BOOK III, lines 830-1094

Thou, who from out such darkness first could’st liftA torch so bright, illumining therebyThe benefits of life, thee do I follow,O thou bright glory of the Grecian race,And in thy deepset footprints firmly nowI plant my steps, not so much through desireTo rival thee, rather because I loveAnd therefore long to imitate thee: for howShould a mere swallow strive with swans; or whatMight kids with tottering limbs, matched in a race,Achieve against a horse’s stalwart strength?Thou, father, art discoverer of truth;Thou dost enrich us with a father’s precepts;And from thy pages, glorious sage, as beesIn flowery glades sip from all plants, so weFeed likewise upon all thy golden words,Golden words, ever worthy of endless life.For soon as, issuing from thy godlike mind,Thy doctrine has begun to voice abroadThe nature of things, straightway the soul’s terrorsTake flight; the world’s walls open; I beholdThings being formed and changed throughout all space.Revealed is the divinity of the gods,And their serene abodes, which neither windsBuffet, nor clouds drench them with showers, nor snowCongealed by sharp frost, falling in white flakes,Violates, but an ever-cloudless skyInvests them, laughing with wide-spreading light.Moreover all their wants nature provides,And there is nothing that at any timeCan minish their tranquillity of soul.But on the other hand nowhere are visibleThe Acherusian quarters; and yet earthIn no wise can obstruct our contemplationOf all those operations that take placeBeneath our feet throughout the nether void.At such thoughts there comes over me a kindOf godlike pleasure mixed with thrilling awe,That nature by thy power should be thus clearlyMade manifest and unveiled on every side.Now since I have demonstrated of what kindAre the beginnings of all things, and howVarying are the divers shapes whereinThey are flying onward of their own free will,Driven in eternal motion, and in what wayOut of these can be formed each several thing,After these themes it would seem best that nowThe nature of the mind and of the soulShould be elucidated in my verses,And fear of Acheron driven headlong forth,That dread which troubles from its lowest depthsThe life of man, and brooding over allWith the blackness of death, will not allowAny pleasure to be unalloyed and pure.For though men often tell us that diseasesAnd a life of public shame are to be fearedFar more than Tartarus, the house of death,And that they know the nature of the soulTo be of blood, or even perhaps of wind,If such should be their fancy, and that soThey have no need of our philosophy,Yet from the following proof you may perceiveThat all these boasts are uttered to win praiseRather than from conviction of the truth.These same men, exiled from their fatherland,And banished far from human sight, disgracedBy foul crime, and beset by every kindOf wretchedness, none the less still live on,And to whatever place they bear their misery,In spite of all make offerings to the dead,Slaughter black sheep, and to the nether powersDo sacrifice, and in their bitter plightTurn their thoughts to religion far more zealously.Thus you can better judge a man in stressOf peril, and amidst adversitiesDiscover what he is; for then at lastThe language of sincerity and truthIs wrung forth from the bottom of his heart;The mask is torn off; what is real remains.Moreover avarice and blinding lustFor honours, which compel unhappy menTo overpass the bounds of right, and sometimes,As partners and accomplices of crime,To struggle with vast effort night and dayTill they emerge upon the heights of power—These sores of life are in no small degreeFostered by fear of death. For foul contemptAnd biting penury are mostly thoughtTo be quite different from a pleasurableAnd secure life: rather they seem to beAlready but a kind of lingeringBefore the gates of death. And so while men,Urged by an unreal terror, long to escapeFar from these ills and drive them far away,They pile up wealth by shedding civil blood,Doubling their riches greedily, while they heapMassacre upon massacre, rejoiceRuthlessly in the sad death of a brother,And shun their kinsmen’s board in hate and dread.Often likewise owing to this same fearThey pine with envy because some other manIn the world’s eyes is powerful, some otherIs gazed at, as he walks robed in bright honours,While they complain that they themselves are wallowingIn darkness and in filth. Some sink their livesIn ruin to win statues and a name,And often with such force, through dread of death,Does hatred of life and of the sight of daySeize upon mortals, that with anguished heartThey will destroy themselves, forgetting quiteHow this fear is the well-spring of their cares,This it is that enfeebles honour, thisThat bursts the bonds of friendship, and in finePrompts them to cast all duty to the ground.Since often ere now men have betrayed their countryAnd beloved parents, seeking so to shunThe realms of Acheron. For just as childrenIn the blind darkness tremble and are afraidOf all things, so we sometimes in the lightFear things that are no whit more to be dreadedThan those which children shudder at in the darkImagining that they will come to pass.This terror, then, and darkness of the mindMust needs be scattered not by the sun’s beamsAnd day’s bright arrows, but by contemplationOf nature’s aspect and her inward law.First then the mind, which we shall often callThe intellect, wherein is placed the councilAnd government of life, I assert to beNo less a part of man than feet and handsAnd eyes are part of the whole living creature.Yet some would have it that the sense of the mindResides in no fixed part, but deem it ratherA kind of vital habit of the body,Which by the Greeks is called a harmony,Something that causes us to live with sense,Although the intellect is in no one part.Just as good health is often spoken ofAs though belonging to the body, and yetIt is no one part of a healthy man.Thus they refuse to place the sense of the mindIn one fixed part: and here to me they seemTo wander far indeed astray from truth.For often the body, which is visible,Is sick, while in some other hidden partWe experience pleasure; and ofttimes againThe contrary will happen, when a manWho is distressed in mind, through his whole bodyFeels pleasure: in the same way as the footOf a sick man may suffer pain, and yetHis head meanwhile is in no pain at all.Moreover when the limbs are given upTo soft sleep, and the wearied body liesDiffused without sensation, there is yetSomething else in us which at that same timeIs stirred in many ways, and into itselfReceives all the emotions of delight,And all the empty troubles of the heart.Now, that the soul too dwells within the limbs,And that it is no harmony wherebyThe body is wont to feel, this main proof shows.When from the body much has been removed,Yet often life still lingers in our limbs:Whereas, when a few particles of heatHave been dispersed, and through the mouth some airHas been forced out, suddenly that same lifeDeserts the arteries and quits the bones:Whence you may learn that not all particlesHave functions of like moment, nor alikeSupport existence; but that rather thoseWhich are the seeds of wind and warming heatAre the cause that life stays within the limbs.Therefore this vital heat and wind, residingWithin the body itself, is that which quitsOur dying frame. So now that we have foundThe nature of the mind and of the soulTo be a part in some sense of the man,Let us give up the name of harmony,Which was brought down from lofty HeliconTo the musicians, or else they themselves,Taking it from some other source, transferred itTo what was then without a name of its own.However that may be, why, let them keep it.Do you give heed to the rest of my discourse.Now I maintain that mind and soul are boundIn union with each other, forming soA single substance, but that the lord that rulesThroughout the body is the reasoning powerWhich we call mind and intellect. Its seatIs fixed in the middle region of the breast.For here it is that fear and panic throb:Around these parts dwell joys that soothe. Here thenIs the intellect or mind. The rest of the soulDispersed through the whole body, obeys and movesAt the will and propulsion of the mind,Which for itself and by itself aloneHas knowledge and rejoices for itself,When nothing at that time moves soul or body.And just as, when we are attacked by painIn head or eye, we do not feel distressThrough our whole body too, so often the mindSuffers pain by itself, or is envigouredBy happiness, when all the rest of the soulThroughout the limbs and frame remains unstirredBy any new sensation. But when the mindHas been perturbed by some more vehement fear,We see the whole soul feel with it in unisonThrough all the limbs; sweating and paleness thenSpread over the whole body; the tongue halts,Speech dies away, the eyes grow dark with mist,The ears ring and the limbs sink under us.And indeed often we see men drop downFrom terror of mind. Hence easily we may learnThat the soul is united with the mind;For when it has been struck by the mind’s force,Straightway it pushes and propels the body.

Now since I have demonstrated of what kindAre the beginnings of all things, and howVarying are the divers shapes whereinThey are flying onward of their own free will,Driven in eternal motion, and in what wayOut of these can be formed each several thing,After these themes it would seem best that nowThe nature of the mind and of the soulShould be elucidated in my verses,And fear of Acheron driven headlong forth,That dread which troubles from its lowest depthsThe life of man, and brooding over allWith the blackness of death, will not allowAny pleasure to be unalloyed and pure.For though men often tell us that diseasesAnd a life of public shame are to be fearedFar more than Tartarus, the house of death,And that they know the nature of the soulTo be of blood, or even perhaps of wind,If such should be their fancy, and that soThey have no need of our philosophy,Yet from the following proof you may perceiveThat all these boasts are uttered to win praiseRather than from conviction of the truth.These same men, exiled from their fatherland,And banished far from human sight, disgracedBy foul crime, and beset by every kindOf wretchedness, none the less still live on,And to whatever place they bear their misery,In spite of all make offerings to the dead,Slaughter black sheep, and to the nether powersDo sacrifice, and in their bitter plightTurn their thoughts to religion far more zealously.Thus you can better judge a man in stressOf peril, and amidst adversitiesDiscover what he is; for then at lastThe language of sincerity and truthIs wrung forth from the bottom of his heart;The mask is torn off; what is real remains.Moreover avarice and blinding lustFor honours, which compel unhappy menTo overpass the bounds of right, and sometimes,As partners and accomplices of crime,To struggle with vast effort night and dayTill they emerge upon the heights of power—These sores of life are in no small degreeFostered by fear of death. For foul contemptAnd biting penury are mostly thoughtTo be quite different from a pleasurableAnd secure life: rather they seem to beAlready but a kind of lingeringBefore the gates of death. And so while men,Urged by an unreal terror, long to escapeFar from these ills and drive them far away,They pile up wealth by shedding civil blood,Doubling their riches greedily, while they heapMassacre upon massacre, rejoiceRuthlessly in the sad death of a brother,And shun their kinsmen’s board in hate and dread.Often likewise owing to this same fearThey pine with envy because some other manIn the world’s eyes is powerful, some otherIs gazed at, as he walks robed in bright honours,While they complain that they themselves are wallowingIn darkness and in filth. Some sink their livesIn ruin to win statues and a name,And often with such force, through dread of death,Does hatred of life and of the sight of daySeize upon mortals, that with anguished heartThey will destroy themselves, forgetting quiteHow this fear is the well-spring of their cares,This it is that enfeebles honour, thisThat bursts the bonds of friendship, and in finePrompts them to cast all duty to the ground.Since often ere now men have betrayed their countryAnd beloved parents, seeking so to shunThe realms of Acheron. For just as childrenIn the blind darkness tremble and are afraidOf all things, so we sometimes in the lightFear things that are no whit more to be dreadedThan those which children shudder at in the darkImagining that they will come to pass.This terror, then, and darkness of the mindMust needs be scattered not by the sun’s beamsAnd day’s bright arrows, but by contemplationOf nature’s aspect and her inward law.

First then the mind, which we shall often callThe intellect, wherein is placed the councilAnd government of life, I assert to beNo less a part of man than feet and handsAnd eyes are part of the whole living creature.Yet some would have it that the sense of the mindResides in no fixed part, but deem it ratherA kind of vital habit of the body,Which by the Greeks is called a harmony,Something that causes us to live with sense,Although the intellect is in no one part.Just as good health is often spoken ofAs though belonging to the body, and yetIt is no one part of a healthy man.Thus they refuse to place the sense of the mindIn one fixed part: and here to me they seemTo wander far indeed astray from truth.For often the body, which is visible,Is sick, while in some other hidden partWe experience pleasure; and ofttimes againThe contrary will happen, when a manWho is distressed in mind, through his whole bodyFeels pleasure: in the same way as the footOf a sick man may suffer pain, and yetHis head meanwhile is in no pain at all.Moreover when the limbs are given upTo soft sleep, and the wearied body liesDiffused without sensation, there is yetSomething else in us which at that same timeIs stirred in many ways, and into itselfReceives all the emotions of delight,And all the empty troubles of the heart.Now, that the soul too dwells within the limbs,And that it is no harmony wherebyThe body is wont to feel, this main proof shows.When from the body much has been removed,Yet often life still lingers in our limbs:Whereas, when a few particles of heatHave been dispersed, and through the mouth some airHas been forced out, suddenly that same lifeDeserts the arteries and quits the bones:Whence you may learn that not all particlesHave functions of like moment, nor alikeSupport existence; but that rather thoseWhich are the seeds of wind and warming heatAre the cause that life stays within the limbs.Therefore this vital heat and wind, residingWithin the body itself, is that which quitsOur dying frame. So now that we have foundThe nature of the mind and of the soulTo be a part in some sense of the man,Let us give up the name of harmony,Which was brought down from lofty HeliconTo the musicians, or else they themselves,Taking it from some other source, transferred itTo what was then without a name of its own.However that may be, why, let them keep it.Do you give heed to the rest of my discourse.

Now I maintain that mind and soul are boundIn union with each other, forming soA single substance, but that the lord that rulesThroughout the body is the reasoning powerWhich we call mind and intellect. Its seatIs fixed in the middle region of the breast.For here it is that fear and panic throb:Around these parts dwell joys that soothe. Here thenIs the intellect or mind. The rest of the soulDispersed through the whole body, obeys and movesAt the will and propulsion of the mind,Which for itself and by itself aloneHas knowledge and rejoices for itself,When nothing at that time moves soul or body.And just as, when we are attacked by painIn head or eye, we do not feel distressThrough our whole body too, so often the mindSuffers pain by itself, or is envigouredBy happiness, when all the rest of the soulThroughout the limbs and frame remains unstirredBy any new sensation. But when the mindHas been perturbed by some more vehement fear,We see the whole soul feel with it in unisonThrough all the limbs; sweating and paleness thenSpread over the whole body; the tongue halts,Speech dies away, the eyes grow dark with mist,The ears ring and the limbs sink under us.And indeed often we see men drop downFrom terror of mind. Hence easily we may learnThat the soul is united with the mind;For when it has been struck by the mind’s force,Straightway it pushes and propels the body.

Deaththen is nothing to us, nor one jotDoes it concern us, since the nature of mindIs thus proved mortal. And as in times long pastWe felt no unhappiness when from every sideGathering for conflict came the Punic hosts,And all that was beneath the height of heaven,Shaken by the tumult and dismay of war,Shuddered and quaked, and mortals were in doubtTo whose empire all human things would fallBy land and sea, so when we are no more,When body and soul, whereof we were composedInto one being shall have been divorced,’Tis plain nothing whatever shall have powerTo trouble us, who then shall be no more,Or stir our senses, no, not if earth with seaIn ruin shall be mingled, and sea with sky.And even though the powers of mind and soulAfter they have been severed from the bodyWere still to feel, yet that to us is nothing,Who by the binding marriage tie betweenBody and soul are formed into one being.Nor if Time should collect our scattered atomsAfter our death, and should restore them backTo where they now are placed, and if once moreThe light of light were given us, not even thatWould in the least concern us, once the chainOf self-awareness had been snapped asunder.So too now what we may have been beforeConcerns us not, nor causes us distress.For when you look back on the whole past courseOf infinite time, and think how manifoldMust be the modes of matter’s flux, then easilyMay you believe this too, that these same atomsOf which we now are formed, have often beforeBeen placed in the same order as they are now.Yet this can no remembrance bring us back.For a break in life has since been interposed,And all our atoms wandering dispersedHave strayed far from that former consciousness.For if a man be destined to endureMisery and suffering, he must first existIn his own person at that very timeWhen evil should befall him. But since deathPrecludes this, and forbids him to existWho was to endure distress, we may be sureThat in death there is nothing we need dread,That he who exists not cannot become miserable,And that it makes no difference at allWhether he shall already have been bornIn some past time, when once he has been robbedBy death that dies not of his life that dies.Therefore if you should chance to hear some manPitying his own lot, that after deathEither his body must decay in the earth,Or be consumed by flames or jaws of beasts,Then may you know that his words ring not true,That in his heart there lurks some secret sting,Though he himself deny that he believesAny sense will remain with him in death.For in fact he grants not all that he professes,Nor by the roots does he expel and thrustSelf forth from life, but all unwittinglyAssumes that of self something will survive.For when a living man forbodes that birdsAnd beasts may rend his body after death,Then does he pity himself, nor can he quiteSeparate and withdraw from the outcast body,But fancying that that other is himself,With his own sense imagines it endued.So he complains because he was born mortal,Nor sees that there will be in real deathNo other self which living can lamentThat he has perished, none that will stand byAnd grieve over his burnt and mangled corpse.For if it be an evil after deathTo be mauled by teeth of beasts, why should it seemLess cruel to be laid out on a pyreAnd scorched with hot flames, or to be embalmedIn stifling honey, or to lie stiff and coldCouched on the cool slab of a chilly stone,Or to be crushed down under a weight of earth?“Now no more shall thy home, nor thy chaste wifeReceive thee in gladness, nor shall thy sweet childrenRun forth to meet thee and snatch kisses from thee,And touch thee to the heart with silent joy.No more canst thou be prosperous in thy doings,A bulwark to thy friends. Poor wretch!” men cry,“How wretchedly has one disastrous dayStript thee of all life’s many benefits!”Yet this withal they add not: “Nor henceforthDoes craving for these things beset thee more.”This truth, could men but grasp it once in thoughtAnd follow thought with words, would forthwith setTheir spirits free from a huge ache and dread.“Thou, as thou art, sunk in the sleep of death,Shalt so continue through all time to come,Delivered from all feverish miseries:But we who watched thee on thy dreadful pyreChange into ashes, we insatiablyBewept thee; nor shall any lapse of daysRemove that lifelong sorrow from our hearts.”Of him who spoke thus, well might we inquire,What grief so exceeding bitter is there here,If in the end all comes to sleep and rest,That one should therefore pine with lifelong misery.This too is oft men’s wont, when they lie feastingWine-cup in hand with garland-shaded brows:Thus from the heart they speak: “Brief is life’s joyFor poor frail men. Soon will it be no more,Nor ever afterwards may it be called back.”As though a foremost evil to be fearedAfter their death were this, that parching thirstWould burn and scorch them in their misery,Or craving for aught else would then beset them.No, for none feels the want of self and life,When mind and body are sunk in sleep together.For all we care, such sleep might be eternal:No craving for ourselves moves us at all.And yet, when starting up from sleep a manCollects himself, then the atoms of his soulThroughout his frame cannot be wandering farFrom their sense-stirring motions. Therefore deathMust needs be thought far less to us than sleep,If less can be than what we see is nothing.For the dispersion of the crowded atoms,That comes with death, is greater; nor has everAnyone yet awakened, upon whomHas once fallen the chill arrest of death.Furthermore, if Nature suddenly found voice,And thus in person upbraided one of us:“What is it, mortal, can afflict thee so,That thou to such exceeding bitter griefShouldst yield? Why thus bemoan and bewail death?For if the life thou hast lived hithertoWas pleasant to thee, and not all thy blessings,As though poured into a perforated jar,Have flowed through and gone thanklessly to waste,Why not then, like a guest replete with life,Take thy departure, and resignedlyEnter, thou fool, upon secure repose?But if all that thou hast enjoyed has perishedSquandered away, and life is a mere grievance,Why seek to add thereto, what in its turnMust all come to destruction and be lostUnprofitably? Why both of life and travailDost thou not rather make an end at once?For there is nothing more I can contriveOr find to please thee. All things are the sameAt all times. Though thy body be not yetDecayed with years, nor have thy worn-out limbsGrown feeble, yet all things remain the same;Though thou shouldst overlive all generations,Nay, even more if thou shouldst never die.”What could we answer, save that Nature’s claimWas just, and her indictment a true plea?But if some other more advanced in yearsShould miserably complain and lament deathBeyond all reason, would she not yet more justlyLift up her voice and chide him with sharp speech?“Hence with thy tears, buffoon. Cease thy complaints.After thou hast enjoyed all life’s best giftsThou now decayest. But because thou hast yearnedAlways for what was absent, and despisedThat which was present, life has glided from theeIncomplete and unprofitable. So nowEre thou didst look for it, at thy pillow DeathHas taken his stand, before thou canst departSatisfied with existence and replete.But now resign all vanities that so illBefit thine age: come then, with a good graceRise and make room for others; for thou must.”Justly, I think, would she so plead with him,Justly reproach and chide: for things grown oldYield place and are supplanted evermoreBy new, and each thing out of something elseMust be replenished; nor to the black pitOf Tartarus was yet any man consigned.Matter is needed, that therefrom may growSucceeding generations: which yet all,When they have lived their life, shall follow thee.Thus it is all have perished in past timesNo less than thou, and shall hereafter perish.So one thing out of another shall not ceaseFor ever to arise; and life is givenTo none in fee, to all in usufruct.Consider likewise how eternal Time’sBygone antiquity before our birthWas nothing to us. In such wise does NatureShow us the time to come after our deathAs in a mirror. Is aught visibleTherein so appalling? aught that seems like gloom?Is it not more secure than any sleep?Moreover all those things which people sayAre found in Acheron’s gulf, assuredlyExist for us in life. No wretched Tantalus,Numbed by vain terror, quakes, as the tale tells,Beneath a huge rock hanging in the air;But in life rather an empty fear of godsOppresses mortals; and the fall they dreadIs fortune’s fall, which chance may bring to each.Nor verily entering the large breast of Tityos,As he lies stretched in Acheron, do vulturesFind food there for their beaks perpetually.How vast soever his body’s bulk extends,Though not nine acres merely with outspread limbsHe cover, but the round of the whole earth,Yet would he not be able to endureEternal pain, nor out of his whole bodyFor ever provide food. But here for usHe is a Tityos, whom, while he liesIn bonds of love, fretful anxietiesDevour like rending birds of prey, or cares,Sprung from some other craving, lacerate.A living Sisyphus also we beholdIn him who from the people fain would begThe rods and cruel axes, and each timeDefeated and disconsolate must retire.For to beg power, which, empty as it is,Is never given, and in pursuit thereofTo endure grievous toil continually,Is but to thrust uphill mightily strainingA stone, which from the summit after allRolls bounding back down to the level plain.Moreover to be feeding evermoreThe thankless nature of the mind, yet neverTo fill it full and sate it with good things,As do the seasons for us, when each yearThey return bringing fruits and varied charms,Yet never are we filled with life’s delights,This surely is what is told of those young brides,Who must pour water into a punctured vessel,Though they can have no hope to fill it full.Cerberus and the Furies in like mannerAre fables, and that world deprived of dayWhere from its throat Tartarus belches forthHorrible flames: which things in truth are not,Nor can be anywhere. But there is in lifeA dread of punishment for things ill done,Terrible as the deeds are terrible;And to expiate men’s guilt there is the dungeon,The awful hurling downward from the rock,Scourgings, mutilations and impalings,The pitch, the torches and the metal plate.And even if these be wanting, yet the mindConscious of guilt torments itself with goadsAnd scorching whips, nor in its boding fearPerceives what end of misery there can be,Nor what limit at length to punishment,Nay fears lest these same evils after deathShould prove more grievous. Thus does the life of foolsBecome at last an Acheron here on earth.This too thou may’st say sometimes to thyself:“Even the good king Ancus closed his eyesTo the light of day, who was so many timesWorthier than thou, unconscionable man.And since then many others who bore ruleO’er mighty nations, princes and potentates,Have perished: and he too, even he, who onceAcross the great sea paved a path wherebyHis legions might pass over, bidding themCross dry-shod the salt deeps, and to show scornTrampled upon the roarings of the wavesWith horses, even he, bereft of light,Forth from his dying body gasped his soul.The Scipios’ offspring, thunderbolt of war,Terror of Carthage, gave his bones to the earth,As though he were the meanest household slave.Consider too the inventors of wise thoughtsAnd arts that charm, consider the companionsOf the Heliconian Maidens, among whomHomer still bears the sceptre without peer;Yet he now sleeps the same sleep as they all.Likewise Democritus, when a ripe old ageHad warned him that the memory-stirring motionsWere waning in his mind, by his own actWillingly offered up his head to death.Even Epicurus died, when his life’s lightHad run its course, he who in intellectSurpassed the race of men, quenching the gloryOf all else, as the sun in heaven arisingQuenches the stars. Then wilt thou hesitateAnd feel aggrieved to die? thou for whom lifeIs well nigh dead, whilst yet thou art aliveAnd lookest on the light; thou who dost wasteMost of thy time in sleep, and waking snorest,Nor ceasest to see dreams; who hast a mindTroubled with empty terror, and ofttimesCanst not discover what it is that ails thee,When, poor besotted wretch, from every sideCares crowd upon thee, and thou goest astrayDrifting in blind perplexity of soul.”If men not only were to feel this loadThat weighs upon their mind and wears them out,But might have knowledge also of its causeAnd whence comes this great pile of miseryCrushing their breasts, they would not spend their lives,As now so oft we see them, ignorantEach of his life’s true ends, and seeking everBy change of place to lay his burden down.Often, issuing forth from his great mansion, heWho is weary of home will suddenly returnPerceiving that abroad he is none the happier.He posts to his villa galloping his ponies,As though hurrying with help to a house on fire,Yawns on the very threshold, nay sinks downHeavily into sleep to seek oblivion,Or even perhaps starts headlong back to town.In this way each man flies from his own self,Yet from that self in fact he has no powerTo escape. He clings to it in his own despite,Although he loathes it, seeing that he is sick,Yet perceives not the cause of his disease:Which if he could but comprehend aright,Relinquishing all else, each man would studyTo learn the Nature of Reality,Since ’tis our state during eternal time,Not for one hour merely, that is in doubt,That state wherein mortals must pass the wholeOf what may still await them after death.And in conclusion, what base lust of lifeIs this, that can so potently compel usIn dubious perils to feel such dismay?For indeed certain is the end of lifeThat awaits mortals, nor can death be shunned.Meet it we must. Furthermore in the samePursuits and actions do we pass our daysFor ever, nor may we by living onForge for ourselves any new form of pleasure.But what we crave, while it is absent, seemsTo excel all things else; then, when ’tis ours,We crave some other thing, gaping wide-mouthed,Always possessed by the same thirst of life.What fortune future time may bring, we know not,Nor what chance has in store for us, nor yetWhat end awaits us. By prolonging lifeNo least jot may we take from death’s duration;Nought may we steal away therefrom, that soHaply a less long while we may be dead.Therefore as many ages as you pleaseAdd to your life’s account, yet none the lessWill that eternal death be waiting for you.And not less long will that man be no more,Who from to-day has ceased to live, than heWho has died many months and years ago.

Therefore if you should chance to hear some manPitying his own lot, that after deathEither his body must decay in the earth,Or be consumed by flames or jaws of beasts,Then may you know that his words ring not true,That in his heart there lurks some secret sting,Though he himself deny that he believesAny sense will remain with him in death.For in fact he grants not all that he professes,Nor by the roots does he expel and thrustSelf forth from life, but all unwittinglyAssumes that of self something will survive.For when a living man forbodes that birdsAnd beasts may rend his body after death,Then does he pity himself, nor can he quiteSeparate and withdraw from the outcast body,But fancying that that other is himself,With his own sense imagines it endued.So he complains because he was born mortal,Nor sees that there will be in real deathNo other self which living can lamentThat he has perished, none that will stand byAnd grieve over his burnt and mangled corpse.For if it be an evil after deathTo be mauled by teeth of beasts, why should it seemLess cruel to be laid out on a pyreAnd scorched with hot flames, or to be embalmedIn stifling honey, or to lie stiff and coldCouched on the cool slab of a chilly stone,Or to be crushed down under a weight of earth?

“Now no more shall thy home, nor thy chaste wifeReceive thee in gladness, nor shall thy sweet childrenRun forth to meet thee and snatch kisses from thee,And touch thee to the heart with silent joy.No more canst thou be prosperous in thy doings,A bulwark to thy friends. Poor wretch!” men cry,“How wretchedly has one disastrous dayStript thee of all life’s many benefits!”Yet this withal they add not: “Nor henceforthDoes craving for these things beset thee more.”This truth, could men but grasp it once in thoughtAnd follow thought with words, would forthwith setTheir spirits free from a huge ache and dread.“Thou, as thou art, sunk in the sleep of death,Shalt so continue through all time to come,Delivered from all feverish miseries:But we who watched thee on thy dreadful pyreChange into ashes, we insatiablyBewept thee; nor shall any lapse of daysRemove that lifelong sorrow from our hearts.”Of him who spoke thus, well might we inquire,What grief so exceeding bitter is there here,If in the end all comes to sleep and rest,That one should therefore pine with lifelong misery.

This too is oft men’s wont, when they lie feastingWine-cup in hand with garland-shaded brows:Thus from the heart they speak: “Brief is life’s joyFor poor frail men. Soon will it be no more,Nor ever afterwards may it be called back.”As though a foremost evil to be fearedAfter their death were this, that parching thirstWould burn and scorch them in their misery,Or craving for aught else would then beset them.No, for none feels the want of self and life,When mind and body are sunk in sleep together.For all we care, such sleep might be eternal:No craving for ourselves moves us at all.And yet, when starting up from sleep a manCollects himself, then the atoms of his soulThroughout his frame cannot be wandering farFrom their sense-stirring motions. Therefore deathMust needs be thought far less to us than sleep,If less can be than what we see is nothing.For the dispersion of the crowded atoms,That comes with death, is greater; nor has everAnyone yet awakened, upon whomHas once fallen the chill arrest of death.

Furthermore, if Nature suddenly found voice,And thus in person upbraided one of us:“What is it, mortal, can afflict thee so,That thou to such exceeding bitter griefShouldst yield? Why thus bemoan and bewail death?For if the life thou hast lived hithertoWas pleasant to thee, and not all thy blessings,As though poured into a perforated jar,Have flowed through and gone thanklessly to waste,Why not then, like a guest replete with life,Take thy departure, and resignedlyEnter, thou fool, upon secure repose?But if all that thou hast enjoyed has perishedSquandered away, and life is a mere grievance,Why seek to add thereto, what in its turnMust all come to destruction and be lostUnprofitably? Why both of life and travailDost thou not rather make an end at once?For there is nothing more I can contriveOr find to please thee. All things are the sameAt all times. Though thy body be not yetDecayed with years, nor have thy worn-out limbsGrown feeble, yet all things remain the same;Though thou shouldst overlive all generations,Nay, even more if thou shouldst never die.”What could we answer, save that Nature’s claimWas just, and her indictment a true plea?But if some other more advanced in yearsShould miserably complain and lament deathBeyond all reason, would she not yet more justlyLift up her voice and chide him with sharp speech?“Hence with thy tears, buffoon. Cease thy complaints.After thou hast enjoyed all life’s best giftsThou now decayest. But because thou hast yearnedAlways for what was absent, and despisedThat which was present, life has glided from theeIncomplete and unprofitable. So nowEre thou didst look for it, at thy pillow DeathHas taken his stand, before thou canst departSatisfied with existence and replete.But now resign all vanities that so illBefit thine age: come then, with a good graceRise and make room for others; for thou must.”Justly, I think, would she so plead with him,Justly reproach and chide: for things grown oldYield place and are supplanted evermoreBy new, and each thing out of something elseMust be replenished; nor to the black pitOf Tartarus was yet any man consigned.Matter is needed, that therefrom may growSucceeding generations: which yet all,When they have lived their life, shall follow thee.Thus it is all have perished in past timesNo less than thou, and shall hereafter perish.So one thing out of another shall not ceaseFor ever to arise; and life is givenTo none in fee, to all in usufruct.Consider likewise how eternal Time’sBygone antiquity before our birthWas nothing to us. In such wise does NatureShow us the time to come after our deathAs in a mirror. Is aught visibleTherein so appalling? aught that seems like gloom?Is it not more secure than any sleep?

Moreover all those things which people sayAre found in Acheron’s gulf, assuredlyExist for us in life. No wretched Tantalus,Numbed by vain terror, quakes, as the tale tells,Beneath a huge rock hanging in the air;But in life rather an empty fear of godsOppresses mortals; and the fall they dreadIs fortune’s fall, which chance may bring to each.Nor verily entering the large breast of Tityos,As he lies stretched in Acheron, do vulturesFind food there for their beaks perpetually.How vast soever his body’s bulk extends,Though not nine acres merely with outspread limbsHe cover, but the round of the whole earth,Yet would he not be able to endureEternal pain, nor out of his whole bodyFor ever provide food. But here for usHe is a Tityos, whom, while he liesIn bonds of love, fretful anxietiesDevour like rending birds of prey, or cares,Sprung from some other craving, lacerate.A living Sisyphus also we beholdIn him who from the people fain would begThe rods and cruel axes, and each timeDefeated and disconsolate must retire.For to beg power, which, empty as it is,Is never given, and in pursuit thereofTo endure grievous toil continually,Is but to thrust uphill mightily strainingA stone, which from the summit after allRolls bounding back down to the level plain.Moreover to be feeding evermoreThe thankless nature of the mind, yet neverTo fill it full and sate it with good things,As do the seasons for us, when each yearThey return bringing fruits and varied charms,Yet never are we filled with life’s delights,This surely is what is told of those young brides,Who must pour water into a punctured vessel,Though they can have no hope to fill it full.Cerberus and the Furies in like mannerAre fables, and that world deprived of dayWhere from its throat Tartarus belches forthHorrible flames: which things in truth are not,Nor can be anywhere. But there is in lifeA dread of punishment for things ill done,Terrible as the deeds are terrible;And to expiate men’s guilt there is the dungeon,The awful hurling downward from the rock,Scourgings, mutilations and impalings,The pitch, the torches and the metal plate.And even if these be wanting, yet the mindConscious of guilt torments itself with goadsAnd scorching whips, nor in its boding fearPerceives what end of misery there can be,Nor what limit at length to punishment,Nay fears lest these same evils after deathShould prove more grievous. Thus does the life of foolsBecome at last an Acheron here on earth.

This too thou may’st say sometimes to thyself:“Even the good king Ancus closed his eyesTo the light of day, who was so many timesWorthier than thou, unconscionable man.And since then many others who bore ruleO’er mighty nations, princes and potentates,Have perished: and he too, even he, who onceAcross the great sea paved a path wherebyHis legions might pass over, bidding themCross dry-shod the salt deeps, and to show scornTrampled upon the roarings of the wavesWith horses, even he, bereft of light,Forth from his dying body gasped his soul.The Scipios’ offspring, thunderbolt of war,Terror of Carthage, gave his bones to the earth,As though he were the meanest household slave.Consider too the inventors of wise thoughtsAnd arts that charm, consider the companionsOf the Heliconian Maidens, among whomHomer still bears the sceptre without peer;Yet he now sleeps the same sleep as they all.Likewise Democritus, when a ripe old ageHad warned him that the memory-stirring motionsWere waning in his mind, by his own actWillingly offered up his head to death.Even Epicurus died, when his life’s lightHad run its course, he who in intellectSurpassed the race of men, quenching the gloryOf all else, as the sun in heaven arisingQuenches the stars. Then wilt thou hesitateAnd feel aggrieved to die? thou for whom lifeIs well nigh dead, whilst yet thou art aliveAnd lookest on the light; thou who dost wasteMost of thy time in sleep, and waking snorest,Nor ceasest to see dreams; who hast a mindTroubled with empty terror, and ofttimesCanst not discover what it is that ails thee,When, poor besotted wretch, from every sideCares crowd upon thee, and thou goest astrayDrifting in blind perplexity of soul.”

If men not only were to feel this loadThat weighs upon their mind and wears them out,But might have knowledge also of its causeAnd whence comes this great pile of miseryCrushing their breasts, they would not spend their lives,As now so oft we see them, ignorantEach of his life’s true ends, and seeking everBy change of place to lay his burden down.Often, issuing forth from his great mansion, heWho is weary of home will suddenly returnPerceiving that abroad he is none the happier.He posts to his villa galloping his ponies,As though hurrying with help to a house on fire,Yawns on the very threshold, nay sinks downHeavily into sleep to seek oblivion,Or even perhaps starts headlong back to town.In this way each man flies from his own self,Yet from that self in fact he has no powerTo escape. He clings to it in his own despite,Although he loathes it, seeing that he is sick,Yet perceives not the cause of his disease:Which if he could but comprehend aright,Relinquishing all else, each man would studyTo learn the Nature of Reality,Since ’tis our state during eternal time,Not for one hour merely, that is in doubt,That state wherein mortals must pass the wholeOf what may still await them after death.And in conclusion, what base lust of lifeIs this, that can so potently compel usIn dubious perils to feel such dismay?For indeed certain is the end of lifeThat awaits mortals, nor can death be shunned.Meet it we must. Furthermore in the samePursuits and actions do we pass our daysFor ever, nor may we by living onForge for ourselves any new form of pleasure.But what we crave, while it is absent, seemsTo excel all things else; then, when ’tis ours,We crave some other thing, gaping wide-mouthed,Always possessed by the same thirst of life.What fortune future time may bring, we know not,Nor what chance has in store for us, nor yetWhat end awaits us. By prolonging lifeNo least jot may we take from death’s duration;Nought may we steal away therefrom, that soHaply a less long while we may be dead.Therefore as many ages as you pleaseAdd to your life’s account, yet none the lessWill that eternal death be waiting for you.And not less long will that man be no more,Who from to-day has ceased to live, than heWho has died many months and years ago.

Andgenerally to what pursuits soeverEach of us is attached and closely tied,Or on whatever tasks we have been usedTo spend much time, so that therein the mindHas borne unwonted strain, in those same tasksWe mostly seem in sleep to be engaged.Lawyers imagine they are pleading causes,Or drafting deeds; generals that they are fightingIn some pitched battle; mariners that they stillAre waging with the winds their lifelong war;And we that we are toiling at our task,Questioning ever the nature of all things,And setting our discoveries forth in booksWritten in our native tongue. And thus in generalDo all other pursuits and arts appearTo fill men’s minds and mock them during sleep.And with those who for many days togetherHave watched stage shows with unremitting zeal,We generally find that when they have ceasedTo apprehend them with their senses, yetPassages remain open in the mindThrough which the same images of things may enter.Thus the same sights for many days keep passingBefore their eyes, so that even when awakeThey seem to be beholding figures dancingAnd moving supple limbs; also their earsSeem to be listening clear-toned melodiesOf the lyre’s eloquent strings, while they beholdIn fancy the same audience, the stage too,Glowing with all its varied scenery.So great the influence of zeal and pleasure,And of those tasks whereon not only menAre wont to spend their energies, but evenAll living animals. Thus you will seeStrong horses, when their limbs are lying at rest,Nevertheless in slumber sweat and pantContinually, and as though to win some prizeStrain their strength to the utmost, or else struggleTo start, as if the barriers were thrown open.And often hunters’ dogs while softly slumberingWill yet suddenly toss their legs aboutAnd utter hurried yelps, sniffing the airAgain and again, as though following the trailOf wild beasts they have scented: and roused from sleepThey often chase the empty imagesOf stags, as if they saw them in full flight,Till having shaken their delusions offThey come back to themselves. But the tame broodOf dogs reared in the house, will shake themselvesAnd start up from the ground, as if they sawUnknown figures and faces: and the more savageEach breed is, the more fierce must be its dreams.And in the night-time birds of various kinds,Suddenly taking flight, trouble with their wingsThe groves of deities, when in gentle sleepHawks have appeared threatening them with havocOf battle, flying after them in pursuit.Again the minds of men, which greatly labouringAchieve great aims, will often during sleepAct and perform the same. Kings take by storm,Are made captive, join battle, cry aloudAs though assassinated then and there.Many men struggle and utter groans in pain,And as though mangled by a panther’s fangsOr savage lion’s, fill the whole neighbourhoodWith vehement clamourings. Many in their sleepDiscourse of great affairs, and often soHave revealed their own guilt. Many meet death:Many, as though falling with all their weightFrom high cliffs to the ground, are scared with terror,And like men reft of reason, hardly from sleepCome to themselves again, being quite distraughtBy the body’s tumult. Likewise a man will sitThirsting beside a river or pleasant springAnd gulp almost the whole stream down his throat.Innocent children also, slumber-bound,Often believe they are lifting up their dressBy a tank or broken vessel, and so pourThe liquid, drained from their whole body, forth,Soaking the gorgeous-hued magnificenceOf Babylonian coverlets. Then tooTo those into the currents of whose ageFor the first time seed is entering, when the ripeFulness of time has formed it in their limbs,From without there come images emanatingFrom some chance body, announcing a glorious faceAnd beautiful colouring, that excites and stirsThose parts that have grown turgid with much seed,So that, as if all things had been performed,The full tide overflows and stains their vesture.This seed whereof we spoke is stirred in usWhen first ripening age confirms our frame.For different causes move and stimulateDifferent things. From man the influenceOf man alone rouses forth human seed.So soon as, thus dislodged, it has retiredFrom its abodes throughout the limbs and frame,It withdraws from the whole body, and assemblingAt certain places in the system, straightwayRouses at last the body’s genital parts.These places, irritated, swell with seed;And so the wish arises to eject itTowards that whereto the fell desire tends;While the body seeks that by which the mindIs smitten by love. For all men generallyFall towards the wound, and the blood glistens forthIn that direction whence the stroke was dealt us.And if he is at close quarters, the red dropsSprinkle the foe. Thus he who has been struckBy the missiles of Venus, whether a boyWith womanish limbs launches the shaft, or elseSome woman darting love from her whole body,Yearns towards that whereby he has been wounded,And longs to unite with it, and shoot the streamDrawn from the one into the other body.For dumb desire gives presage of the pleasure.This desire we call Venus: from it cameThe Latin name for love[E]; and from this sourceThere trickled first into the heart that dropOf Venus’ honeyed sweetness, followed soonBy chilling care. For though that which you loveBe absent, yet are images of it present,And its sweet name still haunts within your ears.But it is wise to shun such images,And scare off from you all that feeds your love,Turning your mind elsewhere, and vent insteadYour gathering humours on some other body,Rather than hold them back, set once for allUpon the love of one, and so lay upCare and unfailing anguish for yourself.For the wound gathers strength and grows inveterateBy feeding, while the madness day by dayIncreases, and the misery becomes heavier,Unless you heal the first wounds by new blows,And roving in the steps of vagrant VenusSo cure them while yet fresh, or can divertTo something else the movements of your mind.Nor does the man who shuns love go withoutThe fruits of Venus; rather he makes choiceOf joys that bring no after-pain: for surelyThe pleasure of intercourse must be more pureFor those that are heart-whole than for the love-sick.For in the very moment of possessionThe passion of lovers fluctuates to and fro,Wandering undecidedly, nor know theyWhat first they would enjoy with eyes and hands.What they have sought, they tightly press, and causePain to the body, and often print their teethUpon the lips, and kiss with bruising mouths,Because the pleasure is not unalloyed,And there are secret stings which stimulateTo hurt that very thing, whate’er it be,From which those germs of madness emanate.But easily, while love lasts, Venus allaysSuch pains; and soft delight, mingled therein,Bridles their bites. For in this there is hopeThat from that very body whence proceedsTheir burning lust, the flame may in turn be quenched,Although Nature protests the oppositeMust happen, since this is the one sole thingWhereof the more we have, so much the moreMust the heart be consumed by fell desire.For food and drink are taken within the body;And since they are wont to settle in fixed parts,In this way the desire for water and breadIs easily satisfied: but from the faceAnd beautiful colouring of a man there entersNothing into the body to enjoySave tenuous images, a love-sick hopeOften snatched off by the wind. As when in sleepA thirsty man seeks to drink, and no liquidIs given to quench the burning in his limbs,Yet he pursues the images of water,Toiling in vain, and still thirsts, though he drinkIn a rushing river’s midst; even so in loveVenus deludes lovers with images:For neither, gaze intently as they may,Can bodies satiate them, nor with their handsCan they pluck anything off from the soft limbs,Aimlessly wandering over the whole body.And when at last with limbs knit they enjoyThe flower of their age, when now the bodyPresages rapture, and Venus is in actTo sow the fields of woman, eagerlyThey clasp bodies and join moist mouth to mouthWith panted breath, imprinting lips with teeth;In vain, for naught thence can they pluck away,Nor each with the whole body entering passInto the other’s body; for at timesThey seem to wish and struggle so to do.So greedily do they hug the bonds of Venus,While their limbs melt, enfeebled by the mightOf pleasure. Finally, when the gathered lustHas burst forth from the frame, awhile there comesA brief pause in their passion’s violent heat.Then returns the same madness: the old frenzyRevisits them, when they would fain discoverWhat verily they desire to attain;Yet never can they find out what deviceMay conquer their disease: in such blind doubtThey waste away, pined by a secret wound.Consider too how they consume their strengthAnd are worn out with toiling; and considerHow at another’s beck their life is passed.Meantime their substance vanishes and is changedTo Babylonian stuffs; their duties languish;Their reputation totters and grows sick.While at her lover’s cost she anoints herselfWith precious unguents, and upon her feetBeautiful Sicyonian slippers laugh.Then doubtless she has set for her in goldBig green-lit emeralds; and the sea-purple dress,Worn out by constant use, imbibes the sweatOf love’s encounters. The wealth which their fathersHad nobly gathered, becomes hair-ribbonsAnd head-dresses, or else may be is turnedInto a long Greek gown, or stuffs of AlindaAnd Ceos. Feasts with goodly broideriesAnd viands are prepared, games, numerous cups,Unguents, crowns and festoons; but all in vain;Since from the well-spring of delights some touchOf bitter rises, to give pain amidstThe very flowers; either when the mindPerchance grows conscience-stricken, and remorseGnaws it, thus to be spending a life of sloth,And ruining itself in wanton haunts;Or else because she has launched forth some wordAnd left its sense in doubt, some word that clingsTo the hungry heart, and quickens there like fire;Or that he fancies she is casting roundHer eyes too freely, or looks upon some other,And on her face sees traces of a smile.When love is permanent and fully prosperous,These evils are experienced; but if loveBe crossed and hopeless, there are evils suchThat you might apprehend them with closed eyes,Beyond numbering; so that it is wiser,As I have taught you, to be vigilantBeforehand, and watch well lest you be snared.For to avoid being tripped up in love’s toilsIs not so difficult as, once you are caught,To issue from the nets and to break throughThe strong meshes of Venus. None the lessEven when you are tangled and involved,You may escape the peril, unless you standIn your own way, and always overlookEvery defect whether of mind or bodyIn her whom you pursue and long to win.For this is how men generally behaveBlinded by lust, and assign to those they loveGood qualities which are not truly theirs.So we see women in various ways misformedAnd ugly, to be fondly loved and heldIn highest favour. And a man will mockHis fellows, urging them to placate Venus,Because they are troubled by a degrading love,Yet often the poor fool will have no eyesFor his own far worse plight. The tawny is calledA honey brown; the filthy and unclean,Reckless of order; the green-eyed, a Pallas;The sinewy and angular, a gazelle;The tiny and dwarfish is a very Grace,Nothing but sparkle; the monstrous and ungainly,A marvel, and composed of majesty.She stammers, cannot talk, why then she lisps;The mute is bashful; but the fiery-tonguedMalicious gossip becomes a brilliant torch.One is a slender darling, when she scarceCan live for lack of flesh; and one half deadWith cough, is merely frail and delicate.Then the fat and full-bosomed is Ceres’ selfSuckling Iacchus; the snub-nosed, a femaleSilenus, or a Satyress; the thick-lipped,A kiss incarnate. But more of this sortIt were a tedious labour to recite.Yet be she noble of feature as you will,And let the might of Venus emanateFrom every limb; still there are others too;Still we have lived without her until now;Still she does, and we know she does, the sameIn all things as the ugly, and, poor wretch,Perfumes herself with evil-smelling scents,While her maids run and hide to giggle in secret.But the excluded lover many a timeWith flowers and garlands covers tearfullyThe threshold, and anoints the haughty postsWith oil of marjoram, and imprints, poor man,Kisses upon the doors. Yet when at lastHe has been admitted, if but a single breathShould meet him as he enters, he would seekSpecious excuses to be gone, and soThe long-studied, deep-drawn complaint would fallTo the ground, and he would then convict himselfOf folly, now he sees he had attributedMore to her than is right to grant a mortal.Nor to our Venuses is this unknown:Wherefore the more are they at pains to hideAll that takes place behind the scenes of lifeFrom those they would keep fettered in love’s chainsBut all in vain, since in imaginationYou yet may draw forth all these things to light,Discovering every cause for ridicule:And if she be of a mind that still can charm,And not malicious, you may in your turnOverlook faults and pardon human frailty.Nor always with feigned love does the woman sigh,When with her own uniting the man’s bodyShe holds him clasped, with moistened kisses suckingHis lips into her lips. Nay, from the heartShe often does it, and seeking mutual joysWoos him to run to the utmost goal of love.And nowise else could birds, cattle, wild beasts,And sheep and mares submit to males, exceptThat their exuberant nature is in heat,And burning draws towards them joyouslyThe lust of the covering mates. See you not alsoThat those whom mutual pleasure has enchainedAre often tormented in their common chains?How often on the highroads dogs desiringTo separate, will strain in opposite waysEagerly with all their might, yet the whole timeThey are held fast in the strong bonds of Venus!Thus they would never act, unless they hadExperience of mutual joys, enoughTo thrust them into the snare and hold them bound.Therefore I assert, the pleasure must be common.Often when, mingling her seed with the man’s,The woman with sudden force has overwhelmedAnd mastered the man’s force, then children are borneLike to the mother from the mother’s seed,As from the father’s seed like to the father.But those whom you see sharing the form of both,Mingling their parents’ features side by side,Grow from the father’s body and mother’s blood,When mutual ardour has conspired to flingThe seeds together, roused by the goads of VenusThroughout the frame, and neither of the twoHas gained the mastery nor yet been mastered.Moreover sometimes children may be bornLike their grandparents, and will often recallThe forms of their remoter ancestors,Because the parents often hold concealedWithin their bodies many primal atomsMingled in many ways, which, handed downFrom the first stock, father transmits to father.And out of these Venus produces formsWith ever-varying chances, and recallsThe look and voice and hair of ancestors:Since truly these things are no more derivedFrom a determined seed, than are our facesBodies and limbs. Also the female sexMay spring from a father’s seed, and males come forthFormed from a mother’s body: for the birthIs always fashioned out of the two seeds.Whichever of the two that which is bornIs most like, of that parent it will haveMore than an equal share; as you may observe,Whether it be a male or female offspring.Nor do divine powers thwart in any manA fruitful sowing, so that he may neverReceive from sweet children the name of father,But in sterile wedlock must live out his days;As men in general fancy, and so sprinkleThe altars sorrowfully with much blood,And heap the shrine-tables with offerings,To make their wives pregnant with copious seed.But vainly they importune the divinityAnd sortilege of the gods. For they are sterileSometimes from too great thickness of the seed,Or else it is unduly thin and fluid.Because the thin cannot adhere and cleaveTo the right spots, it forthwith flows awayDefeated, and departs abortively.Others again discharge a seed too thick,More solid than is suitable, which eitherDoes not shoot forth with so far-flung a stroke,Or cannot so well penetrate where it should,Or having penetrated, does not easilyMix with the woman’s seed. For harmoniesSeem to be most important in love’s rites.And some men will more readily fertiliseSome women, and other women will conceiveMore readily and grow pregnant from other men.And many women, sterile hithertoIn several marriages, have yet at lastFound mates from whom they could conceive children,And so become enriched with a sweet offspring.And even for those to whom their household wives,However fruitful, had failed so far to bear,A well-matched nature has been often foundThat they might fortify their age with children.So important is it, if seeds are to agreeAnd blend with seeds for purposes of birth,Whether the thick encounters with the fluid,And the fluid with the thick. Also hereinIt is of moment on what diet lifeIs nourished; for the seed within the limbsBy some foods is made solid, and by othersIs thinned and dwindled. Also in what modesLove’s bland delight is dealt with, that likewiseIs of the highest moment. For in generalWomen are thought more readily to conceiveAfter the manner of wild beasts and quadrupeds,Since so the seeds can find the proper spots,The breasts being bent downward, the loins raised.Nor have wives the least need of wanton movements.For a woman thwarts conception and frustrates it,If with her loins she joyously lures onThe man’s love, and, with her whole bosom relaxedAnd limp, provokes lust’s tide to overflow.For then she thrusts the furrow from the share’sDirect path, turning the seed’s stroke asideFrom its right goal. And thus for their own endsHarlots are wont to move, because they wishNot to conceive nor lie in childbed often,Likewise that Venus may give men more pleasure.But of this surely our wives should have no need.Sometimes, by no divine interpositionNor through the shafts of Venus, a plain woman,Though of inferior beauty, may be loved.For sometimes she herself by her behaviour,Her gentle ways and personal daintinessWill easily accustom you to spendYour whole life with her. And indeed ’tis customThat harmonises love. For what is struckHowever lightly by repeated blows,Yet after a long lapse of time is conqueredAnd must dissolve. Do you not likewise seeThat drops of water falling upon stonesAfter long lapse of time will pierce them through?

This seed whereof we spoke is stirred in usWhen first ripening age confirms our frame.For different causes move and stimulateDifferent things. From man the influenceOf man alone rouses forth human seed.So soon as, thus dislodged, it has retiredFrom its abodes throughout the limbs and frame,It withdraws from the whole body, and assemblingAt certain places in the system, straightwayRouses at last the body’s genital parts.These places, irritated, swell with seed;And so the wish arises to eject itTowards that whereto the fell desire tends;While the body seeks that by which the mindIs smitten by love. For all men generallyFall towards the wound, and the blood glistens forthIn that direction whence the stroke was dealt us.And if he is at close quarters, the red dropsSprinkle the foe. Thus he who has been struckBy the missiles of Venus, whether a boyWith womanish limbs launches the shaft, or elseSome woman darting love from her whole body,Yearns towards that whereby he has been wounded,And longs to unite with it, and shoot the streamDrawn from the one into the other body.For dumb desire gives presage of the pleasure.

This desire we call Venus: from it cameThe Latin name for love[E]; and from this sourceThere trickled first into the heart that dropOf Venus’ honeyed sweetness, followed soonBy chilling care. For though that which you loveBe absent, yet are images of it present,And its sweet name still haunts within your ears.But it is wise to shun such images,And scare off from you all that feeds your love,Turning your mind elsewhere, and vent insteadYour gathering humours on some other body,Rather than hold them back, set once for allUpon the love of one, and so lay upCare and unfailing anguish for yourself.For the wound gathers strength and grows inveterateBy feeding, while the madness day by dayIncreases, and the misery becomes heavier,Unless you heal the first wounds by new blows,And roving in the steps of vagrant VenusSo cure them while yet fresh, or can divertTo something else the movements of your mind.Nor does the man who shuns love go withoutThe fruits of Venus; rather he makes choiceOf joys that bring no after-pain: for surelyThe pleasure of intercourse must be more pureFor those that are heart-whole than for the love-sick.For in the very moment of possessionThe passion of lovers fluctuates to and fro,Wandering undecidedly, nor know theyWhat first they would enjoy with eyes and hands.What they have sought, they tightly press, and causePain to the body, and often print their teethUpon the lips, and kiss with bruising mouths,Because the pleasure is not unalloyed,And there are secret stings which stimulateTo hurt that very thing, whate’er it be,From which those germs of madness emanate.But easily, while love lasts, Venus allaysSuch pains; and soft delight, mingled therein,Bridles their bites. For in this there is hopeThat from that very body whence proceedsTheir burning lust, the flame may in turn be quenched,Although Nature protests the oppositeMust happen, since this is the one sole thingWhereof the more we have, so much the moreMust the heart be consumed by fell desire.For food and drink are taken within the body;And since they are wont to settle in fixed parts,In this way the desire for water and breadIs easily satisfied: but from the faceAnd beautiful colouring of a man there entersNothing into the body to enjoySave tenuous images, a love-sick hopeOften snatched off by the wind. As when in sleepA thirsty man seeks to drink, and no liquidIs given to quench the burning in his limbs,Yet he pursues the images of water,Toiling in vain, and still thirsts, though he drinkIn a rushing river’s midst; even so in loveVenus deludes lovers with images:For neither, gaze intently as they may,Can bodies satiate them, nor with their handsCan they pluck anything off from the soft limbs,Aimlessly wandering over the whole body.And when at last with limbs knit they enjoyThe flower of their age, when now the bodyPresages rapture, and Venus is in actTo sow the fields of woman, eagerlyThey clasp bodies and join moist mouth to mouthWith panted breath, imprinting lips with teeth;In vain, for naught thence can they pluck away,Nor each with the whole body entering passInto the other’s body; for at timesThey seem to wish and struggle so to do.So greedily do they hug the bonds of Venus,While their limbs melt, enfeebled by the mightOf pleasure. Finally, when the gathered lustHas burst forth from the frame, awhile there comesA brief pause in their passion’s violent heat.Then returns the same madness: the old frenzyRevisits them, when they would fain discoverWhat verily they desire to attain;Yet never can they find out what deviceMay conquer their disease: in such blind doubtThey waste away, pined by a secret wound.

Consider too how they consume their strengthAnd are worn out with toiling; and considerHow at another’s beck their life is passed.Meantime their substance vanishes and is changedTo Babylonian stuffs; their duties languish;Their reputation totters and grows sick.While at her lover’s cost she anoints herselfWith precious unguents, and upon her feetBeautiful Sicyonian slippers laugh.Then doubtless she has set for her in goldBig green-lit emeralds; and the sea-purple dress,Worn out by constant use, imbibes the sweatOf love’s encounters. The wealth which their fathersHad nobly gathered, becomes hair-ribbonsAnd head-dresses, or else may be is turnedInto a long Greek gown, or stuffs of AlindaAnd Ceos. Feasts with goodly broideriesAnd viands are prepared, games, numerous cups,Unguents, crowns and festoons; but all in vain;Since from the well-spring of delights some touchOf bitter rises, to give pain amidstThe very flowers; either when the mindPerchance grows conscience-stricken, and remorseGnaws it, thus to be spending a life of sloth,And ruining itself in wanton haunts;Or else because she has launched forth some wordAnd left its sense in doubt, some word that clingsTo the hungry heart, and quickens there like fire;Or that he fancies she is casting roundHer eyes too freely, or looks upon some other,And on her face sees traces of a smile.

When love is permanent and fully prosperous,These evils are experienced; but if loveBe crossed and hopeless, there are evils suchThat you might apprehend them with closed eyes,Beyond numbering; so that it is wiser,As I have taught you, to be vigilantBeforehand, and watch well lest you be snared.For to avoid being tripped up in love’s toilsIs not so difficult as, once you are caught,To issue from the nets and to break throughThe strong meshes of Venus. None the lessEven when you are tangled and involved,You may escape the peril, unless you standIn your own way, and always overlookEvery defect whether of mind or bodyIn her whom you pursue and long to win.For this is how men generally behaveBlinded by lust, and assign to those they loveGood qualities which are not truly theirs.So we see women in various ways misformedAnd ugly, to be fondly loved and heldIn highest favour. And a man will mockHis fellows, urging them to placate Venus,Because they are troubled by a degrading love,Yet often the poor fool will have no eyesFor his own far worse plight. The tawny is calledA honey brown; the filthy and unclean,Reckless of order; the green-eyed, a Pallas;The sinewy and angular, a gazelle;The tiny and dwarfish is a very Grace,Nothing but sparkle; the monstrous and ungainly,A marvel, and composed of majesty.She stammers, cannot talk, why then she lisps;The mute is bashful; but the fiery-tonguedMalicious gossip becomes a brilliant torch.One is a slender darling, when she scarceCan live for lack of flesh; and one half deadWith cough, is merely frail and delicate.Then the fat and full-bosomed is Ceres’ selfSuckling Iacchus; the snub-nosed, a femaleSilenus, or a Satyress; the thick-lipped,A kiss incarnate. But more of this sortIt were a tedious labour to recite.Yet be she noble of feature as you will,And let the might of Venus emanateFrom every limb; still there are others too;Still we have lived without her until now;Still she does, and we know she does, the sameIn all things as the ugly, and, poor wretch,Perfumes herself with evil-smelling scents,While her maids run and hide to giggle in secret.But the excluded lover many a timeWith flowers and garlands covers tearfullyThe threshold, and anoints the haughty postsWith oil of marjoram, and imprints, poor man,Kisses upon the doors. Yet when at lastHe has been admitted, if but a single breathShould meet him as he enters, he would seekSpecious excuses to be gone, and soThe long-studied, deep-drawn complaint would fallTo the ground, and he would then convict himselfOf folly, now he sees he had attributedMore to her than is right to grant a mortal.Nor to our Venuses is this unknown:Wherefore the more are they at pains to hideAll that takes place behind the scenes of lifeFrom those they would keep fettered in love’s chainsBut all in vain, since in imaginationYou yet may draw forth all these things to light,Discovering every cause for ridicule:And if she be of a mind that still can charm,And not malicious, you may in your turnOverlook faults and pardon human frailty.

Nor always with feigned love does the woman sigh,When with her own uniting the man’s bodyShe holds him clasped, with moistened kisses suckingHis lips into her lips. Nay, from the heartShe often does it, and seeking mutual joysWoos him to run to the utmost goal of love.And nowise else could birds, cattle, wild beasts,And sheep and mares submit to males, exceptThat their exuberant nature is in heat,And burning draws towards them joyouslyThe lust of the covering mates. See you not alsoThat those whom mutual pleasure has enchainedAre often tormented in their common chains?How often on the highroads dogs desiringTo separate, will strain in opposite waysEagerly with all their might, yet the whole timeThey are held fast in the strong bonds of Venus!Thus they would never act, unless they hadExperience of mutual joys, enoughTo thrust them into the snare and hold them bound.Therefore I assert, the pleasure must be common.

Often when, mingling her seed with the man’s,The woman with sudden force has overwhelmedAnd mastered the man’s force, then children are borneLike to the mother from the mother’s seed,As from the father’s seed like to the father.But those whom you see sharing the form of both,Mingling their parents’ features side by side,Grow from the father’s body and mother’s blood,When mutual ardour has conspired to flingThe seeds together, roused by the goads of VenusThroughout the frame, and neither of the twoHas gained the mastery nor yet been mastered.Moreover sometimes children may be bornLike their grandparents, and will often recallThe forms of their remoter ancestors,Because the parents often hold concealedWithin their bodies many primal atomsMingled in many ways, which, handed downFrom the first stock, father transmits to father.And out of these Venus produces formsWith ever-varying chances, and recallsThe look and voice and hair of ancestors:Since truly these things are no more derivedFrom a determined seed, than are our facesBodies and limbs. Also the female sexMay spring from a father’s seed, and males come forthFormed from a mother’s body: for the birthIs always fashioned out of the two seeds.Whichever of the two that which is bornIs most like, of that parent it will haveMore than an equal share; as you may observe,Whether it be a male or female offspring.

Nor do divine powers thwart in any manA fruitful sowing, so that he may neverReceive from sweet children the name of father,But in sterile wedlock must live out his days;As men in general fancy, and so sprinkleThe altars sorrowfully with much blood,And heap the shrine-tables with offerings,To make their wives pregnant with copious seed.But vainly they importune the divinityAnd sortilege of the gods. For they are sterileSometimes from too great thickness of the seed,Or else it is unduly thin and fluid.Because the thin cannot adhere and cleaveTo the right spots, it forthwith flows awayDefeated, and departs abortively.Others again discharge a seed too thick,More solid than is suitable, which eitherDoes not shoot forth with so far-flung a stroke,Or cannot so well penetrate where it should,Or having penetrated, does not easilyMix with the woman’s seed. For harmoniesSeem to be most important in love’s rites.And some men will more readily fertiliseSome women, and other women will conceiveMore readily and grow pregnant from other men.And many women, sterile hithertoIn several marriages, have yet at lastFound mates from whom they could conceive children,And so become enriched with a sweet offspring.And even for those to whom their household wives,However fruitful, had failed so far to bear,A well-matched nature has been often foundThat they might fortify their age with children.So important is it, if seeds are to agreeAnd blend with seeds for purposes of birth,Whether the thick encounters with the fluid,And the fluid with the thick. Also hereinIt is of moment on what diet lifeIs nourished; for the seed within the limbsBy some foods is made solid, and by othersIs thinned and dwindled. Also in what modesLove’s bland delight is dealt with, that likewiseIs of the highest moment. For in generalWomen are thought more readily to conceiveAfter the manner of wild beasts and quadrupeds,Since so the seeds can find the proper spots,The breasts being bent downward, the loins raised.Nor have wives the least need of wanton movements.For a woman thwarts conception and frustrates it,If with her loins she joyously lures onThe man’s love, and, with her whole bosom relaxedAnd limp, provokes lust’s tide to overflow.For then she thrusts the furrow from the share’sDirect path, turning the seed’s stroke asideFrom its right goal. And thus for their own endsHarlots are wont to move, because they wishNot to conceive nor lie in childbed often,Likewise that Venus may give men more pleasure.But of this surely our wives should have no need.

Sometimes, by no divine interpositionNor through the shafts of Venus, a plain woman,Though of inferior beauty, may be loved.For sometimes she herself by her behaviour,Her gentle ways and personal daintinessWill easily accustom you to spendYour whole life with her. And indeed ’tis customThat harmonises love. For what is struckHowever lightly by repeated blows,Yet after a long lapse of time is conqueredAnd must dissolve. Do you not likewise seeThat drops of water falling upon stonesAfter long lapse of time will pierce them through?

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