As both cultured minds and the upper classes, contemning sexuality, acknowledged spiritual love only, it follows as a matter of course that the avowal of such sentiments became good form; the motif that the honour of the beloved must be carefully shielded, and that no desire must dim her purity, occurs again and again.  But it should not be forgotten that a poet may love a sentiment for its own sake, without being in the least influenced by it.  Many a troubadour drew inspiration from an emotion which all praised as the supreme value; even if he had no earthly mistress, he adored the sublime sentiment.  Not infrequently it happened that a troubadour who had been loud in praise of high love and denunciation of base desire—­a trick of his trade—­suddenly came to himself and changed his mind.  Folquet of Marseilles, for instance, after more than ten years of vain sighing, came to the conclusion that he had been a fool.

     Deceitful love beguiles the simple fool
     And binds with magic thongs the hapless wight;
     That like a moth lured by the candle-light,
     He hovers, helpless, round the heartless ghoul.

     I cast thee out and follow other stars
     Full evil was my meed and recompense—­
     New courage steels my fainting heart, and hence
     I kneel at shrines which passion never mars.

In an interesting poem Garin the Red implores Mezura to teach him the way to love purely and nobly; but he is anything but pleased with his instructress, and comes to the conclusion that her whole wisdom is “just good form” and nothing else.

     But by my merry mood impelled
     I kiss and dally night and morn
     And do the things I feel compelled
     To do—­or else, with tonsure shorn,
     I’d seek a cloister....

Elias of Barjols, finding that his love will never be returned, and having no mind to sigh all his life in vain, renounces love altogether.  “I should be a fool if I served love any longer!”

“All you lovers are fools!” exclaimed another.  “Do you think you can change the nature of women?” This is one of the very rare criticisms of woman; as a rule we hear only of her angelic perfection, wisdom, beauty and aloofness.

The distinguished poet Marcabru was a woman-hater, and enemy of love from the very beginning.  He said of himself that he had never loved a woman and that no woman had ever loved him.

     The love which is always a lie
     And deceiver of men, I decry
     And denounce; I had more than enough. 
     Can you count all the evil it wrought? 
     When I think of it I am distraught. 
     What a madman I was to believe,
     To sigh, to rejoice and to grieve;
     But no longer I’ll squander my days,
     We have come to the parting of the ways.  Etc.

He was indefatigable in abusing the tender passion, and had a great deal to say about the immorality of women.  But it is characteristic of the strong public opinion of the time that even this misogynist (who, perhaps, after all was only a disappointed man) praised “high love.”