The Consolation of Philosophy — Boethius
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DE CONSOLATIONE PHILOSOPHIAE
Translation/edition: H. F. Stewart, 1918
Language: English
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This file: https://plato-scroll.com/text/boethius-consolation.txt
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  - Latin text: https://plato-scroll.com/text/boethius-consolation-b.txt
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Numbers in [brackets] are the edition's reference loci (Stephanus, Bekker, book.line, page...). Superscript numerals refer to the Notes at the end.


## Book I

[1] THE FIRST BOOK OF BOETHIUS
[1] CONTAINING HIS COMPLAINT AND MISERIES
[1] I. I that with youthful heat did verses write, Must now my woes in doleful tunes indite. My work is framed by Muses torn and rude, And my sad cheeks are with true tears bedewed: For these alone no terror could affray From being partners of my weary way. The art that was my young life’s joy and glory Becomes my solace now I’m old and sorry; Sorrow has filched my youth from me, the thief! My days are numbered not by time but Grief. Untimely hoary hairs cover my head, And my loose skin quakes on my flesh half dead. O happy death, that spareth sweetest years, And comes in sorrow often called with tears. Alas, how deaf is he to wretch’s cries; And loath he is to close up weeping eyes; While trustless chance me with vain favours crowned, That saddest hour my life had almost drowned: Now she hath clouded her deceitful face, My spiteful days prolong their weary race. My friends, why did you count me fortunate? He that is fallen, ne’er stood in settled state.
[1] Literally “For Old Age, unlooked for, sped by evils, has come, and Grief has bidden her years lie on me.”
[1] I. While I ruminated these things with myself, and determined to set forth my woful complaint in writing, methought I saw a woman stand above my head, having a grave countenance, glistening clear eye, and of quicker sight than commonly Nature doth afford; her colour fresh and bespeaking unabated vigour, and yet discovering so many years, that she could not at all be thought to belong to our times; her stature uncertain and doubtful, for sometime she exceeded not the common height of men, and sometime she seemed to touch the heavens with her head, and if she lifted it up to the highest, she pierced the very heavens, so that she could not be seen by the beholders; her garments were made of most fine threads with cunning workmanship into an ever-during stuff, which (as I knew afterward by her own report) she had woven with her own hands. A certain duskishness caused by negligence and time had darkened their colour, as it is wont to happen when pictures stand in a smoky room. In the lower part of them was placed the Greek letter Π, and in the upper Θ, and betwixt the two letters, in the manner of stairs, there were certain degrees made, by which there was a passage from the lower to the higher letter: this her garment had been cut by the violence of some, who had taken away such pieces as they could get. In her right hand she had certain books, and in her left hand she held a sceptre.
[1] This woman, seeing the poetical Muses standing about my bed, and suggesting words to my tears, being moved for a little space, and inflamed with angry looks: “Who,” saith she, “hath permitted these tragical harlots to have access to this sick man, which will not only not comfort his grief with wholesome remedies, but also nourish them with sugared poison? For these be they which with the fruitless thorns of affections do kill the fruitful crop of reason, and do accustom men’s minds to sickness, instead of curing them. But if your flattery did deprive us of some profane fellow, as commonly it happeneth, I should think that it were not so grievously to be taken, for in him our labours should receive no harm. But now have you laid hold of him who hath been brought up in Eleatical and Academical studies? Rather get you gone, you Sirens pleasant even to destruction, and leave him to my Muses to be cured and healed.”
[1] That company being thus checked, overcome with grief, casting their eyes upon the ground, and betraying their bashfulness with blushing, went sadly away. But I, whose sight was dimmed with tears, so that I could not discern what this woman might be, so imperious, and of such authority, was astonished, and, fixing my countenance upon the earth, began to expect with silence what she would do afterward. Then she coming nigher, sat down at my bed’s feet, and beholding my countenance sad with mourning, and cast upon the ground with grief, complained of the perturbation of my mind with these verses.
[1] II. Alas, how thy dull mind is headlong cast In depths of woe, where, all her light once lost, She doth to walk in utter darkness haste, While cares grow great with earthly tempests tost. He that through the opened heavens did freely run, And used to travel the celestial ways, Marking the rosy splendour of the sun, And noting Cynthia’s cold and watery rays; He that did bravely comprehend in verse The different spheres and wandering course of stars, He that was wont the causes to rehearse Why sounding winds do with the seas make wars, What spirit moves the world’s well-settled frame, And why the sun, whom forth the east doth bring, In western waves doth hide his falling flame, Searching what power tempers the pleasing Spring Which makes the earth her rosy flowers to bear, Whose gift it is that Autumn’s fruitful season Should with full grapes flow in a plenteous year, Telling of secret Nature every reason, Now having lost the beauty of his mind Lies with his neck compassed in ponderous chains; His countenance with heavy weight declined, Him to behold the sullen earth constrains.
[1] II. “But it is rather time,” saith she, “to apply remedies, than to make complaints.” And then looking wistfully upon me: “Art thou he,” saith she, “which, being long since nursed with our milk, and brought up with our nourishments, wert come to man’s estate? But we had given thee such weapons as, if thou hadst not cast them away, would have made thee invincible. Dost thou not know me? Why dost thou not speak? Is it shamefastness or insensibleness that makes thee silent? I had rather it were shamefastness, but I perceive thou art become insensible.” And seeing me not only silent but altogether mute and dumb, fair and easily she laid her hand upon my breast saying: “There is no danger; he is in a lethargy, the common disease of deceived minds; he hath a little forgot himself, but he will easily remember himself again, if he be brought to know us first. To which end, let us a little wipe his eyes, dimmed with the cloud of mortal things.” And having thus said, with a corner of her garment she dried my eyes which were wet with tears.
[1] III. Then fled the night and darkness did me leave. Mine eyes their wonted strength receive, As when swift Corus spreads the stars with clouds And the clear sky a veil of tempest shrouds The sun doth lurk, the earth receiveth night. Lacking the boon of starry light; But if fierce Boreas, sent from Thrace, make way For the restoring of the day, Phoebus with fresh and sudden beams doth rise, Striking with light our wondering eyes.
[1] III. In like manner, the mists of sadness dissolved, I came to myself and recovered my judgment, so that I knew my Physician’s face; wherefore casting mine eyes upon her somewhat stedfastly, I beheld my nurse Philosophy, in whose house I had remained from my youth, and I said: “O Mistress of all virtues, for what cause art thou come from heaven into this our solitary banishment? Art thou come to bear me company in being falsely accused?”
[1] “Should I,” saith she, “forsake thee, my disciple, and not divide the burden, which thou bearest through hatred of my name, by partaking of thy labour? But Philosophy never thought it lawful to forsake the innocent in his trouble. Should I fear any accusations, as though this were any new matter? For dost thou think that this is the first time that Wisdom hath been exposed to danger by wicked men? Have we not in ancient times before our Plato’s age had oftentimes great conflicts with the rashness of folly? And while he lived, had not his master Socrates the victory of an unjust death in my presence, whose inheritance, when afterward the mob of Epicures, Stoics, and others (every one for his own sect) endeavoured to usurp, and as it were in part of their prey, sought to draw me to them, exclaiming and striving against them; they tore the garment which I had woven with my own hands, and having gotten some little pieces of it, thinking me to be wholly in their possession, departed. Some of whom, because certain signs of my apparel appeared upon them, were rashly supposed to be my familiar friends, and condemned accordingly through the error of the profane multitude.
[1] But if thou hast not heard of the flight of Anaxagoras, the poison of Socrates, nor the torments of Zeno, because they are foreign examples; yet thou mayst have heard of Canius, of Seneca, of Soranus, whose memory is both fresh and famous, whom nothing else brought to their overthrow but that they had been instructed in our school and were altogether disliking to the humours of wicked men; wherefore thou hast no cause to marvel, if in the sea of this life we be tossed with boisterous storms, whose chiefest purpose is to displease the wicked; of which though there be an huge army, yet it is to be despised, because it is not governed by any captain, but is carried up and down by fantastical error without any order at all. And if at any time they assail us with great force, our captain retireth her band into a castle, leaving them occupied in sacking unprofitable baggage. And from above we laugh them to scorn for seeking so greedily after most vile things, being safe from all their furious assault, and fortified with that defence which aspiring folly cannot prevail against.
[1] IV. Who mildly can his age dispose, And at his feet proud destiny throws: Who stoutly doth each chance behold, Keeping his countenance uncontrolled: Not him the ocean’s rage and threat, Stirring the waves with angry heat, Nor hot Vesuvius when he casts From broken hills enflaméd blasts, Nor fiery thunder can dismay, Which takes the tops of towers away. Why do fierce tyrants us affright, Whose rage is far beyond their might? For nothing hope, nor fear thou harm, So their weak wrath thou shalt disarm. But he whom hope or terror takes, Being a slave, his shield forsakes, And leaves his place, and doth provide A chain wherewith his hands are tied.
[1] IV. “Understandest thou these things,” saith she, “and do they make impression in thy mind? Art thou ‘like the ass, deaf to the lyre’? Why weepest thou? Why sheddest thou so many tears? Speak out; hide not thy thoughts. If thou expectest to be cured, thou must discover thy wound.”
[1] Then I, collecting the forces of my mind together, made her answer in these words: “Doth the cruelty of fortune’s rage need further declaration, or doth it not sufficiently appear of itself? Doth not the very countenance of this place move thee? Is this the library which thou thyself hadst chosen to sit in at my house, in which thou hast oftentimes discoursed with me of the knowledge of divine and human things? Had I this attire or countenance when I searched the secrets of nature with thee, when thou describedst unto me the course of the stars with thy geometrical rod, when thou didst frame my conversation and the manner of my whole life according to the pattern of the celestial order? Are these the rewards which thy obedient servants have? But thou didst decree that sentence by the mouth of Plato: That commonwealths should be happy, if either the students of wisdom did govern them, or those which were appointed to govern them would give themselves to the study of wisdom. Thou by the same philosopher didst admonish us that it is a sufficient cause for wise men to take upon themselves the government of the commonwealth, lest, if the rule of cities were left in the hands of lewd and wicked citizens, they should work the subversion and overthrow of the good.
[1] Wherefore, following this authority, I desired to practise that by public administration which I had learnt of thee in private conference. Thou and God Himself who had inserted thee in the minds of the wise, are my witnesses that nothing but the common desire of all good men brought me to be a magistrate. This hath been the cause of my grievous and irreconcilable disagreements with wicked men, and that which freedom of conscience carrieth with it, of ever contemning the indignation of potentates for the defence of justice.
[1] How often have I encountered with Conigastus, violently possessing himself with poor men’s goods? How often have I put back Triguilla, Provost of the King’s house, from injuries which he had begun, yea, and finished also? How often have I protected, by putting my authority in danger, such poor wretches as the unpunished covetousness of the barbarous did vex with infinite reproaches? Never did any man draw me from right to wrong. It grieved me no less than them which suffered it, to see the wealth of our subjects wasted, partly by private pillage, and partly by public tributes.
[1] When in the time of a great dearth things were set at so excessive and unreasonable a rate that the province of Campania was like to be altogether impoverished, for the common good I stuck not to contend with the chief Praetor himself, and the matter was discussed before the King, and I prevailed so far that it went not forward. I drew Paulinus, who had been Consul, out of the very mouth of the gaping courtiers, who like ravenous curs had already in hope and ambition devoured his riches. That Albinus who had likewise been Consul might not be punished upon presumptuous and false accusation, I exposed myself to the hatred of Cyprian his accuser. May I seem to have provoked enmity enough against myself? But others should so much the more have procured my safety, since that for the love I bear to justice I left myself no way by the means of courtiers to be safe. But by whose accusations did I receive this blow? By theirs who, long since having put Basil out of the King’s service, compelled him now to accuse me, by the necessity which he was driven to by debt. Opilio likewise and Gaudentius being banished by the King’s decree, for the injuries and manifold deceits which they had committed, because they would not obey, defended themselves by taking sanctuary, of which the King hearing, gave sentence, that unless they departed out of the city of Ravenna within certain days, they should be branded in the foreheads, and put out by force. What could be added to this severity? And yet that very day their accusations against me went for current. What might be the reason of this? Did my dealing deserve it? Or did the condemnation, which went before, make them just accusers? Was not fortune ashamed, if not that innocency was accused, yet at least that it had so vile and base accusers? But what crime was laid to my charge? Wilt thou have it in one word? I am said to have desired the Senate’s safety. Wilt thou know the manner how? I am blamed for having hindered their accuser to bring forth evidence by which he should prove the Senate guilty of treason.
[1] What thinkest thou, O Mistress? Shall I deny this charge, that I may not shame thee? But it is true, I desired it, neither will I ever cease from having that desire. Shall I confess it? But I have already left hindering their accuser. Shall I call it an offence to have wished the safety of that order? Indeed the Senate with their decrees concerning me had made it an offence. But folly, always deceiving herself, cannot change the deserts of things, nor, according to the decree of Socrates, do I think it is lawful either to conceal the truth or grant a lie. But how this may be, I leave to thine and Wisdom’s censure. And that posterity may not be ignorant of the course and truth of the matter, I have put it down in writing.
[1] For why should I speak of those feigned letters, in which I am charged to have hoped for Roman liberty? The deceit of which would manifestly have appeared, if it might have been lawful for me to have used the confession of my very accusers, which in all business is of greatest force. For what liberty remaineth there to be hoped for? I would to God there were any! I would have answered as Canius did, who being charged by Gaius Caesar, son to Germanicus, that he was privy to the conspiracy made against him, answered: ‘If I had been made acquainted with it, thou shouldest never have known of it.’ Neither hath sorrow so dulled my wits in this matter that I complain of the wicked endeavours of sinful men against virtue, but I exceedingly marvel to see that they have brought to pass the things they hoped to do. For the desire of doing evil may be attributed to our weakness, but that in the sight of God the wicked should be able to compass whatsoever they contrive against the innocent, is altogether monstrous. Whence not without cause one of thy familiar friends demanded: ‘If,’ saith he, ‘there be a God, from whence proceed so many evils? And if there be no God, from whence cometh any good?’ But let that pass that wicked men, which seek the blood of all good men, and of the whole Senate, would also have overthrown me, whom they saw to stand in defence of good men and of the Senate. But did I deserve the same of the Senators themselves? I suppose thou rememberest how thou being present didst alway direct me when I went about to say or do anything. Thou rememberest, I say, when at Verona the King, being desirous of a common overthrow, endeavoured to lay the treason, whereof only Albinus was accused, upon the whole order of the Senate, with how great security of my own danger I defended the innocency of the whole Senate. Thou knowest that these things which I say are true, and that I was never delighted in my own praise, for the secret of a good conscience is in some sort diminished when by declaring what he hath done a man receiveth the reward of fame. But thou seest to what pass my innocency is come; instead of the rewards of true virtue, I undergo the punishment of wickedness, wherewith I am falsely charged. Was it ever yet seen that the manifest confession of any crime made the judges so at one in severity, that either the error of man’s judgment or the condition of fortune, which is certain to none, did not incline some of them to favour? If I had been accused that I would have burnt the churches, or wickedly have killed the priests, or have sought the death of all good men, yet sentence should have been pronounced against me present, having confessed, and being convicted. Now being conveyed five hundred miles off, dumb and defenceless, I am condemned to death and proscription for bearing the Senate too much good will. O Senate, which deserves that never any may be convicted of the like crime!
[1] The dignity of which accusation even the very accusers themselves saw, which that they might obscure by adding some sort of fault, they belied me that I defiled my conscience with sacrilege, for an ambitious desire of preferment. But thou, which hadst seated thyself in me, didst repel from the seat of my mind all desire of mortal things, and within thy sight there was no place for sacrilege to harbour; for thou didst instil into my ears and thoughts daily that saying of Pythagoras, ‘Follow God.’ Neither was it fitting for me to use the aid of most vile spirits when thou wast shaping me into that excellency to make me like to God. Besides the innocency which appeared in the most retired rooms of my house, the assembly of my most honourable friends, my holy father-in-law Symmachus, who is as worthy of reverence as thou thyself art, do clear me from all suspicion of this crime. But O detestable wickedness! they the rather credit thee with so great a crime, and think me the nigher to such mischievous dealing, because I am endued with thy knowledge, and adorned with thy virtues, so that it is not enough that I reap no commodity for thy respect, unless thou beest also dishonoured for the hatred conceived against me. And that my miseries may increase the more, the greatest part do not so much respect the value of things as the event of fortune, and they esteem only that to be providently done which the happy success commends. By which means it cometh to pass that the first loss which miserable men have is their estimation and the good opinion which was had of them. What rumours go now among the people, what dissonant and diverse opinions! I cannot abide to think of them; only this will I say, the last burden of adversity is that when they which are in misery are accused of any crime, they are thought to deserve whatsoever they suffer. And I, spoiled of all my goods, bereaved of my dignities, blemished in my good name, for benefits receive punishments.
[1] And methinks I see the cursed crews of the wicked abounding with joy and gladness, and every lost companion devising with himself how to accuse others falsely, good men lie prostrate with the terror of my danger, and every lewd fellow is provoked by impunity to attempt any wickedness, and by rewards to bring it to effect; but the innocent are not only deprived of all security, but also of any manner of defence. Wherefore I may well exclaim:
[1] Cp. Plato, Rep. vi. 485; the philosophos cannot be philopseudaes.
[1] V. Creator of the Sky, Who sittest on Thine eternal throne on high, Who dost quick motions cause In all the heavens, and givest stars their laws, That the pale Queen of Night, Sometimes receiving all her brother’s light, Should shine in her full pride, And with her beams the lesser stars should hide; Sometimes she wants her grace, When the sun’s rays are in less distant place; And Hesperus that flies, Driving the cold, before the night doth rise, And oft with sudden change Before the sun as Lucifer doth range. Thou short the days dost make, When Winter from the trees the leaves doth take; Thou, when the fiery sun Doth Summer cause, makest the nights swiftly run. Thy might doth rule the year, As northern winds the leaves away do bear, So Zephyrus from west The plants in all their freshness doth revest; And Syrius burns that corn With which Arcturus did the earth adorn. None from Thy laws are free, Nor can forsake their place ordained by Thee. Thou to that certain end Governest all things; deniest Thou to intend The acts of men alone, Directing them in measure from Thy throne? For why should slippery chance Rule all things with such doubtful governance? Or why should punishments, Due to the guilty, light on innocents? But now the highest place Giveth to naughty manners greatest grace, And wicked people vex Good men, and tread unjustly on their necks; Virtue in darkness lurks, And righteous souls are charged with impious works, Deceits nor perjuries Disgrace not those who colour them with lies, For, when it doth them please To show their force, they to their will with ease The hearts of kings can steer, To whom so many crouch with trembling fear. O Thou that joinest with love All worldly things, look from Thy seat above On the earth’s wretched state; We men, not the least work thou didst create, With fortune’s blasts do shake; Thou careful ruler, these fierce tempests slake, And for the earth provide Those laws by which Thou heaven in peace dost guide.”
[1] V. When I had uttered these speeches with continued grief, she, with an amiable countenance and nothing moved with my complaints, said: “When I first saw thee sad and weeping, I forthwith knew thee to be in misery and banishment. But I had not known how far off thou wert banished, if thy speech had not bewrayed it. O how far art thou gone from thy country, not being driven away, but wandering of thine own accord! Or if thou hadst rather be thought to have been driven out, it hath been only by thyself; for never could any other but thyself have done it; for if thou rememberest of what country thou art, it is not governed as Athens was wont to be, by the multitude, but ‘one is its ruler, one its king,’ who desires to have abundance of citizens, and not to have them driven away. To be governed by whose authority, and to be subject to her laws, is the greatest freedom that can be. Art thou ignorant of that most ancient law of thy city, by which it is decreed that he may not be banished that hath made choice of it for his dwelling-place; for he that is within her fort or hold need not fear lest he deserve to be banished? But whosoever ceaseth to desire to dwell in it, ceaseth likewise to deserve so great a benefit. Wherefore the countenance of this place moveth me not so much as thy countenance doth. Neither do I much require thy library adorned with ivory adornments, and its crystal walls, as the seat of thy mind, in which I have not placed books, but that which makes books to be esteemed of, I mean the sentences of my books, which were written long since. And that which thou hast said of thy deserts to the common good, is true indeed, but little in respect of the many things which thou hast done. That which thou hast reported, either of the honesty or of the falseness of those things which are objected against thee, is known to all men. Thou didst well to touch but briefly the wickedness and deceit of thy accusers, for that the common people to whose notice they are come do more fitly and largely speak of them. Thou hast also sharply rebuked the unjust Senate’s deed. Thou hast also grieved at our accusation, and hast bewailed the loss or diminishing of our good name; and lastly, thy sorrow raged against fortune, and thou complainedst that deserts were not equally rewarded. In the end of thy bitter verse, thou desiredst that the earth might be governed by that peace which heaven enjoyeth. But because thou art turmoiled with the multitude of affections, grief and anger drawing thee to divers parts, in the plight thou art now, the more forcible remedies cannot be applied unto thee; wherefore, for a while, we will use the more easy, that thy affections, which are, as it were, hardened and swollen with perturbations, may by gentle handling be mollified and disposed to receive the force of sharper medicines.
[1] VI. When hot with Phoebus’ beams The Crab casts fiery gleams, He that doth then with seed Th’unwilling furrows feed, Deceivéd of his bread Must be with acorns fed. Seek not the flowery woods For violets’ sweet buds, When fields are overcast With the fierce northern blast, Nor hope thou home to bring Vine-clusters in the Spring If thou in grapes delight: In autumn Bacchus’ might With them doth deck our clime. God every several time With proper grace hath crowned Nor will those laws confound Which He once settled hath. He that with headlong path This certain order leaves, An hapless end receives.
[1] VI. First, therefore, wilt thou let me touch and try the state of thy mind by asking thee a few questions, that I may understand how thou art to be cured?” To which I answered: “Ask me what questions thou wilt, and I will answer thee.” And then she said: “Thinkest thou that this world is governed by haphazard and chance? Or rather dost thou believe that it is ruled by reason?” “I can,” quoth I, “in no manner imagine that such certain motions are caused by rash chance. And I know that God the Creator doth govern His work, nor shall the day ever come to draw me from the truth of that judgment.”
[1] “It is so,” saith she, “for so thou saidst in thy verse a little before, and bewailedst that only men were void of God’s care; for as for the rest, thou didst not doubt but that they were governed by reason. And surely I cannot choose but exceedingly admire how thou canst be ill affected, holding so wholesome an opinion. But let us search further; I guess thou wantest something, but I know not what.
[1] Tell me, since thou doubtest not that the world is governed by God, canst thou tell me also by what means it is governed?” “I do scarcely,” quoth I, “understand what thou askest, and much less am I able to make thee a sufficient answer.” “Was I,” quoth she, “deceived in thinking that thou wantedst something by which, as by the breach of a fortress, the sickness of perturbations hath entered into thy mind? But tell me, dost thou remember what is the end of things? Or to what the whole intention of nature tendeth?” “I have heard it,” quoth I, “but grief hath dulled my memory.” “But knowest thou from whence all things had their beginning?” “I know,” quoth I, and answered, that from God. “And how can it be that, knowing the beginning, thou canst be ignorant of the end? But this is the condition and force of perturbations, that they may alter a man, but wholly destroy, and as it were root him out of himself, they cannot.
[1] But I would have thee answer me to this also; dost thou remember that thou art a man?” “Why should I not remember it?” quoth I. “Well then, canst thou explicate what man is?” “Dost thou ask me if I know that I am a reasonable and mortal living creature? I know and confess myself to be so.” To which she replied: “Dost thou not know thyself to be anything else?” “Not anything.”
[1] “Now I know,” quoth she, “another, and that perhaps the greatest, cause of thy sickness: thou hast forgotten what thou art. Wherefore I have fully found out both the manner of thy disease and the means of thy recovery; for the confusion which thou art in, by the forgetfulness of thyself, is the cause why thou art so much grieved at thy exile and the loss of thy goods. And because thou art ignorant what is the end of things, thou thinkest that lewd and wicked men be powerful and happy; likewise, because thou hast forgotten by what means the world is governed, thou imaginest that these alternations of fortune do fall out without any guide, sufficient causes not only of sickness, but also of death itself. But thanks be to the author of thy health, that Nature hath not altogether forsaken thee. We have the greatest nourisher of thy health, the true opinion of the government of the world, in that thou believest that it is not subject to the events of chance, but to divine reason. Wherefore fear nothing; out of this little sparkle will be enkindled thy vital heat. But because it is not yet time to use more solid remedies, and it is manifest that the nature of minds is such that as often as they cast away true opinions they are possessed with false, out of which the darkness of perturbations arising doth make them that they cannot discern things aright, I will endeavour to dissolve this cloud with gentle and moderate fomentations; that having removed the obscurity of deceitful affections, thou mayest behold the splendour of true light.
[1] VII. When stars are shrouded With dusky night, They yield no light Being so clouded. When the wind moveth And churneth the sea, The flood, clear as day, Foul and dark proveth. And rivers creeping Down a high hill Stand often still, Rocks them back keeping. If thou wouldst brightly See Truth’s clear rays, Or walk those ways Which lead most rightly, All joy forsaking Fear must thou fly, And hopes defy, No sorrow taking. For where these terrors Reign in the mind, They it do bind In cloudy errors.”

## Book II

[2] THE SECOND BOOK OF BOETHIUS
[2] I. After this she remained silent for a while; and, having by that her modesty made me attentive, began in this wise: “If I be rightly informed of the causes and condition of thy disease, thou languishest with the affection of thy former fortune, and the change of that alone, as thou imaginest, hath overthrown so much of thy mind. I know the manifold illusions of that monster, exercising most alluring familiarity with them whom she meaneth to deceive, to the end she may confound them with intolerable grief, by forsaking them upon the sudden, whose nature, customs, and desert, if thou rememberest, thou shalt know that thou neither didst possess nor hast lost anything of estimation in it; and, as I hope, I shall not need to labour much to bring these things to thy remembrance, for thou wert wont, when she was present, and flattered thee most, to assail her with manful words, and pursue her with sentences taken forth of our most hidden knowledge. But every sudden change of things happeneth not without a certain wavering and disquietness of mind. And this is the cause that thou also for a while hast lost thy former tranquillity and peace. But it is time for thee to take and taste some gentle and pleasant thing which being received may prepare thee for stronger potions. Wherefore let us use the sweetness of Rhetoric’s persuasions, which then only is well employed when it forsaketh not our ordinances; and with this, let Music, a little slave belonging to our house, chant sometime lighter and sometime sadder notes.
[2] Wherefore, O man, what is it that hath cast thee into sorrow and grief? Thou hast, methinks, seen something new and unwonted. If thou thinkest that fortune hath altered her manner of proceeding toward thee, thou art in an error. This was alway her fashion; this is her nature. She hath kept that constancy in thy affairs which is proper to her, in being mutable; such was her condition when she fawned upon thee and allured thee with enticements of feigned happiness. Thou hast discovered the doubtful looks of this blind goddess. She, which concealeth herself from others, is wholly known to thee. If thou likest her, frame thyself to her conditions, and make no complaint. If thou detestest her treachery, despise and cast her off, with her pernicious flattery. For that which hath caused thee so much sorrow should have brought thee to great tranquillity. For she hath forsaken thee, of whom no man can be secure. Dost thou esteem that happiness precious which thou art to lose? And is the present fortune dear unto thee, of whose stay thou art not sure, and whose departure will breed thy grief? And if she can neither be kept at our will, and maketh them miserable whom she at last leaveth, what else is fickle fortune but a token of future calamity? For it is not sufficient to behold that which we have before our eyes; wisdom pondereth the event of things, and this mutability on both sides maketh the threats of fortune not to be feared, nor her flatterings to be desired. Finally, thou must take in good part whatsoever happeneth unto thee within the reach of fortune, when once thou hast submitted thy neck to her yoke. And if to her whom, of thine own accord, thou hast chosen for thy mistress, thou wouldest prescribe a law how long she were to stay, and when to depart, shouldst thou not do her mighty wrong, and with thy impatience make thy estate more intolerable, which thou canst not better? If thou settest up thy sails to the wind, thou shalt be carried not whither thy will desirest, but whither the gale driveth. If thou sowest thy seed, thou considerest that there are as well barren as fertile years. Thou hast yielded thyself to fortune’s sway; thou must be content with the conditions of thy mistress. Endeavourest thou to stay the force of the turning wheel? But thou foolishest man that ever was, if it beginneth to stay, it ceaseth to be fortune.
[2] I The pride of fickle fortune spareth none, And, like the floods of swift Euripus borne, Oft casteth mighty princes from their throne, And oft the abject captive doth adorn. She cares not for the wretch’s tears and moan, And the sad groans, which she hath caused, doth scorn. Thus doth she play, to make her power more known, Showing her slaves a marvel, when man’s state Is in one hour both downcast and fortunate.
[2] II But I would urge thee a little with Fortune’s own speeches. Wherefore consider thou if she asketh not reason. ‘For what cause, O man, chargest thou me with daily complaints? What injury have I done thee? What goods of thine have I taken from thee? Contend with me before any judge about the possession of riches and dignities; and if thou canst show that the propriety of any of these things belong to any mortal wight, I will forthwith willingly grant that those things which thou demandest were thine. When Nature produced thee out of thy mother’s womb, I received thee naked and poor in all respects, cherished thee with my wealth, and (which maketh thee now to fall out with me) being forward to favour thee, I had most tender care for thy education, and adorned thee with the abundance and splendour of all things which are in my power. Now it pleaseth me to withdraw my hand, yield thanks, as one that hath had the use of that which was not his own. Thou hast no just cause to complain, as though thou hadst lost that which was fully thine own. Wherefore lamentest thou? I have offered thee no violence. Riches, honours, and the rest of that sort belong to me. They acknowledge me for their mistress, and themselves for my servants, they come with me, and when I go away they likewise depart. I may boldly affirm, if those things which thou complainest to be taken from thee had been thine own, thou shouldst never have lost them. Must I only be forbidden to use my right? It is lawful for the heaven to bring forth fair days, and to hide them again in darksome nights. It is lawful for the year sometime to compass the face of the earth with flowers and fruits, and sometime to cover it with clouds and cold. The sea hath right sometime to fawn with calms, and sometime to frown with storms and waves. And shall the insatiable desire of men tie me to constancy, so contrary to my custom? This is my force, this is the sport which I continually use. I turn about my wheel with speed, and take a pleasure to turn things upside down. Ascend, if thou wilt, but with this condition, that thou thinkest it not an injury to descend when the course of my sport so requireth. Didst thou not know my fashion? Wert thou ignorant how Croesus, King of the Lydians, not long before a terror to Cyrus, within a while after came to such misery that he should have been burnt had he not been saved by a shower sent from heaven? Hast thou forgotten how Paul piously bewailed the calamities of King Perses his prisoner? What other thing doth the outcry of tragedies lament, but that fortune, having no respect, overturneth happy states? Didst thou not learn in thy youth that there lay two barrels, the one of good things and the other of bad, at Jupiter’s threshold? But what if thou hast tasted more abundantly of the good? What if I be not wholly gone from thee? What if this mutability of mine be a just cause for thee to hope for better? Notwithstanding, lose not thy courage, and, living in a kingdom which is common to all men, desire not to be governed by peculiar laws proper only to thyself.
[2] II. If Plenty as much wealth should give, ne’er holding back her hand, As the swift winds in troubled seas do toss up heaps of sand, Or as the stars in lightsome nights shine forth on heaven’s face, Yet wretched men would still accuse their miserable case. Should God, too liberal of His gold, their greedy wishes hear, And with bright honour them adorn; yet all that nothing were, Since ravenous minds, devouring all, for more are ready still. What bridle can contain in bounds this their contentless will, When filled with riches they retain the thirst of having more? He is not rich that fears and grieves, and counts himself but poor.’
[2] III. Wherefore if fortune should plead with thee thus in her own defence, doubtless thou wouldst not have a word to answer her. But if there be anything which thou canst allege in thy own defence, thou must utter it. We will give thee full liberty to speak.” Then I said: “These things make a fair show and, being set out with pleasant rhetoric and music, delight only so long as they are heard. But those which are miserable have a deeper feeling of their miseries. Therefore, when the sound of these things is past, hidden sorrow oppresseth the mind.” “It is so indeed,” quoth she, “for these be not the remedies of thy disease, but certain fomentations to assuage thy grief, which as yet resisteth all cure. But when it shall be time, I will apply that which shall pierce to the quick. And yet there is no cause why thou shouldst think thyself miserable. Hast thou forgotten how many ways, and in what degree thou art happy?
[2] I pass over with silence that, having lost thy father, thou wert provided for by men of the best sort, and, being chosen to have affinity with the chiefest of the city, thou begannest sooner to be dear unto them than to be akin, which is the most excellent kind of kindred. Who esteemed thee not most happy, having so noble a father-in-law, so chaste a wife, and so noble sons? I say nothing (for I will not speak of ordinary matters) of the dignities denied to others in their age, and granted to thee in thy youth. I desire to come to the singular top of thy felicity. If any fruit of mortal things hath any weight of happiness, can the remembrance of that light be destroyed with any cloud of miseries that can overcast thee? When thou sawst thy two sons being both Consuls together carried from their house, the Senators accompanying them, and the people rejoicing with them; when, they sitting in the Senate in their chairs of state, thou making an oration in the King’s praise deservedst the glory of wit and eloquence. When in public assembly, thou, standing betwixt thy two sons, didst satisfy with thy triumphant liberality the expectation of the multitudes gathered together, I suppose thou flatteredst fortune, while she fawned thus upon thee, as her dearest friend. Thou obtainedst more at her hands than ever private man had before thee. Wilt thou then reckon with fortune? This is the first time that ever she frowned upon thee. If thou considerest the number and measure of thy joyful and sad accidents, thou canst not choose but think thyself fortunate hitherto; and if thou esteemest not thyself fortunate because those things which seemed joyful are past, there is no cause why thou shouldst think thyself miserable, since those things which thou now takest to be sorrowful do pass. Comest thou now first as a pilgrim and stranger into the theatre of this life? Supposest thou to find any constancy in human affairs, since that man himself is soon gone? For although things subject to fortune seldom keep touch in staying, yet the end of life is a certain death, even of that fortune which remaineth. Wherefore, what matter is it whether thou by dying leavest it, or it forsaketh thee by flying?
[2] III. When Phoebus with his rosy team Showeth his lightsome beam, The dull and darkened stars retire Yielding to greater fire. When Zephyrus his warmth doth bring, Sweet roses deck the spring; Let noisome Auster blow apace, Plants soon will lose their grace. The sea hath often quiet stood With an unmoved flood, And often is turmoiled with waves, When boisterous Boreas raves. If thus the world never long tarry The same, but often vary, On fading fortunes then rely, Trust to those goods that fly. An everlasting law is made, That all things born shall fade.”
[2] IV. To which I answered: “The things which thou reportest are true, O nurse of all virtues, and I cannot deny the most speedy course of my prosperity. But this is that which vexeth me most, when I remember it. For in all adversity of fortune it is the most unhappy kind of misfortune to have been happy.” “But,” quoth she, “thou canst not justly impute to the things themselves that thou art punished for thy false opinion. For if this vain name of casual felicity moveth thee, let us make accompt with how many and how great things thou aboundest. Wherefore, if that which in all thy revenues of fortune thou esteemest most precious doth still by God’s providence remain safe and untouched, canst thou, retaining the best, justly complain of misfortune?
[2] But thy father-in-law, Symmachus (that most excellent ornament of mankind) liveth in safety, and for the obtaining of which thou wouldst willingly spend thy life, that man wholly framed to wisdom and virtues, being secure of his own, mourneth for thy injuries. Thy wife liveth, modest in disposition, eminent in chastity, and, to rehearse briefly all her excellent gifts, like her father. She liveth, I say, and weary of her life reserveth her breath only for thee. In which alone even I must grant that thy felicity is diminished, she consumeth herself with tears and grief for thy sake.
[2] What should I speak of thy children, which have been Consuls, in whom already, as in children of that age, their father’s or grandfather’s good disposition appeareth? Wherefore, since the greatest care that mortal men have is to save their lives, O happy man that thou art, if thou knowest thine own wealth, who still hast remaining those things which no man doubteth to be dearer than life itself? And therefore cease weeping. Fortune hath not hitherto showed her hatred against you all, neither art thou assailed with too boisterous a storm, since those anchors hold fast which permit neither the comfort of the time present nor the hope of the time to come to be wanting.”
[2] “And I pray God,” quoth I, “that they may hold fast, for so long as they remain, howsoever the world goeth we shall escape drowning. But thou seest how great a part of our ornaments is lost.” “We have gotten a little ground,” quoth she, “if thy whole estate be not irksome unto thee. But I cannot suffer thy daintiness, who with such lamentation and anxiety complaineth that something is wanting to thy happiness. For who hath so entire happiness that he is not in some part offended with the condition of his estate? The nature of human felicity is doubtful and uncertain, and is neither ever wholly obtained, or never lasteth always. One man hath great revenues, but is contemned for his base lineage. Another’s nobility maketh him known, but, oppressed with penury, had rather be unknown. Some, abounding with both, bewail their life without marriage. Some other, well married but wanting children, provideth riches for strangers to inherit. Others, finally, having children, mournfully bewail the vices which their sons or daughters are given to. So that scarce any man is pleased with the condition of his fortune. For there is something in every estate, which without experience is not known, and being experienced doth molest and trouble. Besides that, those which are most happy are most sensible, and unless all things fall out to their liking, impatient of all adversity, every little cross overthrows them, so small are the occasions which take from the most fortunate the height of their happiness. How many are there, thinkest thou, which would think themselves almost in Heaven if they had but the least part of the remains of thy fortune? This very place, which thou callest banishment, is to the inhabitants thereof their native land. So true it is that nothing is miserable but what is thought so, and contrariwise, every estate is happy if he that bears it be content. Who is so happy that if he yieldeth to discontent, desireth not to change his estate? How much bitterness is mingled with the sweetness of man’s felicity, which, though it seemeth so pleasant while it is enjoyed, yet can it not be retained from going away when it will. And by this it appeareth how miserable is the blessedness of mortal things, which neither endureth alway with the contented, nor wholly delighteth the pensive.
[2] Wherefore, O mortal men, why seek you for your felicity abroad, which is placed within yourselves? Error and ignorance do confound you. I will briefly show thee the centre of thy chiefest happiness. Is there anything more precious to thee than thyself? I am sure thou wilt say, nothing. Wherefore, if thou enjoyest thyself, thou shalt possess that which neither thou wilt ever wish to lose nor fortune can take away. And that thou mayst acknowledge that blessedness cannot consist in these casual things, gather it thus. If blessedness be the chiefest good of nature endued with reason, and that is not the chiefest good which may by any means be taken away, because that which cannot be taken away is better, it is manifest that the instability of fortune cannot aspire to the obtaining of blessedness. Moreover, he that now enjoyeth this brittle felicity, either knoweth it to be mutable or no. If not, what estate can be blessed by ignorant blindness? And if he knoweth it, he must needs fear lest he lose that which he doubteth not may be lost, wherefore continual fear permitteth him not to be happy. Or though he should lose it, doth he think that a thing of no moment? But so it were a very small good which he would be content to lose. And because thou art one whom I know to be fully persuaded and convinced by innumerable demonstrations that the souls of men are in no wise mortal, and since it is clear that casual felicity is ended by the body’s death, there is no doubt, if this can cause blessedness, but that all mankind falleth into misery by death. But if we know many who have sought to reap the fruit of blessedness, not only by death, but also by affliction and torments, how can present happiness make men happy, the loss of which causeth not misery?
[2] IV. Who with an heedful care Will an eternal seat prepare, Which cannot be down cast By force of windy blast, And will the floods despise, When threatening billows do arise, He not on hills must stand, Nor on the dangerous sinking sand. For there the winds will threat, And him with furious tempests beat, And here the ground too weak Will with the heavy burden break. Fly then the dangerous case Of an untried delightful place, And thy poor house bestow In stony places firm and low. For though the winds do sound, And waves of troubled seas confound: Yet thou to rest disposed In thy safe lowly vale inclosed, Mayst live a quiet age, Scorning the air’s distempered rage.
[2] V. But since the soothing of my reasons begins to sink into thee, I will use those which are somewhat more forcible. Go to the*n, if the gifts of fortune were not brittle and momentary, what is there in them which can either ever be made your own, or, well weighed and considered, seemeth not vile and of no accompt? Are riches precious in virtue either of their own nature or of yours? What part of them can be so esteemed of? The gold or the heaps of money? But these make a fairer show when they are spent than when they are kept. For covetousness alway maketh men odious, as liberality famous. And if a man cannot have that which is given to another, then money is precious when, bestowed upon others, by the use of liberality it is not possessed any longer. But if all the money in the whole world were gathered into one man’s custody, all other men should be poor. The voice at the same time wholly filleth the ears of many, but your riches cannot pass to many, except they be diminished, which being done, they must needs make them poor whom they leave. O scant and poor riches, which neither can be wholly possessed of many, and come to none without the impoverishment of others! Doth the glittering of jewels draw thy eyes after them? But if there be any great matter in this show, not men but the jewels shine, which I exceedingly marvel that men admire. For what is there wanting life and members that may justly seem beautiful to a nature not only endued with life but also with reason? Which, though by their maker’s workmanship and their own variety they have some part of basest beauty, yet it is so far inferior to your excellency that it did in no sort deserve your admiration. Doth the pleasant prospect of the fields delight you? Why not? For it is a fair portion of a most fair work. So we are delighted with a calm sea, so we admire the sky, the stars, the sun, and the moon. Do any of these belong to thee? Darest thou boast of the beauty which any of them have? Art thou thyself adorned with May flowers? Or doth thy fertility teem with the fruits of summer? Why rejoicest thou vainly? Why embracest thou outward goods as if they were thine own? Fortune will never make those things thine which by the appointment of Nature belong not to thee. The fruits of the earth are doubtless appointed for the sustenance of living creatures. But if thou wilt only satisfy want, which sufficeth Nature, there is no cause to require the superfluities of fortune. For Nature is contented with little and with the smallest things, and, if, being satisfied, thou wilt overlay it with more than needs, that which thou addest will either become unpleasant or hurtful. But perhaps thou thinkest it a fine thing to go decked in gay apparel, which, if they make a fair show, I will admire either the goodness of the stuff or the invention of the workman. Or doth the multitude of servants make thee happy? Who, if they be vicious, they are a pernicious burden to thy house, and exceedingly troublesome to their master; and if they be honest, how shall other men’s honesty be counted amongst thy treasures? By all which is manifestly proved that none of these goods which thou accountest thine, are thine indeed. And if there is nothing in these worthy to be desired, why art thou either glad when thou hast them or sorry when thou losest them? Or what is it to thee, if they be precious by nature? For in this respect they would have pleased thee, though they had belonged to others. For they are not precious because they are come to be thine, but because they seemed precious thou wert desirous to have them. Now, what desire you with such loud praise of fortune? Perhaps you seek to drive away penury with plenty. But this falleth out quite contrary, for you stand in need of many supplies, to protect all this variety of precious ornaments. And it is true that they which have much, need much; and contrariwise, that they need little which measure not their wealth by the superfluity of ambition, but by the necessity of nature. Have you no proper and inward good, that you seek your goods in those things which are outward and separated from you? Is the condition of things so changed that a living creature, deservedly accounted divine for the gift of reason, seemeth to have no other excellency than the possession of a little household stuff without life? All other creatures are content with that they have of their own; and you, who in your mind carry the likeness of God, are content to take the ornaments of your excellent nature from the most base and vile things, neither understand you what injury you do your Creator. He would have mankind to excel all earthly things; you debase your dignity under every meanest creature. For if it be manifest that the good of everything is more precious than that whose good it is, since you judge the vilest things that can be to be your goods, you deject yourselves under them in your own estimation, which questionless cometh not undeservedly to pass; for this is the condition of man’s nature, that then only it surpasseth other things when it knoweth itself, and it is worse than beasts when it is without that knowledge. For in other living creatures the ignorance of themselves is nature, but in men it is vice. And how far doth this error of yours extend, who think that any can be adorned with the ornaments of another? Which can in no wise be. For if any adjoined thing seem precious, it is that which is praised, but that which is covered and enwrapped in it remaineth, notwithstanding, with the foul baseness which it hath of itself. Moreover, I deny that to be good which hurteth the possessor. Am I deceived in this? I am sure thou wilt say no. But riches have often hurt their possessors, since every lewdest companion, who are consequently most desirous of that which is not their own, think themselves most worthy to possess alone all the gold and jewels in the world. Wherefore thou, who with much perturbation fearest now to be assailed and slain, if thou hadst entered the path of this life like a poor passenger, needest not be afraid, but mightest rejoice and sing even in the sight of most ravenous thieves. O excellent happiness of mortal riches, which, when thou hast gotten, thou hast lost thy safety!
[2] V. Too much the former age was blest, When fields their pleaséd owners failéd not, Who, with no slothful lust opprest, Broke their long fasts with acorns eas’ly got. No wine with honey mixéd was, Nor did they silk in purple colours steep; They slept upon the wholesome grass, And their cool drink did fetch from rivers deep. The pines did hide them with their shade, No merchants through the dangerous billows went, Nor with desire of gainful trade Their traffic into foreign countries sent. Then no shrill trumpets did amate The minds of soldiers with their daunting sounds, Nor weapons were with deadly hate Dyed with the dreadful blood of gaping wounds. For how could any fury draw The mind of man to stir up war in vain, When nothing but fierce wounds he saw, And for his blood no recompense should gain? O that the ancient manners would In these our latter hapless times return! Now the desire of having gold Doth like the flaming fires of Aetna burn. Ah, who was he that first did show The heaps of treasure which the earth did hide, And jewels which lay close below, By which he costly dangers did provide?
[2] VI. Now, why should I discourse of dignities and power which you, not knowing what true dignity and power meaneth, exalt to the skies? And if they light upon wicked men, what Aetnas, belching flames, or what deluge can cause so great harms? I suppose thou rememberest how your ancestors, by reason of the consuls’ arrogancy, desired to abolish that government which had been the beginning of their freedom, who before, for the same cause, had removed the government of kings from their city. And if sometime, which is very seldom, good men be preferred to honours, what other thing can give contentment in them but the honesty of those which have them? So that virtues are not honoured by dignities, but dignities by virtue. But what is this excellent power which you esteemed so desirable? Consider you not, O earthly wights, whom you seem to excel? For if among mice thou shouldst see one claim jurisdiction and power to himself over the rest, to what a laughter it would move thee! And what, if thou respectest the body, canst thou find more weak than man, whom even the biting of little flies or the entering of creeping worms doth often kill? Now, how can any man exercise jurisdiction upon anybody except upon their bodies, and that which is inferior to their bodies, I mean their fortunes? Canst thou ever imperiously impose anything upon a free mind? Canst thou remove a soul settled in firm reason from the quiet state which it possesseth? When a tyrant thought to compel a certain free man by torments to bewray his confederates of a conspiracy attempted against him, he bit off his tongue, and spit it out upon the cruel tyrant’s face, by that means wisely making those tortures, which the tyrant thought matter of cruelty, to be to him occasion of virtue. Now, what is there that any can enforce upon another which he may not himself be enforced to sustain by another? We read that Busiris, wont to kill his guests, was himself slain by his guest Hercules. Regulus had laid fetters upon many Africans taken in war, but ere long he found his own hands environed with his conqueror’s chains. Wherefore thinkest thou the power of that man to be anything worth, who cannot hinder another from doing that to him which he can do to another? Moreover, if dignities and power had any natural and proper good in them, they would never be bestowed upon the worst men, for one opposite useth not to accompany another; nature refuseth to have contraries joined. So that, since there is no doubt but that men of the worst sort often enjoy dignities, it is also manifest that they are not naturally good which may follow most naughty men. Which may more worthily be thought of all fortune’s gifts which are more plentifully bestowed upon every lewd companion. Concerning which, I take that also to be worthy consideration, that no man doubteth him to be a valiant man in whom he seeth valour, and it is manifest that he which hath swiftness is swift. So, likewise, music maketh musicians, physic physicians, and rhetoric rhetoricians. For the nature of everything doth that which is proper unto it, and is not mixed with contrary effects but repelleth all opposites. But neither can riches extinguish unsatiable avarice, nor power make him master of himself whom vicious lusts keep chained in strongest fetters. And dignity bestowed upon wicked men doth not only not make them worthy but rather bewrayeth and discovereth their unworthiness. How cometh this to pass? Because in miscalling things that are otherwise, you take a pleasure which is easily refuted by the effect of the things themselves. Wherefore, by right, these things are not to be called riches, this is not to be called power, that is not to be called dignity. Lastly, we may conclude the same of all fortunes in which it is manifest there is nothing to be desired, nothing naturally good, which neither are always bestowed upon good men, nor do make them good whom they are bestowed upon.
[2] VI. We know what stirs he made Who did the Senate slay and Rome with fire invade, Who did his brother kill, And with his mother’s blood his moistened hand did fill; Who looked on that cold face Tearless, and nicely marked her members’ several grace. Yet his dread power controlled Those people whom the sun doth in the east behold, And those who do remain In western lands or dwell under Boötes’ wain And those whose skins are tanned With southern winds, which roast and burn the parched sand. What? Could this glorious might Restrain the furious rage of wicked Nero’s spite? But oh! mishap most bad, Which doth the wicked sword to cruel poison add!”
[2] VII. Then I said: “Thou thyself knowest that the ambition of mortal things hath borne as little sway with me as with any, but I desired matter of action, lest old age should come upon me ere I had done anything.” To which she answered: “This is the only thing which is able to entice such minds as, being well qualified by nature, are not yet fully brought to full excellence by the perfecting of virtues, I mean desire of glory, and fame of best deserts towards their commonwealth, which how slender it is, and void of all weight, consider this: thou hast learnt by astronomical demonstrations that the compass of the whole earth compared to the scope of heaven is no bigger than a pin’s point, which is as much as to say that, if it be conferred with the greatness of the celestial sphere, it hath no bigness at all. And of this so small a region in the world only the fourth part is known to be inhabited by living creatures known to us, as Ptolemy proveth. From which fourth part, if thou takest away in imagination the seas, the marsh grounds, and all other desert places, there will scarcely be left any room at all for men to inhabit. Wherefore, enclosed and shut up in this smallest point of that other point, do you think of extending your fame and enlarging your name? But what great or heroical matter can that glory have, which is pent up in so small and narrow bounds? Besides that the little compass of this small habitation is inhabited by many nations, different in language, fashions, and conversation, to which by reason of the difficulties in travelling, the diversity of speech, and the scarcity of traffic, not only the Fame of particular men but even of cities can hardly come. Finally, in the age of Marcus Tullius, as he himself writeth, the fame of the Roman Commonwealth had not passed the mountain Caucasus, and yet it was then in the most flourishing estate, fearful even to the Parthians and to the rest of the nations about. Seest thou therefore how strait and narrow that glory is which you labour to enlarge and increase? Where the fame of the Roman name could not pass, can the glory of a Roman man penetrate? Moreover, the customs and laws of diverse nations do so much differ the one from the other, that the same thing which some commend as laudable, others condemn as deserving punishment. So that if a man be delighted with the praise of fame, it is no way convenient for him to be named in many countries. Wherefore, every man must be content with that glory which he may have at home, and that noble immortality of fame must be comprehended within the compass of one nation.
[2] Now, how many, most famous while they lived, are altogether forgotten for want of writers! Though what do writings themselves avail which perish, as well as their authors, by continuance and obscurity of time? But you imagine that you make yourselves immortal when you cast your eyes upon future fame. Whereas, if thou weighest attentively the infinite spaces of eternity, what cause hast thou to rejoice at the prolonging of thy name? For if we compare the stay of one moment with ten thousand years, since both be limited, they have some proportion, though it be but very small. But this number of years, how oft so ever it be multiplied, is no way comparable to endless eternity. For limited things may in some sort be compared among themselves, but that which is infinite admitteth no comparison at all with the limited. So that the fame of never so long time, if it be compared with everlasting eternity, seemeth not little but none at all. But without popular blasts and vain rumours you know not how to do well, and, rejecting the excellency of a good conscience and of virtue, you choose to be rewarded with others’ tattling. Hear how pleasantly one jested at this vain and contemptible arrogancy. For having assaulted with reproachful speeches a certain fellow who had falsely taken upon him the name of a philosopher, not for the use of virtue but for vainglory, and having added that now he would know whether he were a philosopher or no by his gentle and patient bearing of injuries, the other took all patiently for a while, and having borne his contumely, as it were, triumphing, said: ‘Dost thou now at length think me a philosopher?’ To which he bitingly replied: ‘I would have thought thee one if thou hadst holden thy peace.’ But what have excellent men (for of these I speak) who seek for glory by virtue, what have we, I say, to expect for these by fame after final death hath dissolved the body? For if, contrary to our belief, men wholly perish, there is no glory at all, since he to whom it is said to belong is nowhere extant. But if a guiltless mind freed from earthly imprisonment goeth forthwith to heaven, will she not despise all earthly traffic who, enjoying heaven, rejoiceth to see herself exempted from earthly affairs?
[2] VII. He that to honour only seeks to mount And that his chiefest end doth count, Let him behold the largeness of the skies And on the strait earth cast his eyes; He will despise the glory of his name, Which cannot fill so small a frame. Why do proud men scorn that their necks should bear That yoke which every man must wear? Though fame through many nations fly along And should be blazed by every tongue, And houses shine with our forefathers’ stories, Yet Death contemns these stately glories, And, summoning both rich and poor to die, Makes the low equal with the high. Who knows where faithful Fabrice’ bones are pressed, Where Brutus and strict Cato rest? A slender fame consigns their titles vain In some few letters to remain. Because their famous names in books we read, Come we by them to know the dead? You dying, then, remembered are by none, Nor any fame can make you known. But if you think that life outstrippeth death, Your names borne up with mortal breath, When length of time takes this away likewise, A second death shall you surprise.
[2] Caius Luscinus Fabricius, Consul 282 B.C., opponent of Pyrrhus; Lucius Iunius Brutus, Consul 509 B.C., founder of the Republic; Marcus Porcius Cato (Cato maior). Consul 195 B.C., great-grandfather of M. Porcius Cato (Uticensis).
[2] VIII. But lest thou shouldst think that I am at implacable war with Fortune, there is a time when this thy goddess ceasing to deceive deserveth of men, to wit, when she declareth herself, when she discovereth her face and showeth herself in her own colours. Perhaps thou understandest not yet what I say. I would utter a wonderful thing, insomuch as I can scarcely explicate my mind in words. For I think that Fortune, when she is opposite, is more profitable to men than when she is favourable. For in prosperity, by a show of happiness and seeming to caress, she is ever false, but in adversity when she showeth herself inconstant by changing, she is ever true. In that she deceiveth, in this she instructeth; in that she imprisoneth the minds of men with falsely seeming goods, which they enjoy, in this she setteth them at liberty by discovering the uncertainty of them. Wherefore, in that thou shalt alway see her puffed up, and wavering, and blinded with a self-conceit of herself, in this thou shalt find her sober, settled, and, with the very exercise of adversity, wise. Finally, prosperity with her flatterings withdraweth men from true goodness, adversity recalleth and reclaimeth them many times by force to true happiness. Dost thou esteem it a small benefit that this rough and harsh Fortune hath made known unto thee the minds of thy faithful friends? She hath severed thy assured from thy doubtful friends; prosperity at her departure took away with her those which were hers, and left thee thine. How dearly wouldst thou have bought this before thy fall, and when thou seemedst to thyself fortunate! Now thou dost even lament thy lost riches; thou hast found friends, the most precious treasure in the world.
[2] VIII. That this fair world in settled course her several forms should vary, That a perpetual law should tame the fighting seeds of things, That Phoebus should the rosy day in his bright chariot carry, That Phoebe should govern the nights which Hesperus forth brings, That to the floods of greedy seas are certain bounds assigned, Which them, lest they usurp too much upon the earth, debar, Love ruling heaven, and earth, and seas, them in this course doth bind. And if it once let loose their reins, their friendship turns to war, Tearing the world whose ordered form their quiet motions bear. By it all holy laws are made and marriage rites are tied, By it is faithful friendship joined. How happy mortals were, If that pure love did guide their minds, which heavenly spheres doth guide!”

## Book III

[3] THE THIRD BOOK OF BOETHIUS
[3] I. Though she had ended her verse, yet the sweetness of it made me remain astonished, attentive, and desirous to hear her longer. Wherefore, after a while, I said: “O most effectual refreshment of wearied minds, how have I been comforted with thy weighty sentences and pleasing music! Insomuch that I begin to think myself not unable to encounter the assaults of Fortune. Wherefore, I am not now afraid, but rather earnestly desire to know those remedies, which before thou toldest me were too sharp.” To which she answered: “I perceived as much as thou sayest, when I saw thee hearken to my speeches with so great silence and attention, and I expected this disposition of thy mind, or rather more truly caused it myself. For the remedies which remain are of that sort that they are bitter to the taste, but being inwardly received wax sweet. And whereas thou sayest that thou art desirous to hear; how much would this desire increase if thou knewest whither we go about to bring thee!” “Whither?” quoth I. “To true felicity,” quoth she, “which thy mind also dreameth of, but thy sight is so dimmed with phantasies that thou canst not behold it as it is.” Then I beseeched her to explicate without delay wherein true happiness consisteth. To which she answered: “I will willingly do so for thy sake, but first I will endeavour to declare in words and to give shape to that which is better known unto thee, that, having thoroughly understood it, by reflecting of the contrary thou mayest discover the type of perfect blessedness.
[3] I. He that a fruitful field will sow, Doth first the ground from bushes free, All fern and briars likewise mow, That he his harvest great may see. Honey seems sweeter to our taste, If cloyed with noisome food it be. Stars clearer shine when Notus’ blast Hath ceased the rainy storms to breed. When Lucifer hath night defaced, The day’s bright horses then succeed. So thou, whom seeming goods do feed, First shake off yokes which so thee press That Truth may then thy mind possess.”
[3] II. Then, for a while looking steadfastly upon the ground, and, as it were, retiring herself to the most secret seat of her soul, she began in this manner: “All men’s thoughts, which are turmoiled with manifold cares, take indeed divers courses, but yet endeavour to attain the same end of happiness, which is that good which, being once obtained, nothing can be further desired. Which is the chiefest of all goods, and containeth in itself whatsoever is good, and if it wanted anything it could not be the chiefest, because there would something remain besides it which might be wished for. Wherefore, it is manifest that blessedness is an estate replenished with all that is good. This, as we said, all men endeavour to obtain by divers ways. For there is naturally ingrafted in men’s minds an earnest desire of that which is truly good; but deceitful error withdraweth it to that which falsely seemeth such. So that some, esteeming it their greatest good to want nothing, labour by all means to abound with riches; others, deeming that to be good which is most deserving of honour, hunt after preferments, to be respected by their fellow-citizens. Others think it the greatest felicity to have great power and authority, and these will either reign themselves or at least procure to be great with princes. But they who think fame better than all these, make all speed possible to spread their names far and near, by achieving some worthy enterprise either in war or peace. Many measure good by joy and mirth, and their chiefest care is how they may abound with pleasure. Some interchange the ends and means of these things one with the other, wanting now riches for the sake of power and pleasure, now power for the sake of wealth and fame. At these and such other do men’s actions and desires aim, as nobility and popularity, which make men esteemed; wife and children, which bring pleasure and delight. But friendship, that most sacred thing, is rather to be attributed to virtue than to fortune. Other things for the most part are desired either for power or pleasure. And it is an easy matter to reduce all corporal goods to the former heads. For strength and greatness give ability; beauty and swiftness, fame; and health yieldeth pleasure. By all which we manifestly seek for nothing else but happiness. For that which every man seeketh most after, is by him esteemed his greatest good. Which is all one with happiness. Wherefore he esteemeth that estate happy which he preferreth before all other.
[3] And thus thou hast in a manner seen the form of human felicity — riches, honour, power, glory, pleasure. Which Epicurus only considering, consequently took pleasure for his chiefest good, because all the rest seemed to delight the mind. But I return to the careful thoughts of men, whose minds, though obscured, yet seek after the greatest good, but like a drunken man know not the way home. For seem they to err who endeavour to want nothing? But nothing can cause happiness so much as the plentiful possession of all that is good, needing the help of none, but is sufficient of itself. Or do they err who take that which is best to be likewise most worthy of respect? No. For it is no vile or contemptible thing which almost all men labour to obtain. Or is not power to be esteemed good? Why, then, is that to be accounted feeble and of no force, which manifestly surpasses all other things? Or is fame to be contemned? But it cannot be ignored that the most excellent is also most famous. For to what purpose should I say that happiness is not sad or melancholy, or subject to grief and trouble, when even in smallest matters we desire that which we delight to have and enjoy? And these be the things which men desire to obtain, and to this end procure riches, dignities, kingdoms, glory, and pleasures, because by them they think to have sufficiency, respect, power, fame, delight, and joy. Wherefore, that is good which men seek after by divers desires, in which the force of nature is easily descried, since though there be many and different opinions, yet they agree in choosing for their end that which is good.
[3] II. How the first reins of all things guided are By powerful Nature as the chiefest cause, And how she keeps, with a foreseeing care, The spacious world in order by her laws, And to sure knots which nothing can untie, By her strong hand all earthly motions draws — To show all this we purpose now to try Our pliant string, our musick’s thrilling sound. Although the Libyan lions often lie Gentle and tame in splendid fetters bound, And fearing their incensed master’s wrath, With patient looks endure each blow and wound, Yet if their jaws they once in blood do bathe, They, gaining courage, with fierce noise awake The force which Nature in them seated hath, And from their necks the broken chains do shake; Then he that tamed them first doth feel their rage, And torn in pieces doth their fury slake. The bird shut up in an unpleasing cage, Which on the lofty trees did lately sing, Though men, her want of freedom to assuage, Should unto her with careful labour bring The sweetest meats which they can best devise, Yet when within her prison fluttering The pleasing shadows of the groves she spies, Her hated food she scatters with her feet, In yearning spirit to the woods she flies, The woods’ delights do tune her accents sweet. When some strong hand doth tender plant constrain With his debased top the ground to meet, If it let go, the crooked twig again Up toward Heaven itself it straight doth raise. Phoebus doth fall into the western main, Yet doth he back return by secret ways, And to the earth doth guide his chariot’s race. Each thing a certain course and laws obeys, Striving to turn back to his proper place; Nor any settled order can be found, But that which doth within itself embrace The births and ends of all things in a round.
[3] III. You also, O earthly creatures, though slightly and as it were in a dream acknowledge your beginning, and though not perspicuously yet in some sort behold that true end of happiness, so that the intention of nature leadeth you to the true good, and manifold error withdraweth you from it. For consider whether those things, by which men think to obtain happiness, can bring them to their desired end. For if either money, or honour, or any of the rest be of that quality that they want nothing which is good, we will also confess that they are able to make men happy. But if they neither be able to perform that they promise, and want many things which are good, are they not manifestly discovered to have a false appearance of happiness? First then, I ask thee thyself, who not long since didst abound with wealth; in that plenty of riches, was thy mind never troubled with any injuries?” “I cannot remember,” quoth I, “that ever my mind was so free from trouble but that something or other still vexed me.” “Was it not because thou either wantedst something which thou wouldst have had, or else hadst something which thou wouldst have wanted?” “It is true,” quoth I. “Then thou desiredst the presence of that, and the absence of this?” “I confess I did,” quoth I. “And doth not a man want that,” quoth she, “which he desireth?” “He doth,” quoth I. “But he that wanteth anything is not altogether sufficient of himself?” “He is not,” quoth I. “So that thou feltest this insufficiency, even the height of thy wealth?” “Why not?” quoth I. “Then riches cannot make a man wanting nothing nor sufficient of himself, and this was that they seemed to promise. But this is most of all to be considered, that money hath nothing of itself which can keep it from being taken from them which possess it, against their will.” “I grant it,” quoth I. “Why shouldst thou not grant it, since that every day those which are more potent take it from others perforce? For from whence proceed so many complaints in law, but that money gotten either by violence or deceit is sought to be recovered by that means?” “It is so indeed,” quoth I. “So that every man needeth some other help to defend his money?” “Who denies that?” quoth I. “But he should not need that help, unless he had money which he might lose?” “There is no doubt of that,” quoth I. “Now then the matter is fallen out quite contrary; for riches, which are thought to suffice of themselves, rather make men stand in need of other helps. And after what manner do riches expel penury? For are not rich men hungry? Are they not thirsty? Or doth much money make the owners senseless of cold in winter? But thou wilt say, wealthy men have wherewithal to satisfy their hunger, slake their thirst, and defend themselves from cold. But in this sort, though want may be somewhat relieved by wealth, yet it cannot altogether be taken away. For if ever gaping and craving it be satiated by riches, there must needs always remain something to be satiated. I omit, that to nature very little, to covetousness nothing is sufficient. Wherefore if riches can neither remove wants, and cause some themselves, why imagine you that they can cause sufficiency?
[3] III. Although the rich man from his mines of gold Dig treasure which his mind can never fill, And lofty neck with precious pearls enfold, And his fat fields with many oxen till, Yet biting cares will never leave his head, Nor will his wealth attend him being dead.
[3] IV. But dignities make him honourable and reverend on whom they light. Have offices that force to plant virtues and expel vices in the minds of those who have them? But they are not wont to banish, but rather to make wickedness splendid. So that we many times complain because most wicked men obtain them. Whereupon Catullus called Nonius a scab or impostume though he sat in his chair of estate. Seest thou what great ignominy dignities heap upon evil men? For their unworthiness would less appear if they were never advanced to any honours. Could so many dangers ever make thee think to bear office with Decoratus, having discovered him to be a very varlet and spy? For we cannot for their honours account them worthy of respect whom we judge unworthy of the honours themselves. But if thou seest any man endued with wisdom, canst thou esteem him unworthy of that respect or wisdom which he hath? No, truly. For virtue hath a proper dignity of her own, which she presently endueth her possessors withal. Which since popular preferments cannot do, it is manifest that they have not the beauty which is proper to true dignity.
[3] In which we are farther to consider that, if to be contemned of many make men abject, dignities make the wicked to be despised the more by laying them open to the view of the world. But the dignities go not scot-free, for wicked men do as much for them, defiling them with their own infection. And that thou mayst plainly see that true respect cannot be gotten by these painted dignities, let one that hath been often Consul go among barbarous nations; will that honour make those barbarous people respect him? And yet, if this were natural to dignities, they would never forsake their function in any nation whatsoever; as fire, wheresoever it be, always remaineth hot. But because not their own nature, but the deceitful opinion of men attributeth that to them, they forthwith come to nothing, being brought to them who esteem them not to be dignities.
[3] And this for foreign nations. But do they always last among them where they had their beginning? The Praetorship, a great dignity in time past, is now an idle name, and an heavy burden of the Senate’s fortune. If heretofore one had care of the people’s provision, he was accounted a great man; now what is more abject than that office? For as we said before, that which hath no proper dignity belonging unto it sometime receiveth and sometime loseth his value at the users’ discretion. Wherefore if dignities cannot make us respected, if they be easily defiled with the infection of the wicked, if their worth decays by change of times, if diversities of nations make them contemptible, what beauty have they in themselves, or can they afford to others, worth the desiring?
[3] IV. Though fierce and lustful Nero did adorn Himself with purple robes, which pearls did grace, He did but gain a general hate and scorn. Yet wickedly he officers most base Over the reverend Senators did place. Who would esteem of fading honours then Which may be given thus by the wickedest men?
[3] V. But can kingdoms and the familiarity of kings make a man mighty? Why not, when their felicity lasteth always? But both former and present times are full of examples that many kings have changed their happiness with misery. O excellent power, which is not sufficient to uphold itself! And if this strength of kingdoms be the author of blessedness, doth it not diminish happiness and bring misery, when it is in any way defective? But though some empires extend themselves far, there will still remain many nations out of their dominions. Now, where the power endeth which maketh them happy, there entereth the contrary which maketh them miserable, so that all kings must needs have less happiness than misery. That Tyrant, knowing by experience the dangers of his estate, signified the fears incident to a kingdom, by the hanging of a drawn sword over a man’s head. What power is this, then, which cannot expel nor avoid biting cares and pricking fears? They would willingly have lived securely, but could not, and yet they brag of their power. Thinkest thou him mighty whom thou seest desire that which he cannot do? Thinkest thou him mighty who dareth not go without his guard; who feareth others more than they fear him; who cannot seem mighty, except his servants please? For what should I speak of kings’ followers, since I show that kingdoms themselves are so full of weakness? Whom the power of kings often standing, but many times falling, doth overthrow. Nero compelled Seneca, his familiar friend and master, to make choice of his own death. Antoninus called Papinianus, who had been long a gallant courtier, to be cut in pieces with his soldiers’ swords. Yet they would both have renounced their power, yea Seneca endeavoured to deliver up his riches also to Nero, and to give himself to a contemplative life. But their very greatness drawing them to their destruction, neither of them could compass that which they desired. Wherefore what power is this that the possessors fear, which when thou wilt have, thou art not secure, and when thou wilt leave, thou canst not avoid? Are we the better for those friends which love us not for our virtue but for our prosperity? But whom prosperity maketh our friend, adversity will make our enemy. And what plague is able to hurt us more than a familiar enemy?
[3] V. Who would be powerful, must His own affections check, Nor let foul reins of lust Subdue his conquered neck. For though the Indian land Should tremble at thy beck, And though thy dread command Far Thule’s isle obey, Unless thou canst withstand And boldly drive away Black care and wretched moan, Thy might is small or none.
[3] O doxa doxa murioisi dae broton ouden gegosi bioton onkosas megan.
[3] VI. As for glory, how deceitful it is oftentimes, and dishonest! For which cause the tragical poet deservedly exclaimeth: “O glory, glory, thou hast raised to honour and dignity myriads of worthless mortals!” For many have often been much spoken of through the false opinions of the common people. Than which what can be imagined more vile? For those who are falsely commended must needs blush at their own praises. Which glory though it be gotten by deserts, yet what adds it to a wise man’s conscience who measureth his own good, not by popular rumours, but by his own certain knowledge? And if it seemeth a fair thing to have dilated our fame, consequently we must judge it a foul thing not to have it extended. But since, as I showed a little before, there must needs be many nations to which the fame of one man cannot arrive, it cometh to pass that he whom thou esteemeth glorious, in the greater part of the world seemeth to have no glory at all. And here now I think popular glory not worth the speaking of, which neither proceedeth from judgment, nor ever hath any firmness. Likewise, who seeth not what a vain and idle thing it is to be called noble? Which insofar as it concerneth fame, is not our own. For nobility seemeth to be a certain praise proceeding from our parents’ deserts. But if praising causeth fame, they must necessarily be famous who are praised. Wherefore the fame of others, if thou hast none of thine own, maketh not thee renowned. But if there be anything good in nobility, I judge it only to be this, that it imposeth a necessity upon those which are noble, not to suffer their nobility to degenerate from the virtue of their ancestors.
[3] VI. The general race of men from a like birth is born. All things one Father have, Who doth them all adorn, Who gave the sun his rays, and the pale moon her horn, The lofty heaven for stars, low earth for mortals chose; He souls fetched down from high in bodies did enclose; And thus from noble seed all men did first compose. Why brag you of your stock? Since none is counted base, If you consider God the author of your race, But he that with foul vice doth his own birth deface.
[3] VII. Now what should I speak of bodily pleasures, the desire of which is full of anxiety, and the enjoying of them breeds repentance? How many diseases, how intolerable griefs bring they forth in the bodies of their possessors, as it were the fruits of their own wickedness! I know not what sweetness their beginnings have, but whosoever will remember his lusts shall understand that the end of pleasure is sadness. Which if it be able to cause happiness, there is no reason why beasts should not be thought blessed, whose whole intention is bent to supply their corporal wants. That pleasure which proceedeth from wife and children should be most honest; but it was too naturally spoken, that some tormentor invented children, whose condition, whatsoever it be, how biting it is, I need not tell thee, who hast had experience heretofore, and art not now free from care. In which I approve the opinion of Euripides, who said that they which had no children are happy by being unfortunate.
[3] VII. All pleasure hath this property, She woundeth those who have her most. And, like unto the angry bee Who hath her pleasant honey lost, She flies away with nimble wing And in our hearts doth leave her sting.
[3] VIII. Wherefore there is no doubt but that these ways to happiness are only certain by-paths, which can never bring any man thither whither they promise to lead him. And with how great evils they are beset, I will briefly show. For what? Wilt thou endeavour to gather money? But thou shalt take it away from him who hath it. Wilt thou excel in dignities? Thou shalt crouch to the giver, and thou who desirest to surpass others in honour shalt become vile by thy baseness in begging. Wishest thou for power? Thou shalt be in danger of thy subjects’ treacheries. Seekest thou for glory? But, drawn into many dangers, thou shalt lose thy safety. Wilt thou live a voluptuous life? But who would not despise and neglect the service of so vile and frail a thing as his body? Now they who boast of the habilities of their body, upon how unsteadfast a possession do they ground themselves! For can you be bigger than elephants, or stronger than bulls? Or swifter than tigers? Look upon the space, firmness, and speedy motion of the heavens, and cease at length to have in admiration these base things. Which heavens are not more to be admired for these qualities than for the manner of their government. As for the glittering of beauty, how soon and swiftly doth it vanish away! As suddenly decaying and changing as the frail flowers in the spring. And if, as Aristotle saith, men had Lynceus’s eyes, that they could see through stone walls, would not they judge that body of Alcibiades, seeming outwardly most fair, to be most foul and ugly by discovering his entrails? Wherefore not thy nature but the weakness of the beholders’ eyes maketh thee seem fair. But esteem the goods of the body as much as you will, so that you acknowledge this, that whatsoever you admire may be dissolved with the burning of an ague of three days. Out of which we may briefly collect this sum; that these goods, which can neither perform that they promise, nor are perfect by having all that is good, do neither, as so many paths, lead men to happiness, nor make men happy of themselves.
[3] VIII. Alas, how ignorance makes wretches stray Out of the way! You from green trees expect no golden mines Nor pearls from vines, Nor use you on mountains to lay your net Fishes to get, Nor, if the pleasant sport of hunting please, Run you to seas. Men will be skilful in the hidden caves Of the ocean waves, And in what coasts the orient pearls are bred, Or purple red, Also, what different sorts of fishes store Each several shore. But when they come their chiefest good to find, Then are they blind, And search for that under the earth, which lies Above the skies. How should I curse these fools? Let thirst them hold Of fame and gold, That, having got false goods with pain, they learn True to discern.
[3] IX. “Let it suffice that we have hitherto discovered the form of false felicity, which if thou hast plainly seen, order now requireth that we show thee in what true happiness consisteth.” “I see,” quoth I, “that neither sufficiency by riches, nor power by kingdoms, nor respect by dignities, nor renown by glory, nor joy can be gotten by pleasures.” “Hast thou also understood the causes why it is so?” “Methink I have a little glimpse of them, but I had rather thou wouldst declare them more plainly.”
[3] “The reason is manifest, for that which is simple and undivided of itself, is divided by men’s error, and is translated from true and perfect to false and unperfect. Thinkest thou that which needeth nothing, to stand in need of power?” “No,” quoth I. “Thou sayest well, for if any power in any respect be weak, in this it must necessarily stand in need of the help of others.” “It is true,” quoth I. “Wherefore sufficiency and power have one and the same nature.” “So it seemeth.” “Now thinkest thou, that which is of this sort ought to be despised, or rather that it is worthy to be respected above all other things?” “There can be no doubt of this,” quoth I. “Let us add respect then to sufficiency and power, so that we judge these three to be one.” “We must add it if we confess the truth.”
[3] “What now,” quoth she, “thinkest thou this to be obscure and base, or rather most excellent and famous? Consider whether that which thou hast granted to want nothing, to be most potent, and most worthy of honour, may seem to want fame, which it cannot yield itself, and for that cause be in some respect more abject.” “I must needs confess,” quoth I, “that, being what it is, this is also most famous.” “Consequently then we must acknowledge that fame differeth nothing from the former three.” “We must so,” quoth I. “Wherefore that which wanteth nothing, which can perform all things by its own power, which is famous and respected, is it not manifest that it is also most pleasant?” To which I answered: “How such a man should fall into any grief, I can by no means imagine. Wherefore if that which we have said hitherto be true, we must needs confess that he is most joyful and content.” “And by the same reason it followeth that sufficiency, power, fame, respect, pleasure have indeed divers names, but differ not in substance.” “It followeth indeed,” quoth I. “This then, which is one and simple by nature, man’s wickedness divideth, and while he endeavoureth to obtain part of that which hath no parts, he neither getteth a part, which is none, nor the whole, which he seeketh not after.” “How is this?” quoth I. “He who seeketh after riches,” quoth she, “to avoid want, taketh no thought for power, he had rather be base and obscure, he depriveth himself even of many natural pleasures that he may not lose the money which he hath gotten. But by this means he attaineth not to sufficiency, whom power forsaketh, whom trouble molesteth, whom baseness maketh abject, whom obscurity overwhelmeth. Again, he that only desireth power, consumeth wealth, despiseth pleasures, and setteth light by honour or glory, which is not potent. But thou seest how many things are wanting to this man also. For sometimes he wanteth necessaries, and is perplexed with anxieties, and being not able to rid himself, ceaseth to be powerful, which was the only thing he aimed at. The like discourse may be made of honours, glory, pleasures. For since every one of these things is the same with the rest, whosoever seeketh for any of them without the rest obtaineth not that which he desireth.” “What then?” quoth I. “If one should desire to have them all together, he should wish for the sum of happiness, but shall he find it in these things which we have showed cannot perform what they promise?” “No,” quoth I. “Wherefore we must by no means seek for happiness in these things which are thought to afford the several portions of that which is to be desired.” “I confess it,” quoth I, “and nothing can be more true than this.” “Now then,” quoth she, “thou hast both the form and causes of false felicity; cast but the eyes of thy mind on the contrary, and thou shalt presently espy true happiness, which we promised to show thee.” “This,” quoth I, “is evident, even to him that is blind, and thou showedst it a little before, while thou endeavouredst to lay open the causes of the false. For, if I be not deceived, that is true and perfect happiness which maketh a man sufficient, potent, respected, famous, joyful. And that thou mayest know that I understood thee aright, that which can truly perform any one of these because they are all one, I acknowledge to be full and perfect happiness.” “O my scholar, I think thee happy by having this opinion, if thou addest this also.” “What?” quoth I. “Dost thou imagine that there is any mortal or frail thing which can cause this happy estate?” “I do not,” quoth I, “and that hath been so proved by thee, that more cannot be desired.” “Wherefore these things seem to afford men the images of the true good, or certain unperfect goods, but they cannot give them the true and perfect good itself.” “I am of the same mind,” quoth I. “Now then, since thou knowest wherein true happiness consisteth, and what have only a false show of it, it remaineth that thou shouldst learn where thou mayest seek for this which is true.” “This is that,” quoth I, “which I have long earnestly expected.” “But since, as Plato teacheth (in Timaeus), we must implore God’s assistance even in our least affairs, what, thinkest thou, must we do now, that we may deserve to find the seat of that sovereign good?” “We must,” quoth I, “invocate the Father of all things, without whose remembrance no beginning hath a good foundation.” “Thou sayest rightly,” quoth she, and withal sung in this sort.
[3] IX. “O Thou, that dost the world in lasting order guide, Father of heaven and earth, Who makest time swiftly slide, And, standing still Thyself, yet fram’st all moving laws, Who to Thy work wert moved by no external cause: But by a sweet desire, where envy hath no place, Thy goodness moving Thee to give each thing his grace, Thou dost all creatures’ forms from highest patterns take, From Thy fair mind the world fair like Thyself doth make. Thus Thou perfect the whole perfect each part dost frame. Thou temp’rest elements, making cold mixed with flame And dry things join with moist, lest fire away should fly, Or earth, opprest with weight, buried too low should lie. Thou in consenting parts fitly disposed hast Th’all-moving soul in midst of threefold nature placed, Which, cut in several parts that run a different race, Into itself returns, and circling doth embrace The highest mind, and heaven with like proportion drives. Thou with like cause dost make the souls and lesser lives, Fix them in chariots swift, and widely scatterest O’er heaven and earth; then at Thy fatherly behest They stream, like fire returning, back to Thee, their God. Dear Father, let my mind Thy hallowed seat ascend, Let me behold the spring of grace and find Thy light, That I on Thee may fix my soul’s well clearéd sight. Cast off the earthly weight wherewith I am opprest, Shine as Thou art most bright, Thou only calm and rest To pious men whose end is to behold Thy ray, Who their beginning art, their guide, their bound, and way.
[3] X. Wherefore since thou hast seen what is the form of perfect and imperfect good, now I think we must show in what this perfection of happiness is placed. And inquire first whether there can be any such good extant in the world, as thou hast defined; lest, contrary to truth, we be deceived with an empty show of thought. But it cannot be denied that there is some such thing extant which is as it were the fountain of all goodness. For all that is said to be imperfect is so termed for the want it hath of perfection. Whence it followeth that if in any kind we find something imperfect, there must needs be something perfect also in the same kind. For if we take away perfection we cannot so much as devise how there should be any imperfection. For the nature of things began not from that which is defective and not complete, but, proceeding from entire and absolute, falleth into that which is extreme and enfeebled. But if, as we showed before, there be a certain imperfect felicity of frail goods, it cannot be doubted but that there is some solid and perfect happiness also.” “Thou hast,” quoth I, “concluded most firmly and most truly.” “Now where this good dwelleth,” quoth she, “consider this. The common conceit of men’s minds proveth that God the Prince of all things is good. For, since nothing can be imagined better than God, who doubteth but that is good than which is nothing better? And reason doth in such sort demonstrate God to be good that it convinceth Him to be perfectly good. For unless He were so, He could not be the chief of all things. For there would be something better than He, having perfect goodness, which could seem to be of greater antiquity and eminence than He. For it is already manifest that perfect things were before the imperfect. Wherefore, lest our reasoning should have no end, we must confess that the Sovereign God is most full of sovereign and perfect goodness. But we have concluded that perfect goodness is true happiness, wherefore true blessedness must necessarily be placed in the most high God.” “I agree,” quoth I, “neither can this be any way contradicted.” “But I pray thee,” quoth she, “see how boldly and inviolably thou approvest that which we said, that the Sovereign God is most full of sovereign goodness.” “How?” quoth I. “That thou presumest not that this Father of all things hath either received from others that sovereign good with which He is said to be replenished, or hath it naturally in such sort that thou shouldst think that the substance of the blessedness which is had, and of God who hath it, were diverse. For if thou thinkest that He had it from others, thou mayest also infer that he who gave it was better than the receiver. But we most worthily confess that He is the most excellent of all things. And if He hath it by nature, but as a diverse thing, since we speak of God the Prince of all things, let him that can, invent who united these diverse things. Finally, that which is different from anything, is not that from which it is understood to differ. Wherefore that which is naturally different from the sovereign good, is not the sovereign good itself. Which it were impious to think of God, than whom, we know certainly, nothing is better. For doubtless the nature of nothing can be better than the beginning of it. Wherefore I may most truly conclude that which is the beginning of all things to be also in His own substance the chiefest good.” “Most rightly,” quoth I. “But it is granted that the chiefest good is blessedness?” “It is,” quoth I. “Wherefore,” quoth she, “we must needs confess that blessedness itself is God.” “I can neither contradict,” quoth I, “thy former propositions, and I see this illation followeth from them.”
[3] “Consider,” saith she, “if the same be not more firmly proved hence, because there cannot be two chief goods, the one different from the other. For it is manifest that of those goods which differ, the one is not the other, wherefore neither of them can be perfect, wanting the other. But manifestly that which is not perfect, is not the chiefest, wherefore the chief goods cannot be diverse. Now we have proved that both blessedness and God are the chiefest good, wherefore that must needs be the highest blessedness which is the highest divinity.” “There can be nothing,” quoth I, “concluded more truly than this, nor more firmly in arguing, nor more worthy God himself.” “Upon this then,” quoth she, “as the geometricians are wont, out of their propositions which they have demonstrated, to infer something which they call porismata (deductions) so will I give thee as it were a corollarium. For since that men are made blessed by the obtaining of blessedness, and blessedness is nothing else but divinity, it is manifest that men are made blessed by the obtaining of divinity. And as men are made just by the obtaining of justice, and wise by the obtaining of wisdom, so they who obtain divinity must needs in like manner become gods. Wherefore everyone that is blessed is a god, but by nature there is only one God; but there may be many by participation.” “This is,” quoth I, “an excellent and precious porisma or corollarium.” “But there is nothing more excellent than that which reason persuadeth us to add.” “What?” quoth I.
[3] “Since,” quoth she, “blessedness seemeth to contain many things, whether do they all concur as divers parts to the composition of one entire body of blessedness, or doth some one of them form the substance of blessedness to which the rest are to be referred?” “I desire,” quoth I, “that thou wouldst declare this point, by the enumeration of the particulars.” “Do we not think,” quoth she, “that blessedness is good?” “Yea, the chiefest good,” quoth I. “Thou mayest,” quoth she, “add this to them all. For blessedness is accounted the chiefest sufficiency, the chiefest power, respect, fame, and pleasure. What then? Are all these — sufficiency, power, and the rest — the good, in the sense that they are members of it, or rather are they referred to good as to the head?” “I understand,” quoth I, “what thou proposest, but I desire to hear what thou concludest.” “This is the decision of this matter. If all these were members of blessedness, they should differ one from another. For this is the nature of parts, that being divers they compose one body. But we have proved that all these are one and the same thing. Wherefore they are no members, otherwise blessedness should be compacted of one member, which cannot be.” “There is no doubt of this,” quoth I, “but I expect that which is behind.” “It is manifest that the rest are to be referred to goodness; for sufficiency is desired, because it is esteemed good, and likewise power, because that likewise is thought to be good. And we may conjecture the same of respect, fame, and pleasure. Wherefore goodness is the sum and cause of all that is desired. For that which is neither good indeed, nor beareth any show of goodness, can by no means be sought after. And contrariwise those things which are not good of their own nature, yet, if they seem such, are desired as if they were truly good. So that the sum, origin, and cause of all that is sought after is rightly thought to be goodness. And that on account of which a thing is sought, seemeth to be the chief object of desire. As if one would ride for his health, he doth not so much desire the motion of riding, as the effect of health. Wherefore, since all things are desired in respect of goodness, they are not so much wished for as goodness itself. But we granted that to be blessedness for which other things are desired, wherefore in like manner only blessedness is sought after; by which it plainly appeareth, that goodness and blessedness have one and the self-same substance.” “I see not how any man can dissent.” “But we have showed that God and true blessedness are one and the self-same thing.” “It is so,” quoth I. “We may then securely conclude that the substance of God consisteth in nothing else but in goodness.
[3] X. Come hither, all you that are bound, Whose base and earthly minds are drowned By lust which doth them tie in cruel chains: Here is a seat for men opprest, Here is a port of pleasant rest; Here may a wretch have refuge from his pains. No gold, which Tagus’ sands bestow, Nor which on Hermus’ banks doth flow, Nor precious stones which scorched Indians get, Can clear the sharpness of the mind, But rather make it far more blind, And in the farther depth of darkness set. For this that sets our souls on work Buried in caves of earth doth lurk. But heaven is guided by another light, Which causeth us to shun the dark, And who this light doth truly mark, Must needs deny that Phoebus’ beams are bright.”
[3] For the discussion on the nature of good in this poem and the next piece of prose cf. supra, p ff.
[3] Literally, “Nor Indus, neighbour of the torrid zone, blending its green and white pebbles.”
[3] XI. “I consent,” quoth I, “for all is grounded upon most firm reasons.” “But what account wilt thou make,” quoth she, “to know what goodness itself is?” “I will esteem it infinitely,” quoth I, “because by this means I shall come to know God also, who is nothing else but goodness.” “I will conclude this,” quoth she, “most certainly, if those things be not denied which I have already proved.” “They shall not,” quoth I. “Have we not proved,” quoth she, “that those things which are desired of many, are not true and perfect goods, because they differ one from another and, being separated, cannot cause complete and absolute goodness, which is only found when they are united as it were into one form and causality, that the same may be sufficiency, power, respect, fame, and pleasure? And except they be all one and the same thing, that they have nothing worth the desiring?” “It hath been proved,” quoth I, “neither can it be any way doubted of.” “Those things, then, which, when they differ, are not good and when they are one, become good, are they not made good by obtaining unity?” “So methink,” quoth I. “But dost thou grant that all that is good is good by partaking goodness?” “It is so.” “Thou must grant then likewise that unity and goodness are the same. For those things have the same substance, which naturally have not diverse effects.” “I cannot deny it,” quoth I. “Knowest thou then,” quoth she, “that everything that is doth so long remain and subsist as it is one, and perisheth and is dissolved so soon as it ceaseth to be one?” “How?” “As in living creatures,” quoth she, “so long as the body and soul remain united, the living creature remaineth. But when this unity is dissolved by their separation, it is manifest that it perisheth, and is no longer a living creature. The body also itself, so long as it remaineth in one form by the conjunction of the parts, appeareth the likeness of a man. But if the members of the body, being separated and sundered, have lost their unity, it is no longer the same. And in like manner it will be manifest to him that will descend to other particulars, that everything continueth so long as it is one, and perisheth when it loseth unity.” “Considering more particulars, I find it to be no otherwise.” “Is there anything,” quoth she, “that in the course of nature, leaving the desire of being, seeketh to come to destruction and corruption?” “If,” quoth I, “I consider living creatures which have any nature to will and nill, I find nothing that without extern compulsion forsake the intention to remain, and of their own accord hasten to destruction. For every living creature laboureth to preserve his health, and escheweth death and detriment. But what I should think of herbs, and trees, and of all things without life, I am altogether doubtful.”
[3] “But there is no cause why thou shouldst doubt of this, if thou considerest first that herbs and trees grow in places agreeable to their nature, where, so much as their constitution permitteth, they cannot soon wither and perish. For some grow in fields, other upon hills, some in fenny, other in stony places, and the barren sands are fertile for some, which if thou wouldst transplant into other places they die. But nature giveth every one that which is fitting, and striveth to keep them from decaying so long as they can remain. What should I tell thee, if all of them, thrusting as it were their lips into the ground, draw nourishment by their roots, and convey substance and bark by the inward pith? What, that always the softest, as the pith, is placed within, and is covered without by the strength of the wood, and last of all the bark is exposed to the weather, as being best able to bear it off? And how great is the diligence of nature that all things may continue by the multiplication of seed; all which who knoweth not to be, as it were, certain engines, not only to remain for a time, but successively in a manner to endure for ever? Those things also which are thought to be without all life, doth not every one in like manner desire that which appertaineth to their own good? For why doth levity lift up flames, or heaviness weigh down the earth, but because these places and motions are convenient for them? And that which is agreeable to everything conserveth it, as that which is opposite causeth corruption. Likewise those things which are hard, as stones, stick most firmly to their parts, and make great resistance to any dissolution. And liquid things, as air and water, are indeed easily divided, but do easily also join again. And fire flieth all division. Neither do we now treat of the voluntary motions of the understanding soul, but only of natural operations. Of which sort is, to digest that which we have eaten, without thinking of it, to breathe in our sleep not thinking what we do. For even in living creatures the love of life proceedeth not from the will of the soul, but from the principles of nature. For the will many times embraceth death upon urgent occasions, which nature abhorreth; and contrariwise the act of generation, by which alone the continuance of mortal things is maintained, is sometimes bridled by the will, though nature doth always desire it. So true it is that this self-love proceedeth not from any voluntary motion, but from natural intention. For providence gave to her creatures this as the greatest cause of continuance, that they naturally desire to continue so long as they may, wherefore there is no cause why thou shouldst any way doubt that all things which are desire naturally stability of remaining, and eschew corruption.”
[3] “I confess,” quoth I, “that I now see undoubtedly that which before seemed very doubtful.” “Now that,” quoth she, “which desireth to continue and remain seeketh to have unity. For if this be taken away, being itself cannot remain.” “It is true,” quoth I. “All things then,” quoth she, “desire unity.” I granted it to be so. “But we have showed that unity is the same as goodness.” “You have indeed.” “All things then desire goodness, which thou mayest define thus: Goodness is that which is desired of all things.” “There can be nothing imagined more true. For either all things have reference to no one principle and, being destitute as it were of one head, shall be in confusion without any ruler: or if there be anything to which all things hasten, that must be the chiefest of all goods.” “I rejoice greatly O scholar,” quoth she, “for thou hast fixed in thy mind the very mark of verity. But in this thou hast discovered that which a little before thou saidest thou wert ignorant of.” “What is that?” quoth I. “What the end of all things is,” quoth she. “For certainly it is that which is desired of all things, which since we have concluded to be goodness, we must also confess that goodness is the end of all things.
[3] XI. He that would seek the truth with thoughts profound And would not stray in ways that are not right, He to himself must turn his inward sight, And guide his motions in a circled round, Teaching his mind that ever she design Herself in her own treasures to possess: So that which late lay hidden in cloudiness More bright and clear than Phoebus’ beams shall shine. Flesh hath not quenched all the spirit’s light, Though this oblivion’s lump holds her opprest. Some seed of truth remaineth in our breast, Which skilful learning eas’ly doth excite. For being askt how can we answer true Unless that grace within our hearts did dwell? If Plato’s heavenly muse the truth us tell, We learning things remember them anew.”
[3] XII. Then I said that I did very well like of Plato’s doctrine, for thou dost bring these things to my remembrance now the second time, first, because I lost their memory by the contagion of my body, and after when I was oppressed with the burden of grief. “If,” quoth she, “thou reflectest upon that which heretofore hath been granted, thou wilt not be far from remembering that which in the beginning thou confessedst thyself to be ignorant of.” “What?” quoth I. “By what government,” quoth she, “the world is ruled.” “I remember,” quoth I, “that I did confess my ignorance, but though I foresee what thou wilt say, yet I desire to hear it more plainly from thyself.” “Thou thoughtest a little before that it was not to be doubted that this world is governed by God.” “Neither do I think now,” quoth I, “neither will I ever think, that it is to be doubted of, and I will briefly explicate the reasons which move me to think so. This world could never have been compacted of so many divers and contrary parts, unless there were One that doth unite these so different things; and this disagreeing diversity of natures being united would separate and divide this concord, unless there were One that holdeth together that which He united. Neither would the course of nature continue so certain, nor would the different parts hold so well-ordered motions in due places, times, causality, spaces and qualities, unless there were One who, Himself remaining quiet, disposeth and ordereth this variety of motions. This, whatsoever it be, by which things created continue and are moved, I call God, a name which all men use.”
[3] “Since,” quoth she, “thou art of this mind, I think with little labour thou mayest be capable of felicity, and return to thy country in safety. But let us consider what we proposed. Have we not placed sufficiency in happiness, and granted that God is blessedness itself?” “Yes truly.” “Wherefore,” quoth she, “He will need no outward helps to govern the world, otherwise, if He needed anything, He had not full sufficiency.” “That,” quoth I, “must necessarily be so.” “Wherefore He disposeth all things by Himself.” “No doubt He doth,” quoth I. “But it hath been proved that God is goodness itself.” “I remember it very well,” quoth I. “Then He disposeth all things by goodness: since He governeth all things by Himself, whom we have granted to be goodness. And this is as it were the helm and rudder by which the frame of the world is kept steadfast and uncorrupted.” “I most willingly agree,” quoth I, “and I foresaw a little before, though only with a slender guess, that thou wouldst conclude this.” “I believe thee,” quoth she, “for now I suppose thou lookest more watchfully about thee to discern the truth. But that which I shall say is no less manifest.” “What?” quoth I. “Since that God is deservedly thought to govern all things with the helm of goodness, and all these things likewise, as I have showed, hasten to goodness with their natural contention, can there be any doubt made but that they are governed willingly, and that they frame themselves of their own accord to their disposer’s beck, as agreeable and conformable to their ruler?” “It must needs be so,” quoth I, “neither would it seem an happy government, if it were an imposed yoke, not a desired health.” “There is nothing then which, following nature, endeavoureth to resist God.” “Nothing,” quoth I. “What if anything doth endeavour,” quoth she, “can anything prevail against Him, whom we have granted to be most powerful by reason of His blessedness?” “No doubt,” quoth I, “nothing could prevail.” “Wherefore there is nothing which either will or can resist this sovereign goodness.” “I think not,” quoth I. “It is then the sovereign goodness which governeth all things strongly, and disposeth them sweetly.” “How much,” quoth I, “doth not only the reason which thou allegest, but much more the very words which thou usest, delight me, that folly which so much vexed me may at length be ashamed of herself.”
[3] “Thou hast heard in the poets’ fables,” quoth she, “how the giants provoked heaven, but this benign fortitude put them also down, as they deserved. But wilt thou have our arguments contend together? Perhaps by this clash there will fly out some beautiful spark of truth.” “As it pleaseth thee,” quoth I. “No man can doubt,” quoth she, “but that God is almighty.” “No man,” quoth I, “that is well in his wits.” “But,” quoth she, “there is nothing that He who is almighty cannot do.” “Nothing,” quoth I. “Can God do evil?” “No,” quoth I, “Wherefore,” quoth she, “evil is nothing, since He cannot do it who can do anything.” “Dost thou mock me,” quoth I, “making with thy reasons an inextricable labyrinth, because thou dost now go in where thou meanest to go out again, and after go out, where thou camest in, or dost thou frame a wonderful circle of the simplicity of God? For a little before taking thy beginning from blessedness, thou affirmedst that to be the chiefest good which thou saidst was placed in God, and likewise thou provedst, that God Himself is the chiefest good and full happiness, out of which thou madest me a present of that inference, that no man shall be happy unless he be also a God. Again thou toldest me that the form of goodness is the substance of God and of blessedness, and that unity is the same with goodness, because it is desired by the nature of all things; thou didst also dispute that God governeth the whole world with the helm of goodness, and that all things obey willingly, and that there is no nature of evil, and thou didst explicate all these things with no foreign or far-fetched proofs, but with those which were proper and drawn from inward principles, the one confirming the other.”
[3] “We neither play nor mock,” quoth she, “and we have finished the greatest matter that can be by the assistance of God, whose aid we implored in the beginning. For such is the form of the Divine substance that it is neither divided into outward things, nor receiveth any such into itself, but as Parmenides saith of it:
[3] In body like a sphere well-rounded on all sides,
[3] it doth roll about the moving orb of things, while it keepeth itself unmovable. And if we have used no far-fetched reasons, but such as were placed within the compass of the matter we handled, thou hast no cause to marvel, since thou hast learned in Plato’s school that our speeches must be like and as it were akin to the things we speak of.
[3] XII. Happy is he that can behold The well-spring whence all good doth rise, Happy is he that can unfold The bands with which the earth him ties. The Thracian poet whose sweet song Performed his wife’s sad obsequies, And forced the woods to run along When he his mournful tunes did play, Whose powerful music was so strong That it could make the rivers stay; The fearful hinds not daunted were, But with the lions took their way, Nor did the hare behold with fear The dog whom these sweet notes appease. When force of grief drew yet more near, And on his heart did burning seize, Nor tunes which all in quiet bound Could any jot their master ease, The gods above too hard he found, And Pluto’s palace visiting. He mixed sweet verses with the sound Of his loud harp’s delightful string, All that he drank with thirsty draught From his high mother’s chiefest spring, All that his restless grief him taught, And love which gives grief double aid, With this even hell itself was caught, Whither he went, and pardon prayed For his dear spouse (unheard request). The three-head porter was dismayed, Ravished with his unwonted guest, The Furies, which in tortures keep The guilty souls with pains opprest, Moved with his song began to weep. Ixion’s wheel now standing still Turns not his head with motions steep. Though Tantalus might drink at will, To quench his thirst he would forbear. The vulture full with music shrill Doth not poor Tityus’ liver tear. ‘We by his verses conquered are,’ Saith the great King whom spirits fear. ‘Let us not then from him debar His wife whom he with songs doth gain. Yet lest our gift should stretch too far, We will it with this law restrain, That when from hell he takes his flight, He shall from looking back refrain.’ Who can for lovers laws indite? Love hath no law but her own will. Orpheus, seeing on the verge of night Eurydice, doth lose and kill Her and himself with foolish love. But you this feigned tale fulfil, Who think unto the day above To bring with speed your darksome mind. For if, your eye conquered, you move Backward to Pluto left behind, All the rich prey which thence you took, You lose while back to hell you look.”

## Book IV

[4] THE FOURTH BOOK OF BOETHIUS
[4] I. When Philosophy had sung these verses with a soft and sweet voice, observing due dignity and gravity in her countenance and gesture, I, not having altogether forgotten my inward grief, interrupted her speech which she was about to continue, and said: “O thou who bringest us to see true light, those things which hitherto thou hast treated of have manifestly appeared both to be divine when contemplated apart, and invincible when supported by thy reasons, and what thou hast uttered, though the force of grief had made me forget it of late, yet heretofore I was not altogether ignorant of it. But this is the chiefest cause of my sorrow, that since the governor of all things is so good, there can either be any evil at all, or that it pass unpunished. Which alone I beseech thee consider, how much admiration it deserveth. But there is another greater than this; for wickedness bearing rule and sway, virtue is not only without reward, but lieth also trodden under the wicked’s feet, and is punished instead of vice. That which things should be done in the kingdom of God, who knoweth all things, can do all things, but will do only that which is good, no man can sufficiently admire nor complain.”
[4] To which she answered: “It were indeed infinitely strange, and surpassing all monsters, if, as thou conceivest, in the best-ordered house of so great an householder the vilest vessels were made account of and the precious neglected; but it is not so. For if those things which were a little before concluded be kept unviolated, thou shalt by His help, of whose kingdom we speak, know that the good are always powerful, and the evil always abject and weak, and that vices are never without punishment, nor virtue without reward, and that the good are always prosperous, and the evil unfortunate, and many things of that sort, which will take away all cause of complaint, and give thee firm and solid strength. And since by my means thou hast already seen the form of true blessedness, and known where it is placed, running over all those things which I think necessary to rehearse, I will show thee the way which will carry thee home. And I will also fasten wings upon thy mind, with which she may rouse herself, that, all perturbation being driven away, thou mayest return safely into thy country by my direction, by my path, and with my wings.
[4] I. For I have swift and nimble wings which will ascend the lofty skies, With which when thy quick mind is clad, it will the loathéd earth despise, And go beyond the airy globe, and watery clouds behind thee leave, Passing the fire which scorching heat doth from the heavens’ swift course receive, Until it reach the starry house, and get to tread bright Phoebus’ ways, Following the chilly sire’s path, companion of his flashing rays, And trace the circle of the stars which in the night to us appear, And having stayed there long enough go on beyond the farthest sphere, Sitting upon the highest orb partaker of the glorious light, Where the great King his sceptre holds, and the world’s reins doth guide aright, And, firm in his swift chariot, doth everything in order set. Unto this seat when thou art brought, thy country, which thou didst forget, Thou then wilt challenge to thyself, saying: ‘This is the glorious land Where I was born, and in this soil my feet for evermore shall stand. Whence if thou pleasest to behold the earthly night which thou hast left, Those tyrants which the people fear will seem of their true home bereft.’”
[4] II. “Oh!” quoth I. “How great things dost thou promise! And I doubt not but thou canst perform them, wherefore stay me not now that thou hast stirred up my desires.” “First then,” quoth she, “that good men are always powerful, and evil men of no strength, thou mayest easily know, the one is proved by the other. For since that good and evil are contraries, if it be convinced that goodness is potent, the weakness of evil will be also manifest; and contrariwise if we discern the frailty of evil, we must needs acknowledge the firmness of goodness. But that our opinions may be more certainly embraced, I will take both ways, confirming my propositions, sometime from one part, sometime from another.
[4] There be two things by which all human actions are effected, will and power, of which if either be wanting, there can nothing be performed. For if there want will, no man taketh anything in hand against his will, and if there be not power, the will is in vain. So that, if thou seest any willing to obtain that which he doth not obtain, thou canst not doubt but that he wanted power to obtain what he would.” “It is manifest,” quoth I, “and can by no means be denied.” “And wilt thou doubt that he could, whom thou seest bring to pass what he desired?” “No.” “But every man is mighty in that which he can do, and weak in that which he cannot do.” “I confess it,” quoth I. “Dost thou remember then,” quoth she, “that it was inferred by our former discourses that all the intentions of man’s will doth hasten to happiness, though their courses be divers?” “I remember,” quoth I, “that that also was proved.” “Dost thou also call to mind that blessedness is goodness itself, and consequently when blessedness is sought after, goodness must of course be desired?” “I call it not to mind, for I have it already fixed in my memory.” “Wherefore all men both good and bad without difference of intentions endeavour to obtain goodness.” “It followeth,” quoth I. “But it is certain that men are made good by the obtaining of goodness.” “It is so.” “Wherefore good men obtain what they desire.” “So it seemeth.” “And if evil men did obtain the goodness they desire, they could not be evil.” “It is true.” “Wherefore since they both desire goodness, but the one obtaineth it and the other not, there is no doubt but that good men are powerful, and the evil weak.” “Whosoever doubteth of this,” quoth I, “he neither considereth the nature of things, nor the consequence of thy reasons.” “Again,” quoth she, “if there be two to whom the same thing is proposed according to nature, and the one of them bringeth it perfectly to pass with his natural function, but the other cannot exercise that natural function but after another manner than is agreeable to nature, and doth not perform that which he had proposed, but imitateth the other who performeth it: which of these two wilt thou judge to be more powerful?” “Though I conjecture,” quoth I, “at thy meaning, yet I desire to hear it more plainly.” “Wilt thou deny,” quoth she, “that the motion of walking is agreeable to the nature of men?” “No,” quoth I. “And makest thou any doubt that the function of it doth naturally belong to the feet?” “There is no doubt of this neither,” quoth I. “Wherefore if one that can go upon his feet doth walk, and another who hath not this natural function of his feet endeavoureth to walk by creeping upon his hands, which of these two is deservedly to be esteemed the stronger?” “Infer the rest,” quoth I, “for no man doubteth but that he which can use that natural function is stronger than he which cannot.” “But,” quoth she, “the good seek to obtain the chiefest good, which is equally proposed to bad and good, by the natural function of virtues, but the evil endeavour to obtain the same by divers concupiscences, which are not the natural function of obtaining goodness. Thinkest thou otherwise?” “No,” quoth I, “for it is manifest what followeth. For by the force of that which I have already granted, it is necessary that good men are powerful and evil men weak.”
[4] “Thou runnest before rightly,” quoth she, “and it is (as physicians are wont to hope) a token of an erected and resisting nature. Wherefore, since I see thee most apt and willing to comprehend, I will therefore heap up many reasons together. For consider the great weakness of vicious men, who cannot come so far as their natural intention leadeth and almost compelleth them. And what if they were destitute of this so great and almost invincible help of the direction of nature? Ponder likewise the immense impotency of wicked men. For they are no light or trifling rewards which they desire, and cannot obtain: but they fail in the very sum and top of things: neither can the poor wretches compass that which they only labour for nights and days: in which thing the forces of the good eminently appear. For as thou wouldst judge him to be most able to walk who going on foot could come as far as there were any place to go in: so must thou of force judge him most powerful who obtaineth the end of all that can be desired, beyond which there is nothing. Hence that which is opposite also followeth, that the same men are wicked and destitute of all forces. For why do they follow vices, forsaking virtues? By ignorance of that which is good? But what is more devoid of strength than blind ignorance? Or do they know what they should embrace, but passion driveth them headlong the contrary way? So also intemperance makes them frail, since they cannot strive against vice. Or do they wittingly and willingly forsake goodness, and decline to vices? But in this sort they leave not only to be powerful, but even to be at all. For they which leave the common end of all things which are, leave also being. Which may perhaps seem strange to some, that we should say that evil men are not at all, who are the greatest part of men: but yet it is so. For I deny not that evil men are evil, but withal I say that purely and simply they are not.
[4] For as thou mayest call a carcase a dead man, but not simply a man, so I confess that the vicious are evil, but I cannot grant that they are absolutely. For that is which retaineth order, and keepeth nature, but that which faileth from this leaveth also to be that which is in his own nature. But thou wilt say that evil men can do many things, neither will I deny it, but this their power proceedeth not from forces but from weakness. For they can do evil, which they could not do if they could have remained in the performance of that which is good. Which possibility declareth more evidently that they can do nothing. For if, as we concluded a little before, evil is nothing, since they can only do evil, it is manifest that the wicked can do nothing.” “It is most manifest.” “And that thou mayest understand what the force of this power is; we determined a little before that there is nothing more powerful than the Sovereign Goodness.” “It is true,” quoth I. “But He cannot do evil.” “No.” “Is there any then,” quoth she, “that think that men can do all things?” “No man, except he be mad, thinketh so.” “But yet men can do evil.” “I would to God they could not,” quoth I. “Since therefore he that can only do good, can do all things, and they who can do evil, cannot do all things, it is manifest that they which can do evil are less potent. Moreover, we have proved that all power is to be accounted among those things which are to be wished for, and that all such things have reference to goodness, as to the very height of their nature. But the possibility of committing wickedness cannot have reference to goodness. Wherefore it is not to be wished for. Yet all power is to be wished for; and consequently it is manifest, possibility of evil is no power. By all which the power of the good and the undoubted infirmity of evil appeareth. And it is manifest that the sentence of Plato is true: that only wise men can do that which they desire, and that the wicked men practise indeed what they list, but cannot perform what they would. For they do what they list, thinking to obtain the good which they desire by those things which cause them delight; but they obtain it not, because shameful action cannot arrive to happiness.
[4] II. The kings whom we behold In highest glory placed, And with rich purple graced, Compassed with soldiers bold; Whose countenance shows fierce threats, Who with rash fury chide, If any strip the pride From their vainglorious feats; He’ll see them close oppressed Within by galling chains For filthy lust there reigns And poisoneth their breast, Wrath often them perplexeth Raising their minds like waves, Sorrow their power enslaves And sliding hope them vexeth. So many tyrants still Dwelling in one poor heart, Except they first depart She cannot have her will.
[4] III. Seest thou then in what mire wickedness wallows, and how clearly honesty shineth? By which it is manifest that the good are never without rewards, nor the evil without punishments. For in all things that are done that for which anything is done may deservedly seem the reward of that action, as to him that runneth a race, the crown for which he runneth is proposed as a reward. But we have showed that blessedness is the selfsame goodness for which all things are done. Wherefore this goodness is proposed as a common reward for all human actions, and this cannot be separated from those who are good. For he shall not rightly be any longer called good, who wanteth goodness; wherefore virtuous manners are not left without their due rewards. And how much so ever the evil do rage, yet the wise man’s crown will not fade nor wither. For others’ wickedness depriveth not virtuous minds of their proper glory. But if he should rejoice at anything which he hath from others, either he who gave it, or any other might take it away. But because every man’s virtue is the cause of it, then only he shall want his reward when he leaveth to be virtuous. Lastly, since every reward is therefore desired because it is thought to be good, who can judge him to be devoid of reward, which hath goodness for his possession? But what reward hath he? The most beautiful and the greatest that can be. For remember that corollarium which I presented thee with a little before, as with a rare and precious jewel, and infer thus: Since that goodness itself is happiness, it is manifest that all good men even by being good are made happy. But we agreed that happy men are gods. Wherefore the reward of good men, which no time can waste, no man’s power diminish, no man’s wickedness obscure, is to become gods. Which things being so, no wise man can any way doubt of the inseparable punishment of the evil. For since goodness and evil, punishment and reward, are opposite the one to the other, those things which we see fall out in the reward of goodness must needs be answerable in a contrary manner in the punishment of evil. Wherefore as to honest men honesty itself is a reward, so to the wicked their very wickedness is a punishment. And he that is punished doubteth not but that he is afflicted with the evil. Wherefore if they would truly consider their own estate, can they think themselves free from punishment, whom wickedness, the worst of all evils, doth not only touch but strongly infect? But weigh the punishment which accompanieth the wicked, by comparing it to the reward of the virtuous. For thou learnedst not long before that whatsoever is at all is one, and that unity is goodness, by which it followeth that whatsoever is must also be good. And in this manner, whatsoever falleth from goodness ceaseth to be, by which it followeth that evil men leave to be that which they were, but the shape of men, which they still retain, showeth them to have been men: wherefore by embracing wickedness they have lost the nature of men. But since virtue alone can exalt us above men, wickedness must needs cast those under the desert of men, which it hath bereaved of that condition. Wherefore thou canst not account him a man whom thou seest transformed by vices. Is the violent extorter of other men’s goods carried away with his covetous desire? Thou mayest liken him to a wolf. Is the angry and unquiet man always contending and brawling? Thou mayest compare him to a dog. Doth the treacherous fellow rejoice that he hath deceived others with his hidden frauds? Let him be accounted no better than a fox. Doth the outrageous fret and fume? Let him be thought to have a lion’s mind. Is the fearful and timorous afraid without cause? Let him be esteemed like to hares and deer. Is the slow and stupid always idle? He liveth an ass’s life. Doth the light and unconstant change his courses? He is nothing different from the birds. Is he drowned in filthy and unclean lusts? He is entangled in the pleasure of a stinking sow. So that he who, leaving virtue, ceaseth to be a man, since he cannot be partaker of the divine condition, is turned into a beast.
[4] III. The sails which wise Ulysses bore, And ships which in the seas long time did stray The eastern wind drave to that shore Where the fair Goddess Lady Circe lay, Daughter by birth to Phoebus bright, Who with enchanted cups and charms did stay Her guests, deceived with their delight And into sundry figures them did change, Being most skilful in the might And secret force of herbs and simples strange; Some like to savage boars, and some Like lions fierce, which daily use to range Through Libya, in tooth and claw become. Others are changed to the shape and guise Of ravenous wolves, and waxing dumb Use howling in the stead of manly cries. Others like to the tiger rove Which in the scorched Indian desert lies. And though the winged son of Jove From these bewitchéd cups’ delightful taste To keep the famous captain strove, Yet them the greedy mariners embraced With much desire, till turned to swine Instead of bread they fed on oaken mast. Ruined in voice and form, no sign Remains to them of any human grace; Only their minds unchanged repine To see their bodies in such ugly case. O feeble hand and idle art Which, though it could the outward limbs deface, Yet had no force to change the heart. For all the force of men given by God’s arm Lies hidden in their inmost part. The poisons therefore which within them swarm More deeply pierce, and with more might, For to the body though they do no harm, Yet on the soul they work their spite.”
[4] IV. Then said I, “I confess and perceive that thou affirmest not without cause that the vicious, though they keep the outward shape of men, are in their inward state of mind changed into brute beasts. But I would have had them whose cruel and wicked heart rageth to the harm of the good, restrained from executing their malice.” “They are restrained,” quoth she, “as shall be proved in convenient place. But yet if this liberty which they seem to have be taken away, their punishment also is in great part released. For (which perhaps to some may seem incredible) evil men must necessarily be more unhappy when they have brought to pass their purposes than if they could not obtain what they desire. For if it be a miserable thing to desire that which is evil, it is more miserable to be able to perform it, without which the miserable will could not have any effect. Wherefore since everyone of these hath their peculiar misery, they must of force be oppressed with a threefold wretchedness, whom thou seest desire, be able, and perform wickedness.” “I grant it,” quoth I, “but earnestly wish that they may soon be delivered from this misery, having lost the power to perform their malice.” “They will lose it,” quoth she, “sooner than perhaps either thou wouldst, or they themselves suppose. For in the short compass of this life there is nothing so late that any one, least of all an immortal soul, should think it long in coming; so that the great hope and highest attempts of the wicked are many times made frustrate with a sudden and unexpected end, which in truth setteth some end to their misery.
[4] For if wickedness make men miserable, the longer one is wicked, the more miserable he must needs be; and I should judge them the most unhappy men that may be, if death at least did not end their malice. For if we have concluded truly of the misery of wickedness, it is manifest that the wretchedness which is everlasting must of force be infinite.” “A strange illation,” quoth I, “and hard to be granted; but I see that those things which were granted before agree very well with these.” “Thou thinkest aright,” quoth she, “but he that findeth difficulty to yield to the conclusion must either show that something which is presupposed is false, or that the combination of the propositions makes not a necessary conclusion; otherwise, granting that which went before, he hath no reason to doubt of the inference. For this also which I will conclude now will seem no less strange, and yet followeth as necessarily out of those things which are already assumed.” “What?” quoth I. “That wicked men,” quoth she, “are more happy being punished than if they escaped the hands of justice. Neither do I now go about to show that which may come into every man’s mind, that evil customs are corrected by chastisement, and are reduced to virtue by the terror of punishment, and that others may take example to avoid evil, but in another manner also I think vicious men that go unpunished to be more miserable, although we take no account of correction and pay no regard to example.” “And what other manner shall this be,” quoth I, “besides these?” “Have we not granted,” quoth she, “that the good are happy, and the evil miserable?” “We have,” quoth I. “If then,” quoth she, “something that is good be added to one’s misery, is he not happier than another whose misery is desolate and solitary, without any participation of goodness?” “So it seemeth,” quoth I. “What if there be some other evil annexed to this miserable man who is deprived of all goodness, besides those which make him miserable, is he not to be accounted much more unhappy than he whose misery is lightened by partaking of goodness?” “Why not?” quoth I. “But it is manifest that it is just that the wicked be punished, and unjust that they should go unpunished.” “Who can deny that?” “But neither will any man deny this,” quoth she, “that whatsoever is just, is good, and contrariwise, that whatsoever is unjust, is evil.” “Certainly,” I answered. “Then the wicked have some good annexed when they are punished, to wit, the punishment itself, which by reason of justice is good, and when they are not punished, they have a further evil, the very impunity which thou hast deservedly granted to be an evil because of its injustice.” “I cannot deny it.” “Wherefore the vicious are far more unhappy by escaping punishment unjustly, than by being justly punished.” “This followeth,” quoth I, “out of that which hath been concluded before.
[4] But I pray thee, leavest thou no punishments for the souls after the death of the body?” “And those great too,” quoth she. “Some of which I think to be executed as sharp punishments, and others as merciful purgations. But I purpose not now to treat of those. But we have hitherto laboured that thou shouldest perceive the power of the wicked, which to thee seemed intolerable, to be none at all, and that thou shouldest see, that those whom thou complainedst went unpunished, do never escape without punishment for their wickedness. And that thou shouldest learn that the licence which thou wishedst might soon end, is not long, and yet the longer the more miserable, and most unhappy if it were everlasting. Besides, that the wicked are more wretched being permitted to escape with unjust impunity, than being punished with just severity. Out of which it followeth that they are then more grievously punished, when they are thought to go scot-free.”
[4] “When I consider thy reasons,” quoth I, “I think nothing can be said more truly. But if I return to the judgments of men, who is there that will think them worthy to be believed or so much as heard?” “It is true,” quoth she, “for they cannot lift up their eyes accustomed to darkness, to behold the light of manifest truth, and they are like those birds whose sight is quickened by the night, and dimmed by the day. For while they look upon, not the order of things, but their own affections, they think that licence and impunity to sin is happy. But see what the eternal law establisheth. If thou apply thy mind to the better, thou needest no judge to reward thee: thou hast joined thyself to the more excellent things. If thou declinest to that which is worse, never expect any other to punish thee: thou hast put thyself in a miserable estate; as if by turns thou lookest down to the miry ground, and up to heaven, setting aside all outward causes, by the very law of sight thou seemest sometime to be in the dirt, and sometime present to the stars. But the common sort considereth not these things. What then? Shall we join ourselves to them whom we have proved to be like beasts? What if one having altogether lost his sight should likewise forget that he ever had any, and should think that he wanted nothing which belongeth to human perfection: should we likewise think them blind, that see as well as they saw before? For they will not grant that neither, which may be proved by as forcible reasons, that they are more unhappy that do injury than they which suffer it.” “I would,” quoth I, “hear these reasons.” “Deniest thou,” quoth she, “that every wicked man deserveth punishment?” “No.” “And it is many ways clear that the vicious are miserable?” “Yes,” quoth I. “Then you do not doubt that those who deserve punishment are wretched?” “It is true,” quoth I. “If then,” quoth she, “thou wert to examine this cause, whom wouldest thou appoint to be punished, him that did or that suffered wrong?” “I doubt not,” quoth I, “but that I would satisfy him that suffered with the sorrow of him that did it.” “The offerer of the injury then would seem to thee more miserable than the receiver?” “It followeth,” quoth I. “Hence therefore, and for other causes grounded upon that principle that dishonesty of itself maketh men miserable, it appeareth that the injury which is offered any man is not the receiver’s but the doer’s misery.” “But now-a-days,” quoth she, “orators take the contrary course. For they endeavour to draw the judges to commiseration of them who have suffered any grievous afflictions; whereas pity is more justly due to the causers thereof, who should be brought, not by angry, but rather by favourable and compassionate accusers to judgment, as it were sick men to a physician, that their diseases and faults might be taken away by punishments; by which means the defenders’ labour would either wholly cease, or if they had rather do their clients some good, they would change their defence into accusations. And the wicked themselves, if they could behold virtue abandoned by them, through some little rift, and perceive that they might be delivered from the filth of sin by the affliction of punishments, obtaining virtue in exchange, they would not esteem of torments, and would refuse the assistance of their defenders, and wholly resign themselves to their accusers and judges. By which means it cometh to pass, that in wise men there is no place for hatred. For who but a very fool would hate the good? And to hate the wicked were against reason. For as faintness is a disease of the body, so is vice a sickness of the mind. Wherefore, since we judge those that have corporal infirmities to be rather worthy of compassion than of hatred, much more are they to be pitied, and not abhorred, whose minds are oppressed with wickedness, the greatest malady that may be.
[4] IV. Why should we strive to die so many ways, And slay ourselves with our own hands? If we seek death, she ready stands, She willing comes, her chariot never stays. Those against whom the wild beasts arméd be, Against themselves with weapons rage. Do they such wars unjustly wage, Because their lives and manners disagree, And so themselves with mutual weapons kill? Alas, but this revenge is small. Wouldst thou give due desert to all? Love then the good, and pity thou the ill.”
[4] V. “I see,” quoth I, “what felicity or misery is placed in the deserts of honest and dishonest men. But I consider that there is somewhat good or evil even in this popular fortune. For no wise man had rather live in banishment, poverty, and ignominy, than prosper in his own country, being rich, respected, and powerful. For in this manner is the office of wisdom performed with more credit and renown, when the governors’ happiness is participated by the people about them; so chiefly because prisons, death, and other torments of legal punishments are rather due to pernicious subjects, for whom they were also ordained. Wherefore I much marvel why these things are thus turned upside down, and the punishments of wickedness oppress the good, while evil men obtain the rewards of the good. And I desire to know of thee what may seem to be the reason of so unjust confusion. For I would marvel less if I thought that all things were disordered by casual events. Now God being the Governor, my astonishment is increased. For since that He distributeth oftentimes that which is pleasant to the good, and that which is distasteful to the bad, and contrariwise adversity to the good, and prosperity to the evil, unless we find out the cause hereof, what difference may there seem to be betwixt this and accidental chances?” “It is no marvel,” quoth she, “if anything be thought temerarious and confused, when we know not the order it hath. But although thou beest ignorant of the causes why things be so disposed, yet because the world hath a governor, doubt not but all things are well done.
[4] V. Who knows not how the stars near to the poles do slide, And how Boötes his slow wain doth guide, And why he sets so late, and doth so early rise, May wonder at the courses of the skies. If when the moon is full her horns seem pale to sight, Infested with the darkness of the night, And stars from which all grace she with her brightness took, Now show themselves, while she doth dimly look, A public error straight through vulgar minds doth pass, And they with many strokes beat upon brass. None wonders why the winds upon the waters blow. Nor why hot Phoebus’ beams dissolve the snow. These easy are to know, the other hidden lie, And therefore more our hearts they terrify. All strange events which time to light more seldom brings, And the vain people count as sudden things, If we our clouded minds from ignorance could free, No longer would by us admired be.”
[4] VI. “It is true,” quoth I, “but since it is thy profession to explicate the causes of hidden things, and to unfold the reasons which are covered with darkness, I beseech thee vouchsafe to declare what conclusion thou drawest from these things, for this miracle troubleth me above all others.” Then she smiling a little said: “Thou invitest me to a matter which is most hardly found out, and can scarcely be sufficiently declared; for it is such that, one doubt being taken away, innumerable others, like the heads of Hydra, succeed, neither will they have any end unless a man repress them with the most lively fire of his mind. For in this matter are wont to be handled these questions: of the simplicity of Providence; of the course of Fate; of sudden chances; of God’s knowledge and predestination, and of free will; which how weighty they are, thou thyself discerneth. But because it is part of thy cure to know these things also, though the time be short, yet we will endeavour to touch them briefly. But if the sweetness of verse delight thee, thou must forbear this pleasure for a while, until I propose unto thee some few arguments.” “As it pleaseth thee,” quoth I.
[4] Then taking as it were a new beginning, she discoursed in this manner: “The generation of all things, and all the proceedings of mutable natures, and whatsoever is moved in any sort, take their causes, order, and forms from the stability of the Divine mind. This, placed in the castle of its own simplicity, hath determined manifold ways for doing things; which ways being considered in the purity of God’s understanding, are named Providence, but being referred to those things which He moveth and disposeth, they are by the ancients called Fate. The diversity of which will easily appear if we weigh the force of both. For Providence is the very Divine reason itself, seated in the highest Prince, which disposeth all things. But Fate is a disposition inherent in changeable things, by which Providence connecteth all things in their due order. For Providence embraceth all things together, though diverse, though infinite; but Fate putteth every particular thing into motion being distributed by places, forms, and time; so that this unfolding of temporal order being united into the foresight of God’s mind is Providence, and the same uniting, being digested and unfolded in time, is called Fate. Which although they be diverse yet the one dependeth on the other. For fatal order proceedeth from the simplicity of Providence. For as a workman conceiving the form of anything in his mind taketh his work in hand, and executeth by order of time that which he had simply and in a moment foreseen, so God by His Providence disposeth whatsoever is to be done with simplicity and stability, and by Fate effecteth by manifold ways and in the order of time those very things which He disposeth. Wherefore, whether Fate be exercised by the subordination of certain Divine spirits to Providence, or this fatal web be woven by a soul or by the service of all nature, or by the heavenly motions of the stars, by angelical virtue, or by diabolical industry, or by some or all of these, that certainly is manifest that Providence is an immoveable and simple form of those things which are to be done, and Fate a moveable connexion and temporal order of those things which the Divine simplicity hath disposed to be done. So that all that is under Fate is also subject to Providence, to which also Fate itself obeyeth. But some things which are placed under Providence are above the course of Fate. And they are those things which nigh to the first Divinity, being stable and fixed, exceed the order of fatal mobility. For as of orbs which turn about the same centre, the inmost draweth nigh to the simplicity of the midst, and is as it were the hinge of the rest, which are placed without it, about which they are turned, and the outmost, wheeled with a greater compass, by how much it departeth from the middle indivisibility of the centre, is so much the more extended into larger spaces, but that which is joined and coupled to that middle approacheth to simplicity, and ceaseth to spread and flow abroad, in like manner that which departeth farthest from the first mind is involved more deeply in the meshes of Fate, and everything is so much the freer from Fate, by how much it draweth nigh to the hinge of all things. And if it sticketh to the stability of the Sovereign mind, free from motion, it surpasseth also the necessity of Fate. Wherefore in what sort discourse of reason is compared to pure understanding, that which is produced to that which is, time to eternity, a circle to the centre, such is the course of moveable Fate to the stable simplicity of Providence. That course moveth the heaven and stars, tempereth the elements one with another, and transformeth them by mutual changing. The same reneweth all rising and dying things by like proceeding of fruits and seeds. This comprehendeth also the actions and fortunes of men by an unloosable connexion of causes, which since it proceeds from the principles of unmovable Providence, the causes also must needs be immutable. For in this manner things are best governed, if the simplicity which remaineth in the Divine mind produceth an inflexible order of causes, and this order restraineth with its own immutability things otherwise mutable, and which would have a confused course. Whereof it ensueth that though all things seem confused and disordered to you, who are not able to consider this order, notwithstanding all things are disposed by their own proper measure directing them to good. For there is nothing which is done for the love of evil, even by the wicked themselves: whom, as hath been abundantly proved, lewd error carrieth away while they are seeking after that which is good, so far is it that order proceeding from the hinge of the Sovereign Goodness should avert any from his first beginning.
[4] But, thou wilt say, what more unjust confusion can there be than that both adversity and prosperity should happen to the good, and in like manner both desired and hateful things to the wicked? But are men so completely wise that whomsoever they judge wicked or honest must needs be so? How then are their censures contrary one to another, so that to divers the same men seem worthy of reward and punishment! But let us grant that some are able to discern the good from the evil. Can they therefore behold, as is wont to be said of bodies, that inward complexion of souls? For he that knoweth not the cause may marvel in like manner why some sound bodies agree better with sweet things and other with tart; and why some sick men are healed with gentle and some with sharper physic. But to a physician who knoweth the manner and temper both of health and sickness this is nothing strange. Now, what is the health of souls but virtue? What sickness have they but vices? And who either conserveth goodness or expelleth evils, but God the Ruler and Governor of men’s minds? Who beholding from His high turret of providence seeth what is fitting for everyone, and applieth that which He knoweth to be most convenient. Here ariseth that strange wonder of fatal order, to wit that He that knoweth what is best, doth that which the ignorant admire. For to touch briefly some few things of the divine depth, which human reason is able to attain, he whom thou thinketh most just and most observant of equity, seemeth otherwise in the eyes of Providence which knoweth all. And our disciple Lucan noteth that the cause of conquerers pleased the gods, and that of the conquered, Cato. Wherefore whatsoever thou seest done here against thy expectation is right order in the things themselves, but a perverse confusion in thy opinion. But let there be one so well conditioned that God and men approve and praise him; yet perhaps he is so weak a minded man, that if he falleth into adversity, he will forsake his innocency, which was not able to keep him in prosperity. Wherefore God’s wise dispensation spareth him that adversity might make worse, lest he should suffer to whom difficulties are dangerous.
[4] There is another complete in all virtues, a saint and high to God; Providence judgeth it a sacrilege to lay affliction on him, insomuch that she permitteth him not to be troubled so much as with corporal sickness. For as one that excelleth me saith ‘the body of an holy man is builded of pure ether.’ It happeneth often also that the chief command is given to good men, that wickedness, which otherwise would overflow all, may be kept down. She mixeth for others sour and sweet according to the disposition of their souls; she troubles some lest they should fall to dissolution by long prosperity, others are vexed with hardships, that they may confirm the forces of their mind with the use and exercise of patience. Some are too much afraid of that which they are able to bear. Others make less account than there is cause of that which they cannot endure. All these she affrayeth with afflictions that they make trial of themselves. Many have bought the renown of this world with a glorious death. Some, overcoming all torments, have showed by their example that virtues cannot be conquered by miseries, which things how well and orderly they are done, and how much to their good upon whom they are seen to fall, there can be no doubt. For that sometime grievous, sometime pleasant things befall in like manner the wicked, proceedeth from the same causes. And as for adversity no man marvelleth because all think they deserve ill. Whose punishments do both terrify others from the like courses, and move them to amend themselves. And their prosperity is a great argument to the good, what they ought to judge of this happiness which they see oftentimes bestowed upon the wicked. In which thing also is to be considered that peradventure some have so headlong and untoward a disposition, that poverty would rather make him worse; whose disease is cured by Providence, with giving him store of money. Another, knowing his own guilty conscience, and comparing his character with his own estate, is afraid lest the loss of that should be grievous unto him, the use of which is pleasant. Wherefore he resolveth to change his customs, and whiles he feareth to lose his prosperity, he forsaketh wickedness. The increase of honour undeservedly obtained hath thrown some headlong into their deserved destruction. Others are permitted to have authority to punish others, that they may exercise the good and punish the bad. For as there is no league between virtuous and wicked men, so neither can the wicked agree among themselves. Why not? Since they disagree within themselves by reason of their vices which tear their conscience, so that they many times do that which afterwards they wish undone. From whence that highest Providence often worketh that wonderful miracle, that evil men make those which are evil good. For some, considering the injustice done them by most wicked men, inflamed with hatred of evildoers have returned to the practice of virtue, procuring to be contrary to them whom they hate. For it is only a divine strength to which even evil things are good, when, by using them in due sort, it draweth some good effect out of them. For a certain order embraceth all things, so that even that which departeth from the order appointed to it, though it falleth into another, yet that is order also, lest confused rashness should bear any sway in the kingdom of Providence. ‘But it is hard for me to rehearse all this as if I were a God.’ For it is impossible for any man either to comprehend by his wit or to explicate in speech all the frame of God’s work. Be it sufficient that we have seen thus much, that God, the author of all natures, directeth and disposeth all things to goodness, and while He endeavoureth to retain in His own likeness those things which He hath produced, He banisheth all evil from the bounds of His commonwealth, by the course of fatal necessity. So that if thou considerest the disposition of Providence, thou wilt perceive that evil, which is thought so to abound upon earth, hath no place left for it at all. But I see that long since burdened with so weighty a question, and wearied with my long discourse, thou expectest the delight of verses; wherefore take a draught, that, being refreshed, thou mayest be able to go forward.
[4] VI. If thou would’st see God’s laws with purest mind, Thy sight on heaven must fixéd be, Whose settled course the stars in peace doth bind. The sun’s bright fire Stops not his sister’s team, Nor doth the northern bear desire Within the ocean’s wave to hide her beam. Though she behold The other stars there couching, Yet she uncessantly is rolled About high heaven, the ocean never touching. The evening light With certain course doth show The coming of the shady night, And Lucifer before the day doth go. This mutual love Courses eternal makes, And from the starry spheres above All cause of war and dangerous discord takes. This sweet consent In equal bands doth tie The nature of each element, So that the moist things yield unto the dry, The piercing cold With flames doth friendship keep, The trembling fire the highest place doth hold, And the gross earth sinks down into the deep. The flowery year Breathes odours in the spring The scorching summer corn doth bear, The autumn fruit from laden trees doth bring. The falling rain Doth winter’s moisture give. These rules thus nourish and maintain All creatures which we see on earth to live. And when they die, These bring them to their end, While their Creator sits on high, Whose hand the reins of the whole world doth bend. He as their King Rules them with lordly might. From Him they rise, flourish, and spring, He as their law and judge decides their right. Those things whose course Most swiftly glides away His might doth often backward force, And suddenly their wandering motion stay. Unless His strength Their violence should bound, And them which else would run at length, Should bring within the compass of a round, That firm decree Which now doth all adorn Would soon destroyed and broken be, Things being far from their beginning borne. This powerful love Is common unto all, Which for desire of good do move Back to the springs from whence they first did fall. No worldly thing Can a continuance have Unless love back again it bring Unto the cause which first the essence gave.
[4] VII. Perceivest thou now what followeth of all that we have hitherto said?” “What?” quoth I. “That,” quoth she, “all manner of fortune is good.” “How can that be?” quoth I. “Be attentive,” quoth she; “since that all fortune, be it pleasing or unpleasing, is directed to the reward or exercise of the good, and to the punishment and direction of the wicked, it is manifest it is all good, since all is just or profitable.” “Thy reason is very true,” quoth I, “and if I consider Providence and Fate, which thou didst explicate a little before, thy opinion is well grounded. But if thou pleasest let us account it among those which thou not long since supposest incredible.” “Why?” quoth she. “Because men commonly use to say and repeat that some have ill fortune.” “Shall we,” quoth she, “frame our speech to the vulgar phrase, lest we seem to have as it were forsaken the use of human conversation?” “As it pleaseth thee,” quoth I. “Dost thou not think then that that is good which is profitable?” “Yes,” quoth I. “But that fortune which either exerciseth or correcteth is profitable?” “It is true,” quoth I. “It is good then?” “Why not?” “But this is the estate of them who being either virtuous strive with adversity, or forsaking vices betake themselves to the way of virtue.” “I cannot deny it,” quoth I. “Now, what sayest thou to that pleasing fortune which is given in reward to the good, doth the common people account it bad?” “No, but judgeth it exceeding good, as it is indeed.” “And what of the other which, being unpleasing, restraineth the evil with just punishment, doth not the people think it good?” “Nay,” quoth I, “they think it the most miserable that can be.” “Look then,” quoth she, “how, following the people’s opinion, we have concluded a very incredible matter.” “What?” quoth I. “For it followeth,” quoth she, “out of that which is granted, that all their fortune, whatsoever it be, who are either in the possession or increase or entrance of virtue, is good: and theirs, which remain in vices, the worst that may be.” “This,” quoth I, “is true, though none dare say so.” “Wherefore,” quoth she, “a wise man must be no more troubled when he is assaulted with adversity, than a valiant captain dismayed at the sound of an alarum. For difficulties are the matter by which the one must extend his glory, and the other increase his wisdom. For which cause virtue is so called, because it hath sufficient strength to overcome adversity. For you, that are proficients in virtue, are not come hither to be dissolute with dainties or to languish in pleasures. You skirmish fiercely with any fortune, lest either affliction oppress you or prosperity corrupt you. Stay yourselves strongly in the mean! For whatsoever cometh either short, or goeth beyond, may well contemn felicity, but will never obtain any reward of labour. For it is placed in your power to frame to yourselves what fortune you please. For all that seemeth unsavoury either exerciseth or correcteth or punisheth.
[4] VII. Revengeful Atreus’ son did ten whole years employ In wars, till he his brother’s loss repaid with ransacked Troy. He setting forth the fleet of Greece upon the seas, And knowing well that only blood the angry winds would please, Forgot a father’s part, and with his cruel knife Unto the gods did sacrifice his dearest daughter’s life. Ulysses wailed the loss of his most faithful men, Whom Polyphemus did devour enclosed in his den But when his hands by sleight had made the Cyclops blind, Most pleasant joy instead of former tears possessed his mind. Hercules famous is for his laborious toil, Who tamed the Centaurs and did take the dreadful lion’s spoil. He the Stymphalian birds with piercing arrows strook, And from the watchful dragon’s care the golden apples took. He in a threefold chain the hellish porter led, And with their cruel master’s flesh the savage horses fed. He did th’ increasing heads of poisonous Hydra burn, And breaking Achelous’ horns, did make him back return.* He on the Libyan sands did proud Antaeus kill, And with the mighty Cacus’ blood Euander’s wrath fulfil. That world-uplifting back the boar’s white foam did fleck. To hold on high the sphere of heaven with never bending neck Of all his many toils the last was, and most hard, And for this last and greatest toil the heaven was his reward. You gallant men pursue this way of high renown, Why yield you? Overcome the earth, and you the stars shall crown,”

## Book V

[5] THE FIFTH BOOK OF BOETHIUS
[5] I. Having said thus, she began to turn her speech to treat and explicate certain other questions, when I interrupted her, saying: “Thy exhortation is very good, and well-seeming thy authority. But I find it true by experience, as thou affirmedst, that the question of Providence is entangled with many other. For I desire to know whether thou thinkest chance to be anything at all, and what it is.” “I make haste,” quoth she, “to perform my promise, and to show thee the way by which thou mayest return to thy country. But these other questions, though they be very profitable, yet they are somewhat from our purpose, and it is to be feared lest being wearied with digressions thou beest not able to finish thy direct journey.” “There is no fear of that,” quoth I, “for it will be a great ease to me to understand those things in which I take great delight, and withal, when thy disputation is fenced in on every side with sure conviction, there can be no doubt made of anything thou shalt infer.” “I will,” quoth she, “do as thou wouldst me have,” and withal began in this manner. “If any shall define chance to be an event produced by a confused motion, and without connexion of causes, I affirm that there is no such thing, and that chance is only an empty voice that hath beneath it no real signification. For what place can confusion have, since God disposeth all things in due order? For it is a true sentence that of nothing cometh nothing, which none of the ancients denied, though they held not that principle of the efficient cause, but of the material subject, laying it down as in a manner the ground of all their reasonings concerning nature. But if anything proceedeth from no causes, that will seem to have come from nothing, which if it cannot be, neither is it possible there should be any such chance as is defined a little before.” “What then,” quoth I, “is there nothing that can rightly be called chance or fortune? Or is there something, though unknown to the common sort, to which these names agree?” “My Aristotle,” quoth she, “in his Books of Nature declared this point briefly and very near the truth.” “How?” quoth I. “When,” quoth she, “anything is done for some certain cause, and some other thing happeneth for other reasons than that which was intended, this is called chance; as if one digging his ground with intention to till it, findeth an hidden treasure. This is thought to have fallen thus out by fortune, but it is not of nothing, for it hath peculiar causes whose unexpected and not foreseen concourse seemeth to have brought forth a chance. For unless the husbandman had digged up his ground, and unless the other had hidden his money in that place, the treasure had not been found. These are therefore the causes of this fortunate accident, which proceedeth from the meeting and concourse of causes, and not from the intention of the doer. For neither he that hid the gold nor he that tilled his ground had any intention that the money should be found, but, as I said, it followed and concurred that this man should dig up in the place where the other hid. Wherefore, we may define chance thus: That it is an unexpected event of concurring causes in those things which are done to some end and purpose. Now the cause why causes so concur and meet so together, is that order proceeding with inevitable connexion, which, descending from the fountain of Providence, disposeth all things in their places and times.
[5] I. In the Achaemenian rocks, where Parthians with their darts In their dissembled flight do wound their enemies, Tigris from the same head doth with Euphrates rise, And forthwith they themselves divide in several parts; But if they join again, and them one channel bound, Bringing together all that both their waves do bear; The ships and trees, whose roots they from the bank do tear, Will meet, and they their floods will mingle and confound, Yet run this wandering course in places which are low, And in these sliding streams a settled law remains. So fortune, though it seems to run with careless reins, Yet hath it certain rule, and doth in order flow.”
[5] II. “I observe it,” quoth I, “and I acknowledge it to be as thou sayest. But in this rank of coherent causes, have we any free-will, or doth the fatal chain fasten also the motions of men’s minds?” “We have,” quoth she, “for there can be no reasonable nature, unless it be endued with free-will. For that which naturally hath the use of reason hath also judgment by which it can discern of everything by itself, wherefore of itself it distinguished betwixt those things which are to be avoided, and those which are to be desired. Now every one seeketh for that which he thinketh is to be desired, and escheweth that which in his judgment is to be avoided. Wherefore, they which have reason in themselves have freedom to will and nill. But yet I consider not this equal in all. For the supreme and divine substances have both a perspicuous judgment and an uncorrupted will, and an effectual power to obtain their desires. But the minds of men must needs be more free when they conserve themselves in the contemplation of God, and less when they come to their bodies, and yet less when they are bound with earthly fetters. But their greatest bondage is when, giving themselves to vices, they lose possession of their own reason. For, having cast their eyes from the light of the sovereign truth to inferior obscurities, forthwith they are blinded with the cloud of ignorance, molested with hurtful affections, by yielding and consenting to which they increase the bondage which they laid upon themselves, and are, after a certain manner, captives by their own freedom. Which notwithstanding that foresight of Providence which beholdeth all things from eternity, foreseeth, and by predestination disposeth of everything by their merits.
[5] II. Sweet Homer sings the praise Of Phoebus clear and bright, And yet his strongest rays Cannot with feeble light Cast through the secret ways Of earth and seas his sight, Though ‘all lies open to his eyes.’ But He who did this world devise —
[5] The earth’s vast depths unseen From his sight are not free, No clouds can stand between, He at one time doth see What are, and what have been, And what shall after be. Whom, since he only vieweth all, You rightly the true Sun may call.”
[5] III. Then I complained that I was now in a greater confusion and more doubtful difficulty than before. “What is that?” quoth she, “for I already conjecture what it is that troubleth thee.” “It seemeth,” quoth I, “to be altogether impossible and repugnant that God foreseeth all things, and that there should be any free-will. For if God beholdeth all things and cannot be deceived, that must of necessity follow which His providence foreseeth to be to come. Wherefore, if from eternity he doth not only foreknow the deeds of men, but also their counsels and wills, there can be no free-will; for there is not any other deed or will, but those which the divine providence, that cannot be deceived, hath foreseen. For if things can be drawn aside to any other end than was foreknown, there will not be any firm knowledge of that which is to come, but rather an uncertain opinion, which in my opinion were impious to believe of God. Neither do I allow of that reason with which some suppose that they can dissolve the difficulty of this question. For they say that nothing is therefore to come to pass because Providence did foresee it, but rather contrariwise, because it shall be, it could not be unknown to Providence, and in this manner the necessity passes over to the other side. For it is not necessary, they argue, that those things should happen which are foreseen, but it is necessary that those things should be foreseen that are to come — as though our problem were this, which of them is the cause of a thing, the foreknowledge of the necessity of things to come, or the necessity of the foreknowledge of things to come, and we were not trying to prove that, howsoever these causes be ordered, the event of the things which are foreknown is necessary, even though the foreknowledge seemeth not to confer necessity of being upon the things themselves. For if any man sitteth the opinion which thinketh so must needs be true, and again on the other side, if the opinion that one sitteth be true, he must needs sit. Wherefore, there is necessity in both, in the one of sitting and in the other of truth. But one sitteth not because the opinion is true, but rather this is true because one hath taken his seat. So that though the cause of truth proceedeth from one part, yet there is a common necessity in both.
[5] And the like is to be inferred of Providence and future things. For even though they be foreseen because they shall be, yet they do not come to pass because they are foreseen, notwithstanding it is necessary that either things to come be foreseen by God, or that things foreseen do fall out, which alone is sufficient to overthrow free-will. But see how preposterous it is that the event of temporal things should be said to be the cause of the everlasting foreknowledge! And what else is it to think that God doth therefore foresee future things, because they are to happen, than to affirm that those things which happened long since, are the cause of that sovereign providence? Furthermore, as when I know anything to be, it must needs be; so when I know that anything shall be, it must needs be to come. And so it followeth that the event of a thing foreknown cannot be avoided. Finally, if any man thinketh otherwise than the thing is, that is not only no knowledge, but it is a deceitful opinion far from the truth of knowledge; wherefore, if anything is to be in such sort that the event of it is not certain or necessary, how can that be foreknown that it shall happen? For as knowledge is without mixture of falsity, so that which is conceived by it cannot be otherwise than it is conceived. For this is the cause why knowledge is without deceit, because everything must needs be so as the knowledge apprehendeth it to be. What then? How doth God foreknow that these uncertain things shall be? For if He judgeth that those things shall happen inevitably, which it is possible shall not happen, He is deceived, which is not only impious to think, but also to speak. But if He supposeth that they shall happen in such sort as they are, so that He knoweth that they may equally be done and not be done, what foreknowledge is this which comprehendeth no certain or stable thing? Or in what is this better than that ridiculous prophecy of Tiresias “Whatsoever I say shall either be or not be”? or in what shall the divine providence exceed human opinion, if, as men, God judgeth those things to be uncertain the event of which is doubtful? But if nothing can be uncertain to that most certain fountain of all things, the occurrence of those things is certain, which He doth certainly know shall be. Wherefore there is no freedom in human counsels and actions, which the divine mind, foreseeing all things without error or falsehood, tieth and bindeth to one event. Which once admitted, it is evident what ruin of human affairs will ensue. For in vain are rewards and punishments proposed to good and evil, which no free and voluntary motion of their minds hath deserved. And that will seem most unjust which is now judged most just, that either the wicked should be punished or the good rewarded, since their own will leadeth them to neither, but they are compelled by the certain necessity of that which is to come. By which means virtues and vices shall be nothing, but rather there will follow a mixed confusion of all deserts. And — than which there can be nothing invented more impious — since that all order of things proceedeth from Providence, and human counsels can do nothing, it followeth that our vices also shall be referred to the author of goodness. Wherefore there is no means left to hope or pray for anything, since an unflexible course connecteth all things that can be desired! Wherefore that only traffic betwixt God and men of hope and prayer shall be taken away: if indeed by the price of just humility we deserve the unestimable benefit of God’s grace; for this is the only manner by which it seemeth that men may talk with God, and by the very manner of supplication be joined to that inaccessible light before they obtain anything; which if by the admitting the necessity of future things, they be thought to have no force, by what shall we be united and cleave to that Sovereign Prince of all things? Wherefore mankind must needs (as thou saidest in thy verse a little before), being separated and severed from its source, fail and fall away.
[5] III. What cause of discord breaks the bands of love? What God between two truths such wars doth move? That things which severally well settled be Yet joined in one will never friendly prove? Or in true things can we no discord see, Because all certainties do still agree? But our dull soul, covered with members blind, Knows not the secret laws which things do bind, By the drowned light of her oppressed fire. Why then, the hidden notes of things to find, Doth she with such a love of truth desire? If she knows that which she doth so require, Why wisheth she known things to know again? If she knows not, why strives she with blind pain? Who after things unknown will strive to go? Or will such ignorant pursuit maintain? How shall she find them out? Or having so, How shall she then their forms and natures know? Because this soul the highest mind did view, Must we needs say that it all nature knew? Now she, though clouds of flesh do her debar, Forgets not all that was her ancient due, But in her mind some general motions are, Though not the skill of things particular. He that seeks truth in neither course doth fall; Not knowing all, nor ignorant of all, He marketh general things which he retains, And matters seen on high doth back recall, And things forgotten to his mind regains, And joins them to that part which there remains.”
[5] IV. “This,” quoth she, “is an ancient complaint of providence, vehemently pursued by Marcus Tullius in his Distribution of Divination, and a thing which thou thyself hast made great and long search after. But hitherto none of you have used sufficient diligence and vigour in the explication thereof. The cause of which obscurity is for that the motion of human discourse cannot attain to the simplicity of the divine knowledge, which if by any means we could conceive, there would not remain any doubt at all; which I will endeavour to make manifest and plain when I have first explicated that which moveth thee. For I demand why thou thinkest their solution unsufficient, who think that free-will is not hindered by foreknowledge, because they suppose that foreknowledge is not the cause of any necessity in things to come. For fetchest thou any proof for the necessity of future things from any other principle, but only from this, that those things which are foreknown cannot choose but happen? Wherefore if foreknowledge imposeth no necessity upon future events, which thou didst grant not long before, why should voluntary actions be tied to any certain success? For example’s sake, that thou mayest see what will follow, let us suppose that there were no providence or foresight at all. Would those things which proceed from free-will be compelled to any necessity by this means?” “No.” “Again, let us grant it to be, but that it imposeth no necessity upon anything; no doubt the same freedom of will will remain whole and absolute.
[5] But thou wilt say, even though foreknowledge be not a necessity for things to happen, yet it is a sign that they shall necessarily come to pass. Wherefore now, even if there had been no foreknowledge, the events of future things would have been necessary. For all signs only show what is, but cause not that which they design. And consequently it must first be proved that all things fall out by necessity, that it may appear that foreknowledge is a sign of this necessity. For otherwise, if there be no necessity, neither can foreknowledge be the sign of that which is not. Besides it is manifest that every firm proof must be drawn from intrinsical and necessary causes and not from signs and other farfetched arguments. But how is it possible those things should not happen which are foreseen to be to come? As though we did believe that those things will not be which providence hath foreknown and do not rather judge that although they happen, yet by their own nature they had no necessity of being, which thou mayest easily gather hence. For we see many things with our eyes while they are in doing, as those things which the coachmen do while they drive and turn their coaches and in like manner other things. Now doth necessity compel any of these things to be done in this sort?” “No. For in vain should art labour if all things were moved by compulsion.” “Wherefore, as these things are without necessity when they are in doing, so likewise they are to come without necessity before they be done. And consequently there are some things to come whose event is free from all necessity. For I suppose no man will say that those things which are done now were not to come before they were done. Wherefore these things even being foreseen come freely to effect. For as the knowledge of things present causeth no necessity in things which are in doing, so neither the foreknowledge in things to come. But thou wilt say: This is the question, whether there can be any foreknowledge of those things whose events are not necessary. For these things seem opposite, and thou thinkest that, if future things be foreseen, there followeth necessity, if there be no necessity, that they that are not foreknown, and that nothing can be perfectly known unless it be certain. But if uncertain events be foreseen as certain, it is manifest that this is the obscurity of opinion and not the truth of knowledge. For thou thinkest it to be far from the integrity of knowledge to judge otherwise than the thing is. The cause of which error is because thou thinkest that all that is known is known only by the force and nature of the things themselves, which is altogether otherwise. For all that is known is not comprehended according to the force which it hath in itself, but rather according to the faculty of them which know it. For to explicate it with a brief example: the sight and the feeling do diversely discern the same roundness of a die. The sight standing aloof beholdeth it altogether by his beams; but the feeling united and joined to the orb, being moved about the compass of it, comprehendeth the roundness by parts. Likewise sense, imagination, reason and understanding do diversely behold a man. For sense looketh upon his form as it is placed in matter or subject, the imagination discerneth it alone without matter, reason passeth beyond this also and considereth universally the species or kind which is in particulars. The eye of the understanding is higher yet. For surpassing the compass of the whole world it beholdeth with the clear eye of the mind that simple form in itself.
[5] In which that is chiefly to be considered, that the superior force of comprehending embraceth the inferior; but the inferior can by no means attain to the superior; for the sense hath no force out of matter, neither doth the imagination conceive universal species, nor is reason capable of the simple form, but the understanding, as it were looking downward, having conceived that form, discerneth of all things which are under it, but in that sort in which it apprehendeth that form which can be known by none of the other. For it knoweth the universality of reason, and the figure of imagination, and the materiality of sense, neither using reason, nor imagination, nor senses, but as it were formally beholding all things with that one twinkling of the mind. Likewise reason, when it considereth any universality, comprehendeth both imagination and sensible things without the use of either imagination or senses. For she defineth the universality of her conceit thus: Man is a reasonable, two-footed, living creature, which being an universal knowledge, no man is ignorant that it is an imaginable and sensible thing, which she considereth by a reasonable conceiving and not by imagination or sense. Imagination also, although it began by the senses of seeing and forming figures, yet when sense is absent it beholdeth sensible things, not after a sensible, but after an imaginary manner of knowledge. Seest thou now how all these in knowing do rather use their own force and faculty than the force of those things which are known? Nor undeservedly; for since all judgment is the act of him who judgeth, it is necessary that every one should perfect his operation by his own power and not by the force of any other.
[5] IV. Cloudy old prophets of the Porch once taught That sense and shape presented to the thought From outward objects their impression take, As when upon a paper smooth and plain On which as yet no marks of ink have lain We with a nimble pen do letters make. But if our minds to nothing can apply Their proper motions, but do patient lie Subject to forms which do from bodies flow, As a glass renders empty shapes of things, Who then can show from whence that motion springs By force of which the mind all things doth know? Or by what skill are several things espied? And being known what power doth them divide, And thus divided doth again unite, And with a various journey oft aspires To highest things, and oft again retires To basest, nothing being out of sight, And when she back unto herself doth move, Doth all the falsehoods by the truth reprove? This vigour needs must be an active cause, And with more powerful forces must be deckt, Than that which from those forms, that do reflect From outward matter, all her virtue draws. And yet in living bodies passion’s might Doth go before, whose office is to incite, And the first motions in the mind to make. As when the light unto our eyes appears, Or some loud voice is sounded in our ears, Then doth the strength of the dull mind awake Those phantasies which she retains within; She stirreth up such notions to begin, Whose objects with their natures best agree, And thus applying them to outward things, She joins the external shapes which thence she brings With forms which in herself included be.
[5] The Porch, i.e. the Painted Porch (stoa poikilae) at Athens, the great hall adorned with frescoes of the battle of Marathon, which served as lecture-room to Zeno, the founder of the Stoic sect.
[5] “But rather you are to know that idols or things wander about many in number in many ways, of no force, powerless to excite sense.” — Lucr. iv. 127, 128 (trans. Munro).
[5] V. And if in sentient bodies, although the qualities of outward objects do move the organs of sense, and the passion of the body goeth before the vigour of the active mind, provoking her action to itself and exciting the inward forms which before lay quiet; if, I say, in perceiving these corporal objects the mind taketh not her impression from passion, but by her own force judgeth of the passion itself, which is objected to the body; how much more do those powers exercise the action of their mind and not only follow the outward objects in their judgment, which are free from all affections of the body? Wherefore in this sort have diverse and different substances knowledges of many kinds. For only sense destitute of all other means of knowledge is in those living creatures which are unmovable, as some shell-fish and other which stick to stones and so are nourished; and imagination in movable beasts who seem to have some power to covet and fly. But reason belongeth only to mankind, as understanding to things divine. So that that knowledge is most excellent which of itself doth not only know her own object, but also those which belong to others. What then, if sense and imagination repugn to discourse and reason, affirming that universality to be nothing which reason thinketh herself to see? For that cannot be universal, they argue, which is either sensible or imaginable; wherefore either the judgment of reason must be true and nothing at all sensible, or because they know that many things are subject to the senses and imagination, the conceit of reason is vain, which considereth that which is sensible and singular as if it were universal. Moreover if reason should answer that she beholdeth in her universality all that which is sensible or imaginable, but they cannot aspire to the knowledge of universality, because their knowledge cannot surpass corporal figures and shapes, and that we must give more credit to the firmer and more perfect judgment about the knowledge of things, in this contention should not we, who have the power of discoursing as well as of imagination and sense, rather take reason’s part? The very like happeneth when human reason doth not think that the divine understanding doth behold future things otherwise than she herself doth. For thus thou arguest: If any things seem not to have certain and necessary events, they cannot be certainly foreknown to be to come. Wherefore there is no foreknowledge of these things, and if we think that there is any, there shall be nothing which happeneth not of necessity. If, therefore, as we are endued with reason, we could likewise have the judgment proper to the divine mind, as we have judged that imagination and sense must yield to reason, so likewise we would think it most reasonable and just that human reason should submit herself to the divine mind. Wherefore let us be lifted up as much as we can to that height of the highest mind; for there reason shall see that which she cannot behold in herself. And that is, how a certain and definite foreknowledge seeth even those things which have no certain issue, and that this is no opinion, but rather the simplicity of the highest knowledge enclosed within no bounds.
[5] V. What several figures things that live upon the earth do keep! Some have their bodies stretched in length by which the dust they sweep And do continual furrows make while on their breasts they creep. Some lightly soaring up on high with wings the wind do smite And through the longest airy space pass with an easy flight. Some by their paces to imprint the ground with steps delight, Which through the pleasant fields do pass or to the woods do go, Whose several forms though to our eyes they do a difference show, Yet by their looks cast down on earth their senses heavy grow. Men only with more stately shape to higher objects rise, Who with erected bodies stand and do the earth despise. These figures warn (if baser thoughts blind not thine earthly eyes) That thou who with an upright face dost look upon the sky, Shouldst also raise thy mind aloft, lest while thou bearest high Thine earthly head, thy soul opprest beneath thy body lie.
[5] VI. Seeing, therefore, as hath been showed, all that is known is not comprehended by its own nature but by the power of him which comprehendeth it, let us see now, as much as we may, what is the state of the divine substance that we may also know what His knowledge is. Wherefore it is the common judgment of all that live by reason that God is everlasting, and therefore let us consider what eternity is. For this declareth unto us both the divine nature and knowledge. Eternity therefore is a perfect possession altogether of an endless life, which is more manifest by the comparison of temporal things, for whatsoever liveth in time, that being present proceedeth from times past to times to come, and there is nothing placed in time which can embrace all the space of its life at once. But it hath not yet attained to-morrow and hath lost yesterday. And you live no more in this day’s life than in that movable and transitory moment. Wherefore, whatsoever suffereth the condition of time, although, as Aristotle thought of the world, it never began nor were ever to end, and its life did endure with infinite time, yet it is not such that it ought to be called everlasting. For it doth not comprehend and embrace all the space of its life together, though that life be infinite, but it hath not the future time which is yet to come. That then which comprehendeth and possesseth the whole fulness of an endless life together, to which neither any part to come is absent, nor of that which is past hath escaped, is worthy to be accounted everlasting, and this is necessary, that being no possession in itself, it may always be present to itself, and have an infinity of movable time present to it. Wherefore they are deceived who, hearing that Plato thought that this world had neither beginning of time nor should ever have any end, think that by this means the created world should be coeternal with the Creator. For it is one thing to be carried through an endless life, which Plato attributed to the world, another thing to embrace the whole presence of an endless life together, which is manifestly proper to the divine mind. Neither ought God to seem more ancient than the things created, by the quantity of time, but rather by the simplicity of His divine nature. For that infinite motion of temporal things imitateth the present state of the unmovable life, and since it cannot express nor equal it, it falleth from immobility to motion, and from the simplicity of presence, it decreaseth to an infinite quantity of future and past, and since it cannot possess together all the fulness of its life, by never leaving to be in some sort, it seemeth to emulate in part that which it cannot fully obtain and express, tying itself to this small presence of this short and swift moment, which because it carrieth a certain image of that abiding presence, whosoever hath it, seemeth to be. But because it could not stay it undertook an infinite journey of time, and so it came to pass that it continued that life by going whose plenitude it could not comprehend by staying. Wherefore, if we will give things their right names, following Plato, let us say that God is everlasting and the world perpetual. Wherefore, since every judgment comprehendeth those things which are subject unto it, according to its own nature, and God hath always an everlasting and present state, His knowledge also surpassing all motions of time, remaineth in the simplicity of His presence, and comprehending the infinite spaces of that which is past and to come, considereth all things in His simple knowledge as though they were now in doing. So that, if thou wilt weigh His foreknowledge with which He discerneth all things, thou wilt more rightly esteem it to be the knowledge of a never fading instant than a foreknowledge as of a thing to come. For which cause it is not called praevidence or foresight, but rather providence, because, placed far from inferior things, it overlooketh all things, as it were, from the highest top of things. Why, therefore, wilt thou have those things necessary which are illustrated by the divine light, since that not even men make not those things necessary which they see? For doth thy sight impose any necessity upon those things which thou seest present?” “No.” “But the present instant of men may well be compared to that of God in this: that as you see some things in your temporal instant, so He beholdeth all things in His eternal present. Wherefore this divine foreknowledge doth not change the nature and propriety of things, and it beholdeth them such in His presence as they will after come to be, neither doth He confound the judgment of things, and with one sight of His mind He discerneth as well those things which shall happen necessarily as otherwise. As you, when at one time you see a man walking upon the earth and the sun rising in heaven, although they be both seen at once, yet you discern and judge that the one is voluntary, and the other necessary, so likewise the divine sight beholding all things disturbeth not the quality of things which to Him are present, but in respect of time are yet to come. And so this is not an opinion but rather a knowledge grounded upon truth, when He knoweth that such a thing shall be, which likewise He is not ignorant that it hath no necessity of being. Here if thou sayest that cannot choose but happen which God seeth shall happen, and that which cannot choose but happen, must be of necessity, and so tiest me to this name of necessity, I will grant that it is a most solid truth, but whereof scarce any but a contemplator of divinity is capable. For I will answer that the same thing is necessary when it is referred to the Divine knowledge; but when it is weighed in its own nature that it seemeth altogether free and absolute. For there be two necessities: the one simple, as that it is necessary for all men to be mortal; the other conditional, as if thou knowest that any man walketh, he must needs walk. For what a man knoweth cannot be otherwise than it is known. But this conditional draweth not with it that simple or absolute necessity. For this is not caused by the nature of the thing, but by the adding a condition. For no necessity maketh him to go that goeth of his own accord, although it be necessary that he goeth while he goeth. In like manner, if providence seeth anything present, that must needs be, although it hath no necessity of nature. But God beholdeth those future things, which proceed from free-will, present. These things, therefore, being referred to the divine sight are necessary by the condition of the divine knowledge, and, considered by themselves, they lose not absolute freedom of their own nature. Wherefore doubtless all those things come to pass which God foreknoweth shall come, but some of them proceed from free-will, which though they come to pass, yet do not, by coining into being, lose, since before they came to pass, they might also not have happened. But what importeth it that they are not necessary, since that by reason of the condition of the divine knowledge they come to pass in all respects as if they were necessary? It hath the same import as those things which I proposed a little before — the sun rising and the man going. While they are in doing, they cannot choose but be in doing; yet one of them was necessarily to be before it was, and the other not. Likewise those things which God hath present, will have doubtless a being, but some of them proceed from the necessity of things, other from the power of the doers. And therefore we said not without cause that these, if they be referred to God’s knowledge, are necessary; and if they be considered by themselves, they are free from the bonds of necessity. As whatsoever is manifest to senses, if thou referrest it to reason, is universal; if thou considerest the things themselves, it is singular or particular. But thou wilt say, ‘If it is in my power to change my purpose, shall I frustrate providence if I chance to alter those things which she foreknoweth?’ I answer that thou mayest indeed change thy purpose, but because the truth of providence, being present, seeth that thou canst do so, and whether thou wilt do so or no, and what thou purposest anew, thou canst not avoid the divine foreknowledge, even as thou canst not avoid the sight of an eye which is present, although thou turnest thyself to divers actions by thy free-will.
[5] But yet thou wilt inquire whether God’s knowledge shall be changed by thy disposition, so that when thou wilt now one thing, and now another, it should also seem to have divers knowledges. No. For God’s sight preventeth all that is to come and recalleth and draweth it to the presence of His own knowledge; neither doth He vary, as thou imaginest, now knowing one thing and now another, but in one instant without moving preventeth and comprehendeth thy mutations. Which presence of comprehending and seeing all things, God hath not by the event of future things but by His own simplicity. By which that doubt is also resolved which thou didst put a little before, that it is an unworthy thing that our future actions should be said to cause the knowledge of God. For this force of the divine knowledge comprehending all things with a present notion appointeth to everything its measure and receiveth nothing from ensuing accidents. All which being so, the free-will of mortal men remaineth unviolated, neither are the laws unjust which propose punishments and rewards to our wills, which are free from all necessity. There remaineth also a beholder of all things which is God, who foreseeth all things, and the eternity of His vision, which is always present, concurreth with the future quality of our actions, distributing rewards to the good and punishments to the evil. Neither do we in vain put our hope in God or pray to Him; for if we do this well and as we ought, we shall not lose our labour or be without effect. Wherefore fly vices, embrace virtues, possess your minds with worthy hopes, offer up humble prayers to your highest Prince. There is, if you will not dissemble, a great necessity of doing well imposed upon you, since you live in the sight of your Judge, who beholdeth all things.”

## Epigram by Symmachus

[6] EPIGRAM BY SYMMACHUS
[6] Boethius! model of all weal and worth, Unjustly from thy country driven forth, Thy fame, unfamed at last, yet one shall praise, One voice the cry of approbation raise; What life denied, through death kind heaven giveth; Thine honour in thy wife’s for ever liveth.