the physical and visual intention of this passage. In La Perrière's emblem a heart is seen through the furnace opening. As has been indicated, the heart representing the soul of man became one of the most popular emblematic motifs in the seventeenth century. Cramer has two simple illustrations relevant to our poem: emblem 24 with its motto “Probor” shows the hand of God putting a heart into a large furnace to test its constancy.

Cramer's emblem 33 depicts a furnace surmounted by a crucible in which a heart is being tested by the flames licking the sides of the crucible. The subscriptio refers to the testing of gold and the soul. Here the Greiffenberg image testing the gold of faith comes to mind. Finally Georgette de Montenay has an emblem with the motto “Sic demum purgabitur,” illustrated by a picture of a man blowing the fire of a furnace with bellows; on the furnace is a pot in which a base metal is being refined. The hand of God appears from the cloud holding a ladle with which to take off the scum.

It appears then that Southwell has created in words a complete emblem combining both the picture and the word components. The result is not a composite picture in which all the details fall into place “naturally” and organically; rather he has combined a number of motifs which illustrate the general meaning vividly and sensuously, and he does so in a way which is precisely that of the emblematist. The starting point of the comparison, Christ's breast as a furnace, is also a focal centre from which everything else radiates. The emblematist reading this poem would see a furnace and through its open doors a heart; the stern figure of Justice adding fuel in the form of a crown of thorns; to the right of the furnace in gentle womanly form, Mercy with the bellows, whilst from the top of the furnace wisps of smoke ascend towards a cloud, possibly bearing a Hebrew spelling of Yahweh, as in Georgette de Montenay's emblem 29.

Southwell's meditation concludes by returning to the initial water-fire antithesis, Christ's blood replacing the tears of unrequited love and compassion. The metal of men's “defiled souls” goes through a final purification by being washed in blood. This picture of the heart washed in Christ's blood is frequently found in emblem-books: Georgette de Montenay, whose popular Embléme Chrestien … predates “The Burning Babe” by several years, could be cited again. Emblem 81 shows a man holding his heart on a dish up to Christ who from a cloud pours redeeming blood over it.

As an emblematic illustration to the words of Psalm 42:

Wie der hirsch begert der wasserbrunen
also begert mein seel Gott, zu dir,

H. Hugo has the figure of a girl (the soul) riding a stag towards Christ the fountain. In the collection Theatrum amoris divini et humani … there is an emblem of Christ as a garden fountain; from his wounds blood flows into the basin beneath, and a girl stands at the basin washing a heart. Beneath the illustration are the words:

Je lave mon coeur dans ce bain
Pour le loger dans vostre sein.

There are various more striking uses of the Christ-fountain emblem, such as Georgette de Montenay's emblem 3 where a crowd of people gather to drink avidly and joyfully the blood flowing from the wounds of Christ the fountain. This motif frequently appears in poems on the crucifixion and the sacrament, not seldom with a greater degree of sensuousness than in the emblems mentioned above. Southwell's use of the blood image is restrained by comparison, as is natural in the context, which continues the notion of the purification of the base metal.

It would appear that the importance of the emblem for both meditation and the poetry of meditation has not been fully appreciated. In her study English Emblem Books, Rosemary Freeman makes the following comment on the relationship between meditation and the emblem in the emblem-books of Quarles, Harvey and Hawkins: “Their main purpose is the practice of meditation, and to this purpose the emblems are no more than contributory factors.”¹⁰

In the view of the present writer this is a slightly misleading statement. Although Miss Freeman recognizes that emblems were seriously employed by preachers and courtiers as rhetorical devices, by teachers to didactic ends and by poets as a source of imagery and rhetoric, she seems to hold a rather narrow view of the nature and purpose of emblem-books in general, if we listen to the implications of her comment that the Catholic emblem-books were not merely intended as “ephemeral reading” or “pleasure and entertainment.”¹¹ This general observation may hold true for some English emblem-books, but neither this observation, nor her view that the relationship between picture and meaning is arbitrary, applies to many of the continental emblem-books. It is true that there were a host of frivolous emblem-books, which, to paraphrase Dryden, simply engage the heart and entertain it with the softness of love. But, as we have seen, there are also other works, serious in intention if engaging in form, and this is natural in a period which happily accepts Horace's dictum that art should instruct and please. The studies of Praz, Fricke¹² and Schöne¹³ all indicate that didactic concern and decorative delight merge inextricably in the emblem. There can be little doubt about the seriousness of an ethical emblem-book like van Veen's Moralia Horatiana …, the biological works of Camerarius and religious collections like those of Hugo, Cramer, Mannich or de Montenay. It is no accident that the emblem-book became such a significant factor in the religious life of the seventeenth century, since there is a considerable overlap between the meditative poem and emblem, going beyond the discovery of closely related motifs. It would appear that the art of meditation has in fact much in common with the serious art of the emblem, in approach, method, structure and at times even ultimate objectives.

As Martz describes it, meditation is “intense, imaginative” and “brings together the senses, the emotions, and the intellectual faculties of man; brings them together in a moment of dramatic, creative experience.”¹⁴ The object of such a meditative exercise is, to quote the Jesuit Richard Gibbon, “… the application of understanding, to seeke, and knowe, and as it were to taste divine matter; from whence doth arise in our affectionate powers good motions, inclinations, and purposes which stire us up to the love and exercise of virtue and the hatred and avoiding of sinne.”¹⁵ Meditation is not only an exercise necessary for the “good life” but almost indispensable as a preparatory step in the mystical path towards union with God.¹⁶

The emblem also sets out to synthesize the operations of the mind and the physical senses in order to achieve a state of clearer knowledge. The emblem presents to the eye and through it to man's other senses an object which exists in its own right, but simultaneously carries a definite meaning, which is reinforced by the accompanying inscriptio and the subscriptio. In a very real sense the reader both sees, hears and understands the emblem in a way similar to that in which the reader experiences Southwell's poem. Just as “meditation considereth by peecemeale the objectes proper to move us,”¹⁷ so the emblem combines individual motifs, such as thorns, cross, clouds, lightnings and sun. In a meditative work and in the kind of emblem here described the isolated observations are gathered together into one vision or statement of meaning. In meditation the immediate objective is to excite the will to holy affections and resolutions.¹⁸ This is likewise the aim, often explicitly stated, of the kind of religious emblem-book we are considering here. Facing each of his emblems Mannich has a German poem in which he not only explains the individual emblematic components but often exhorts his reader to “holy affections and resolutions.” In his introduction he insists that God's word and Christ's sermons are nothing but emblems. In such emblem-books the reader is exhorted to see, hear and understand things human and divine and then change his life accordingly. Religious emblem-books of this kind might with much justification be called emblems of meditation. Martz recognizes that the emblem-book and some forms of meditation have in common the method of analogy. He quotes George Herbert who says that the Bible also “descends to the naming of a plow, a hatchet, a bushel, leaven, boyes piping dancing; shewing that things of ordinary use are not only to serve in the way of drudgery but to be washed, and cleansed, and serve for light even of Heavenly tools.”¹⁹

Certain parallels can also be drawn between the structure of the meditative poem and the emblem. Both frequently have a three-fold structure. The poem often has a statement of theme somewhere near the beginning, which is followed by a dramatic “composition of place” bringing the reader into the physical presence of the object of meditation; this in turn leads to a colloquy. The three-fold structure of the meditative poem is summed up by Martz as “composition (memory), analysis (understanding) and colloquy (affections, will).”²⁰ The emblem also begins with a general statement of theme in the inscriptio, which surmounts the picture. The pictura presents vividly and often dramatically the objects to be understood. The subscriptio which follows reinforces the meaning in the pictura and also at the same time frequently makes demands upon the reader's “affections and will.” There are a number of seventeenth-century religious sonnets which reveal what one might call a total emblematic structure: the title of the sonnet in its epigrammatic terseness is reminiscent of the inscriptio of the emblem. The first eight or ten lines of verse, filled with organically unrelated images which nevertheless illustrate the theme of the sonnet, can be compared with the pictura. The concluding lines dispense with imagery and bring a longer general statement of meaning similar to the subscriptio of the emblem. There is also a similarity in the ultimate objectives of the meditative poem and the emblem in many instances. Meditation is not only necessary for the good life but almost essential as a preparation for mystical union with God. In the view of Menestrier, a notable Jesuit authority on emblematics, the religious emblem is capable of representing progress of the mystical life through the purgative stage and illuminative stage to the final unitive stage.²¹

The relationship between the emblem and the practice and poetry of meditation is hardly surprising. The baroque world-picture encouraged the parallel development of the emblem on the one hand and the art of meditation on the other. That emblematic practices and the art of meditation should merge to the enrichment of poetry is but natural development. It is only to be expected that poems should take on emblematic characteristics in an age which looks upon poetry and painting as twin sisters, the poet painting in words and the artist writing in colours.

Notes

1. The three powers of memory, understanding and will power.

2. L. Martz, The Poetry of Meditation, revised edition (New Haven, 1962), p. 82.

3. C. R. v. Greiffenberg, Geistliche Sonette, Lieder und Gedichte (Nurnberg, 1662), p. 238.

4. Cramer's Decades Quatuor Emblematum Sacrorum … (1617).

5. Taken from Karl Stengel's translation Gottselige Begirde … (Augsburg, 1627).

6. Greiffenberg, p. 42.

7. M. Praz, Studies in Seventeenth Century Imagery, 2nd edition (Rome, 1964), p. 89f.

8. Heinsius, Emblemata amatoria … ; de Bry, Emblemata saecularia. …

9. See Praz, p. 92.

10. Freeman, p. 173.

11. Ibid.

12. G. Fricke, Die Bildlichkeit in der Dichtung des A. Gryphius (Berlin, 1933).

13. A. Schöne, Emblematik und Drama im Zeitalter des Barock (München, 1964).

14. Martz, p. 1.

15. Ibid., p. 14.

16. Cf Martz, p. 16.

17. Quoted by Martz, p. 17.

18. Cf Martz, p. 15.

19. Ibid., p. 257.

20. Ibid., p. 43.

21. Praz, p. 154, quotes Menestrier's L'Art des Emblémes, 1662.