¶Those fyue QVESTIONS, which Marke Tullye Cicero, disputed in his Manor of Tusculanum: Written afterwardes by him, in as manye bookes, to his frende, and familiar Brutus, in the Latine tounge. And nowe, oute of the same translated, & englished, by Iohn Dolman, Studente and felowe of the Inner Temple. 1561.
¶Imprinted at Londō in Fletestrete nere to S. Dunstons church by Thomas Marshe.
❧ TO THE RYGHTE reuerende father in God, Iohn Bishoppe of Sarum: Iohn Dolman, his dayly oratour, wysheth continuaunce of health, with encrease of honour.
RIght honourable: when as, partly, by the counsel of them that might commaund me, and partlye, by mine owne consent, I left the vniuersity: and began to apply my selfe to the studye of the common lawes of this realme: I felt my selfe chiefelye hindred therein, with the entermedlīg of those studies, the which, not without great delight, I had afore time vsed. The whych, because I was lothe to continue, to the defrauding of the expectation of those, with whom to trifle it had bene impietie: I minded, to take my farewell of some such part of philosophye, as, both might be most profitable to the quiete leading of my life, to whatsoeuer trade I should giue my selfe: and also should [Page] be so pleasaunt, that it might euen cloy me with delight. Whiche my desyre to satisfye, when I sought many bookes: yet found I none more meete, thē this. Which whiles I redde, I must needes confesse, that I was neuer more delighted with any worke, except it were the sacred volume of the holye Scriptures. Wherfore, when I had perused it ouer, and founde suche profyte, and pleasure therein, as it were not possible to finde the like in anye Ethnike wryter: I wyshed all men the lyke delyght, as the reading of it brought vnto me. And because I coulde not mysdoubt, but the learned had already tried into thintente, that the vnlearned also, might haue some fruicion therof: and, that our coūtrey, might at length flowe with the workes of philosophye: I endeuoured my selfe, althoughe not eloquentlye, yet playnely, to translate the same into our englishe tounge.
And considering, that there was none more meete, to haue the protection of so graue and learned a worke, thē your honour: remembring also, that the first [Page] attempte, of the same parte of philosophye, translated by maister Grimoald, passed forth vnder the protectiō, of one of that honourable vocation, to the whiche also, it hath pleased god, after sondry troubles, to call you: I thought it my dutye, in respecte of manye benefites, by your lordship on me bestowed, to dedicate vnto you this my simple trauayle. Thinking yt nothinge coulde be vnwelcome to your honour, that sauoured Tullie. Whom I am not ignoraunt, howe much you were wonte to esteeme. Wherfore, I hope, that, lykeas, your lordshippe was wont to be delyghted with the Romane Tullye: euē so, this englishe Tullie (although not adourned, with like eloquence by the translator, yet varieng nothing in sēse) you wil not disdayne. Knowynge, that this simple scolers gyfte, contayneth the signifyeng, of as hearty good will towardes your honoure: as those greater presentes to, whyche craue requyting. Thus, lothe to trouble your lordshippe any longer, wyth a vayne number of wordes (because manye wordes [Page] ofte cause many trippes) I commende vnto your lordeshippe, the fauourable iudgemente of this my simple trauayle: to be perused, at such time, as it shall seeme best, both for your leasure and pleasure. Written frō the inner temple the .xiiii. of Iuly.
The preface to the Reader:
IF thankefulnes, for so simple desert, may cause the to requite him, wyth any part of the like gentlenes, who toke vpon him this trauayle (suche as it is) onely for thy commoditie, gentle reader: then staye a while, from the reading of Tullie, and hearken fauourablie to this litle cōmunication, that I craue at thy handes. I minde onely, to excuse my selfe briefeli vnto the, and so, to dismisse the. The matters, which I thinke, colourablie may, and will be obiected vnto me, are these. Firste, the lacke of yeares, and eloquence, to attempt the translation of so weyghtye a booke: as, the very sages of the vniuersitie, haue let lye still, euen from the time that it was first writtē, vnto this daye. Then, the prophaning of the secretes of Philosophy, whiche are esteemed onelye of the learned, and neglected of the multitude. And therfore, vnmeete, [Page] to be made commen for euerye man. First, as for mine owne vnablenes for yeares, I aunswere, by Plato and this mine authour: that I knowe nothinge, but that, whiche my soule nowe setled in my body, recounteth, as thinges learned before. And the soule, shal neuer haue the body more apte, to whatsoeuer thinge it listeth to dispose him, then in his youthe: whyche is, in maner, the greenenesse of the same.
Since therfore, the bodye, whych hath no knoweledge, but by reason of the soule, is in youth most apte and able to execute the inuentions of the same: what cause is there, whye the wit, beinge one of the principall partes of the soule, should not chiefelye in this nimblenes of the bodye, vtter her force and vertue? Then, as for lacke of eloquēce. First, this (I thinke) they wil al graūt. That, it is not possible for any man, to expresse the writinges of Tullie, in Englishe, so eloquently: as he hath vttered the same in latine. Then, for mine owne translation: forasmuche as it must of necessity, be either more simple [Page] then, the stile of Tullie, or els more foolishe, and ful of croked termes (for Tullies meane none can attaine) I had rather to be partener of the fauour, due to simplicity, and plainenes: then, with foolyshe and farre fet wordes, to make my translatiō seeme more darke to the vnlearned, & more foolishe to the wise. By which my playnenes, withoute counterfaite eloquence, if I haue gotten no other commoditye: yet, thus muche I am sure of, that I haue thereby escaped, the iust reproofe, that they deserue, whiche thinke, to cloke their ignoraunce, wyth inkehorne termes. For, vnlesse it were in such thinges, as the Lodgicians terme names of arte, for the whych, we haue no proper Englyshe words: I haue vsed none but the playne and accustomed termes. Now: as touching the second obiection, which containeth the vnprofitable disclosing of the miseries of lady Philosophye (as mayster Grymoalde termeth her) I thynke, that suffycientlye satysfyed, yf they consyder, that besydes the raskall multitude, and the [Page] learned sages, there is a meane sort of men: which although they be not learned, yet, by the quicknes of their wits, can conceiue al such poyntes of arte, as nature coulde giue. To those, I saye, there is nothing in this book to darke. Especially, inasmuche as, the reading of one booke, will open an other. And thus, in my opinion, I am discharged of vnprofitable reuealinge of the secretes of philosophye. Inasmuche as, both, I hope, it shall do muche good to this sort of men, afore mencioned: and also, I am sure, it can be nothing hurtful to the learned. But shal much more enflame, all liberall wittes, wyth the desire of knoweledge: when they shall see, so worthye matters, contayned in one litle boke, of that, which we terme philosophy or learning. Besides these, there are yet other faultes, as the misprinting of manye wordes, and the yll printing of some greeke wordes, in latin letters, & of the verses also, otherwyse then they shoulde be red. But the blame thereof I vtterlye refuse. Inasmuch as, euerye man knoweth, that it [Page] doth nothinge pertayne vnto me. Neuertheles, as for the firste, whych contayneth the misprintinge of wordes, thou shalt finde them, all corrected, in the ende of the booke. So that if thou list to reade it, without desire of faulte findinge: thou mayst firste, amende all those faultes, with thy pen, in the margeant of thy booke, whiche in the ende of the booke be corrected. And so haue the sense perfecte. And as for the two last, they were caused by necessitie.
The one for lacke of a Greeke letter, and thother, for want of a smaller letter, to print the verses in a lesse roame And for other faultes, that maye be found in my verses, I truste they wyll pardon me, who may meruaile, howe, so sodaynely I am become a versifier. But, I beseche thee, (gentle reader) to place eche mannes faulte by him selfe: that I may be forced to father no other mans faultes, then mine owne.
Which, as I knowe to be more, then I would they were: so I shall desire the to weygh them with gentlenes.
Knowynge, that if such, as haue greater [Page] knoweledge, to set forthe thinges more exactlye, should heare my plainenesse not ouermuche discommended: they then, should be much more prouoked, wyth hope of the meruaylous fame, that their doings should deserue if they listed, to employe some paynes, in attempting the like. Of the whych, as I know there is a great number (in both the vniuersities inespetially) so I woulde wyshe, that eyther, they ceassyng any longer, to enuie knoweledge to our Englyshe tounge, would staine the same, with better: or els, that they woulde not disdaine, to forde their fauourable wordes, to suche, as expresse their good will in the same: althoughe not so well as it might be, yet as theyr eloquence will permit them. And thus muche, to the learned reader, whom I make the iudge of my worke, thoughe I permit the reading of it, to all other. But nowe, thou vnlearned reader: forasmuch as, whatsoeuer I dyd, I dyd it for the desyre, I had to profyte thee: it shall be thy part, of the worst to thinke [Page] the best. For, had it not bene for thy commoditye, I could wel enough haue suppressed mine ignoraunce wyth sylence: and so, by concealinge that lytle whyche I knowe: although not blased my simple skil: yet, wel haue auoyded, the necessitie of excuse, in such thynges as I deserue reprehension. But so muche I tendered thy profyte, that, I had rather to saie somewhat (although not so perfectly, as some other mighte) then, for lacke of my litle labour, to let so wor [...]hy as booke, lye vnknowen vnto the. Thus, whiles I studye to profyte thee, I am fayne to submitte my doynges, to the iudgemente, of euerye curious carper. Wherefore, inasmuch as, I haue brought the (who towardes these thinges, wast no otherwise then blind) by my trauaile, to the sight hereof: and caused the, to be rid frō blindenes (which is so lothsome a thing, that it is almoste growen into a prouerbe, that a blinde man, would be glad to se his nighest felowe hanged, because the he shoulde see (then trulye, thoughe I [Page] craue no prayse at thy handes (because it is a token of ignoraunce, to be praysed of the ignorant) yet, I may be bold, to desire so much of the, as Apelles cō maunded the foolishe shoomaker, to performe. Who, when as he behelde the picture of a man, drawen by Apelles, so liuelye, that the senses of man would haue doubted, whether it were a picture, or a liuing creature: not contented, wyth the syghte of it, whyche was more meete for a prince to behold then him: began, to finde faulte with his showe. Apelles, knowynge that he was a shomaker, toke it in good part: & wyth the pensile, amended the fault. But the shoemaker by likelihood, sum what proud, that he was able, to finde faulte wyth Apelles workes: came agayne the seconde daye. And, began to disprayse the proportion of his face.
Wherewithall, Apelles being muche moued, stept forth, and sayde. No farther then thy shoe, sowter. Shewynge thereby, that no man oughte to talke farther, then his skill will beare him.
Megabizes, esteemed Alexander as a [Page] prince, whiles he, stoode in his scoole, and saide nothinge. But, when he began to talke of thinges whyche he knewe not: he said vnto him, that euen his litle children, would laughe hym to scorne. Wherfore, shortlye to make an ende, and to sende the to Tullye.
Do thou, neyther praise, nor disprayse, farther then thy conning wil beare the For, they are both alike faultes. But rightly weyghe, and remember the wordes of Tullie, to whom, I now send the, to enioy such pleasure, as at the fyrste, whiles I my selfe red him, I frendelye wished vnto thee.
THE FIRST BOOKE of the report of those Questions which Marke Tullye Cicero disputed in his manor of Tusculanū: treatinge whether death be euell yea or no.
BEING OF LATE wholy (or els for the most part) ridden of my causes of Plea, and Parlyamente matters (deare frēd Brute) I referred my selfe (chiefly by your councell) to those studyes: whyche concealed in my minde, suspended for a seasō, and for a long space discontinued I haue nowe reuiued. And forasmuche as the right trade and order of all those artes whych pertayne to the framinge of a perfect life, is conteyned in the studye of wisedome, which is named philosophye: I thoughte good to endite the same in the Latine tounge: not for that I thought it could not be so wel vnderstoode, either in the Greeke, or by the [Page] teachers of the same language: but because my iudgemente hathe bene euer such, that our countreymen haue either inuented and founde out thinges, more wisely then the Greekes: or at the least that suche as they had taken of theym they had made farre more perfect: especially if the thinges were suche, as they estemed worthy theyr trauaile and paynes. For in maners, orders of liuinge, and maynteyning of householde: We truly behaue our selues both farre better than they, and also more liberall.
And as for the comen wealth, our forefathers haue gouerned it, with muche more politike orders and lawes.
What should I saye of warfare? in the which our countreymen passed truly in manhode, but much more in pollecy.
But as for the giftes of Nature, and such thinges as they might attaine vnto without learning: neyther the Greekes, neyther yet any other nation, may well be compared with them. For, what so greate grauitye? what so notable constancye? stoutenesse of stomake, [Page] honestye? or truste, what so passinge vertue in all kynde of poyntes, hath bene found in any nation? that it maye for the same be compared with oure auncesters? In learninge and all kyndes of profound knoweledge.
Greece passed vs. Howebe it trulye it was a light worke to excell vs in those thinges, in the whyche we did not contend wyth them.
For where as the Greekes haue had amonges thē the most aunciēt Poetes that euer were counted learned (for Homer and Hesiodus lyued afore the buylding of Rome: and Archilocus in the time of Romulus) we knewe not Poetrye till of late yeares.
For foure hundred and ten yeares after the buyldinge of Rome, Liuius set forth an enterlude.
Caius Claudius, the sonne of Cecus, and Marcus Tuditanus beynge Consuls: the yeare nexte afore the byrthe of Ennius, whyche was more aunciente then Plautus or Neuius. Of late yeares therefore Poetes were of oure [Page] countreymen both knowen & receyued. Albeit we find in those histories, which were written in the firste foundation of our city, that at that time, they were wont in bankets to singe certayne songes, made of the noble prowes of valiaunt men. But that such men were neuer in any estimation, we may wel gather by the oration of Cato, in the whiche he obiected it as a rebuke to Marcus Nobilior, that he had taken wyth him Poetes into his prouince. For he had led into Aetolia the poete Ennius: as we al wel knowe. The lesse therfore that poetes were estemed, the lesse men coueted theyr knowledge: and yet those fewe that gaue thē selues thereto, were nothinge inferioure to the renowne of the Greekes. Lykewyse, if it had bene counted a quality prayseworthy (in Fabius a moo [...] noble Prince) to paynte: should not we haue had in our citie, as excellent in that science (thinke you) as euer was Policletus or Parrhasius?
Honour bredeth artes, and all men are prouoked to studye by fame: & alwayes those thinges are neglected, whiche no [Page] man sets by. The Greekes thoughte there was great conninge and knoweledge in singinge: as well to the instrumentes, as alone: & for that cause Epaminundas (in my iudgement) the prince of Grece) is reported to haue bene conning in singinge to the instrumentes: and Themistocles a fewe yeres before, for that in a certayne banket he refused the harpe, was counted the worse learned. Therfore in Greece Musiciās flourished: and euerye man learned theyr arte: neyther could any be counted wel learned being ignoraunt of the same.
Geometrye was in greate estimacion emonges theym. For the whiche cause there was nothing with them more famous, then the Mathematicalles. But we haue cōprised the arte of Geometry in the knowledge of measures & reasōs of the same. But cōtrarywise, a perfect orator we haue quickly poolished: whō at ye first we had not learned, but onely meete to pleade: but now neuerthelesse wel learned. For we vnderstand yt Galba, Africanus, & Lelius were profound men: and he who farre passed theym in [Page] age, namely Cato, very studious: after him Lepidus, Car [...]o, and bothe the Gracchi: but afterward so many and so notable mē, euen to this our time, that herein, eyther not much, or els nothing at all, we yelded to the Greekes. Philosophy hath bene neglected vnto this our age: and hath bene hitherto voyde of the light of the latine tounge: which now must be opened, and reuiued of vs to thintent, that if in our businesse, we haue somwhat profyted our countrey, we maye also do the like by some meanes in this our time of leasure: wherein also we ought to take the more paynes, because there are certayne Latine bookes written nowe a dayes very vnaduisedlye: sette forthe by men honest enough, but not sufficiently learned.
Truly it maye well be, that some man maye inuente well, and neuerthelesse, that which he hathe inuented, can not pr [...]nounce eloquentlye: but that anye man should set abrode his owne inuentions, which he can neither wel dispose neyther hansomly penne, the readynge of the whyche should nothing at all delighte [Page] the hearer: it is the poynt of such a one, as abuseth both leasure and learninge. Therfore, theyr owne bookes they reade with such, as they them selues are: neyther doth anye man handle them, except suche, as would haue the selfe same libertye in writinge graunted them. Wherfore, if we broughte any helpe by our laboures, to the praise of Oratours, we will much more dylygently open the fountaynes of Philosophye: out of the which neuerthelesse, those oure workes of Rethorique dyd flowe. But as Arystotle, a man of wonderful witte, and profound knowledge, moued wyth the greate fame and reporte of Isocrates the Rhetorician, began bothe to pleade, and also to teache yong men: and so to ioyne knoweledge with eloquence: euen so it likes me, neyther to lay apart mine old study of pleading, and yet neuerthelesse, to be occupied in this more noble & plentifull art. For I haue euer iudged that to be perfect Philosophy, which could reason of weighty matters, as well with great knowledge as also wt perfect eloquence [Page] In the which kind of exercise I haue so earnestly laboured my selfe, that nowe I durst kepe scooles after the maner of the Greekes. As of late after your departure, in my manor of Tusculanum, beinge accompanied with many of my familier frēdes, I assayed what I could do in that maner of reasoninge. For as afore I declamed causes, so this is my declaming in mine old age. I willed any man to propose whatsoeuer he listed to heare debated: and thereof I disputed eyther sittinge or walkynge. Therfore my disputacions in scooles holden fyue dayes together, I haue endyted in as many bookes. The order thereof was this. That when he who woulde heare anye matter discussed, had shewed his owne opiniō of the same, then I should hold the contrarye. For this is (as you knowe ryght well) the auncient waye, fyrste vsed by Socrates, to dispute agaynst all mens opinions. For so he thoughte, that whatsoeuer was moste true in anye matter, might soonest be boulted out. But to the intent you may more playnely perceyue our reasons, I [Page] wyll wryte them as if the matter were doing, not telling, therefore nowe take you the beginning in this maner.
¶Death semeth to me to be a greate euell.
To thē do you meane whych are dead, or els that must dye?
To them both.
It is miserable then, if it be euell.
Yea truly.
Then all they whych are already deade, and all such as must dye, are miserable.
So I thinke.
There is no man then which is not miserable
None truly.
And trulye if you wil in all poyntes firmely hold this opinion, all men whiche are borne, or shalbe borne, are not onelye wretched but also for euer wretched. For if you did onely call thē wretches which must dye, then should you except none of thē whyche nowe liue: for we must all dye: but neuerthelesse, the end of our misery should be in deathe: but forasmuche as such as are dead also are wretched, we are borne to continuall miserye. For it must nedes be that they are wretched, which an hundred yeares past are dead: [Page] or rather all they, whych at anye tyme heretofore were borne.
So I thinke certaynelye.
Tell me (I praye you) do these thinges feare you? the thre headed Cerberus in hell? the noyse of Cocytus? the rowinge ouer Acheron? Tantalus nye sterued for thirst, touching the brimmes of the water with his chinne? or this els? that Sysyphus turnes the tombling stone, and vayles not of a ioate. Perchaunce also the rigorous iudges, Minos, and Radamanthus, afore the whiche, neyther Lucius Crassus, ne yet Marcus Antonius shall defend you, neyther (because afore Greeke iudges your cause shall be pleaded) Demosthenes can do you any seruice: you your selfe, must in a wonderfull assemblye pleade youre owne cause. These thinges perchaunce you feare, and therfore thinke death to be the greatest euell that may be.
Thinke you that I am so madde that I woulde beleue these tales?
Why? do you not credite them?
No truly.
You tel an yll tale for your selfe.
Why so?
Because he had neede to be eloquente that shoulde assaye to dysproue these thynges.
Who coulde not lyghtlye be eloquente in suche a cause? or what busynes is it, to confute these monsters of Poetes and Paynters?
Yet neuerthelesse, you shall reade the bookes of philosophers, verye full of reasons, agaynst the sayd tales.
Folyshelye enough I assure you. For who would be so madde, as to be moued wyth them?
Wel, if there be none wretched in hell, neyther be there anye in hell.
So I thynke.
Where then are those whō you cal wretches? or what place do they inhabite? for if they be they must nedes be in some certayne place.
I truly thinke they be no where.
Then you thinke that they are not at all.
Euen so, and yet neuerthelesse, that they be wretches, because they be not.
I had rather that you sayd it for feare of Cerberus, then that you shoulde haue broughte suche an vnwittye reason.
Why so?
Whom you saye not to be, he you say afterwardes is: where is your wit? when you saye that they are wretched, then you saye that they whiche are not are.
I am not so blunt witted, that I would so saye.
What saye you then.
For example, I say that Marcus Crassus is wretched, for that he was caused bi death to leaue so great ryches, that Cneius Pompeye also is wretched, whom deathe depryued of so great glory and honour: to conclude, I saye that all those are wretches, whych lacke the fruicion of this pleasaūt light.
You come to the same poynte, for they must nedes be, if thei be wretches. But you euen now did denie, that those are which be deade: if they be not therefore, they can be nothinge: and by that meanes neither can they be wretches.
Perchaunce I haue not tolde you all that I thinke: for not to be whē you haue bene, I thinke is the greatest misery that may be.
Nay by that reasō what can be more wretched then not to haue bene at all? and so those which are not yet borne, because they be not, are [Page] miserable: and we oure selues, if after our death we shall be miserable, were miserable also afore we were borne. But I sureli for my part, am not remē bred, that I was a wretche afore I was borne. Yf your remembraunce be anye surer, I would fayne knowe yf you remember any such thing of your selfe.
You boord with me, as though I should say, that those are wretches whiche are vnborne, and not those whych be dead.
You graunt therfore that they be.
Nay because they be not as they haue bene, therfore I saye they be wretched.
Perceyue you not that you speake contraries? for what maye be so contrarye, as to saye, that he which is not, not onelye is, but also is a wretche: Do you, goinge out at the gate called Capena, when you see the tombes of both the Calatines, the Scipions, the Seruilians, and the Metellans, thinke that they be wretched?
Because you vrge me so muche with the word, I wil no more saye that they be wretches, but onely wretches, for that very cause, because they be not
Then you say not Marcus Crassus is a wretche. But onelye Marcus Crassus wretche.
Euen so.
As though whatsoeuer you do so pronounce must not either be or not be. A [...]e you nothing skilfull in Logike?
Emonges the verye principles of that arte, this is taughte. That euery proposition (for so it semes good to me, to interprete the Greeke worde, [...] I wil vse hereafter a more mete terme, yf I chaunce to happē on any) is eyther true or false. Wherfore, when you say Marcus Crassus wretche, eyther you say this in effect, Marcus Crassus is a wretche, that men may iudge whether it be true or false, or els you saye nothing at all.
Well now I graunt you, that they are not wretches whiche are deade, because you forced me to graunt, that such as were not could not be wretches. But what saye you to this? We which liue, forasmuch as we must nedes dye, are not we wretches? For what pleasure may we take in our life time, when daye and nyghte we must alwayes thinke, that we shall by [Page] and by dye.
Understand you then, by this your graūt, of how much misery you haue relyeued mankynd?
How so?
Because, if deathe were miserable to suche as are deade, then we should haue a continual and euerlasting misery. But nowe I se the ende of our race: to the which when we haue once runne, there is nothyng more that we ought to feare. But you (as farre as I can perceyue) folowe the opinyon of Epicharmus the Sicilian, a man quycke witted, and not wholye voyde of learninge.
What was his opinion? for I knowe it not.
I wil shewe you if (I can) in Latine: for you knowe, that I do no more vse to speake Greeke in my Latine talke, then Latine in my Greeke.
You do well in that. But I pray you, what was the opiniō of Epicharmus?
I woulde not dye: but to be deade, I would not much passe.
Now I remēber the Greke very well. And inasmuche as you haue constrayned me to graunte, that such as are deade, are not wretched: bringe [Page] to passe also (yf you can) that to dye I may thinke no misery.
Surely that is but a smal matter. But I am about thinges of more weyght.
Howe is this but a small matter? or what are those more weyghty matters that you entende to bringe to passe?
Because, if after deathe, there is no euell, neither trulye is death it selfe euell: the next time to the whiche, is the time after death, in the whych you graunt there is no euel. So to die truly is no euell, because it is but a leadinge and an entraunce to that whyche is no euell.
I pray you, let these thinges be more plainely opened. For these darke reasons, make me sooner to confesse the thing that you desyre, then to agree to it. But I praye you, what are those greater thynges whych you mind to do?
To teache (if I can) that death is not onelye no euell, but also a good thing.
I do not necessarily requyre so much: but I greatlye desyre to heare it. For albeit you bryng not to passe, that whiche you minde, yet you shall surely perswade me, that death is [Page] no euell. But I will not trouble you in your talke, I had rather heare you speake alone.
What if I shall aske you any thinge? will you not aunswere me?
Then I might be counted verye statelye. But except you had nede, I woulde rather you shoulde not also.
I am contented to folowe your minde therein. And those thynges which you willed me to shewe, as well as I can, I will declare. Neuerthelesse I would not, you should take my wordes, as the Oracles of the god Apollo. Or to thinke that whatsoeuer I shall speake is sure and certayne: but as the sayenges of some simple man, foloweinge that whiche is probable by coniecture. For farder then likelyhoode I can not go. It is enough for theym, to tell certayne and sure thinges, which saye that such thinges may be knowen: and also professe them selues to be wyse.
Kepe you what order you please: I am ready to heare you.
Death it selfe, which euery man semes so well to knowe, we must fyrst see what it is. For some thinke that it is the deparparting [Page] of the soule from the body.
There be other some, whiche thinke there is no departure, but that the bodye and soule do dye together. But of them, which thinke that the soule doth departe, some saye that he is strayght-wayes scattered: other thinke that he remayneth longe: some for euer. But what the soule is, or where, or frome whence, there is great dissensiō. Some thinke the hearte to be the soule: of the which, some men are called faynt hearted, madde hearted, and ioyned wyth heartes in frendshippe. And the wyse Nasica, who was twise Consull, was called a litle heart: and ‘A stoute harted man Catus Aelius the syxt.’
Empedocles thinketh the soule to be a certayne bloud about the heart. Other some, take a certayne part of the braine to be the soule. Other like none of these opinions: but place the soule, partelye in the heart, and partly in the brayne.
And againe, the soule some men thinke to be the life: as oure countreymen call it. For we commonlye saye, to laboure [Page] for lyfe: to ende his life: and to be longe lyued. But to Zeno the Stoyke, the soule seemes to be fier. And these opinions whiche we haue recyted, of the hearte, brayne, lyfe, and fyer, are commonlye reported. But euerye pryuate man hath other inuentions: As manye auncyente Philosophers afore tyme, and of late, Arist [...]xenus a Musicyan, and a Philosopher lykewyse, sayd that it was a certayne consonaunce of the bodye, like as we see in certaine songes and instrumentes a certayne pleasaunt concente and agreemente, euen so that in the nature and shape of the whole bodye, there were diuers motions stirred: as in songes soundes and noyses.
He lefte not his arte: and yet he sayde somewhat: whyche verye thynge was afore opened, and declared by Plato.
Xenocrates denyed, that the soule had anye shape or bodye: sayeng that it was a thinge consysting onely of members: the power of yt whiche (as Pythagoras had afore time declared (is of no small force, in the constitucion of mans body. [Page] His mayster Plato deuided the soule in to thre partes. The chiefe of the which (namely reason) he placed in the heade as in a forte: from whiche he seperated the two other partes: namelye angre & desyre: whiche he placed in diuers roames. Anger in the brest, and desyre vnder those places whiche are aboute the hearte. But Dicearchus, in his bookes whiche he wrytes of the reasonynge of learned men kepte at Corinthe, in the fyrst bringes in manye speakers: in the other two he bringeth in a certayne old man of Phthios, (whō he calleth Pherecrates, & sayes that he came of Deucalion (reasoninge that the soule is nothing. And that it is but a vaine name, neither thinketh he, that there is either minde or soule, in man or beast, otherwise then a certayne motion, by the whyche we both do and suffer, spred in all liuing creatures alike. Neyther wil he that it should be anye other thynge, thē the body so shaped, that by the force of Nature, it may haue life and sense.
Aristotle who farre passed all the reste in wyt and diligence, (alwayes exceptinge [Page] Plato) after he hadde treated of those foure kind of principles, out of the which al thinges take their beginning: thought that there was a certayne fift nature, of the whiche the soule & minde did consist. For to thinke, to foresee, to learne, to teache, to inuente, and diuers such other propertyes, as to remember, to loue, to hate, to desyre, to feare, to be vexed, to be mery: these and suche like, he thought were in none of these foure kynd of causes. Therfore he addeth to them the fyft kynde, without anye propre name, and calleth the soule & mind, by a newe name [...], whiche signifieth a certayne continuall and euerlasting motion. Except perchaunce a fewe, whiche I remember not: these are the opinions of al the philosophers, touchinge the soule. For as for Democrytus, a worthye man, but yet compounding the soule of the chaungeable meetinge of certayne lighte, round and indiuisible bodyes, we will nowe ouerpasse. For there is nothinge whiche a company of Butterflyes wil not lightlye make with him. Of all these opinions [Page] whiche is moste true, let some god iudge: but whiche is moste likely to be true, there is great doubte. Whether wil you therfore, that we trye oute the truest of them? or els that we retourne to our purpose?
I woulde verye fayne heare both: if it might be. But it were very hard to confound them togither. Wherfore, if wythoute the searching of these opinions, we may be deliuered from the feare of deathe, I pray you do that whych we haue in hande: if not, do that nowe, and this at some other time.
That whiche I perceiue you would rather haue done, that also I thinke, is more commodious.
For whych soeuer of those opinions be true, I shall lightlye perswade you by reason, that deathe is not euell but rather good. For if the hearte, bloude, or brayne be the soule, trulye, because eyther of them is a bodie, it shal dye with the rest of the bodye. If it beaer, it shall be dispersed: if it be fyre it shall be quenched: if it be Aristoxenus musicall concent, it shalbe dissolued. What shall I saye of Dicearchus? who sayeth that the soule is nothing at all. By all these [Page] opinions there can nothing after death pertayne to anye man. For euen with our life our sense is lost: and he that feeleth nothinge, neede not to passe, what chaunce betides him. Yet the opinions of y• other Philosophers, put vs in good hope (if that delight you) that our soules may after this life passe into the heuens, as a place appoynted for them.
Truly it delyghteth me greatlye. And assuredly, y• it so is, I wil alwayes perswade my selfe.
What nede you in this case, to requyre my labour? am I able in eloquence to excell Plato? reade diligently that booke, whyche he wrote of the soule: so shal you lacke nothinge, concerninge the knoweledge of this questiō.
I haue done so truly, yea and that very often. But (I knowe not how) whiles I reade him, I am fully perswaded. But after I haue layd asyde the booke, & begin to thinke with my selfe, of the immortality of our soules, all my perswasion sodaynelye slips away.
Wel sir, graunte you that the soules abyde after death? or els saye you that they dye with the reste of the body?
I graunt that thei remaine.
What if they remayne?
I graunt they be blessed.
What if they dye?
Then they be not wretched, because they be not. For that being therunto costrayned by you I haue already graunted.
How then? or for what cause? do you saye that deathe is euell? which eyther shal make vs happy, our soules remayninge, or els not wretched our sense beinge paste.
Shewe therfore fyrste (vnlesse it be to paynefull for you) that our soules remayne after this life. But yf you can not proue that (for it is very harde) you shall shewe, that there is no harme in death. For I feare muche leaste it be a griefe (I do not meane to lacke sense) but that I must lacke sense.
To proue this matter which you desyre, we may vse as good authoures as may be: which in all causes both ought and also is wont to be of great importaunce: and fyrst we may confyrme it by all antiquity: which, the nigher it was to the beginning of the worlde, and progenye of the gods, so much the better (peraduenture) did see those thinges, whyche [Page] were true. For emonges those auncyent fathers, (whō Ennius calleth Cascos) this one thinge was comen: that there is in death feling: and that a man by departing of his life, is not so vtterly extinguished, that he should altogether peryshe. And this may you gather, both by many other thinges, but chiefly, by the lawe of the byshops, and ceremonies of burials: whiche they beynge most wittye men, would neyther, with so great care haue obserued, neither yet being irreuerently or vnhonestly vsed, would so sharpely haue punished: except this had bene faste fixed in theyr mindes, that death is no destruction vtterly marring and blemishing al thinges, but onelye a certayne departure and chaunge of lyfe: the whiche to worthye men, & women, is wont to be a guyde into heauen: and vicious and il disposed persons, did cause to tary on the groūd: and neuerthelesse to remayne stil. By this opinion also, and by the iudgemēt of our countreymen. ‘Romulus in heauens with gods doth passe his time.’
[Page]As Ennius the Poete, agreeing to comen fame, hath writen. And frō thence flyeng to vs, and so to the West Occeane, Hercules is counted so great, and so mightye a god. For this cause Bacchus, the sonne of Semele, is so muche reported. And in like maner famous were the .ii. sonnes of Tindareus, who not onely in field were helpers of victory to the Romans, but also messengers of the same. Also Ino, the doughter of Cadmus, is she not of the Greekes by the name of Leucothea, and of our countreymen by the name of Matuta worshipped? What? the whole heauen (to thintent I make no longer discourse) is it not replenished with mankinde? for if I should assaye to searche auncyente monumentes, and put in writing, such thinges as be in olde Greeke bookes: thē should you wel perceyue, that such, as we count to be the greatest goddes, haue departed out of ye earth, into those places of heauen. But ignoraunt men that knewe not naturall philosophye, whych of late came into vse, perswaded them selues so much, as they could gather [Page] by naturall reason. The order and causes of thinges they knewe not.
They were oftē moued by visions (and those chiefelye in the nighte) to thinke, that such as were dead, did liue againe. Wherfore, like as we se it a very strōg argumēt to beleue that there are gods: because there is no nation so cruel, neyther yet anye man so beastlye: in whose mind there is not fixed some opinion of God. (Many neuerthelesse haue conceaued diuers foolishe fancies of the gods) but yet they graunte all that there is a diuine power and nature. Neyther yet, doth the communication or agreement of men, cause this consent, the opinion is cōfirmed by no decrees, by no lawes: but in euery thing, the argement of all nations is taken for the law of nature: So likewise, in asmuch as all nations, haue worshipped their benefactors as gods after theyr death (although some more foolyshe then other it is euident, that nature hath engraffed in the heartes of all men, a natural opinion without perswasiō, that our soules are immortall, and remayne after this life.
[Page]But who is there, that would not bewayle the death of his friend? when he thinkes, that he is depriued the commodities of this life. Take away his fansye, and you shall take awaye all mourning. For no man mourneth, but for his discommodity. For we sorowe, and are vexed, and all our wofull lamentation, and sad mourning, ryseth hereof, that him whom so entirelye we loued, we suppose to lacke the commodities of this life, and that to feele. And these thinges we ymagine, onely by the conducting of nature, wythout eyther reason or learninge. And hereof we wyll talke hereafter. But the greatest argument, by the whych we may gather, that nature it selfe, doth priuily thinke of the immortality of our soules, is that moste wise men, take greatest care for thinges to come after their death.
Some one sets trees, whiche may profyte in an other age (as Statius sayeth in his bookes entituled Synephebi to what other ende? but for that he knewe, that the time to come did also pertayne vnto him? for the same cause, [Page] diuers diligente husbandemen graffe trees, whose encrease they shall neuer see. And likewyse, manye noble men make lawes, orders, and customes, the obseruatiōs of the which, they shall neuer beholde. What? the begettinge of children? the spreading of fame? the adoptions of children? the diligent obseruinge of testamentes? the very monumentes, & Epitaphes of graues? what other thing do they signify? then that, we haue al a respect to ye time to come? Besydes this. There is no doubte, but the tryall of nature, oughte to be taken of the best nature. But what mens nature is better thē theyrs, which thinke theym selues borne, to helpe, saue, and comfort men? Hercules is departed frō hence to the gods. To them he shoulde neuer haue gone, vnlesse whiles he was emonges men, he had prepared him selfe a way thither. But these are old matters: and nowe also sanctifyed by religion. What shall we thinke, of so manye, and so notable men, in thys our comen wealth, whiche willinglye toke theyr deathe, for theyr countreyes [Page] sake? Did they (think you) suppose? that their memorye shoulde be extended no lenger then the terme of theyr lyfe?
Trulye, no man at anye time was so madde, as without hope of immortalitie, to offer him selfe to deathe for his countrey. For otherwise, it had bene lawefull for Themistocles: to haue lyued in ease, it had bene lawefull for Epaminundas: It had bene also (that we enquire no farder of old and forren matters) lawfull for me. But (I knowe not howe) there sticketh in mens mindes, a certayne gesse of life to come: yea, and that doth most commōly happen, in the most stoute and harty courages, and in them appeares most lightlye. Whiche hope taken away, who is there so mad, that would continually liue in laboure and daunger? and hitherto we haue spokē of princes. But do we not se the like of Poetes? will not they be remembred after theyr death? Uppon what cause then, was this writen?
Lo, he requireth the report of fame, and renowne at theyr handes, whose forefathers he had caused by his writynge to be famous. And the same Ennius, wryteth in another place thus.
But what doubte we of Poetes? yea, suche as liue by handcraftes, desyre after death to be remembred. For what other cause dydde Phydias, graue hys shape in the tergat of Minerua? where it was not lawefull for him to wryte? What? the Philosophers thēselues, do they not in those bookes whych they write of the despising of glory, imprint their owne names? Certes, if the consent of all men be the voice of nature, & al men in al places do agree, that there is some thing, that doth pertaine to thē which are departed out of this life: we also must nedes thīke ye same. And since we know, ye they whose mind passeth either in wit or vertue (because their wit [Page] is best) do se most clearely the power of nature. It is most likely, forasmuch as euery good man taketh care for his posterity, that he supposeth that there is some thing, the sense and feeling of the which, he shal haue after death. But as we knowe by nature that there be gods: But what they be, we gather by wyt and reason: so we thinke because of the consent and agrement of all nations, that our soules do remayne after death. But in what place they be, or what maner thinges they are, we must gather by reason. The ignoraūce of the whiche, hath fayned and inuented hell and such terroures, as you seemed somewhat afore not without iuste cause to despyse. For our bodyes being layd in the grounde, and couered wyth earth (whereof also suche as are buryed are sayd to be earthed) they thought the reste of our life should be led vnder the ground. Which opinion hath bene the cause of great errours: Whyche haue bene augmented and encreased by Poetes. For the thicke companye of the Theater, in the which there are many [Page] women and children, is muche moued hearing so terrible a verse as this.
Yea and that errour was of such force, (which nowe I truste is nye extinguished) that whereas they sawe, mennes bodyes burne afore: yet neuerthelesse, they would fayne them doing such thinges in hell, as withoute bodyes, coulde neyther be done in deede, neyther yet ymagined. For they could not wel conceyue, howe the soule might liue withoute the bodye: and for that cause, they ymagined that they liued vnder some certayne shape and figure. Uppon this occasion, Homere wrote his booke whiche he entituled [...]. Hereof spronge that Necromancie, whiche my friende Appius was wont to use. For this cause also, was the lake that standeth not farre from mi house, called the lake of hell.
Yet neuerthelesse, these shapes and shadowes they fayne to speake. Whyche can not be wythout the tounge iawes, sydes, and lyghtes. For they conceyued very litle in theyr mindes: but referred all to theyr bodelye eyes. But it is a great point of wyt, for a man to reuoke his minde, from the iudgement of his outward senses, and to withdrawe the consent of his thoughtes, from thinges that haue bene alowed by custome.
And I beleue trulye, that there haue bene manye other, whiche in all ages haue reasoned of the immortalitye of the soules. But of those whyche haue left any writinges behinde them, Pherecides, a Sirian taught firste, that the soules of men were euerlasting. A man surely of great antiquitye. For he liued in the time of my kinsman Tullus Hostilius. This opinion, his scoler Pythagoras did chiefely confyrme, who when he came into Italye, in the raygne of [Page] Tarquinius the proude, amased all great Greece, with his estimation, learning, and authoritye. Yea, and manye yeares after the name of the Pythagoreans was so highely esteemed, that in comparyson of them, no other Philosophers seemed to be learned. But let vs retourne to those aunciente Philosophers. Commenly they would geue no reason of anye thinge, that they spake vnlesse it were same such thing, as they should declare by numbers or descriptions. It is sayde that Plato, to thintent that he myghte knowe the Pythagoreans, came into Italye: and there was acquaynted both with manye other, but chyefelye wyth Archytas and Timeus, of whome he learned all the opinion of Pithagoras: and that at the fyrst, he not onelye thought as Pythagoras did, as concerninge the eternitye of the soule, but also confyrmed the same wyth reason. Whych (vnlesse you be otherwyse minded) let vs ouerpasse, and leaue of all this reasonynge of the immortalytye of the soules.
What wil you now leaue me, wh [...] you haue broughte me into so great expectacion? I had rather to erre wyth Plato (whom I knowe howe much you esteeme, and I wonder at the more, because of your prayse) then to thinke wel wyth other.
Worthelye spoken. For I my selfe assuredly, would not be aggrieued to erre with him. And is there anye doubte, but that as he hathe handled al other thinges very learnedlie and profoundly, so he hath done this also? although this hathe leaste nede of cunning handeling. For the Mathematicians do well proue it sayeng, that the earthe, whiche is placed in the middest of the world, in comparison of the whole heauen, hath but the proportion of a small poynt, whych they call a centre. And such is the nature of those four bodyes, of the whyche all thinges take theyr beginning, that they haue equallye diuided motions. So that all earthly and watery bodyes, do naturally fall downe into the earth and sea, and all other, namelye fierye and aerye, lyke as the fyrste .ii. because of the heauines of [Page] theyr weyghte do tende to the middest place of the world, so these by righte lynes flye vpwardes into the heauenlye region: eyther because they them selues naturallye do moue vpwardes, or els, because they being light bodyes, are by force dryuen from the other whiche are grosse and heauy. Whiche sayenges, forasmuch as they are certayne, it must nedes folowe, that our soules, whē thei are departed from oure bodies, yf they be of fyerye or aery nature, must of necessitie ascende into the higher regions. But if the soule be some number (whiche was spoken more wittelye then playnely) or if it be that fifte principle, (as well the name as the nature of the which, no man can vnderstand) vndoubtedlye, eyther of theym are so pure and perfect thinges, that at theyr departure they can not abyde on the ground. And truly some one of these is the soule. For so quycke a spyryte lyeth not drenched in the heart, brayne, or bloude, as Empedocles saieth. But as for Dicearchus with his scoole felowe Aristorenus, (learned men both) we will nowe ouerpasse: [Page] of the whyche, the one seemes neuer to haue felt ani griefe, who thinkes that he hathe no soule, and the other is so delighted with his notes and tunes, that he assayeth to allude them to these earnest matters. But a harmonye is made of the diuersitye of tunes, the sun dry settinge of the whyche, maye make many sweete harmonyes: but the conformitye of a mannes lymmes, and the whole shape of his bodye, withoute a soule what harmonye it maye make, I can by no meanes vnderstande. But he be learned, may in this matter geus place to his mayster Aristotle, and he himselfe practise singīg. For it is wiselye counsayled of the Greekes in a certayne prouerbe in this sort.
But that foolyshe opinion, of the fallinge together of certayne indiuisible, lyght, and rounde bodyes, let vs vtterlye roote out: which neuerthelesse Democritus ymagineth to be whole and [Page] breathing, that is to saye of an aery nature. So the soule (whych if it be of any of those .iiii. bodyes, whereof all thinges are made, doth vndoubtedly consist of fyer, whiche opinion Panetius also liketh best) must nedes flie to the higher regions: For those .ii. elementes, namelye fyer and aer, haue no fallynge, but go alwayes vpwardes. So it comes to passe, that whether they are scattered farre from the earth, or els do abide and alwayes kepe theyr owne nature, by all these reasons it must necessarilye folowe, y• our soules ascend vnto heauē deuiding thys grosse & compound aer, which is next to ye earth. For our soule is more whote, or rather more fyerye, then this aer, which I termed whilome grosse and compound. And that hereby we may wel perceiue: because our dumpishe earthly bodies do ware whote, wt the heate of our mindes. Furthermore, it must nedes be, ye the soule must lightly passe through this aer (whiche I doe often terme grosse) because there is nothinge more swifte then it, neyther anye suche quickenesse, as may by anne [Page] meanes be compared with the quickenes of the same. Whiche if he remayne vnwasted, and like to his former being he muste needes so moue, that he, shall pearce and cut all this lower aer, in the which, cloudes, wyndes, and showers, are gathered. Which is both moist and cloudye with the exhalracions of the earth. Which region after it hath once passed, and attayned to a nature like to it selfe, being there stayed amiddes the lighte aer, and temperate heate of the sonne, he resteth vppon the fyer, and there maketh an ende of ascending any higher. For when it hath gotten heate and lyghtnes congruent to his nature, then as a thing equallye paysed, it moneth neyther vpwardes nor downewardes. And there at the last is his naturall seate, when it hath once pearced to thinges in nature like to it selfe. In the whiche wythoute the want or lacke of any thinge, it shalbe nouryshed, and sustayned with suche foode as the sterres theym selues are fed and nouryshed wythal. And whereas here, the prickes of the fleshe are wont commonly to enflame [Page] vs, to all ill motions, as we are so muche the more kindled by them, as we enuy those, that haue the same thinges that we desyre to haue: then trulye we shal be happy, when our bodyes being ones dissolued, we shall be rid from all yil desyres and emulations. And that, whiche we nowe do when we are voyde of eare (I meane the giuinge of oure selues, to the consideration and weyghing of some thing perteyning to knoweledge) that shall we then do with much more libertie, and setle oure selues wholy, to the contemplation and viewinge of nature: both because naturallye there is graffed in oure mindes, an insatiable desyre to know the trouth and also because the place it selfe, to the whiche we shall come, because it wyll shewe vnto vs, a more easie knowledge of those thinges whyche we desyre to knowe, muste nedes encrease in vs the desyre and loue of knowledge, the beautye of the which place, hathe in this filthie earth, stirred vp, that auncient and heauenly philosophy as Theophrastus sayeth) kyndled fyrst wyth the desyre of [Page] knoweledge. But that heauenly pleasure they chiefely shal enioy, whiche although when they dwelte in this lowe earthe, they hadde their senses cloked with the cloudes of erroure, yet in minde did still r newe the memorye of that heauenlye place, frome whence they fyrste came, for if they here thynke them selues great trauaylers, whyche haue sene the crickes of ye sea Eurinus and those strayghtes, by the whych the ship passed which was called Argo.
What syght may we thinke that shall be? when we shall beholde the whole earthe, the situation, forme, and description of the same, the places inhabyted, and suche againe, as eyther because of parchinge heate, or fresynge colde, doe lacke inhabi [...]auntes. For nowe trulye, [Page] se not so much as those thinges whyche we se with our bodelye eyes, neyther is there any sense in our bodye. But (as not onelye the naturall Philosophers, but also the Phisicians do saye, who haue seene the same opened and disclosed) certayne wayes and holes there be, bound frome the inner vaute of oure minde, to our eyes, eares, and nosethrilles. And for this cause sometyme it hapneth, that we are so blynded, eyther wyth some sadde thought, or vehemente disease, that oure eyes and eares beynge both hole and open, yet we can neyther heare nor see. So that we may well perceyue, that it is oure mynde, that seeth and heareth, and not those partes, whiche are but the casementes of the same. Without the whyche, neuerthelesse, the minde it selfe can perceyue nothinge, vnlesse it be earnestlye bent thereon. Besydes all this, what a thinge is it, that the minde onelye, can cōtaine thinges of most diuers nature? as colours, tastes, feelynges, smels and soundes? which by the .v. sēses only, the [Page] mind could neuer discerne, were it not that al thinges comming to it by them: it onely is iudge of all. And then truly, these thinges shall be more playne and clearely sene, whē as the soule is come to his owne naturall libertye. For now in deede, althoughe nature hathe verye suttely wrought certayne passages frō the soule to the body: yet neuerthelesse, the same are compassed, and in maner stopped vp wyth certayne grosse and earthlye bodyes. But when there shall be nothinge, but the soule it selfe, then there shal be no let, but that it may wel discerne and iudge, what eche maner of thinge is. I could here describe (if my matter so requyred) howe manye, and howe sundrye delectable syghtes the soule shall haue, in those heauenlye regions. The whych, sometimes when I do remember, I can not but wonder at the vanitye of certayne Philosophers, whiche haue the secrete knoweledge of naturall philosophye in great admyratian: and therefore thanke and prayse wyth all theyr hartes, the inuenter and finder of the same, and worship him as [Page] God: sayeng, that by this his benefyte, they are deliuered of ryght heauy maysters: that is to wite, continuall terror, and dayly and nightly feare. For what so doating a foole is there, that woulde feare those thinges, whiche you, if you had not the knoweledge of natural philosophy, would haue feared.
Is it not a shame, for Philosophers to boaste, that nowe they feare not these thinges, but knowe theym to be false? Maye not a man thinke theym quicke witted, whiche woulde haue credited these thinges, had not learning perswaded thē to the contrarye? But they haue gotten knoweledge enoughe, whyche haue perswaded thē selues, that at the time of theyr death they should wholye peryshe? which if we graunt to be true, (for I wil not at this time muche contend with them) what haue they therein eyther to be glad or proude of? neyther yet can I see anye cause, why the [Page] opinion of Pithagoras & Plato, should not be true. For were it so, that Piato brought no reason (see in what estimation I haue that man) his verye authoritye should moue me. But he hath confirmed his opinion wyth so manye proofes, that it appeareth, that both he was willing to perswade and also hath perswaded. But there be many against him, whyche thinke our soules cōdemned to death: neyther is there any other cause, why they will not beleue the eternitye [...]f the same, then because they can not well ymagine or thinke, what maner thing the soule should be without the bodye. As though they coulde vnderstande, what maner thinge it is, whiles it is in the bodye: what shape it hathe, what quantitye, or what place. But if it were possible, that they might see all the inwarde partes enclosed in mannes bodye, whyche nowe are seperate frome oure syghte: whether they should see the soule, or whether it is of suche subtill nature, that they could by no meanes discerne it, that let theym weyghe, whyche denye, that they can [Page] ymagine any soule wythout the bodye. they must fyrst see, what maner thinge they will thinke him to be, whyles he is in the bodye. For to me assuredly (dyuers times, when I ponder with my selfe the nature of the soule) it seemes a farre darker and deeper consideration, to thinke, what and howe the soule coulde be in the bodye, as in a straunge habitation: then what it shall be, when it shall depart from thence, and flye into the open heauens, as to his propre and appoynted place. For if it be not possible for vs to comprehende in oure mindes such thinges as we neuer sawe then, neyther god him selfe, neither yet oure soule that came from God, what it shalbe, when it is departed from our bodyes, can we well ymagine. Dicearchus and Aristoxenus (for that it was a deepe and a weyghty matter, to consyder what the soule might be) said that there was no soule at all. And surelye, it is the chyefest poynt of wytte, wyth the soule to knowe the soule: and that is the wyse meanynge of that sage [Page] precept of Apollo, whyche willeth vs to knowe our selues. For I can not think that it shoulde bidde vs to knowe oure lymmes, stature, or shape. For we are not bodyes: neyther, when I speake to you, do I talke to your body. Therfore when he sayeth knowe thy selfe, he sayeth as muche in effecte, as knowe thy selfe. For thy bodye is but the vassayle, and dongeon of thy minde. Whatsoeuer thy soule dothe, that is thine owne deede. And vnlesse it had bene thought an heauenly thing, to knowe the soule: that precepte had neuer bene taken to haue bene of such excellency, as to haue bene imputed to God. But, if he know not, what maner thinge his soule is, howe shall he knowe, that he him selfe eyther lyueth, or moueth? And hereuppon, is grounded that reason of Plato, whiche is declared by Socrates, in the booke called Phedrus, and rehearsed of me, in my syrt booke of a comē welth That which alwayes moueth, is euerlastinge. But, aswell that whiche moueth other thinges, as also that whiche is moued by other, whan it ceasseth to [Page] moue, ceasseth also to liue. Onelye that therefore, which moues it selfe (because it can neuer forsake it selfe) can not but moue. It also, is a fountayne and beginninge of motion, to other thinges whych are moued. Nowe of a principle there can be no beginninge. For of a principle all thinges are made, and it takes his beginning of no other, (for it were no principle, if it toke beginninge of any other thing.) Then if it hath no beginning, neither hath it any ending. For a principle being ones extynct, can neyther it selfe at any time be reuyued, neyther yet create, or make anye other thing, wheras al thinges take theyr beginning of a principle. So we see, that the beginning of al motions, procedeth of that which is moued of it selfe. But that, can neyther haue beginning, nor ending (not though the skie should fal, & all thinges stande at a staye) neyther yet any outward force, by the which it should be moued. Wherfore, inasmuch it appeareth, that that is euerlastyng, whych moueth it selfe: and no man will denye that our soules are of that sorte, [Page] (for whatsoeuer is moued by anye outward motiō, and not of it selfe, is without life) it must nedes folowe, that since it is the onelye propertye and nature of the soule (amonges so manye sundrye thinges) to be moued of it selfe: it neyther at any time heretofore had begynnynge, nor at anye time hereafter shall haue endinge. Let all the raskall Phylosophers laye theyr heades togither, (for so it semeth good vnto me to terme them, whyche swarue from Plato, and Socrates, and from theyr sect) they shal neither at any time expresse any thinge so eloquently, neither yet be able to perceyue how suttelye this selfe same reason is concluded. The soule therfore, perceiueth that he him selfe doth moue: wherewithall it feeles also, that it is of his owne power, and not of any forren force: & that it can by no meanes chaūc [...] that he should forsake him selfe. Wher by it is concluded, ye he is euerlastinge. Nowe let me heare, what you can saye against this.
I truly can not suffer my selfe, so muche as to ymagine anye thyng contrarye vnto it: I do so muche Rauour your opinion herein.
How [Page] thinke you thē, of those thinges which are in the soule? which, if I could by ani meanes conceiue, how thei might haue beginning, I could wel ymagine howe they might peryshe also. For bloude, choler, fleame, bones, sinowes, vaynes & al the frame of our body, I could wel ymagine howe, and wherof it is made. The soule it selfe, if it had no greater thing in it, then, that it is causer of our lyfe, I could lightlye be perswaded, y• a man might as wel liue by the power of nature, as a vine, or any other tree. Also if it had no straunger properties then to desire some thinges & to abstaine frō other, I could thinke yt that wer as wel cōmon to beastes as to it. But firste it hath an infinite remēbraunce of a wonderfull nūber of thinges, emonges the which, Plato reckeneth ye recordinge of our former life. For in yt booke, whych is entitled Memnon, Socrates demaū deth certaine questiōs of a childe, as cō cerning the measures of a foure square: to ye which he aunswereth as any child might, but yet neuerthelesse, the questions are so easy, that he aūswereth him so, as if he had learned Geometrye.
[Page]Whereby Socrates concludeth, that to learne, is nothinge els, then to remember. This place also he handeleth more at large, in that talke, whiche he hadde that selfe same daye, that he departed out of this life. For he saieth that when a rude and ignoraunt man, dothe aunswere wel to one that questioneth wiselye with him, then he dothe playnely [...] shewe, that he doth not thē learne those thinges but remēbreth thē, as thinges which he had almost forgotten. He sayeth also, that we coulde by no meanes, from oure childhoode haue the generall groundes of so many thinges placed in our mindes, vnlesse oure soule afore it entred into our bodye, had liued in the knoweledge of the same. And whereas the body is nothing, as Plato in all his workes doth reason (for he takes that as nothing, which hath had beginning and shall haue ending, and that onelye to be which shall continue for euer) the soule could not come to the knowledge of these thinges, whiles he was enclosed in the bodye, but brought them thyther wyth him. Neyther yet dothe it [Page] clearelye perceyue the same at the first, when it sodaynelye cometh into the bodye, as into a troubled mansion, but after that it hath reuoked and reposed it selfe, it recounteth suche thinges as it knewe before. So to learne is no other thing, then to remeber. But I do wonder at oure remembraunce after an other sorte. For what is it, whereby we do remember? or from whence hath our nature that force or power? I do not here aske how notable the memorye of Symonides was, eyther of Theodectes, or els of Cyneas, the ambassadour whych came from Pyrrhus to the Senate, or of Carneades, or of Scepsius Metrodorus, or els of our countreiman Hortensius. I speake of the memoryes of the comen sorte of men. And of those inespeciallye, whiche spende the moste part of theyr lyfe in study: whose memory how great it is, it is hard to thynke. They remember so many and sundrye thinges. But to what ende belongeth this my talke? To consider what thys power of remēbraunce, & from whence it is. It comes not surely, frō the hart, [Page] bloude, or brayne, neither yet from Democritus moa [...]es. I knowe not whether the soule be fyer or aer, neither am I ashamed to confesse, that I am ignoraunt in that whiche I knowe not, but this I may boldly affirme (as wel as anye man maye, in so darke a matter as this is) that whether the soule be fyer or aer, it is vndoubtedlye an heauenlye thing. For, is there any mā that would thinke, that so wonderfull a power of memorye, could be made eyther of the earth, or els of this darke & cloudy aer? For although you do not see, what our remēbraunce is, yet what maner thing it is, you may wel perceyue. Or, if that you can not do, yet you may wel vnderstand how great a thing it is. Shall we then thinke, that there is any capacity, or voide place in the soule, into ye which as into a vessel, all those thinges which we do remember are powred? That trulye were very foolyshe. For, what bottome mighte there be, of such a vessell? or, what mighte be the shape, of suche a soule? or what so greate widenes mighte there be in the soule? What? [Page] should we thinke, that our soule is imprinted, as it were waxe, and that our remembraunce is the ouersight of those thinges, which sticke imprynted in our heartes? But what pryntes may there be of wordes? eyther what suffyciente marckes of thynges? or what so huge a space maye there be in the soule, in the which all those thynges whyche we remember, myght be prynted? Furthermore, what thynke you of that parte of our mynde, whyche syndeth oute suche thynges, as were neuer knowen before and is therefore called inuention, can that be made of this earthlye, frayle, and compounde nature thynke you?
What thinke you of him, whyche fyrst of all, gaue euerye thinge his propre name (whyche Pythagoras counted a part of great wisedome) or of him whiche fyrst gathered men together, to one society, & felowship of life? what thinke you of him also, who firste cōprised the tunes of our voice (which somed to be in maner infinite) in a fewe notes? Or of him, who first marked ye motions, progressions, & stations of the .7. planets? [Page] How iudge you also of them, who fyrst founde oute corne, cloathinge, houses, orders for mans life, & defence againste wilde beastes? by whom, after that we were tamed, and broughte from wildenes, besydes oure necessities, we haue inuented thinges for pleasure. For ther is inuented, a temperate varietie of the diuers nature of sundrye tunes, to delyght our eares, and also our eyes toke great pleasure, in markīg, as wel those sterres, whyche are fastned in certayne places of the fyrmament, as also the other, whiche are called (althoughe they be not so in deede) wanderers: the conuersions and motions of the whyche, whose soule did fyrste perceyue, he dyd playnely teache, that his soule was like to him, which had fyrst made those thinges in heauen. For, when Archymedes made the motions of the Moone, the Sonne, and the other fyue Planettes, in the artificiall Spheare, he didde as muche as God (whome Plato bringeth in in his booke entituled Tymcus, makyng the world) when he made the turninge of one Spheare, to rule seuerall [Page] motions, differynge bothe in slowenes and swyftenes. Whiche, if in the motion of the whole worlde it can not be done, wythout the hand of god, neither coulde Archymedes in his materyall Spheare, haue imitated the same, with out an heauenlye wyt. Neyther yet can I see, howe these accustomed thynges with the whych we are dayly acquaynted, can be done wythout an heauenlye power. As that a Poete shoulde wryte a graue and full verse, wythoute some heauenlye influence, or that a man should be eloquent with pleasaunt wordes, and weyghty sentences, wythoute some greater inuention, then the witte of man. But philosophy, the mother of all artes, what other thynge is it, then (as Plato sayeth) the gyfte and (as I thinke) the inuention of the gods? She fyrst taught vs the worshippe of them, and secondarelye, to vse right towards all men, and then afterwardes modestye, & stoutenes of stomake. She draue away all darkenes from the soule, whiles it is in the prison of the bodye, that it might see all thinges, as well highe [Page] and lowe, as farre and neare. And sure lye, this seemes to me, to be a heauenly thynge, whyche dothe so manye and so wonderfull thinges. For what is the remembraunce of wordes and deedes? what is inuention? assuredly such thinges they are, as a man can not imagine greater, in god him selfe. For I do not think, that the gods are delighted with the foode whyche the Poetes call Ambrosia, or wyth the heauenlye drynke, whych they call Nectari: neyther can I thinke, that they haue yonge boyes waytynge at theyr tables: neyther do I beleue Homere, whyche wryteth, that Ganimedes was taken vp into heauen to be cupbearer to Iupiter. It is no sufficient cause, why he should do Laomedon so much iniury. Homere fayned it, and applied the qualities of men to the gods. I had rather that he had deriued the properties of ye gods vnto vs: namely to be wyse, to inuent, and to remember. The soule nowe, whych (as I saye) is a heauenly thing, as Euripides feareth not to saye is god him selfe. And truly, if god be either aer or fyer, he is [Page] the soule of man. For as the heauenlye nature is voyde bothe of earthlye substance, and also wateryshe moysture, so in lykewyse, is the soule of man compounded of none of them bothe: But if it be a certayne fyft nature (as Aristotle first inuented) assuredlye, as well the gods, as our soules, do consyste of the same substaunce. Which opiniō we folowing, haue thus expressed, in our bookes which we entituled of consolation. there can be foūd no original nor beginning of our soules in the earthe: sith in them nothinge is mixt or cōpound, nothing made or framed of earth, nothing moyst or a [...]rye, ne yet of fyerie nature: for in these foure natures there is nothinge, that hath the power to remember, inuent, or ymagine, that can either beare in memory thinges paste, foresee such as are to come, or rightly weyghe such as are presēt. Which propertyes & giftes, as they are heauenly, so no man can imagine howe they maye come to man but from God. Whereby it seemeth that the nature of the soule, is other then these foure: & seperated from these accustomed & commen natures.
[Page]So whatsoeuer it is, that can discern [...] by the senses, can iudge by discrecyon, or can wil, or not will, that must nedes be of an heauenly force and power, and for that selfe same cause euerlastynge. For god him selfe (whome we can not conceyue, but by the force of oure vnderstandinge) we can ymagine to be no other thing, then a loose and free soule, seperate frome all mortall concretion, seenge and mouing all thinges, it selfe beinge moued of nothinge, and of this selfe same force and nature is the mind of man. Where then, or what is thy soule? canst thou tel me where, or what maner thinge it is? But if I haue not so manye helpes to the knoweledge of my soule as I woulde wyshe to haue, wilte thou therfore let me, to vse those thinges, which I haue to the vnderstandinge of my soule? the soule is not able in this bodye to see him selfe. No more is the eye whyche although he seeth all other thinges, yet (that whiche is one of the leaste) can not discerne his owne shape. But admit that the soule can not consider him selfe: howebeit perhaps he [Page] may. His operacions, as quyckenes of inuention, sure remembraunce, continuance and swiftnes of motion, it doth well ynoughe perceyue. And these be greate, yea heauenlye, yea euerlastinge thinges. But of what shape it is, or where it resteth we oughte not to enquyre. As when we see the forme and beautye of the heauens, furthermore suche quyckenes of motion, as we can scarce conceyue, also the continual courses of day? and nyght, the foure chaunges of the yeare, conueniēt both for the rypening of fruytes, and also for the tē perate disposicion of our bodyes. Besydes this, when we see the sonne, the causer and worker of all encrease, and the moone whose encrease and decrease of lyght, doth in steede of Calender, descrybe vnto vs the chaunges of euerye daye, when we beholde the other fyue planettes, whych most constantly continue one set course (vnder that Circle whiche is deuided into .xii. equall partes) with vnequal motions, and the faces of the skyes, by nyghte on all sydes set with starres, and the globe of the [Page] earthe (saued from the sea, and fyxed in the middest of the whole world) in some places habitable, and wel tilled, of the which one part (whych we inhabite) is placed vnder the North starre, where ‘The blousteringe Northerne blastes congeale the frosen snowe.’
And the other farre in the south, which the Greekes call [...] whereas the other partes be not inhabited, eyther because they are frosen with cold, or parched with heate. But here where we dwell at appoynted seasons.
Furthermore whē we se the multitude [Page] of beastes ordained partly for our foode partly for ye tillage of our groūd, partly to cary vs, & partly to clothe vs, & man amonges al these thinges a beholder of the heauens & gods, & a worshipper of the same: & furthermore, all thinges as wel in land as in sea, prouided for the profite of mankind: these & other innumerable workes of god, as oft as we do behold, must we not nedes acknowlege that if these thinges were at any time made, there must be some worker & maker of thē? Or els if they haue bene for euer, from the beginning (as Arystotle thinkes) y• at the least there is some ruler & gouerner of so greate a worke. So likewise although thou canst not se the soule of mā, no more thē thou canst god him selfe, yet neuerthelesse, as yu dost acknoweledge god by his workes so likewise seing the infinite remēbraunce of thinges, the quickenes of inuentiō, the swiftnes of motiō in the same, & finally all the beautie of vertue, y• must nedes confesse the diuyne & heauenlye power of the same. In what place is it then? I thinke truly in the heade. And whye I so thinke, I can bryng many reasons.
[Page]But that we will referre to an other time. And now dispute where the soule is. In thee he is assuredlye. What nature hathe it? a nature properlye belonging to it selfe, as I thinke. But admit that it had the nature eyther of fyer or aer. For that is nothinge to oure purpose. This onely consyder, that as you knowe God, althoughe his place and shape you knowe not, so likewyse, you ought to conceyue your soule, although you knowe neyther his mansion place, nor forme. And trulye, as concernynge the soule, we can not doubt (vnlesse we will confesse oure selues wholye ignoraunt in naturall philosophy,) but that there is no motion in the same, no composition, no concretion, no copulation, nor coagmentacion. Which if it be so, assuredlye it can neuer be seperated, departed, disseuered, or sundred: and for that cause, neyther can it die. For death is the departing, seperatynge, and loosynge of those partes, whiche before death were conioyned. Wyth this reason, and suche like, Socrates being moued, did neyther desyre anye patrone to [Page] pleade for him, when the iudges gaue him dome of death, neyther yet became he an humble sutor to theym, for the lengthning of his lyfe. But vttered alwayes a stoute stubbernes, procedinge not of pryde, but of a hautye courage. Yea, and the very last daye of his lyfe, he reasoned much of this selfe same question: and a fewe dayes afore, when he might easely haue bene conueyed oute of pryson, he would not: and finallye at the time of his deathe, holdinge in hys hand the cuppe that should poysō him, spake in such sort, that he seemed not to be compelled to dye, but wyth a feruēt, desyre to clyme vp to heauen. For thus he thought, and so he taught, that ther were .ii. wayes and courses of our soules, when they departe oute of oure bodyes. For such as had defyled them selues with sinne, and had geuen theym selues ouer to lust, and pleasure wherwyth they beinge blynded, had stayned the nobilitye of theyr soules, wyth walowynge in vyce, or otherwyse fraudulently gouerninge the commen welth, such he thought wente by a path seperated [Page] from the counsell of the gods, but suche, as had kepte thē selues pure and holye, and were leaste defyled with the fylth of they [...] bodyes, but had alwayes called them selues frō the filthy lustes of the same, and whyles they lyued in theyr bodyes, [...]ad [...]mitated the lyfe of the gods, such he thought had, an easye retourne to the place, frō whence they first came. And for that cause he saieth, that a [...] the swannes (which not w [...]thout cause are dedicated to Apollo, but because they seeme to haue of him the gift of naturall prophecye) foreseeynge what pleasure is in deathe, do dye singinge with greate delyght: so ought al good and learned men to do. Neyther truly could any man doubte hereof, but that as ofte as we muse muche of the nature of our foule, we are in such case as they are wonte to be, who when they haue a long space beheld the sonne are made in maner blynde with the bryghtnes thereof. And so likewyse the eyes of our minde beholdyng it selfe, do often ware dimme: and by that meanes we lose the diligence of contemplation of the same. So the indgemente of [Page] our opinions, doubtynge, wauerynge, staggering, & pōdering many doubtes, is driuen as a waueryng shyppe in the mayne sea. But these exāples are coū ted state, & come frō the Grecians. But Cato our countreymā, so departed out of thys life, as one that was glad, that he had gotten iust occasion to dye. For that god that ruleth wythin vs, forbiddeth vs to departe hence withoute his leaue. But when soeuer he shall gyue vs a iust cause (as he did to Socrates, now of late to Cato, & often heretofore to manye other) then truly, euery wise man wil gladly depart frō this darkenes into that light. Neither yet oughte he to breake ye bandes of his prison (for that the lawes of god do forbid) but to depart frō thence when he is deliuered & called by God, as an officer or other lawfull power. For all the life of wise men (as he in like wise sayeth) is ye practise of death. For what other thing do we, whē we cal our mind frō pleasure, that is the body, frō the cares of welth & richesse, which is the minister & hand maid of ye body, to cōclude whē we separate our selues frō all s [...]irre in y• cōmen [Page] wealth, and from all other businesse, what do we then (I saye) but call oure soule to it selfe: compellinge it to retourne to it selfe, and to wythdrawe it selfe, as muche as may be, frō the coniunction of the bodye: and to separate the soule from the body, is nothing els then to dye. Wherfore let vs practyse thys, to seuer oure selues from our bodyes, that is as much to saye, let vs accustome oure selues to dye. For that, both whyles we lyue here in the earth, shal be lyke to that heauenlye lyfe, and also, when we beinge loosed from the bandes of our bodye, shal wend towardes the heauēs, so much the lesse flowe shall we fynde our course thyther wardes. For they whych haue alwayes liued in the fetters and gyues of theyr body, yea when they are loosed go some what more slowelye: as those whyche many yeares haue bene laden wyth yrons. For truly this lyfe is but deathe: whyche I could lament more at large, if I lysted.
You haue done that sufficiently in your boooke whyche you entituled of comforte. Which when I [Page] reade, I desyre nothynge more then to leaue this body. But now whiles I heare this, muche more.
Youre tyme wyll come, and that shortly, whether you drawe backe from it, or hastē towardes it (for swyfte wynged tyme flyes a pace) but so much it lackes, that deathe is an euyll (as you whylome thought) that I feare me there is scarse any other thyng, to be accompted good that may happen to man. Since it shall eyther make vs gods our selues, or els place vs wyth the gods.
Yet neuerthelesse, there be some that think not so.
But or euer I haue finished my talke, I wyll proue vnto you, that there is no reasō, why death ought to seeme an euell thinge.
Howe can it seeme an euell thinge vnto me, nowe I knowe thus much?
How can it aske you? there are great companyes of Philosophers agaynst this opinion: and those trulye not onlye Epycures (whom neuerthelesse I do not despyse, but I knowe not howe, eche learned man sets at nought) But also mine owne dearlig Dicearchus, hath sharplye [Page] writen agaynst this immortality of our soules. For he wrote three bookes, which are called the bookes of Les [...]os, because the same disputacion was kept at Mitylena, in the which he assayes to proue, that our soules are mortall. And the Sto [...]kes do but lende vs the vsing of the lyfe of our soules for a space, to make vs as longe liued as dawes. For they saye that our soules shall abyde a great space, but not [...]. Wil you therfore heare me proue, that if it be so, yet death is not to be counted an euell.
That do as you thinke good, but no man shall remoue me from my opinion, as concerning the immortalitye of our soules.
I cōmend you therfore, howebeit, I woulde not haue you to be to rashe in allowyng opinions.
For we are lightly moued, with a wittie reason, and stagger & chaunge oure opinion, yea thoughe the matters be somewhat play [...]e. Yet neuertheles, in these there is some darkenes. But if any such thing should happen, we ought to be armed with witty conclusyons.
Wel spoken: but I doubt not but [Page] I wyll foresee, that no such thing shall chaunce.
Is there any cause then, why we should not ouerpasse our frendes the Stoikes? them I meane, which saie that oure soules abide for a while after that they are departed out of our bodyes, but not euer. Who, inasmuch as they do graunt that, whiche semeth to be hardest in all this matter, namelye, that the soule may abyde beyng frō the body, [...]ruayle muche, that they will deny that, which is not onely easy to be beli [...]ued, but also that being [...]raū ted which they do gra [...]nt, do [...] [...] in maner of necessity: namely that whē they haue abiden a great whyle, they can not dye.
You reprehend them worthelye: for it is euen so as you say.
Should we then beleue Panetius, who in this poynte dysseu [...]eth from his mayster Plato? For him, whom in al other pointes he calleth diuine, most wyse, moste holye, to conclude, the Homere of all philosophers, his this onlye opinion of the immortalitye of the soules, he doth not allowe.
[Page] For he sayeth (that which no man denyeth) that whatsoeuer hath hadde beginning, shall a [...] haue endynge. And that our soules had beginninge, which he declares by they [...] that are daylye borne, [...] whom there doth appeare, as well grenenes o [...] [...]yt, as of yeares. He bryngeth also this other reason: that whatsoeuer maye feele gryefe, may be sicke: and [...]at soeuer may be sick shal dy [...]iour sou [...]s (quod [...]e) do feele griefe wherfore they shal also die. These thinges may lightly be refu [...]ed. For hereby it semeth, that he was ignoraunt, that when we talke of the eternitye of the soule, we do therin compryse the minde whiche is alwayes voyde of anye troublous motion, or affection, and do not talke of those partes, in the whych, sorow, anger, and lustes are. Which, he against whom I nowe reason, thinkes to be sundred and seuered frō the mind. For the likelynes of nature, doth more appeare in beastes, which haue no reason: but the outwarde gesse of the soule of man, doth much consyst in the shape of his bodye. For it is much materiall, [Page] in what sortes of bodyes the soules be placed. For there be manye thinges in the bodye, that quycken the minde, and manye thinges whiche dulle the same. Aristotle sayes, that all wittye men be of melancholie complexion, by the whiche reason it greueth me not at al to acknoweledge my selfe to be blunt witted. He reckens vp manie thinges to proue ye same: & (as if it were certaine) shewes the reason of it. Then, yf there be a great force of those thynges that are in the bodye, as concerning the disposition of the mynde, there is no necessitye, why the workes of the soule should be alyke in euerye bodye. But I let this passe. I woulde to god Panetius might be here present. He lyued in the time of Africanus. I woulde fayne knowe of him, to whome of his kinsemen Africanus brothers cosen was like: who beinge fauoured muche like his father, yet in his lyfe did so muche refemble euery vnthryfte, that he was commonlye counted the worste that myghte be. Also to whom was the nephewe of Publius Crasius (a righte [Page] wyse and eloquente man) like? and so likewyse of dyuers other notable mens children, and other theyr kynsefolkes, whych I nede not here to remember.
But wherof do I nowe intreate? haue I forgotten, that this is my purpose, after I had spoken sufficiently of the eternity of our soules, to shew also, that yf they did dye, there could be no euel in death.
I remembred it well ynoughe: but whyles you talked of the eternitye of the soule, I suffered you wyth a good wyll to staye in the same.
I perceyue that your minde is on hygh thinges, and that you wyll euen clyme into heauen.
I hope so. But admit (as these men will haue it) that oure soules remayne not after deathe, then I perceyue, that we haue loste the hope of immortall life in heauen.
What harme (I praye you) doth that opynion brynge? admyt that our soule shall dye as our body? is there then anye gryefe, or anye sence at all, in our bodye? no man sayeth so: albeit Epicurus layeth it to Democritus [Page] charge. But his scolers denye it. Then if there be no feelynge in the bodye after deathe, neyther doth there remaine anye sense in the soule. For it is in no place. Where then is the euell? But perchaunce they will saye, that the departynge of the bodye from the soule, is not wythoute griefe. Admyt that there be some, howe litle is it? howebeit I thynke there is none at all.
For it happens commonlye wythoute anye sence, yea, and some times wyth pleasure, yea and it is but lyghte, what so euer it be. For it is done in a mynute of tyme. But this it is that gryeueth vs, or rather vexeth vs, the departynge from all those thinges, whyche we counte commodityes in oure lyfe. But I feare me that they may be more trulye called euels. What shoulde I here bewaile the lyfe of man? although I well maye, and that vppon iusts and good occasyon.
But what neede I, inasmuche as I do intreate, whether after deathe we [Page] shall be wretches, to make our lyfe in bewaylynge to seeme more miserable? we haue done that sufficientlye, in that booke, in the whiche (as muche as we might) we haue comforted oure selues. Deathe therfore, deliuereth vs from euels, and not frō goodes, if we speake the truthe. And that truly, is so largely reasoned of Egesyas the Cyreman, that he was forbidden of the king Ptolomeus to teache the same in scooles: for that many after his doctrine, dydde wyllingly kyll thē selues. There is an Epigramme of Callimachus, vppon Cleombrotus the Ambrocian: whome he sayes, after that he had perused Platos booke of the immortalitye of the soules, foorth wyth wythout any other apparent cause, caste him selfe headelonges downe from a wall. But the matter of the booke of Egesias (of whō I spake euen now) is such. He faineth that a certayne poore man, departed out of this life, for want of necessarye su [...]tenaunce, is reuoked agayne to life, by his frendes: whom he aunsweryng, reciteth all the discommodityes of mās [Page] I coulde do so in likewyse: howe beit I would not do it in such sorte as he dyd: who counteth it good for no man to liue in this worlde. I knowe not what it were for other: but I am sure that death had bene beste for me. Who beinge nowe depryued of all comfort and worshyp, both at home and abroade, if I had afore time bene extinct by death: I had assuredlye thereby bene delyuered from much care, whyche since hath chaunced me, and not from any ioye or pleasure. Admit therfore, that there be some one man who hath no aduersyty, who hath in no part felt ye cruell stroke of fortune. As the honorable Metellus with his foure sonnes, and Priamus wyth fyftye, of the whiche .xvii. were borne of his lawefull wyfe, in bothe of them fortune had the like stroke. But to the one she shewed her selfe more fauourable. For Metellus, many sonnes and doughters, neuewes and neeces, accompanyed to his graue. But Priamus, being afore despoiled of so great a stocke, seinge his children bathed in theyr owne bloud, and last of al he him [Page] selfe flyenge to the aul [...]are for refuge, his enemyes hand dyd slaye. If deathe had taken hym whyle his kyngedome stoode.
How thinke you, had he departed from the pleasure whych myghte afterwardes beside him, or els from the aduersytye whych afterwardes befell hym? at that tyme you would haue iudged it had bene from pleasure. But assuredlye it had bene farre better for him, yf death had thē taken him. For then we should neuer haue hearde this wofull lamentynge.
Neyther those thynges, nor any of lyke sorte coulde haue chaunced vnto hym, yf he had died before. For nowe at this [Page] present, he is past the feelynge of al miseryes. It chaunced somewhat better to my frend Pompeius, when he came gryeuously syc [...]e to Naples. For the men of Naples had garlandes on their heades, and the Citesyns of Puteolos dyd all welcome hym home.
A [...]olyshe toye of the Grecians, but yet it, [...]ye as it happened. But if he had dyed at that presente, had he departed from prosperitye, (thinke you) or from aduersitye? from aduersity vndoubtedlye. For then he had not waged warre with his sonne in law, he had not bene fayne to flye to armes beynge vnprouided, he had not left his house nor fled Italye, and finallye his armye beynge lost, he had not needed as a naked man to fall into the handes of his seruauntes: his poore children, al his substance and wealth, had neuer bene enioyed of the handes of his ennemyes. So he, whych if he had dyed before, had departed in maruaylous prosperytye, by the lytle lengthenynge of hys lyfe, into what myserye [...]ell he?
[Page] Loe, all suche miseryes are preuented by death, although they do not caunce yet because they maye chaunce.
But men thinke that no suche thynge can happen vnto theym, euerye man hopes for the good lucke of Metellus: as though either ther ought to be more lucky men then vnlucky, or there were any certaynty in the lyfe of man, or els it were the part of a wyse man, rather to hope, then feare. But let vs graunt, that men lose manye commodityes by deathe. Then will they saye that suche as be deade, do lacke the commodityes of this life, and therfore are miserable. For so they must nedes reason. But I pray you, can he which is not, lacke anye thing? this worde lackynge is a sorowefull terme. For there is included in it, that he once had it, and nowe he hath it not, but wants it, lackes it, and misses it. I thinke, that is the discommoditye of him that wants any thing. As blindenes is the discommoditye of him whiche lacketh his eyes: & barennes of her, whych lacketh chyldren.
But there is none of theym that is departed, [Page] that lackes not onely not the c [...] modities of this life, no not so much as this lyfe it selfe. I speake of suche as are dead, whiche nowe we suppose not to be at all. But we whiche liue here, yf we lacke bornes or wynges, is there any of vs which would misse them: [...]rulye no man. why so? Because although we haue not such thinges, the whyche are neyther necessarye for our vse, neyther yet meete for vs of nature, yet we do not lacke theym although we haue them not. This reason ought to be vrged, that being first grau [...]ed, whiche they muste n [...]des confesse, if they saye that our soules be morrall, that is, that there is such destruction in deathe [...]that there can not be, so muche as any ly [...]le suspicion, of anye sence after death.
That therfore beynge stablyshed & fixed, this must be discussed: what it is to lacke: that there maye be no doubte in the worde. To lacke therfore, signyfyeth the want of that, which you would haue. For there is a wyshinge for those thynges whych we lacke: vnlesse it be as we take this worde in an other significatiō? [Page] For we say we lacke a thing, in an other sense also. As whē we haue not a thing, and we perceyue the lacke of it, howebeit we may well abide the want therof. But none of these wayes can we terme anie lacke in death. For we can not be sory for anye thinge that we lack. That is sayde, to lack a good thinge, whych is of it selfe euell. But a man beyng aliue doth not lacke a good thinge, vnlesse he feele the misse of it. But of a liue mā, one may say, to lacke a kingdome. Howbeit not so properly, of such a one, as you who neuer was kynge. But well of Tarquinius, who was banished oute of his realme. But in a dead man we can conceyue no such thinge. For to lacke is properly sayd of him whych feeles the lacke. But there is no feeling in a dead man. No more therfore is there any lacke in him. But what nede we in this point to play the philosophers, since we see yt as touchīg this we nede it not. How oftē, haue not onelye our captaynes, but also hole armies runne to sure & vndoubted death? Which if it were a thing to be feared, [Page] Lucius Brutus, to thentēt to kepe out the tyrant, whō he had afore banished out of his realme, would not willingly haue sho [...]ved him selfe vpon his enemies pike. Lucius Decius the father, fightinge with the Latines, his sonne with the Tuscans, his nephewe wyth Pirrhus, would neuer so willi [...]gly haue put thē selues in manifeste daunger, of death: Spayne should not thē haue sene the .ii. Scipiōs s [...]aine, both in one battayle, whē they stoutely stoode in defēce of their countrey: nor ye towne of Cannas Paulus Aemilius, Ue [...]sia Marcellus, ye Latines Albinus, nor the Lucanes Gracchus. Is there any of these, counted at this day miserable? No trulye not after theyr happye lyfe. For no man can be a wretche, his sence beyng once paste.
But it is a hatefull thynge, to be wythout sence.
A hatefull thing in dede, if we did feele ye lacke of it. But inasmuche as it is euident, that nothynge can be in it, which is not, what can there be hateful in it, which neither doth lacke, neither feele anye thynge? Howbeit we haue talked [Page] of this to ofte. But I do it because that herein consisteth all the feare, that we conceyue of deathe. For when we see, that our soules and bodies being spent and all oure partes beynge brought to fynall destruction, that whyche was a lyuynge creature, is nowe become nothinge: we muste nedes perceiue also, that betwyxt a thyng that neuer was, and kyng Agamemnon, there is no difference. And in like sorte, that Camillus dead long since, doth now no more force for the ciuill warre, which is kept at this present, then I toke thought for the takyng of Rome, at suche tyme as he lyued. Why should Camillus then be sorye, if he had knowen in his lyfe time, that .350. yeares after him, suche thynges should happē? or I, yf I should imagine, that ten thousād yeres hence, some straunge nation should race oure city. Yet such is the loue, that we owe to our countrey, that we take thought for it, for the good wil we beare it, and not for any harme, that we beynge buryed, may haue by the destruction of it. Wherefore, deathe can not so feare a [Page] man (which because of thincertainty of our lyfe, doth continuallye hange ouer our heades, & also because of the shortnes of oure age can neuer be farre of) but that he ought continuallye to haue more respect to the commen welth, thē to his life. And that he oughte also to thinke, that those which shall come after him, whose commodities or discommodities he shall neuer feele, do in like wise pertayne vnto him. therfore, euen those that iudge our soule to be mortal, may attempte thinges, whose remembraunce shall long endure, not for anye desyre of glory, whyche they shal neuer feele, but for the good wyll they bare to vertue, whom glory of necessitie dothe folowe, albeit you looke not for it. But the nature of al things is such, y• as our byrth, is the originall cause and beginnynge of all those thynges whyche we haue, so in likewyse oure deathe is the ende of the same: the payne of which, as it did nothinge pertayne vnto vs, afore our lyfe, so neyther shal it after our death. Wherfore, what euel can there be in death? whych pertayneth neyther [Page] to such as liue, neyther yet to those that are deade. For suche as are deade are not at all, and suche as are alyue it can not come to. Wherefore they which wil speake truly of the nature of death, do terme it a sleepe: as thoughe a man shoulde passe the course of his lyfe, for the space of .90. yeares, and then, sleepe oute the reste. I thynke assuredlye, that a swyne woulde not cou [...]yte to sleepe so longe. But Endim [...] on (if we gyue anye credyte to tales) a great whyle synce, slepte in Latmos, whyche is a hyll of Caria. He is not as yet awaked, as I thynke. Thynke you that he careth what paynes the Moone taketh? of whome the tale goeth, that he was there brought a slepe, to the intente, that she myghte kysse hym as he slepte. What care should he take that feeles not? So here you haue s [...]epe the ymage of our deathe, whyche you do daylye put vppon you: and do you doubte whether there be anye feelynge in death, since in the ymage and pycture of the same, there is none at [Page] al? Leaue of then this olde wyues tale, that it is a wretched thynge to dye afore thy tyme. What tyme I beseche you? the tyme that nature hathe appoyneted? But she hathe lente vs oure lyfe to vsurye as it were, appoyntynge no certayne daye when we shall repaye the same. What cause haste thou then to complayne, yf she requyre it of thee when she lyffe? For thou hadst it vnder such condicion. The same men, thinke it a heauye case for one to dye beynge but a boye, but yf he dye beynge an enfante, in his cradell, they thynke that then he hath no cause of complaynte.
Yet neuerthelesse, of hym dyd nature more sooner requyre that whyche she had lent. O whyles he was a boye (say they) he had not smatched the swetenes of lyfe. But he was in lykelyhoode to attayne to greate worshippe, whyche euen at the time of his deathe he beganne to come to. But I meruayle muche synce that in all other thynges it is counted better to attayne to [Page] to some what then nothyng at all, why then it should be otherwyse in our lyfe. Howebeit Callimachus said very wel, that Priamus had wept farre oftener then euer did Troylus. But now, they prayse muche theyr chaunce, which dye in theyr age: and why so? Because (as I thinke) if they might liue lōger, their life could be no pleasanter, then it hath bene. But assuredlye, there is nothing that a man may take more pleasure of, then of wysedome, the whych (if we graunt that it taketh away other commodityes) Yet that assuredlye olde age dothe brynge. But what is this longe age? or what is the lōg time of a man? Do we not see, that age hath ouertakē them, which were euen now but boyes & stripelinges, when they least thought of it? But yet beause we can lyue no lō ger, we call it longe. And so euery thinges lyfe, according to the ende that nature hathe appoynted it, maye well be termed eyther longe or shorte. For about the riuer Hypanis, which rūneth through a part of Europa, into the sea Pontus. Arystotle sayeth, that there [Page] are bredde certaine beastes, which liue but one day. Of them then, she that liueth .viii. houres is counted aged. But she that liueth till the sonne set, is as one euen spent wyth age: and so muche more if it be the longest day in the yere Compare our age wyth immortalyry, and we shall be found to liue in maner as shorte a space, as those foolishe beastes. Let vs then set asyde all this trifelinge (for howe maye. I better terme it) and let vs frame our selues to a perfect lyfe, despysyng all vanitie, and trading our selues in vertue. For nowe we are euen puffed vp wyth wanton thoughtes, so that if deathe ouertake vs afore such time as we haue obtayned the promisses of the sothsayers, we seeme ther by to haue bene mocked, and defrauded of many notable commodityes. And, if at the time of our death, we hang in desires and wishes (lord how we are vexed and tormented, whereas that iourney (o god) howe pleasaunt ought it to be vnto vs? whyche beinge once paste, there shall be no care nor trouble lefte? O howe muche Theramenes doth delyghte [Page] me? what a stoute courage seemeth he to haue? For albeit I weepe, as ofte as I reade the storye of him, yet neuerthelesse, it reioyceth me to see, howe stoutelye he dyed lyke a noble man. Who lyenge in the pryson, after he hadde there dronke vp the poyson (whych the thyrtye tyrannes had sente hym) wyth suche an earnest desyre, as if he had thyrsted after it, he caste that was lefte wyth suche a force out of the cuppe, that it sounded on the floore [...] whyche sounde he hearynge, smyled and sayde. I begynne thys to Critias, who was one of hys deadlyest enemyes. For the Grecians in their bankets were wont, to drinke to some mā, namelye to him that should pledge thē. So it pleased that noble man to ieste at the time of his death, when he had that within him whych should be his bane. And he trulye prophecied death to hym yt sent him the poison, which shortly after ensued. Who would commēd suche securitye in death, if he thoughte death to be an euell thing? Into the same pryson, and the same kynd of death, came [Page] a fewe yeares after Socrates, condemned so vniustlye of his iudges, as Theramenes of the tyrauntes.
Let vs heare the, what maner of wordes Plato sayes he spake to the iudges, when he was condemned to death. I am in good hope (my lordes) quod he, that I am happye, for that I am thus put to deathe. For one of these two muste needes folowe, that eyther thys death wyll take awaye all sence from me, or els, if my soule do continue, it shall depart into an other place of rest. Wherefore, yf my sense shall be ertyncte, and my death resemble sleepe, whyche often wythout anye trouble of dreames, doth brynge a man most quiete reste, (O Lorde) what pleasure shal deathe be to me? or what daye should I preferre afore such a nyght? the whych wythout varyaunce or chaunge, shall kepe a continuall estate and staye for euer. And so, who shuld be more happy then I? But if those thynges be true whiche are wryten, namely that death is a departure into those regiōs, which [Page] all they inhabite, that are departed out of this life, then do I accoumpte my chaūce farre better, for that, after that I haue escaped the handes of you, whiche syt here in place and name of iudges, I shall then come to them whiche are the true iudges, Minos, Rhadamā thus, Aecus, and Triptolemus, & shall there haue the companye and communication of them whych haue liued vpryghtly in the faythe and feare of god. This oughte to seeme a sweete pilgrymage. But to talke wyth those worthy men, Orpheus, Museus, Homere, Hesiodus, or suche other learned sages, lord howe much I do esteeme. Assuredlye, if it mighte be, I would often dye, inespecially, if I thought I should find those thinges which I nowe speake of. What pleasure shall it be to me, when I shall commen wyth Palamedes, or Aiar, which were of vnrightuous iudges wrongfully put to death? I should there see the wyt of the chyefe prynce, which led the power of Grece to Troy walles, and in lykewyse the wysedome of Ulisses, and Sisyph [...]s, neyther yet [Page] should I for the searche of such thinges as I here am, so there also wrongfully be put to death. And ye O iust iudges, whyche haue heretofore quitted me, feare ye not deathe. For no harme can happen to a good man, neyther in thys lyfe nor after. For the gods aboue, wil not ceasse alwaies to haue him and his in theyr protection. For this selfe same death, comes not to me by chaunce, but by the iust iudgement and appoyntmēt of god. And for that cause I am not angrye wyth my accusers, but onelye for that they thoughte, that thereby they dyd hurte me, whereas I do esteme nothinge more then it. But nowe it is tyme (quod he) that I departe hence to dye, and you to liue. Of the whych two which is the better, the immortal gods knowe, & no mortall man as I thinke. Now truly, I had farre rather to haue so stoute a stomake, and well disposed minde, then all theyr worship & welth, that gaue sentence of his life & death.
Albeit, that whyche he sayeth, that no man but onely the gods knowe, yet he him selfe doth knowe, that is to wit, [Page] which is better of lyfe or death. For he had vttered it in his former wordes.
But he kepeth his olde wonte euen to the death: whyche was, to affyrme no certayntye of any thinge. But let vs stand stiffely herein, that nothinge can be euell whyche nature hath prouided for all men: and therwithall consider, that if death be an euell, it is a contynuall and euerlasting euell. For it seemeth, that deathe is the ende of euerye wretched and carefull lyfe. Nowe if death it selfe be myserable, what ende can there be of miserye? But what do I here rehearce Socrates, and Theramenes, men of notable constantye and wysedome? synce a certayne Lacedemonian, a man of no reporte or fame, dyd so muche despyse death, that when he beynge condemned, and ledde to his death, dyd smyle and laughe. And one of his accusers, seeinge it, sayde vnto him: doest then mocke and despyse the lawes of Lycurgus? No (quod he) but I geue him ryght hartye thankes, that he appoincted me such a fine, as I may paye wythout anye chaunge or lone of [Page] money. A man assuredlye worthye, of the name of the ryghte famous countreye of Sparta. whose stoute courage doth well declare (as me seemeth) that he was vnryghtfullye put to death.
Suche men had our ci [...]ye more then anye man maye noumber. But what should I here recken vp our captaynes or nobles of our citie, that haue so done since Cato wrytes, that whole armies of men, haue merelye gone into those places, from whence they thought they should neuer retourne. So were the Lacedemonians, slayne at Thermopilas, amonges the whyche on Symonydes tombe these Uerses were wrytten.
¶What sayeth the stoute Capitayne Leonidas? go to: be you of [...]oute courage o [...]ye lacedemonians (quod he) for thys nyghte perhaps we shall sup with God. This was a stout nation as long [Page] as they had Licurgus lawes in reputaciō? For on a time, whē a Persyan, one of theyr enemies, boastyng of his emp [...] rours power, sayd to one of them, that the company of theyr dartes & arowes shoulde darcken the sonne, so that they should not see it, why then quod the other, we shall fyghte in the shade.
I haue hytherto talked of men. But what thinke you of a woman of Lacedemon? Who when she vnderstoode that her sonne was slayne in the field, I bore him (quod she) to that ende, that he should be suche a one, as shoulde not styeke to die, in the defence of his countrey. God continue you in suche stoutenes, O ye Lacedemonians: see of what force good lawes are, in the orderynge of a commen wealth. Is not Theodorus the Cireman, a notable Philosopher, worthy to be wondred at (think you?) whom whē Lisimachus the king threatened, that he would hange hym, you myght haue spoken that (quod he) to haue feared your nyce courtyers.
But as for Theodorus, he lytle passeth whether he rotte aboue ground or vnder. [Page] By whose sayenge, I am put in minde, to speake somewhat at this present of buryal. Which shal be nothing hard, presupposyng those thinges to be true, whiche we haue afore spoken of not feelinge. And of this, what Socrates thought, it appeareth in that booke in the whiche his death is described: of the whyche we haue made mention afore. For after that he had reasoned of the immortality of the soule, and now his death drewe on, beyng demaunded of Crito, howe he would be buryed, he lookyng towardes them that stoode about him, spake these wordes. My frē des (quod he) I haue spent much labour in vayne. For I haue not perswaded my frende Crito, that I shall departe hence, and leaue nothing behinde me, that is mine owne. But trulye Crito, yf euer thou canst come by me, or euer get me, burye me as thou lyste. But I knowe righte well, that when I am hence departed, none of you all wil solowe me. Wyselye spoken. For he dyd both permit his friende, to satisfye his minde, and yet neuerthelesse shewed, [Page] that he litle past of any such thing. Diogenes more rechelessely, yet wittely inoughe, but with small ciuilitye, as a doggyshe philosopher, wylled them to cast his bodye abrode, wythout buryal. And when his frendes asked him, whether he would then haue his bodye deuoured of byrdes and beastes?. No not so sayeth he. For I pray you set a staffe nye to me, that I maye dryue theym awaye. And when they asked him howe he could do so, inasmuche as he shoulde haue no sence after death? What hurte shall I haue then (quod he) of the bytynge of beastes, and peckynge of byrdes, when I feele it not? But Anaxagoras spake wisely, who when he was lykelye to dye at Lampsacus, and his frendes demaunded of him, whether if he should chaūce to die there: he would be caryed to Clazomena, to his owne countrey, it nedeth not (quod he) for frō euery place, there is like distāce of way to heauen and hell. Wherfore as concernyng buryall, we must knowe this, that it perteyneth to the bodye onlye, whether the soule dye or lyue. And in [Page] the bodye it is playne, that after the soule is once departed, there remaineth no sense. But see howe full the worlde is of errour. It is wrytten, that Achilles drewe Hectors deade bodye at a cartes tayle. I thinke he thoughte that he felte the gratynge of his limmes. And therfore he bragges of it, as if ther by he were reuenged. But Hectors mother lamenteth it as a most cruell facte with these wordes.
¶What Hector I praye you? or who was then Hector? it was better sayde of Actius vnder the person of Achylles.
¶Thou drewest not then Hector, but the bodye that once was Hectors.
[Page] But nowe here startes vp one oute of the ground, whych will not suffer his mother to slepe in rest.
¶Such pitifull verses as these, when they are lamentablye rehearced in the Theater, and mone all the company to sadnes: is it not an easie thyng, for thē that are presente, to iudge theym to be wretched whych are so vnburyed? they be afrayd to haue theyr limmes torne, and yet they feare not to haue theym burnt. And therfore one lamentes Priamus in this wyse.
¶I see not, what occasion he hath to be sorye for any such thing. This therfore we must firmely maintayne, that nothinge is to be cared for after death. Although some vayne men do rage agaynst theyr enemyes beynge dead.
[Page] And in such sorte Enni [...]s bryngeth in Thyestes, cursynge his brother Atreus: fyrst desyring that he might perishe by shipwracke. That was hard surely. For suche death can not be wythoute gret payne. But that, that foloweth is to to vayne.
And such other like. Assuredlye the stones them selues could be no more voyd of sense, then his dead body hangynge vpon them, to whom he wysheth thys torment. Which although it were crueli if he coulde feele it, yet nowe is t [...] none effecte, because he can haue no sence thereof. In lyke maner vayne is that whych [...] foloweth.
Do you see in what errour this felowe is. He thinketh that the graue is the harber and reste of the bodye. Trulye there was a greate faulte in Pelops, that he taughte his sonne no better, howe muche he ought to esteeme buryall. But what should I here recken vp the opinions of euerye seuerall man, synce we may see the manifest errours of manye nations, as concernynge buryall. The Egiptians spyce the deade bodyes, and keepe theym in theyr houses. The Persians sere theyr bodyes in waxe, and then spyce theym, that they may abyde as longe as may be. There is a custome amonges the wyse men of Chaldee, not to engraue the dead bodies, afore suche time, as they be torne of beastes. In Hircania, they keepe commen dogges, such as be noble mē, houndes, and the commen people rascall curres, euerye man accordinge to his abilitie, that eate them when they be deade, and that do they counte the best buryall. Chrisippus, hath wryten manye sundry fashyons as concerning [Page] the same matter: as he is a man verye diligent, in the readynge of historyes. But some of theym be so cruell, and so muche agaynste nature, that my pen abhorres to endite theym. Wherfore as concerning buryall, we oughte not much to force it: neyther yet oure frendes to neglecte it: so that alwayes we keepe this opinion, that the bodyes of the deade, care for nothing. But what men oughte to doe, for customes and good names sake, that our frēdes that ouerlyue vs muste see to: so that they knowe, that it nothinge pertayneth to suche as are deade. But then trulye, death is most welcome vnto vs, when our lyfe beyng well nye at the wane, can comforte it selfe wyth his owne prayses. For no man hathe lyued to small a whyle, which whiles he lyued, dyd lyue vertuouslye. I my selfe haue manye iuste occasyons of death, which I woulde to god, I myghte haue pu [...] in execution. For there is nothynge that I dyd desyre more. For I wanted nothyng. I had plenty of worship, [Page] so that euer after, I did looke for warre and battaile wyth fortune. Wherfore, if reason will not moue vs, to despyse death, yet let our lyfe forepassed do it: when we thinke we haue deserued sufficient prayse and glory. For although oure sense be paste, when we are once deade, yet neuerthelesse we do not wāt the due reward of glorye and fame, for those thinges, whych we haue done in oure lyues. For although glorye of it selfe hath no cause, why it should be desyred, yet neuerthelesse, it alwayes foloweth vertue, as the shade of the same But as for the wronge iudgemente of the commen people, as I count it a cō mēdable thing to haue theyr good wil, so I thinke, no man can be the happyer for attayninge the same. Yet can I not thinke, that Licurgus or Solon shall at any time want the gloryous report that they deserued, for makyng ci [...]ile lawes: or that the memorye of the warlike prowes of Themistocles, and Epaminundas shal at any time be forgotten. For, the sea shal soner ouerwhelme y• Ile it selfe of Salamine, thē [Page] it shall drenche the remembraunce, of the Salamine triumphe. And ye towne of Leuctra in Boeotia, shal soner be rased, then the remembraūce of the fielde there foughte, forgotten. So neyther time can duske the prayse of Curius, Fabritius, Calatinus, the two Scipions, the two Affricanes, Maximus, Marcellus, Paulus, Cato, Lelius, and diuerse other: whose due prayse, who so euer measureth, not by y• vaine iudgement of the commen sorte, but by the sure meaterodde of wysedome, he vndoubtedlye would, (if necessity so dryue him) with a stoute stomake go vnto the death: in the whiche there is eyther the chiefest ioye that may be, or at the least wyse no euell. Yea and such a man wil gladly dye in his chiefe prosperity. For vnto a wyse mā a huge heape of goods can not be so pleasaunte, as the departure from the same shalbe ioyfull. To this entent may we apply the sayenge of a certayne wyse man of Lacedemon who, (when one Diagoras, a noble man of the citye of Rhodes) had bothe bene him selfe conquerour at the game [Page] pus, and also the selfe same daye hadde seene both his sonnes conquerours at the same) came to the old man, & sayde. Dye nowe O Diagoras: for thou shalt not be taken vp quycke into heauen.
It was counted a great thyng in those dayes, among the Grecians, to see thre men of one house winne the games in the mount Olimpus: & for yt cause, he willed him hauing gottē such prosperity, to abide no lōger in his life, subiect to ye casualtie of fortune. But now I thinke, I haue sufficiētly aunswered you, with these fewe wordes, since y• it is playne, y• suche as are dead are in no miserye. But I haue taried somewhat the more, in talkinge of it, because that that is one of the greatest cōfortes in al our lamētaciōs & mourninges. For we oughte not to muche to require other mens sorow as concerning our selues, least we may seme to fauour our selues more then it becometh vs. And yt suspicion vexeth vs most, when we thinke y• our frendes, whō we haue loste, are in such misery as the cōmon people think & that not without payne. This folishe opinion I minde vtterly to roote out, & [Page] therfore perhaps was somewhat longer, thē otherwise I wold.
what? do you cōplayne of being to long? I assure you it semed not so to me. For the first part of your talke made me not vn willinge to die. But the last made me euē to c [...]et death. So y• by al your reasoning, I am fully perswaded to count death no euel.
Do you thē loke for a conclusion after the maner of ye Rhetoriciās, or els shal we here breake of?
No not so. For I long to hear you in y• art, which you alwayes set forth, or rather (if we will say y• truth) it sets forth you. And therfore I praye you let vs heare ye conclusiō.
Diuers men are wont to alledge in the scooles, the iudgementes of the gods thē selues, as cōcerning death. And those not of their owne heades, but cōfirmed wt the aucthority of Herodotus, and other more. First they tell of Cleobs & Biton, the sonnes of Argia, the prieste. The historie is cōmen. whē she should haue bene caried in a wagon to a certaine solēpne sacrifice a good space from the towne, & the horses were tired, the .ii. yong mē [...]hich I named euen nowe, putting of [Page] theyr garmentes, annoynted theyr bodies with oyle, & came to the waggō, and drewe it. The pryest, when by this sort she beinge drawen of her sonnes, was come to the place of sacrafyce, prayed the goddesse, that in reward of theyr godly reuerence, she would gyue to her two sonnes the greatest reward y• god myght gyue to man. Her prayer beinge finished, the yonge men after they had dined, laye downe to sleepe, and in the morninge were found dead. The lyke is reported of Trophonius, and Agamedes. Who after they had buylte to Apollo a temple at Delphos, desyred of him as great a rewarde as any man might haue. To whō Apollo answered, y• they should haue theyr request, thre dayes thence. nowe as soone as the thyrd daye came, they saye, that they were both found deade. So they say, that god (yea and that god to whō all the rest of the gods yelde in prophecye) shewed hereby, that death was the best thing that any man might wyshe. There is also an historye of Silenus, who beinge taken prisoner of kynge [Page] Midas, payed this raūsome. He taught the kynge, that the best thing y• myght chaūce to a mā, was neuer to be borne: the nexte to dye as soone as might be. The which sentence Euripides hathe e [...]pressed in verses in his tragedye entituled Cresphon.
There is the like, in the booke of consolation, of Crantor. For he saieth that one Psichomantius, meting with one Elisius, who much lamēted the death of his childe, gaue him three such verses writen in a table.
[Page] With these and such like authorities, they cōfirme this cause to be adiudged by the immortall gods. Alcidamus an auncient oratour, a man of great fame wrote in commendacion of death: who lacked the weighty reasons of philosophie, but had plenty of wordes inough But the notable deathes, whiche men suffer for their countreye, seeme to the rhetoricians, not only glorious, but also blessed. They rehearse Erictheus, whose doughters suffered voluntarye death, to saue the life of theyr citesins. And Codrus, who willingly entred in the mids of his ennemies in the armor of a commen souldiour, to thintēt that he mighte not be knowen to be kynge. Because there was an oracle geuen, that if the king were flayne, thē should the Athenienses haue the victory. Neither do thei ouerpasse Menecheus, who hauing the like oracle giuen, bestowed his bloud for his countrey. Iphigenia also, was willinge to be slayne at Aulide, that by her bloud, her countreymē might more easely sheade the the bloud of theyr ennemies. Then they come [Page] nigher. They remember Harmodius, and Aristogiton, Leonidas also the Lacedemonian, & Epaminūdas the Theban. They knowe not our countreymen, whom it would aske great tyme to recken, there be so manye, to whom we knowe that glorious death was alwaye welcome. Which inasmuche as it is so, I must nedes wishe, that either men would hereafter desyre deathe, or at the least wise, ceasse to feare it. For if at the last daye of our lyfe, our soules dye not, but onely chaunge their place, what ought we more to wyshe? But if death do vtterlye destroye vs, what can be better, then in the rage of great stormes, swetely to slumber? and after that a man hath nodded oute of this lyfe, to sleepe euerlastingly. Which if it be so, then oughte we rather to allowe the wordes of Ennius, thē Solan, for Ennius sayde.
But the other.
But we, if so be it happen, that by the commaundemente of god we must depart out of this life, let vs do it merely thanking him for it. And let vs thinke, that thereby we are loosed from prison and eased of the irons, with the whych we were clogged, either to depart into perpetuall mansion house appoynted for vs, or els to be voyde of the sense of all griefe. And afore such time, that we shall be called of god, let vs thinke that day which is so terrible to other, to be a blessed and a happye daye to vs. Because it is appointed, either of the gods immortall, or els of nature, the firste framer and maker of all thynges. For we were not firste made by happe, or chaunce, but by a certayne heauenlye power, whych will prouide for vs, and not create anye of vs, to the ende, that when we had passed the miserye of this lyfe, we should fall into the euerlasting darkenes of death. But let vs rather thinke, that deathe is a safe hauen, and baye for vs, to the whyche I [Page] praye god we maye come, wyth spedye wynde and say [...]e. But althoughe for a while we may be kept of by a contrary tempeste, yet neuerthelesse, we must needes come to it at length. And can that, whyche must needes come to all men, be misery to any one? Thus you haue nowe my conclusion, so that you can not iustly complayne of any thing.
You say well, and truly this conclusion hath strengthned me more, thē I was before.
I am glad of it. But nowe let vs see somewhat to our owne ease. And this nexte daye, and so long, as we shall abide in thys my manor, we will talke of those thinges chiefely, whiche pertayne to the ease of griefe of the minde, feare and desire, which is the most profite of al philosophy.
THE SECOND BOOKE treating of the second question whyche Marke Tullye Cicero disputed in his manor of Tusculanum, concerninge payne and forment, howe farre it is the dutye of a wyse man to suffer the same.
NEoptolemus, in Ennius sayeth, y• he must of necessitye practise philosophy. But yet neuerthelesse, but in fewe thinges: for vniuersally it likes him not. And I truly (O Brutus) must nedes vse philosophy (for wherein may I better employe my time of leasure?) But I can not limite it to a fewe thinges onlye, as he doth. For it is very harde, that a man should be any thing skilfull in philosophy, wythout the knoweledge of moste thinges, or all. For a man cā not chose [Page] a fewe thinges, but out of a great nū ber: and it is not possible, that he which hath gotten a litle knoweledge, should not with earnest desire study, to knowe the rest. But neuerthelesse, in a busye lyfe, and (as Neoptolemus then was) much troubled with warre, both a litle is profitable, and turnes to muche vse: (But yet not suche as may be gathered of all Philosophye) and yet suche neuerthelesse, as we maye thereby be eased, of desire, care, and feare. As bi that disputacion, which we kept last in oure manor of Tusculanum, we seeme to haue wrought a great despyte of death whiche is of no litle force to ease oure mind of feare. For who soeuer feareth that, whyche by no meanes maye be auoyded, he surely, can not by any possibilitye, enioye the fruyctes of a quyete life. But who soeuer (not onely because he must needes dye, but also because there is nothing in death to be feared) doth not passe on death, he assuredlye, hath gotten him selfe a strong staye, for a quyet lyfe. Although I am not ignoraunt, that many will speake agaynste [Page] it: whose vayne reproche I could by no meanes anoyde, vnlesse I should write nothing at al. For if in myne oracions, in the whiche I somewhat esteeme the fauour of the people (for that rethoryke is an arte appliable to the cōmen voyce of the people, & the verye ende and perfection of eloquence, is the prayse and commendacion of the hearers.) If then I saye there were some, whiche would like nothinge in my oracions, in the wittes, they them selues were not likely to passet and would extend their commendacion in other mens workes no further, then they thought their owne whyche mighte well attayne the same: and for that cause when any other mā passed them in weyght of sentence and eloquence of wordes, woulde saye, that they lyked rather a thinne and base then so plentifull a stile (of the whyche sorte also they were, that were called Attici, who boasted the profession of that, whyche no man els knewe, who nowe are almost laughed out of al courtes). If then in the allowynge of mine orations the people were of seuerall [Page] mindes, what maner of hearer (thinke you) shall I in this grauer matter haue of the same? For philosophy sekes not the iudgement or prayse of manye, but of purpose flyes the preace of the commē people, of whom it is alwayes eyther feared, or hated. So that, if eyther any man lyst to disprayse it wholye, he may do it wyth the good will of the people, or els if he will chiefely dyscommend that, whych we nowe treate of, he maye haue sufficiente ayde out of the bookes of other philosophers. But we haue aunswered all the foes of philosophye, in oure booke entituled Hortensius, and whatsoeuer was to be spoken in the defence of Plato & his secte, called Academia, we haue expressed in our .iiii. bookes entitled Academikes.
But yet neuertheles, so much it lackes y• I would be angry or displeased, if any man should write against the same, y• I wishe it euen with all my hert. For philosophy in Greece it selfe, had neuer come to suche perfection, vnlesse there had bene suche contention, and diuersytye amonges the best learned men, [Page] as concerninge the same. Wherfore I desyre all suche as are able to do it, that they woulde helpe to take this prayse also from Greece, that is already faynted, and bring it into this our citye, as our auncesters haue already done by al the rest, that were worth any payne or trauayle. And truly, the prayse of Oratoures encreased from a lowe to suche perfectiō, that nowe (as natures course doth worke in all thinges) it beginneth to waxe aged, and within this shorte space is lykely to come to nought.
Wherfore, nowe let philosophy, begin to be spred in the latine tongue: and let vs helpe the encrease thereof, altho [...]gh that for the same we be reproued and refuted. Which trulye they can not abyde, which bynde them selues to a [...]ye certayne opinion, as men wholye gyuen to the same, so that sumtimes they are constrayned, to get theym opinion of constancie, to maynteyne such thynges, as otherwyse they woulde not allowe. But I who in al thinges folowe probabilitie, and can go no farther thē likelyhode, am readye both to wryte agaynst [Page] others without any stubbernes and also to be writen agaynst, without anye anger. If so we maye brynge this kinde of exercise, from the Grecians to our countreymen, we shall not wante the helpe of the Greke libraries, which are stuffed with an iufinite company of bookes, wryten of the same matter.
For manye haue wrytten the same in effect that some others haue done afore them. So that the noumber of bookes is infinite. The which shal in likewise happen to vs, when many geue theym selues to wrytynge. But I will assaye chiefelye to prouoke thē to write, who being wel learned, and instructed with perfect eloquence, can endyte philosophye with a good trade and order. For there is a certayne sort of men, whych wyll needes be counted philosophers, that are reported to haue wryten manye latine bookes, whiche surelye I do not despise, because I neuer redde thē: but inasmuche as the aucthours them selues, do playnely confesse, y• they can wryte neyther distinctlye, orderlye, eloquently, nor trimlye, I assuredlye neglect [Page] the readyng of that, which shoulde nothynge at all delyght me, inasmuche as they care not, what they wryte: I knowe not why anye man shoulde be bounde to reade thē, but suche as ar [...] of the same opinion that they be. For as all men reade Plato, and the workes of other, scolers of Socrates, & so likewyse of others, that were taughte of them, although they agree not in opinion wyth them, or at the least wise do not greatly alowe them, but Epicurus and Metrodorus none almost handles, but suche as be of theyr owne secte, so these late latine wryters they onelye reade, which thinke the same to be wel and wysely wryten. But me semeth, that whatsoeuer any man would set abrode, ought afore to be commended by the iudgement of suche as are learned. And for that cause, the aunciēt custome peripatecian and academias, to reason on eyther parte of euery question, doth maruaylously well like me: not onelye for that by no other meanes the truth [...] of euerye doubtefull question might be [Page] tryed, but also because there is in it a greate exercyse and practyse of Rhetorique: whych Aristotle chiefly vsed, and all they that folowed him. But in this our time, Phil [...] (whom we haue herd) appoynted one tyme to teache the preceptes of Rhetorique, and an other to declare the rules of philosophy. To the whyche order I beynge lykewyse moued of my familyar fryendes, spente there in suche leasure as I had in my maner of Tusculanum. Wherfore when I had spent the morninge in the studye of Rhetoryke, after noone we came downe to our scoole: in the which such reasoninge as we had. I do nowe expresse: not as if I tolde it, but euen in maner wyth the selfe same wordes, as it was done. Therfore whyles we walked, we fell into this talke.
I can not well expresse howe muche I was delyghted, or rather strengthened with your yesterdayes reasonynge. For although I am assured, that I was at no time to muche desyrous of my lyfe, yet neuerthelesse there woulde come [Page] come sometime both feare and gryefe, to my heart, when I thoughte, that I should one day lose the fruition of this pleasaunt light, and eke of all the commodities of this life. Of this trouble assuredly, I am nowe so eased, that I care for nothinge lesse.
It is no maruayle truly. For such is the effecte of philosophye: it helpeth the minde, it taketh a way all vayne care, riddes the mind of desyre, and driues away feare: but this her power is not of like force wyth all men. But then it worketh most, when it chaunceth on a good nature. For stoute men not onely fortune doth helpe (as the olde prouerbe is) but much more reason. Whiche in maner wyth certayne preceptes, confyrmeth the strengh of fortitude. Nature fyrste made you hye minded, and meete to despise all earthlye thinges, and for that cause, in your stoute stomake', the perswasion of sufferynge death is lyghtly rooted. But thinke you, that these selfe same perswasions, do so much preuaile wyth them (except very fewe) of whom they were first inuented, reasoned, and [Page] written? No truly. For howe manye philosophers shall you finde, whose life and behaui [...]ur is such as reason requireth? Or that doth vse theyr teachynge not as a brag and boastinge of knoweledge, but as the law and order of good life? Or howe manye of theym shall ye fynde, that are ruled by theym selues, or obeye theyr owne decrees? you shall see some of such lyghtnes, and arrogā cie, that it had bene better for them, neuer to haue learned. Some other couetous men: many verye desyrous of glorye: and moste of them s [...]aues of pleasure. So that, theyr talke and their life seemes meruaylously to differ, whiche assuredlye, seemes to me a thyng worthye great reproche. For like as if one that did professe grāmer, should speake false latine, or one that would be counted a musician should sing out of tune, his fault were so muche the worse, because it is in that kynde of knowledge which he professeth: so lykewyse, a philosopher shewing yll example of liuing is so muche the more to be blamed, as he offēdeth in that thing, of the which [Page] he professeth him selfe a teacher, and professinge the arte of lyfe, offendeth in his liuinge.
Is it not then to be feared least you commend philosophy [...] wythout a cause? For what can be a greater proofe, that it is not auaylable then that diuers notable philosophers do lyue abhominably?
Truly it is no proofe at all. For as all fieldes that are tilled are not fruitefull, and it was falsely sayde.
So not all the mindes that are sowen with the seede of philosophy, do brynge fruyte therof. And that I maye persyste in the same similitude, as the grounde be it neuer so fruytefull, yet wythoute tilling can not be fruytfull, so neyther can our minde wythout learnyng. For Philosophy is the plough of the mynd, whose share cuts vp all vyce by the rootes, and prepares our minds to receiue [Page] the seedes of vertue: and so at laste soweth the same in it, whyche in due tyme yelde mooste plentyfull encrease. But let vs nowe go forewarde, saye what so euer you are wylling to heare dyscussed.
I thynke that gryefe and payne is the greatest euell that maye be.
What? greater then shame or dishonestye?
I dare not so saye. And therfore I am ashamed to be so soone trypped in my talke.
Nay it were more shame for you, yf you did continue in youre former opynion. For what oughte to seeme worse vnto you, then shame, vyce, and dyshonestye? whyche to escape what griefe is there, that we ought not onelye not to refuse, but also to coueyte, and desyre?
I thynke so lykewyse. But yet although gryefe be not the chyefest euell, yet assuredlye it is an euell.
See you then by thys my shorte admonicion, howe muche you haue abated of the terroure of gryefe.
I do see it suffycyentlye. But I desyre to [Page] heare it more at large.
I wil assaye what I can do. Howebeit it is a great matter, and I had neede to haue you well willing to heare.
You shal be sure of that. For as I did yesterday, so nowe also will I folowe reason whether soeuer she leadeth me.
Fyrst then, I wil speake of the weakenes of manye men, and the diuers doctrines of philosophers: the chiefe of the which as well in authoritye, as also in auncie [...]tie, Aristippus the scoler of Socrates, doubted not to saye, that griefe is the greatest euel that might happen to man. This nice and effeminate opinion, Epicurus was verye readye t [...] take: and after him one Hierome a Rhodiā sayd, that to want griefe, was the greatest good that myghte be. So much euell he thought was in sorowe. And diuers other, except Zeno, Aristo, and Pyrrho, were of the same opinion.
But what thynke you?
That it is an euell in deede. But [...] neuerthelesse that there are other far [...] worse then it. For that which both nature it selfe, and also all stoute courage [Page] doth deny, I meane that you should not counte griefe the greatest euell that myght be, but that shame didde farre passe the same) that also philosophy the maistresse and lady of our life doth still mayntayne. For what dutye, what prayse, what ho [...]esty, will he so muche esteeme, that he will put his bodye to payne for the attayninge of the same, who thynketh gryefe to be the chyefest euell? And what shame, what dishonesty would not a man suffer to escape gryefe, yf he thoughte it to be the greatest miserie? To conclude, who is there not wretched, not onely then, when he is oppressed with payne, if griefe be so miserable, but also in asmuche as he knoweth it may happē vnto him? For who is there to whō it can not chaūce? So hereof it must needes folowe, that none at all can be blessed. Metrodorus truly thynkes him to be happy, whose bodye is in good health, and is assured, that it shall be so for euer. But who is he, that can promise him selfe any such assuraunce. Nowe Epicurus opinion is suche, that I thinke he inuented it [Page] purposelye to moue men to laughter.
He affyrmeth in a certayne place, that yf a wyse man be burnt, if he be vexed, yet he will beare it, and not yelde vnto it. A great prayse surelye, and worthye of Hercules him selfe. But yet neuerthelesse, this will not suffyce Epicurus a hard and a stoute man (god wot).
For he albeit he were in Phalaris bul, will saye, o howe pleasaunt is it? howe litle do I care for it? yea it is euē sweete to me. Why is it not inough, if it seme not bitter? For they truly them selues, that saye that gryefe if no euell, are not wont to saye, that torment is pleasaunt to any man. But that it is sharp hard, hatefull and agaynst nature: and yet neuerthelesse no euell. And he that thynketh this onely to be euel, yea and the extremest of all euels, thinkes that a wyse man will count it pleasaunt. I do not requyre you to terme griefe so lightly, as Epicurus (a man wholy giuen to pleasure) doth. Let him saye on gods name, that it were alone to him, to be in phalaris bull, and in a softe fetherbed: I do not requyre in a wise mā [Page] so great pacience agaynst gryefe. If he be able to perfourme his dutye in suffering it, I do not requyre him to be glad of it. For vndoubtedly, it is a heauye thyng, sharpe, bitter, enemy to nature, hard to beare, and suffer. For see Philocteta, whom we muste gyue leaue to mourne. For he had seene Hercules afore in the hill O [...]ta roarynge, because of the greatnes of the griefe that he suffered. The arowes that he afore tyme had receyued of Hercules, coulde then be no ease to his smart, when the vaynes of his inwarde [...]owelles, infected with adders poyson put him to bytter gryefe, causinge him to call for helpe, and desyre death in this wyse.
¶It were a hard thyng to saye, that he were in no euell, who shoulde be constrayned [Page] to cry out so. But let vs heare Hercules him selfe, whom the paynes of griefe did then pearce, whē he passed by death to immortality. What kinde of ou [...]ecryes makes he in Sophocles? who when he had put on him the shert whyche [...]eianira sente him, embrued with y• bloud of y• Centaure, & it stacke to his ribbes he cryed in this wise.
¶Can we despyse gryefe, since Hercules was so impacient of it? Nowe let vs heare Aeschilus, not a Poete onlye, but a Pythagorean also. Howe doth he make Prometheus lamentynge the [Page] gryefe, whych he suffereth for the theft committed in Lemnos. For the fyer which we haue, it is sayde that he stole from Iupiter. And for that cause, doth there endure tormente: whiche he recountinge wyth him selfe, tyed to the mounte Caucasus, speaketh in thys wyse.
¶Assuredlye, I thinke we can not but count a man in his case wretched, and if he be wretched, thē is griefe an euel.
As yet you haue pleaded my part. But thereof we wil talke hereafter.
But in the meane time, I maruayle much what you meane by vsynge verses so muche in your talke?
I will tell you the cause, and it is well asked of you, since you see that I am nowe at leasure. I thinke when you were in Athenes, you haue bene often ere nowe, in the scooles of the philosophers.
Yea truly, and that very gladly.
Did you not then marke, that [Page] they did much vse to bryng in verses in theyr talke.
In deede I remember that Dionisius the Stoyke brought in very many.
You say trouth. But he did it withoute anye choyce or eloquence. But Philo both kept the number of his verse, and vsed choyse therin and placed them also conueniently.
Wherfore since the time that I fyrste fell in loue with this declamation of mine olde age, I doe gladly brynge in my talke the verses of our poetes. And if they chaunce to be imperfecte in any poynct, I haue translated the same out of the Greeke: because I woulde not, that our tongue should want any kind of ornament that the Greekes had.
But do you see the discommoditie that Poetes cause? Fyrst they bring in stout men lamenting, which weakeneth the readers courage. Then they be so pleasaunt, that men do not onlye read thē, but also learne them wythout booke.
So, when to litle learninge, and to a wanton and effeminate life, poetes are once adioyned, they vtterly slake all the prickes of vertue. And for that cause, [Page] they are worthelye banished of Plato, out of that cicie, whiche he framed as the most perfect forme of a well framed and gouerned common welth.
Yet neuerthelesse, we beinge learned so to do of the Grecians, do both reade theym euen from oure youthe vpwardes, and also learne theym withoute booke: thinkinge their learninge to be both good & honest. But what shoulde we blame Poetes? since there haue ben philos [...]phers, who ought to haue bene the maysters of all vertue, which haue thoughte sorowe & gryefe to haue bene the greatest euell: and whereas you being but a yonge man, and euen nowe of the selfe same opinion, with thys onely demaund, whether it were greater then shame, did foorthwyth relente and forsake your vaine opinion: Now [...] aske Epicurus the same question, and he will say, that small griefe is a greater euell, then the greatest shame that maye be. For he wyll saye, that shame is no euell, vnlesse gryefe do folowe.
I meruayle then, that there dothe no gryefe folowe Epicurus, when he sayeth [Page] that gryefe is the greatest euell: whyche is the moste shamefull thinge, that any Philosopher myght haue spoken. Wherfore you did well aunswere when you sayde, that shame seemed to you a greater euell then gryefe. And if you will persiste in that opinion, you shall lyghtly perceyue, howe much we ought to auoyde griefe. For we must not so muche searche, whether gryefe it selfe be an euell yea or no, as howe we oughte to strengthen oure myndes to beare the same. The Stoykes occupye them selues in certayne light reasons to shewe the cause whye it oughte not to be called an euell. As if the controuersie were of the worde, and not of the matter. Whye doest thou deceyue me Zeno? For when thou denyest that gryefe and formente (whyche seeme to me horrible thinges) are any payne at al: I am strayght delyghted therewyth and become desirous to knowe, howe y• whiche I esteeme the greatest miserye, can be counted no euel at all. There is nothing euel (sayeth he) but y• which is dishoneste or vicious. Nowe y• tryflest. [Page] For that which greued me moste, thou leauest vntouched. I knowe that paine and gryefe is no sinne. Ceasse therfore to tell me of that. Teache me, whether it be any thing materiall to sorowe, or not sorowe. Nothing at al (thou sayest) as cōcerning a blessed life, which consisteth in onelye vertue. But yet neuerthelesse it is not to be vsed, but left: and why so? Because it is sharpe agaynste nature, payneful to suffer, heauye and hard. Here is plenty of wordes in dede and yet neuerthelesse, all this in effecte is no more but euell. And by thys varietee of wordes, thou doste descrybe and defyne vnto me, what gryefe is, and not howe I shoulde rid my selfe of it. Thou callest it sharpe, repugnaunt to nature, scarce able to be borne, neyther dost thou lye therein. But thou shouldest not haue vsed suche copye in wordes, and faynted in matter. As to saye, that nothinge can be good, that is not honest, nor nothinge ill that is not dishonest: that is to wyshe a thinge as it shoulde be, and not to teache it as it is. But that was said much better and [Page] truer, that all thinges whiche nature doth abhorre are euell: and contrarye wyse, suche thinges as it coueytes are good. This foundation beinge placed, and all contention about wordes set a parte, yet neuerthelesse, that selfe same thynge whyche the Stoikes so muche esteeme, whych we call honesty, right, and comelines, and whiche we sometimes compryse vnder the name of vertue, shall so muche passe all other, that the goodes of the bodye and fortune, may well seeme ryght small in comparison of it. Wherfore, if (as you graunted at the beginninge) shame is worse then payne, then trulye is payne nothinge at all. For when thou shalte thinke it a shame, for one that woulde be counted a man, to groane, crye, lament, and bewaile, thē shalt thou haue afore thine eyes, the beautye of stoutenes & honesty. According to the which, as longe as thou shalte rule thy selfe, thou shalt vndoubtedlye perceyue, that gryefe wil yelde & giue place to vertue. For where so euer vertue is, there is no feare of gryefe. For fyrst as for pru-without [Page] the whiche a man can not so much as vnderstand any other vertue. Will she suffer the to do anie thyng or attayne to any profyte, withoute laboure or trauayle? Will temperaunce suffer the to do anye thinge, wythoute moderation? And iustyce what man can obserue, that for feare of payne would dysclose secretes, that were told him, betraye his frendes, or ouerpasse many other dutyes of a iust man?
But inespeciallye, what wilt thou answere to fortitude and her mates, stoutnes of stomacke, grauity, patience, and despysyng of al worldly thinges? what wilt thou lie like a miser, complaining lamentablye, to thintente to heare some other call the a stoute man?
Nowe assuredlye, one in that case, no man would esteeme to be a man.
Wherfore, either we must despise mā lye courage, or els bury griefe. What? know you not this, that although, you loose one iuell, yet the residue of your substaunce may be safe? But if you lose one vertue (but vertue can not be lost) or if you confesse that you lacke one, [Page] you must nedes lacke all? Maye we thē call Philocteta afore mentioned, a stoute man, or a man of great courage, or a pacient or a graue man? For I had rather to haue your indgement therein then mine owne. But he trulye can be no stoute man, who li [...]th in a warme bed and yet ‘With cries complaintes and sighes, doth cause the aer resound.’
I do not denye payne to be a gryefe: for then, what nede should we haue of fortitude? But I saye, that it ought to be ouercome wyth pacience, and sufferaunce, if there be any such thing. But if there be none such, then whye do we in vayne commende Philosophye? or what meane we so muche to bragge of the workes of the same Doth gryefe pricke the? Let it vexe thee on goddes name, or els if thou be naked, let it euē [...] [...]hy throte. But if thou haue thy harnesse framed in Uulcanes forge, (that is) a stoute courage, withstand it. For fortitude the preseruer of worshyppe, vnlesse thou so doe, wyll leaue and forsake thee.
[Page] The lawes of the Cretenses, whyche eyther Iupiter him selfe made, or elles Minos at the commaundement of Iupiter (as the Poetes saye) and so lykewyse the lawes of Licurgus, do commaund, that youth should be broughte vp in labour, huntynge, running, hunger, thirste, colde, and heate. And the boyes of Sparta, at the aultars, are so laded with stripes, that ofte times a greate deale of bloude gusheth oute of theyr bodyes: yea and sometimes (as it was tolde me, whē I was in that countrey) euen to the death. Yet of them all not one, did at any time not onelye not crye, but neyther so muche as groane. Why thē, may childrē suffer so much, & mē nothing? or shall custome so much preuayle, and reason nothinge? There is a difference betwixt labour & griefe, yet neuerthelesse, they are verye nyghe in nature. But they differ somewhat. For labour is the exercise of the minde or bodye, in some busye worke or trauayle. But gryefe is a sharpe motion in the bodye, contrary to the senses.
These both, ye Grecians, whose tongue [Page] is more plentifull then oures do confound vnder one name. Therfore, painfull men they name desyrous and louers of gryefe. But we, much more aptelye, call theym paynefull. For it is one thing to labour, and an other to be gryeued. O Greece, sometimes yet barren of wordes, with the whiche thou thinkest thy selfe chiefelye to flowe. I saye, there is great diuersitye betwyxt gryefe and laboure. It was a gryefe to Caius Marius, whē the vaynes in his thigh were cut. But it was a laboure for him, when in a whote day, he marched afore his armie. Yet neuerthelesse there is some affinitye betwixte these. For the vse and custome of labour, causeth griefe to be more easy to be borne. And for that cause, they whiche fyrste gaue lawes to the commen wealth of Greece, commaunded inespecially that yonge man should be acquaynted with trauayle: whiche the Lacedemonians applied in likewise to their women.
Who (whereas in other cities they sit shaded wythin the walles of their houses clothed in nice apparell) liued there [Page] nothing after that sort. For they more desired to wrestle, to bathe them selues in the riuer Eurotas, to abide the heat of the sonne, duste, trauayle, and warfare, then to syt ydle and beare childrē. And among these paynefull exercyses, griefe must sometimes be entermedled For they are some times beaten, striken, and cast downe. But custome it selfe doth euen harden them from feeling the gryefe. But nowe as for warfare (I talke not of the Spartans, who vse to marche in measure accordinge to the blaste of the trumpet) but oure armies, fyrst you see are called exercitus, of exercise: then, what or howe greate laboure doe they en [...]ure, in bearynge eche man a halfe monethes vitayle, or any other thing that they shall haue neede to vse? For as for the caryage of theyr tergate, sworde, or helme, they counte it no greater burden, then of theyr shoulders, legges or armes. For they saye, that harnesse is the handes of a souldyoure. Whyche they carye so muche wythout anie combraunce, that [Page] yf neede should be, they casting awaye theyr other caryage, myghte vse they [...] weapons as theyr limmes. What? the exercisinge of our souldyours? the runnyng, coupling, and shouting of them, what payne is it? Thereby theyr courage is made so r [...]ady, to abide blowes in the feilde. Brynge thyther a freshe water souldyoure, albeit he haue as good a stomake as the other, yet he wil seeme a woman in comparison. Why? such dyfference is there betwyxt newe commers, and olde beaten souldiours, as we haue sufficiently proued. The strengthe of the yonger souldioures is commonly better. But to take paines, and to set noughte by woundes, that custome teacheth. Also we maye dyuers times see, when they being wounded, are borne out of the fyelde, that a yonge and rawe souldioure, hauynge a small blowe wyll weepe like a childe: But the olde beaten warryoure beyng hardned [...]y continuaunce, will but call for a Surgyan to binde vp his woundes.
This is Euripylus. You maye well perceyue him to be a man muche exercised in warre. For where is his longe lamentacion? See howe stoutly he talketh, yea and shewes a reason, why he ought to take it in good part.
Truly if Patrocles had bene a man, he woulde haue borne him into his chaumber, and bound vp his woundes but he did nothinge lesse, for he enquyreth, howe the fyeld was fought. ‘[Page] Tell me quod he, in what case nowe the Grecians state doth stand.’
He is not able to expresse the same so well in wordes, as by shewinge the tokens whiche appeared on him. Ceasse therfore, to aske him anye more questions (O Patrocles) and bynde vp his woūdes. For although Euripylus can abide the gryefe, yet Aesopus can not. Who after he described Hectors fatall chaunce, weping lamentateth the ruinous state of the Troians, in great sorowe and anguishe. So impacient is a stoute man sometimes, for the losse of glory in the fielde. Well: shall an olde souldiour be able, by continuaunce and custome to do these thinges? and a wel learned and wise man not? Nowe trulye he ought to do it farre better. But as yet I speake of the custome of e [...]ercise, and not of reason and wysedome. Olde women very ofte will beare honger .ii. or .iii. dayes. Take away meate but one daye, from one of these stoute [...]yghters: he will crie out vpon Iupiter him selfe, & saye he is not able to bears it. Custome is of great force. For we [Page] see, that hunters lye all nyghte on the snowe, and in the day are parched with the sonne, rebounding from the hilles. Thereof it cometh also, that maysters of fence and champions stirre not for a drye blowe. But what do I here talke of theym, who stryue for games as it were for the office of the consulshippe? these ruffins, and other desperate persons, what blowes beare they? And wherof commeth it, that suche as haue bene well broughte vp, [...]ad rather receyue punishement iustly deserued, thē by shame to auoyde it? Howe manye proofes haue we of some, that esteeme nothinge more, then to please eyther theyr maysters or els the people. Yea, and of some, who when they haue bene almost stayne, haue sente to theyr maysters, to knowe theyr pleasure: sayeng, that if theyr wyil be so be [...]te, they are euen readye to dye. What so meane a champion, did at any time groane at a stroke: or els so much as ones chaung [...] his countenaunce? Who of theym, did not onlye stand in fyght, but eyther dye with shame? Who of them, being commaunded [Page] to laie his head on the blocke to be striken of wyth an axe, did at any time shrinke in his necke? Suche is the force of exercise, vse, and custome. Shal a Samnite then, a filthy man, worthy of so beastly a life, be able to abide these thinges, and shal a man well broughte vp, and euen framed to obtayne glory, haue any parte of his minde so effeminate, which with exercise and wit he can not fortifye? The syght of the fence players, seemeth to manye men meruaylous cruell: and I can not well say, whether it be so or no, as it is nowe a dayes vsed. But trulye I thynke, that when condemned persōs did fight oute theyr lyues, as there myghte be some better enstructions for the eares, to teache men to despyse gryefe, so assuredlye, to proue the same, and euen to set it before oure eyes, I thinke there could be none better. Thus muche I haue spoken of the exercise, custome, and practyse of gryefe. But nowe let vs consider the reasons agaynste the same, vnlesse you haue anye thynge [Page] thinge to saye agaynst that, whyche is alreadye spoken.
What that I shoulde trouble you in youre talke? No surelye, I will not. Youre reasons so muche moue me to credyte you.
Whether gryefe be any euell or no, that let the Stoikes weygh: who wyth farre fette and trifelinge conclusions, in the whiche the sense of man hath no iudgement, assaye to conclude, that gryefe is no euell. But I (what so euer thing it be) thinke assuredlye, that it is not so great as it semeth, and that men are more afrayed, with the outward apparaunce and shewe of it, then they neede. And to be shorte, that there is no paynes in it, but that is very tollerable. Whence therfore were it best for me to beginne? shall I bryefelye repeate those thinges whyche I haue alreadye spoken, that my talke maye the better proceede in order? This therfore all men graunt, aswell learned as vnlearned, that it is the parte of couragious, stoute harted, and valiaunt men, paciently to beare griefe. Neither was there anye man, who would not count [Page] him worthye great prayse, that coulde suffer the same. That therfore, whych is both necessarilye requyred of stoute men, and also counted prayse worthy [...] when it is done, that I saye, eyther to feare when it is comminge, or els not to beare when it doth come, is it not a great shame? And whereas al the good affections of the minde, are properlye called vertues, it seemeth to me, that that name, doth most properly belonge to that onely, which doth farre passe all the reste. Nowe the name of vertue, is deryued of the name of man, whiche in latine is vir. To whō the vertue that doth most properlie belong, and appertayne, is fortitude and stoute courage. The two chiefest poyntes of the which are the contempte of death, and despysyng of griefe. These therfore we must vse, if we wil be counted the obtayners of vertue, or rather thoughte worthye of the name of men: because of this worde (vir) whiche in latine sygnifyeth this worde man) the name of vertue is taken. But perchaunce, thou wilt aske me, howe shoulde I beare griefe? And [Page] not without good cause. For philosophye professeth also a medecine for the same. But nowe comes Epicurus, a man not very euel, or rather good, and giueth counsell according to his wyt.
Passe not for gryefe, sayeth he. Who sayeth so? euen he, which co [...]eth griefe to be the chiefest euel. Fayntly inough god wot. Howe be it let vs gyue him the hearyng. If it be the greatest griefe that may be (quod he) then muste it nedes be shorte.
I pray you rehearse the same agayne, that I maye vnderstande, what he meaneth by greatest, and what by shortest.
The great [...]st is that, then the whyche there is none greater. And the shortest is that, more short then the which none can be In deede I despyse the greatnes of such griefe▪ from which, the shortnes of the time shall deliuer me, well nie afore it come. But if it be such, as the payne of Philocte [...] was▪ it seemes to me to be great ynoughe, althoughe it be not the greatest. For when no part of my body al [...]es, but my foote: yet mine eyes may, so may my head, sides, lightes, and other partes of my bodye. And although [Page] this be not the greatest gryefe, because I feele not gryefe in all those partes, in the whyche I mighte, is it therefore no payne? But continual gryefe (sayes he) hath more mirth then sorowe.
Nowe trulye, I can not well [...] that so learned a man wantes wit. But assuredlye, I thinke, he speakes it in derision of vs. I cal it the greatest griefe, althoughe some other be ten moates more then it. And thinke not, because that some other is greater then it, that for that cause it should be foorthwyth small & light. I can name manye good men, which these manye yeares, haue bene troubled wyth extreame paynes of the goute. And shall we thinke theyr paynes small, because they might haue some greater? But he like a suttel man appoyntes neyther any measure of the quantitie, or greatnes, ne yet of ye lēgth of griefe. So that I cā not know what he thinketh to be greatest in gryefe, or what to be short in time. Wherfore let vs ouerpasse him, whose wordes are to none effecte: and let vs playnelye confesse, that we ought not to seke remedy of our payne at his handes, which sayd [Page] that gryefe was the greatest of all euels: althoughe he him selfe in his dysease of strāgurye, seemes to shewe him selfe some what stoute. We must then seeke helpe otherwhere: but chiefely (if we desyre to know, what is most mete for vs to doe) at their handes, whyche thinke that whiche is honest, to be the chiefest good: and contrarywyse, that whych is dishonest, to be the principall euell. In theyr presence trulye, thou durste not syghe, nor yet to bragge of such trifles. For vertue it selfe, by their voyce will commen with the, in this sort. Wilt thou (seeing children in Lacedemon, yonge men in the games of the mounte Olimpus, and barbarous bondmen in the liftes, abidinge moste bitter strokes, yea and that wythout anye noyse of crye) If any lyghte griefe chaunce to touch the, schriche out forthwyth like a woman? Wilt thou not abide it constantly, & quietely? thou wilt saye, it can not be suffered: my nature wil not beare it. I heare the. Children beare it: some for prayse, some to auoyd shame, and some for feare: and are we [Page] afrayd, least that which so many men, in so many diuers places haue suffered our nature wil not beare? But it truly wil not only beare it, but also requires it. For there is nothinge that it dothe more esteeme, neyther yet anye thynge that it doth more coueyt, then honesty, then prayse, then dignitie, then worship. By these diuers names, I meane but one thinge. But I vse thē to shewe the thing more euidently by many names. But my meaninge is this, that that thing, is farre aboue al other most conuenient for eche man, whiche is to be desyred for it selfe: as a thing eyther issuynge out of vertue, or els beynge it selfe placed amonges some one of the vertues, and of his owne nature praise worthy. Which trulie, I would rather terme the singuler and onelye, then the chiefest or greatest good. And as these thinges may be truly verified of hones [...]ye, so may the contrary aswell be spoken of dishonesty, then the which there is nothing more filthye, nothing more to d [...] abhorred, nothing more vnmeete or vnsemely for a man. Whiche if you [Page] be alreadye persuaded (for you sayde at the beginning, that you thought there was more euell in shame and dishonestye, then in any gryefe) then you maye well ynough be your owne mayster.
Howbeit I do not well knowe howe a man maye vnderstande that phrase of speache, of beinge your owne mayster, as though one part should rule, & thother obeye. Yet neuerthelesse, it is not spoken vnaduisedly. For our minde is diuided into two partes: of the which, the one is endued with reason, and the other is wholy voyd of ye same. Wherfore, when we are cōmaunded to rule oure selues, this is the effecte thereof, y• we ought by reason to rule rashenes. There is in all mennes mindes some softnes, wantonnes, and faintnes, and truly, if there were nothinge els, there were nothinge worse then man. But euen with the sam [...], we haue reasō, the mistresse, & quene of all thinges geuen vnto vs, which by her owne endeuour & [...]arder encrease, is made perfecte vertue. That this may gouerne that part of the minde, which ought to be subiect [Page] & obedient vnto it, that is the charge & dutye of euerye good man. Perchaunce thou wilt saye, howe shall it rule the other? euen as the mayster doth his seruaunt, the captaine his souldioure, or the father his sonne. For if that frayle part of our mind, behaue it selfe dishonestly, if it geue it selfe effeminately to teares, and mourninge, let it be faste bounde, and committed to the ward of his neighbour reason. For often times we see some afrayd of shame, whom otherwise reason could not moue. Such therfore as seruaūtes, ought to be kept within the bandes of feare. But suche as are somewhat strōger, & yet not fully fortified, those we ought by often admonicion to put in remembraunce, of theyr owne good name. See howe the wisest man in Greece, being wounded lamenteth not vnreasonably but moderately rather, sayeng. ‘Go softely sirs, least otherwise, you cause my gryefe encrease.’
Pacuui [...]s therefore sayde farre better then Sophocles. For be bryngeth in Ulisses lamentably complayning, whē he was wounded, yet neuerthelesse he [Page] makes suche as caryed him, waytinge the worshippe of his person, saye thus vnto him.
The wyse poete thought, that custome ought to haue bene no small enstructor to him to beare gryefe. And he trulye lamenteth not immoderately in extreme gryefe sayeng.
Then he soundes, and foorthwyth returneth to him selfe, sayeng.
See you howe sodainely not the griefe of his body was appeased, but the rage of his minde repressed? And therfore in [Page] the laste verses he chideth others, euen when he was dieng with these wordes
Loe, the weaker parte of this mans minde, was so obediente to reason, as an olde souldiour should be to his capitayne. That man in the which perfect wysedome may be found (whych truly we neuer see, but yet neuerthelesse knowe by the wrytinges of Philosophers, what maner man he shall be, if there shall at anye time rise any suche) he truly, or els reason for him (whyche shall shewe her perfect force, and beare her full stroke in him) shall so rule and gouerne that inferiour part, as a good father should his obedient children.
He shall do wyth his commaundemēt, what soeuer he list, wythout any paine or griefe. He will strengthen, fortifye, defende, and arme him selfe, to wythstand gryefe, as his deadly enemye.
But what be those weapons wyth the whych he shall so furnyshe him selfe?
[Page] The inward talke, and communicatiō of his heart: when he is willing to flye all dishonestye, fayntnes, and all other thinges, not seemelye for a man. Let him also haue alwayes afore his eyes, the pure examples and pictures of honesty. Let him beholde Zeno the philosopher of Eleas: who [...]hose to suffer all kyndes of tormente, rather then he would vtter such, as were priuie to the conspiracie, to destroy the tirantes. Let him thinke of Anaxarchus Democritius, who beyng fallen into the handes of Nicocreon, the kynge of Cipres, forsoke and refused no kynde of punyshement. Calanus an indian, and vnlearned and barberous man, borne at the foote of the hil Caucasus, did voluntarilye suffer him selfe to be burnt. And we, if our feete, our teeth, or al our bodye chaunce to ake, are not able to abide it. For we haue a fond and lyghte opinion, the whiche procedeth not so muche of gryefe, as of to muche pleasure, by the whiche when we are once made nice, and beginne to abounde in wantonnes, we can not so muche as abide [Page] the stynge of a bee, wythout great outcries. But Caius Marius a man alwayes bred in the countrey, but neuerthelesse a man in deede, when he was cut as I haue shewed afore, forbid theym to binde him. Neyther was there any man afore him cut vnbound. But many since: and whye so? because they folowed his example. Do you not then perceyue, that we thinke griefe to be a greater euell then it is in deede?
And yet neuerthelesse, that it was a gryefe vnto him, he him selfe doth sufficientlye shewe. For he would not let hys other thyghe to be cut. So he did both beare the payne like a stout man, and also like a wise man, refused to suffer more then was nedeful. This matter therfore, chiefelye consisteth in rulyng your selfe. But what kind of rule that must be, I haue already shewed.
And truly this cōsideracion whē a mā weyghes, what thinges are worthy to be suffered, for the name of pacience, a stout stomake, & a hauty courage, doth not onely restrayne the mind frō doing amisse, but also (I knowe not howe) [Page] doth greatly asswage the gryefe it selfe For as we see in the fyelde, when a cowarde and fearefull souldioure, at the fyrst sight of his enemy casting awaye his armoure, flyes asmuche as he can, thereby sometimes comes to his destruction, whereas he that abode in the field, felt no suche chaunce: so they that can not abide the fyrst brunt of sorowe do cast away them selues, and lye some sore vexed, and other some mad, wheras they that wythstoode it, do often tymes depart, hauing the vpper hand.
For there be some thinges, in the whiche our mynde dothe resemble our bodye. For as oure bodyes are the better able to beare burdens, whē we stretche out our limmes, and setle our selues to abide the weyghte thereof, and contraryewyse when we haue no courage to it, an easye burden ouerlades our lasye limmes: so likewyse, our mind hauing an earnest attētiue desire to any thing, can lightly caste of the weyghte of anye burden troubling it from the same.
But if it once slacke his good will, it is to kept downe, & depressed by the same, [Page] that it can neuer after rayse it selfe againe. And (if we wil say that which is truth) in the execution of all such thinges, as appertayne to our dutye, there oughte to be an earnest and zelous desyre of our minde, whiche is the onelye mayntayner and preseruer of all dutyes. But this chiefely we must prouide in the sufferyng of all gryefe, that we do nothinge fearefully, cowardlye, slauishely, or effeminatelye: and aboue all other thinges, that we vtterlye reiect suche lamentable complayntes, as Philocteta made. To sygh and groane maye be well graunted and permitted to a man: but to crye out, not so mcuhe as to a woman. For, suche mourninge the lawe of the .xii. tables forbiddeth anye man to vse in funeralles. Neyther trulye, wyll a stoute or wyse man, at any time so much as syghe, vnlesse it be to setle him selfe more strongly, for the abidinge of gryefe. As runners sometimes in their race, crye as loude as they can. So do the wrestlers in theyr exercyse, and the champions, euen whē they lift theyr clubbes to strike at their [Page] aduersaryes, vse to groane. Not for that they feele any payne, or that theyr heart faynteth them, but because with theyr lo [...]de shoute, the strengthe of theyr bodye is pulled togyther, and so there commeth a sorer strype. So, they that are mynded to crye very loud, are not contented to applye thereto theyr sydes, tounge, and iawes, whiche are the instrumentes of the whiche the sounde of our voyce is caused, but that also wyth theyr hole bodye, and euerye parte of the same, they assaye to poure out theyr voyce. Trulye I sawe when Marcus Antonius pleadynge verye earnestlye for him selfe, touched the ground wyth his knee. For, as stone bowes, and other gunnes, that shoote out stoanes, and arowes, cast so muche the faster, as they be stiffer bente, and drawen more hardlye: so oure voyce, runnynge, or stroke, is so muche the greater, as it proceedeth from the earnest endeuoure of the whole bodye, beinge bent to nothinge els sauynge that onely. The whiche earnest good wyll, since it is of suche force and power, i [...] [Page] suche syghynge in the sufferynge of gryefe, as proceedeth from the same, be to the confirmation and strengthening of oure courage, suche I thynke best that we vse. But as for the lamentable, weake, abiecte and wofull crye, to that I saye, who so euer shall giue him selfe, him surely, would I scarse thinke worthye the name of a man. Which if it did bryng anye ease to his payne, yet were it the parte of him to consyder, what were the dutye of a stoute and couragyous man. But synce it asswageth no parte of our smart, why should we shewe oure selues lewde wythoute anye cause? For what is more fonde then to weepe lyke a woman? And this precepte, whyche we nowe gyue of gryefe, extendeth further. For all suche thynges, as we ought to auoyde, we must wythstande wyth as earnest desyre and affection, as we oughte gryefe it selfe. For if we burne wyth anger, or frye wyth the flames of lust, we must runne to the same fort, & take the same weapōs to wythstand it. But since our purpose here is to entreate of [Page] gryefe, we wil ouerpasse those thinge [...] To beare gryefe therfore quietelye and pacientlye, it is necessarilye expedient, that we haue our hole entent fyxed on the honestye of the thinge, wherfore we suffer it. For we are of nature (as I sayde before (howebeit I must remember it oftener) very desyrous of honesty▪ the glimse of the whyche, if we once chaunce to see, there is nothinge that we be not ready eyther to beare, or suffer, for the obtayning of the same. Frō this earnest desire, that our mind hath to get true prayse, and honestye, procede the aduenturing of so many daungers, in the battell, so that stoute men do eyther not feele their woundes, or els if they do feele them, yet had rather to dye, the [...] to lose one iote of their worshippe. Both the Deci [...] sawe the glistering swordes of theyr enemyes, when they voluntarilye ranne vpon them.
The nobility and glory of theyr death, did take from thē all the feare of woundes. Do you thinke that it greued Epaminundas, whē he felt his lyfe to faint euen as his bloud wasted? no truly.
[Page] For he lefte his countrey rulinge ouer the Lacedemonians, to whom whē he came first to office, they were bonde and slaues. These be the cōfortes and eases of the greatest griefes, that may be. But thou wilt saye, what comforte maye they haue whiche are payned at home in peace, oute of warres in theyr quyete beds? Nowe thou bryngest me to philosophers, which come not often into the field: emonge the whiche one Dionisius borne at Heraclea, a vayne and a light man, learninge these same enstructions of Zeno, to be stoute against griefe, was afterwardes neuerthelesse ouercome of the same. For hauing a payne in the raines of his backe in his greatest gryefe he cryed out, that all those thinges were false whiche he had learned afore as concerning griefe Whom, when Cleanthes his scoolefelowe demaunded, what reason had moued him to chaunge his opinion, he aūswered: because (sayes he) if I should spend all my time in Philosophye, and not be able to beare gryefe, it were a sufficient proofe, that it is an euell.
[Page] But I haue spente a great number of yeares in philosophye, and can not neuerthelesse abyde gryefe, it must nedes therefore be euell. Then Cleanthes hearing this, striking the ground with his foote, rehearsed this verse. ‘Doest tho [...] heare this Amphiara [...]s ygraued in the ground.’
By Amphiara [...]s he ment Zeno, from whom he was sorye to heare him so degenerate. But farre otherwise dyd our countrey man Possidonius, whome I my selfe haue often sene, and of whom I wyll tell you, what Pompeius was wont to remember. Which was, that when he departing out of Siria, came to Rhodes, he would gladli haue heard Possidonius. But vnderstanding that he was greuouslye sicke, wyth an ache in all his limmes, & that for that cause, he coulde not heare him dispute, yet he thought good to see the noble philosopher. To whose presence whē he came and had honourablye saluted him, sayenge that it grieued him verye muche, that he could not heare him reason of philosophye, at that present: you maye [Page] very well, yf you please (quod he) for I wil neuer suffer, that a litle ache of my bodye, shoulde cause the iourney of so noble a man, to be taken in vayne. So Pompeius told me, that he lyeng, reasoned verye sagelye and eloquentlye of this position, that nothing is good but that whiche is honest. And when the thornes of gryefe would nowe and thē pricke him, he woulde often saye, all this is to no ende O griefe: for be thou neuer so troublesome vnto me, yet wil I neuer confesse the to be euell.
So all noble and renoumed laboures, euen wyth despysynge of theym are made tollerable. Do we not see in the scooles of fence, that suche as esteeme the prayse of the same, passe for no payne, so they maye attayne it? Lykewyse, those, whome the prayse of huntynge and rydynge the horse doth more delyghte, do they refuse anye payne, in learninge the same? What shall I speake of oure ambition for offyces, for greedye desyre of honoures?
What fyre is there, throughe whiche they woulde not runne that sue for the [Page] same, wyth tooth and nayle, as a man would saye. Africanus had alwayes in his handes Xenophon the scoler of Socrates, whom amonges all other thinges, he chiefelye praysed for this sayenge, that the selfe same laboure, was not alike greuous to the capitaine, and to the souldiour. Because the honoure makes the capitaynes labour but light But it chaunceth commonlye, that amonges the commen sort of fooles, the opinion of honesty is of some force, but it it selfe they can not discerne: and for that cause, they are muche moued with commen reporte and iudgement of the multitude, and so thinke that onelye to be honest, whych most men commend. But I would not wyshe you, although you be in the fauour of the cōmen people, yet to stande to theyr iudgement: neyther to esteeme that best which they do. You must vse your owne discrecion and iudgement. If you like your owne iudgement in esteeminge such thinges as be honest, you shall not onely be able to rule your selfe, (as I sayd somewhat a [...]ore) but all other men and all other [Page] thinges likewyse. Wherefore propose to your selfe a certayne stoutenes, and highenes of stomake, which is of great force to cause a man to contemne and despyse all gryefes. Thinke also, that there is but one thinge which is moste beautifull of al other, and that so much the more, if it wante the prayse of the people, and not looking for it, doth delyghte it selfe wyth his owne commodityes. Truly all suche thinges as are done wythout boasting, or commendation of the people, seeme to me more prayseworthy then the contrarye. Not for that I woulde haue suche thinges done out of the face of the people (for al honest deedes loue to be placed in the light) But, because there is no greater prayse that vertue requyreth, then the good iudgement of a sounde and vndefiled conscience. And let vs chiefelye thinke, that this sufferaunce of griefe, whiche we haue sayd often heretofore, ought to be strengthened with the earnest desyre of the minde, oughte to be equally and indifferentlye shewed and applyed in all cases. For many whyche [Page] eyther for desyre of conqueste and dictorye, or couetyse of glory, haue stoutelye abyden manye cruell strokes, yet neuerthelesse sometimes the selfe same men, are not able to abyde the paynes of a dissease. For the cause is, for that that payne whiche they suffred afore, they suffred not learned by the guyde and conductynge of reason, or wysedome, but onelye for desyre of glorye.
And for that cause many rude and barbarous people, can stoutely weld theyr weapons, and yet neuerthelesse can not behaue theym selues manlye, in theyr disease. But the Grecians being men not verye stoute, but wyse inough (as the wyttes of men are diuerse) can not behaue them selues stoutly against theyr enemyes, and yet neuerthelesse can beare disseases pacientlye, and as it becometh men. And the Cimbrians and Celtiberians, are stoute in the field, and playne women in their sickenes. For, nothing can haue any equalitye or measure in it, whych dothe not proceede of reason. And when you see [Page] them, whom eyther earneste desyre, or els a vayne opinion moueth to coueyte anye thynge, in folowynge and attayninge the same, not to be wearyed of gryefe, then oughte you to thinke, that gryefe is eyther no euell at all, or els if there be anye hardenes in it, or anye thinge contrary to nature, and for that cause it may please you to call it euell, yet neuerthelesse, that it is so litle, and so muche ouercome of vertue, that it can not appeare at all. Whiche I beseche you ponder wyth your selfe. For this reason wyll serue you to manye more vses, then to auoyde gryefe. For if we must referre all oure doynges to the auoydinge of dishon [...]stye, then we shall not onelye neede to despyse the pryckes of sorowe, but y• thunderboltes of flatterynge fortune also. Speciallye inasmuch as at our laste ende, there is that hauen and porte prepared for vs, of the whyche we reasoned the daye before: namelye death. For, lyke as yf God woulde saye, to a sayler persecuted wyth Pyrates, cast thy selfe ouer [Page] the shyp borde, for there is a Dolphine which will beare the (as he did Arion) or els the horse whiche drawe Neptunus chaire vpon the seas, shal be ready to receyue the, & carye the whether so euer thou list. Woulde not then this mariner (thinke you) abandone feare? So, when the sharpenes of gryefe doth vexe vs, if it be suche that we can not beare it, you see where is our refuge.
Thus much I thought good to speake at this presente. But I thinke you do still persist in your former opinion.
No trulye, for by these two dayes reasoninges, I hope that I am eased of those two thinges, which I did chiefelye of all other feare.
To morowe we wyll measure our talke by the clock But I thinke, that you can not be at leasure.
Yes trulye, euen before diner this selfe same time.
So we wil do, & satisfy (as I trust) your earnest desyre.
THE THYRD BOOKE contayning the third Question disputed by Marke Tully Cicero in his thyrd daies reasoning, in his manour of Tusculanum, treatinge howe a wise man ought to behaue him selfe in sorowe and griefe of mynde.
WHat might I thinke the cause to be (deare frende Brutus) that whereas we consiste both of soule and bodye, there is an arte inuented for the preseruation and health of the bodye, and it also so muche esteemed, that the inuention thereof▪ is fathered on the immortall goddes. But the cure of the soule, was neyther so much desyred afore it was founde, nor greatly frequēted after it was knowē, neyther scarse wel accepted nor alowed [Page] of some men, but rather suspected and hated of the moste? maye this be the cause, for that the griefe and disease of the bodye, we may iudge by our mind, but the gryefe of oure minde, we can not discerne by our body? and so it hapneth, that oure minde then iudgeth of it selfe, when ye ▪ wherewyth it iudgeth is sicke? For trulye, if nature had made vs suche at the fyrste, that we mighte playn [...]ly behold and perceyue her force and vnder her most sure guide and conduite passe the course of oure life, then needed we not to requyre the helpe eyther of reasō or learning. But she hath geuen vs onelye certayne small spar [...]les, which with noughtye fashions [...] erronious opinions we doe lyghtelye quenche, in such wise, that not so much as any glymse of the lyghte of nature can appeare. For ther are sowen within vs, the seedes of vertue, whyche i [...] they might encrease and growe to ripenes, would of theyr owne nature with out any other aide, bring vs to the blessed & immortall life: but nowe as soone as we are borne & brought foorth into [Page] this light we are forthwith continuallye trayned in al noughtinesse and peruerse opinions, so that it maye well be sayd, that euen with the milke of oure nurses, we do sucke errour. And when from theym we are committed to oure second parētes (our maisters I meane) we are then seasone [...] wyth so manye lyes, that truth yeldeth to vanitie, and the enstructiōs of nature, to y• strength of false opinions. Hereunto also are poetes adioyned: who, for y• they haue an outward shewe of learning & wisedome, are heard, read, & learned, and so are fullye fastened in our mindes. But when to this same we ioyne the people also, as a wise teacher, and the commē voice of the multitude, the confirmer of al vice, then are we altogither infected with erronious opinions, & swar [...] wholy frō the rule of nature. So y• those whych teache vs that nothing is more necessary, more to be desired, or coueted then honour, empire & the praise of the cōmon people, seeme in teaching vs so cōtrary doctrines to ye enstructiōs of nature to haue enuied vs ye fruictō of those [Page] most excellente principles, whyche she at the fyrst had engraffed in vs. Al men neuerthelesse do greedelye desyre the prayse of the commen sorte, and suinge therein after true and vnfayned honesty (which onely, nature in al her workes doth propose as an ende) are foulye deluded and mocked. For they do not obtayne any perfect picture of vertue, but ye shaded image of glorye. For, true glorye is a sounde and perfect thynge, and no coloured shadowe. And that is the incorrupted and vniuersall prayse, of al good men, proceeding of the right report of the excellencie of vertue.
Whyche trulye is in maner the eccho of vertue. For it alwayes aunswereth to the sound of the same. Which in asmuch as cōmonly it foloweth all good deedes, is not to be refused nor despysed of suche, as are good men. But it which will needes be an imitatour of the same (the commen brute of the people I meane) is often time rashe, vnaduised, and most commonly a commender of vice, and naughtines, and vnder the shape of honestie, stayneth the [Page] forme and beauty of vnfayned glorye. Wyth the ignoraunce of the whyche mens mindes beynge blynded, and coueting alwayes to do some fact, wherby they myghte be renowmed, knoweinge not neuerthelesse, howe or whych waye they might per [...]ourme the same, haue fallen into great inconuenience. For some haue rased theyr owne cities and some haue slayne them selues.
And so they seekynge thynges that are of thē selues good, are deceyued, not so much of a set purpose, as because of the ignoraunce of the waye, by the whych they should come to the same. Nowe, those whiche haue theyr mindes vexed wyth the greedye desyre of money, or with the filthy lust of pleasure, or they whose mindes are so muche disquyeted wyth the same, that they are not farre frome madnesse (as foolishe men commonlye are). Haue all these sortes of men no neede of helpe thinke you? eyther because the disseases of the minde haue lesse neede of helpe then the sickenesses of the bodye, or els for that there is an arte inuented to cure the bodye, [Page] and none to heale the soule? But trulie the diseases of the minde are both more deadlye, and also more in number then those of the bodye. For they be so much the more greuous, as they pertayne to the mind, and the vexing thereof, whiche being sicke, doth alwayes erre (as Ennius sayeth) and can for griefe neyther do, neyther suffer any thing well. And furthermore neuer ceasseth to be vexed with desyre: then both the which maladies, that is to wite, griefe and desire, what greater diseases maye there be? And who can proue, that the soule is not able to cure it selfe, inasmuch as it firste inuented medicines for the bodye? and also, whereas the healinge of the bodyes, doth muche consyste in the constitutiō and nature of the same, and al mē which were contēted to be cured, haue not bene healed, yet euery mans mind which was willing to be healed, and was therein ruled bi the preceptes and counsels of wise men, hathe bene alwayes vndoubtedlye cured. The medecine of y• minde, is philosophy, which helpeth vs (not as the diseases of oure [Page] bodye are holpen) by thinges withoute vs, but we our selues must wyth al our power & endeuour, laboure to cure our selues. But of philosophy vniuersally, how much it should be eyther esteemed or vsed I haue sufficiently spoken (as I thinke) in my my booke entituled Hortensius. And of other wayghtye questions, I haue not bene slacke, eyther to dispute or wryte. But in these bookes, I haue endited those questions whiche I reasoned with my familiar frendes, in my manour of Tusculanum. And in asmuch as in the twoo fyrste bookes, you haue hearde oure disputacions of death, and of the griefe of the bodye, in this third booke you shall receyue oure reasoning kept the third day. Therfore when I came downe to my scoole (the middes of the day being past) I requyred some of thē, that were presēt, to put foorth somewhat, whereof we myghte reason. Then the matter fell our thus.
I thinke y• griefe of ye mind sometimes hapneth to a wyse man.
Thinke you so likewise of ye other perturbatiōs of ye mind, fear, lust▪ & anger? [Page] hath any disease (vnder the name of diseases, the philosophers comprise those troublesome motions of the minde, as I sayde afore) is no more hole then our bodyes in sickenes. So it must needes be, that wysedome is the healthe of the soule, & follye the syckenes of the same. Which we may call eyther madnes or folyshenes. The whych is better expressed in the latine wordes, thē greke. As it chaunceth in many other termes besydes. But therof we shall treate an other time. Nowe let vs speake of that we haue in hand. This therfore, wherof we treate, what it is, the worde it selfe doth sufficiently declare.
For we must needes thinke theym to be hoale, whose mind is troubled with no motiō, in maner of disease, and such as contraryewyse are vexed wyth the same, to be diseased. The latine worde of the which called Insania, doth properlye signifye madnesse. And therfore we vse to saye in the latine tongue, that suche as are out of theyr wyttes, as become fransye, eyther with luste or anger. [Page] Although, anger it selfe is a parte of luste: for thus it is defyned.
Anger is the lusting affter vengeance. They therfore, whyche are sayde to be out of theyr wyttes, are so termed, because they can not vse theyr wittes to the whyche nature hath graunted the rule of the mynde. But whye the Grecians cal it [...], I do not wel know. But we distinguishe the same better then they. For this vnhealthfulnesse which being all one in effect with foolyshenesse, extendeth very farre, we separate from madnesse. So the Greekes would. But they haue no apte worde for it. For that whyche we call madnesse, they call Melancholian. As though men were made frontike onelye wyth melancholye, and not rather and more oftē, with great anger, griefe, or feare. as we reade that Athamans, Alcmeon, Aiar, and Orestes, were. And in suche case, who so euer is, hym the the lawe of the twelue Tables, forbyddeth to haue the vsyng of his owne goodes. And there it is wrytten, yf a man be (Insanus) whyche sygnifieth [Page] vnhelthful, but if he be (Furiosu [...]) whiche properly signifyeth madde and furious. For by this worde ( [...]nsania) they did vnderstand, the want of a good and perfecte disposicion. Howe be it they thought, that a man in such case might well accomplishe al duties, pertayning to the commen and accustomed trade of lyfe. But madnesse, they thoughte, was the blyndenesse of the minde towardes all thinges. Whiche although it seeme to be a great deale worse, then the vnhealthfulnesse of the minde, yet trulye it is suche, that it maye sooner chaunce to a wyse man, then this lacke of healthe of the minde, I meane folishenesse. But that is an other question. Let vs retourne to our purpose. You sayde (vnlesse I be deceyued) that you thoughte, that griefe of minde might chaunce to a wyse man.
I thinke so in deede.
You doe but like a man, in that you thinke so. For we are not made of flynte. But there is naturallye in vs some tender and softe thinge, which gryefe of mind shaketh as a storme. Neyther was it euell [Page] sayde of Crantor, who was a man of great reporte in oure vniuersitie. I do not agree wyth them (quod he) who affirme so much insensibilitye of gryefe, which no man eyther can, or oughte to haue. I would not gladly be sicke (quod he) but if I be, let me feele it whether they cut away anye deade fleshe, or els take any thing out of my body. For to feele nothinge at all, can not be without great dulnesse in the mind, nor masinesse in the bodye. But weyghe ye wel, whether by this talke, he agree to our infirmitie, or fauour our softenes. Wherefore, let vs attempte to cut of, not onely the braunches of these foolishe miseries, but also to pull vp all the mores of the same, by the roote.
Yet do we the best we may: some thing will remayne. Follye hath rooted so deepe in mens heartes. But yet onelye so much shall remayne as is necessarye to be le [...]te. Wherfore, knowe you this for a certayntie, that vnlesse our minde be cured (whiche by no meanes can be done wythout philosophye) we shal neuer haue an ende of miserye. Wherefore, [Page] knowe you this for a certayntye, that vnlesse our minde be cured (which by no meanes can be done without philosophye) we shall neuer haue an ende of miserye. Wherfore as we haue begonne, so let vs wholy yelde our selues to it, to be cured. We shall be healed if we list. And I wyll goe somewhat farder. For I will treate not of the griefe of the minde onelye (although thereof chiefelye) But of all the perturbations or rather diseases of the same, as the Greekes terme them. And firste if you be so pleased, let vs folowe the order of the Stoikes: who are wont, fyrste in a shorte compasse to frame the force of theyr argumentes. And afterwardes, we wil talke of the same more at large after our accustomed vse. Who so euer is a stout man, he must nedes be bold, but whosoeuer is bold, feareth not (for boldenes and feare are thinges differente in nature) But to whom so euer gryefe of minde maye chaunce, to hym lykewyse feare maye come). For what [...]soeuer thinges do grieue vs when they chaunce, the same afore they come we [Page] feare. Therfore gryefe of the mynde, is contrary to stoutenes of stomake.
Furthermore it is likely, that who soeuer may feele griefe, he must also abide feare and faynte hartednesse, the whyche twoo, in whom so euer they be founde, he maye be subiecte to affections, and must nedes confesse him selfe ouercome wyth them. But none of all these can happen to a stoute man.
Therfore neyther gryefe maye. But none can be a wyse man, vnlesse he be stoute. Wherefore, to no wyse man, can any gryefe happen. Furthermore, it must needes be, that he whyche is a stoute man, shoulde haue a hau [...]y courage: and who so euer hath suche courage, is inuincible of all euell motions. And he that is so inuyncyble will despyse all casualtyes, that may happē to man, as thynges worse then hym selfe. But no man despiseth those thinges, the misse of y• which should grieue him, but a stoute man. Whereof it is concluded, that all stoute men are voyd of gryefe. But in a wise man, stoutnes [Page] is requisite. No wise man therfore can feele gryefe. And like as a troubled eye is not in good estate to execute his fūction, and so likewise the other partes of the bodye, or the whole bodye, when it is once moued from his quiete state, faynt [...]th in doing his parte and dutye: so lykewyse, a troubled minde, is not able to execu [...]ue his dutye. But the dutie of the minde is to vse reason well: And the mynde of a wyse man is alwayes so disposed, that it can guyde it selfe according to the vse of reasō. It is then neuer troubled. But all gryefe is a trouble to the minde. Wherefore euerye wyse man must needes be voyde of the same. It is likely also that euery temperate man, whome the Greekes call [...] and the vertue it selfe [...] whiche I am wonte to terme temperaunce or moderance, and sometimes modestye. But I can not well saye, whether it may be called frugalitie, whych the Greekes take verye strayghtlye, who name frugall men [...] whiche signifyeth onelye profitable. But it hath a larger sence. [Page] For all abstinence, al innocence (which emonges the Greekes hathe no proper name, but maye well be called [...]. For innocencie is suche an affection of the minde as hurteth no man) and all the rest of the vertues may wel be comprysed vnder the name of frugalitye.
Whyche if it were not so largelye taken, but so limited as some mē thinke. L. Piso had neuer got so great a name for vsing of it. But because neyther he who for feare doth forsake his garison, (which is a point of cowardise, neither he whiche because of couetyse doth not restore a thing secretelye committed to his custodye (whych is the poynt of iniurye and wronge) neyther he whyche through rashenes hath lost the fyelde, (whyche is a poynt of follye) are wonte to be called frugall. For that selfe same cause this name frugalitye contayneth these .iii. vertues fortitude, iustice, and prudence. And if this be common to all vertues, that they be all coupled & kni [...] together amonges theym selues, then the last and fourth vertue, frugalitye it selfe must needes be. For it is the proper [Page] dutye hereof, to rule and appease the motions of a ragynge minde, and standyng alwayes stiffe agaynst luste, and pleasure, to keepe a moderate stedfastenes in all deedes. The contrarye vice to the whyche, is properlye called naughtines: but frugality (as I think) was so called of fruy [...]e, then the which the earth can yelde nothing better.
And naughtines hereof (for althoughe it be somewhat harde to deryue it, yet let vs assaye, and if we chaunce not to deryue it well, let men then deeme that we spake it merelye), because the vse of it serues to nought in anye man Who soeuer therefore is frugall, or rather moderate, and temperate, he must nedes also be constante. But he that is constante, must be quyete. He that is quyete, must be voyde of perturbation, and by that meanes of gryefe also. But all those thinges afore recited, appertayne to a wyse man. A wise man therefore shall want gryefe.
And therfore Dionisius an Heraclean, doth not vnwittely reason, against the complaynte of Achilles, in Homere, in this maner (as I remember)
Is thy hand in good estate when it swelles? or is there any of thy limmes, whyche being swollen or p [...]ffed vp, is not sore and yll at ease? So lykewyse, a swelling minde is alwayes sicke. But the minde of a wise man, is alwayes veyde of syckenesse. It doth therefore neuer swell. But an angry minde doth alwayes swell. A wyse man therefore is neuer angry. For if he be angrye, he doth also desire: for it doth properly belonge to an angrye man, to desyre and wishe the greatest griefe that maye be, to him of whome he thinkes he was hurte. But whosoeuer wysheth anye thynge, he must needes when he hathe attayned the same great [...]y reioyce: & so in this case, he shuld reioice at an other mans misfortune: which if it chaunce not to any wise [...]ā, no more truly may anger. But if this griefe of the minde wherof we talk, might happē to a wise man, then should anger also, which inas [Page] it maye not, no more trulye maye not gryefe. For if a wise man myghte feele griefe, then mighte he feele also pitie, and enuyenge. For pitye and enuie go together. For who so euer is sorye, for some mans aduersitye, he may likewyse enuye some others prosperitie. As Theophrastus, lamentynge the death of Calisthenes his felowe, is vexed and grieued with the prosperitye of Alexander. And therfore he saieth, that Calisthenes chaūced on a man of great power, & notable felicitie, but nothyng skylfull howe to vse his prosperity. So as pitye is a gryefe conceyued of other mens aduersitie, so is enuie a sorowe, for other mens prosperitye. Who so euer therfore is subiecte to pitye, he is also some [...]ines troubled wyth with enuye. But to enuye is no point of a wise man: wherfore neyther to pitye. But yf a wise man shoulde take greuouslye any mans aduersitye, he must needes be subiect to pitie. All gryefe therefore is farre absent from a wise man.
These are the reasons of the Stoykes, and theyr crooked conclusions, which [Page] sometime hereafter we will expresse more largely, & also more playnely, and theyr reasons we must nedes [...]olowe, because they ground theyr foundation, vpon the stoutest and manlyest opinion. For oure familiar frendes [...] Perepatetikes (then the whyche we philosophers can be eyther more eloquente, more learned, or more sage) can not well perswade me, that there is a mediocritie of the perturbations, or diseases of the mind. For euery euell thing, though it be but meane, yet neuerthelesse is to muche. And we intende to shewe, that there can be no such griefe in a wyse man. For as the bodye, if it be but meetely sicke, yet neuerthelesse, is farre from healthe: so trulye if the mind be but meanely troubled, it wanteth health. Therfore oure countreymen, as they haue well geuen manye proper and meete names to other thinges, so haue they verye well termed gryefe, care, and anguishe of the minde (for the likenes that it hathe to the diseases of the bodye) sickenesse. Wyth the like worde, do the Grecians terme [Page] all perturbations. For they cal al troublesome motions of the minde [...]athos whyche is as much in effecte as diseases. For the sickenes of the minde doth muche resemble the diseases of the bodye. But lust is not like to a disease.
Nor immod [...]te ioye, which is the merye moode of the minde. Neyther is feare it selfe any thinge lyke a disease, although it is verye nygh vnto griefe. But that whyche is called a disease in the bodye, is commonly called a griefe in the mind. We must therfore, shewe the originall beginning of this gryefe. I meane the thing that worketh griefe in oure mindes, as some other thynge doth disease in the bodye. For as the phisicians, when they haue once found out the cause of any disease, thinke the cure thereof to be but lyght: so we whē we haue once founde the cause of thys gryefe, shall lyghtlye fynde some helpe for the same. Al the cause therefore consisteth in our owne opinion. I meane not only of gryefe of the minde, but of all other perturbations also: which are but foure generallye. But there are [Page] more branches and partes of the same. For, inasmuch as euery motion of the minde is eyther voyde of reason, or a despyser of reason, or disobediēt to reason, and that motiō is stirred with the opinion eyther of good or euell, within these .ii. partes, all the foure perturbations are equally contayned. For .ii. proceede of the opinion of good: of the whyche the one, is called immoderate ioye, whych ryseth of some marueilous goodnes beyng atchieued and gotten: and the other is named desyre, whyche is an immoderate lust after some thing of the whiche we haue once conceyued a great opinion of goodnes, not obeyenge to reason. And as these two are moued with the opinion of goodnes, so are the other .ii. raysed of the opiniō of some euell. For feare comes of ye opinion of some great euel, which is at hād: & sorowe is the opinion of some euell, already chaunced: and that some suche euel, y• it seemes but right, that a man should ve [...]e him selfe about it, so y• he, whō it grieues, thinketh y• he ought of righte to be grieued with it.
These perturbatiōs, which only folly [Page] sendeth emonges men, as certayne furyes we must wythstand wyth all oure might and power, yf we mind to passe this litle space of our life, quietely and pleasauntlye. But of the rest we wyll talke at other times. But nowe let vs vanquyshe gryefe if we may. For that is our purpose, inasmuche as you sayde that you thought it myghte chaunce to a wyse man: whyche I can by no meanes thynke. For it is a beastlye wretched, and detestable thynge, and suche as we oughte to flye wyth myghte and maine, as a man might say. Howe like you then, the neuewe of Tantalus, the sonne of Pelops, whych heretofore by force rauished Hippodamia, frome his father in lawe Oenomaus? Doeth he seeme nowe to be the kynseman of Iupiter, lamentinge and vexinge him selfe like an abiect?
[Page] Wylt thou O Thyestes condemne thy selfe to death, for an other mannes faulte? But nowe, as for the sonne of Phebus, do you not thynke hym worthye to behold his fathers lyghte? who lamenteth in this wyse.
These euels, thou thy selfe O foolishe Aeta, wast the causer of: for they were not amonges those thinges whyche chaunce cast vppon the. For all sorowe as I will hereafter shewe, proceedeth of the opinion of some euell that is present. But thou mournest trulye, for the lacke of thy kyngdome, and not of thy doughter. For her thou didst hate, and that perchaunce not wythoute a cause. But it grieued the greatly, to lacke thy kyngdome. Trulye it is a shameles sorowe, to mourne, for that thou mayst [Page] not keepe free men in seruitude. Dionisius the tiranne, when he was banished from Siracusa, taught children at Corinthe. So great desire he had, to beare rule. But who could be more impudent then Tarquinius? Who waged warre wyth them, that would not suffer his pride. He at the laste when neyther the armyes of the Ueientes, neyther yet the Latines, coulde restore him into his kyngdome, wente to the citye of Cume in Italye, and therewyth age and anguyshe pyned awaye. And thinke you, that the lyke maye chaunce to anye wyse man? I meane, to be wasted wyth thoughte? which is no better than meere miserye. For whereas euerye perturbation is a certayne kynde of misery, chiefely sorowe is the very torment of a troubled mind Lust bryngeth heate, ouermuche gladnes causeth lightnes, and feare breedeth a basenes of courage. But sorowe, causeth farre greater thynges then all these, as pynynge, veration, [Page] affliction, and filthinesse. It teares eates, and murders the minde. It vnlesse we laye aparte, that we vtterlye shake it from vs, we can neuer wante miserye. And this trulye is playne and euidente, that the cause of gryefe of the minde, is when any thynge whych we account to be some marueylous euell, seemeth to be euen at hande, and presentelye to pricke vs. But Epicurus thinketh, that the opinion and thought of anye euell, causeth sorowe: so that whosoeuer beholdeth anye great euell, yf he thinke that the same hath at anye time chaunced vnto him, he by his opinion must needes be troubled wyth sorowe. The folowers of Aristippus, called Cyrenaikes, thinke that gryefe of minde, ryseth not of euerye gryefe, but onelye of suche as commeth vnlooked for, and vnprouided.
And assuredlye, that is of no small force to encrease the gryefe: for all sodayne chaunces seeme to be more greeuous then other.
[Page] And for that cause are these verses worthelye commended, as the sayenges of a stablyshed minde.
This foreknoweledge of euels whych are to come, doth make the fall of those thinges more tolerable, whose cummynge a man hathe longe time afore foreseene: and for that cause, these sayenges of Theseus, in Euripides are commended (For I may lawefully, after my wonted fashion, turne the same into latine.)
Whereas Theseus sayeth, that he learned it of a wyse olde man, Euripides meaneth that by him selfe. For he was the scoler of Anaxagoras, who when newes were brought him of the death of his childe, sayde. I knewe that I begot him subiect to mortality: whiche sayeng declareth that suche chaunces are greuous to theym whiche looke not for them. Therefore, herein trulye is litle doubte, that all such thinges as are counted euell, are then moste greeuous, when they fa [...]l sodaynelye.
Wherfore, although this thinge onely doth not cause sorow, yet neuerthelesse because the setlyng and preparynge of the minde, is of great force to asswage the gryefe, let euerye man forethynke such, inasmuch as they may happen to a man. And trulye, it is a great poynt of wysedome, for a man to looke for all such casualties, as customably happen [Page] to men, not to meruayle at any thynge when it doth chaunce, and not to doubt but anye mischyefe whyche is not chaunced maye well ynoughe happen.
¶Inasmuche as Terence hath spoken this so wyselye, whyche he borowed of philosophye, shall not we out of whose store it was taken, bothe saye the same better, and also thinke it more constantlye? For this is the same countenaunce whyche neuer chaungeth.
Which Xantippe was wonte to prayse [Page] in her husband Socrates: sayeng, that he alwayes shewed the same looke at his commyng home, that he dyd at hys goynge oute. Neyther was he in this poynte lyke to Marcus Crassus, who as (Lucilius sayeth) neuer laughed but once in all his life. But (as farre as I coulde learne) he was fayre and cleare [...]ysaged. And trulye, there was good cause, whye his countenaunce shoulde be alwayes alyke, inasmuche as his mynde, whyche causeth the diuersitye of al lookes, dyd neuer varye, Wherefore bothe I will take of the Cyrenaikes, these weapons agaynst chaunces, that is to breake theyr force, with long forethinkynge of the same: and also I iudge, that that euel which is in griefe consysteth in mens opinion, and not in the thinges them selues. For if it were in the thinges, that chaunce vnto vs, wherefore shoulde the foresyghte of them, make them ye lighter. But there may be more suttle reasoninge of these matters, yf fyrste we see the opinion of Epycurus.
[Page] Who thinkes it necessary, that euerye man, to whom any euell is chaunced, shoulde foorthwith lyue in gryefe and sorowe aswell although he did foresee, and prouide for those chaunces afore hand, as also when they waxe olde.
For neyther doeth the lengthe of tyme make the euels the lesse (sayeth he) neither yet the foresyghte of theym, make vs to beare them more lightly. He sayeth also, that suche forethinkynge of euels, is very fond. Because it maye be, that they shall not chaunce at all.
Euerye gryefe (sayeth he) is odious ynoughe, when it doeth chaunce: but he that alwayes lookes for some aduersitye, makes it to him a continuall and euerlastinge miserye. And if it shoulde chaunce not to come, in vayne then should a man voluntarilye sorowe.
So he thinketh, that a man is alwaies vexed, eyther wyth the chaunce, or els wyth the thought of some euell. But the ease of sorowe, he placeth in thinkinge of gryefe, the other in drawyng [...] it to the contemplacion of pleasure.
For he thinketh, that our minde may [Page] aselye obeye reason, and folowe her guyde. Reason (sayeth he) dothe forbyd vs to thinke on gryefe. It drawth our dull wittes from the sharpe thoughtes of sorowe, to beholde the miserye of the same: from the whiche, when she, hath once wythdrawen vs, she then moues and stirres vs, to beholde and handle sundrye sortes of pleasure: the whyche both to remember when they are past, and also to hope for, when they are comming, he thinketh to be the perfect lyfe of a wyse man. Thus I haue vttered his opinion, according to my fashiō But the Epicureans do it after an other sorte of theyr owne. But nowe let vs consider, howe lightelye we esteme theyr wordes in this poynct.
Fyrste of all, they do without cause reproue the forethinking of euels to come. For there is nothinge, that maye so much dul or lighten the force of griefe, as a continuall thought and perswasion, through out all our lyfe, that there is no miserye, whych maye not happen vnto vs: as the ponderynge of the condition and estate of man: as the lawe [Page] of our life, and study to obeye. Whiche causeth vs not to mourne alwaies, but neuer. For who so pondereth with him selfe, the state of euery thing, the inconstancie of his lyfe, and the weakenes of mankynd, he doth not then mourne but rather then chiefelye doth the part of a wyse man. For hereby he getteth two commodityes. The one, that in wayghynge the frayletye of man, he doth execute the duty of a philosopher, the other, for that agaynst aduersity, he hath gotten three confortes. The first, for that he thought longe afore, that it might happen. Which onely thought doth most of all other, swage and wipe away all sorowe. The second, for that he thinketh, that all chaunces whyche may happen to a man, are paciently to be borne. And last of all, because he seeth, that there is no euell but where is some faulte. And it is no faulte of his, inasmuche as that, which a man could not withstande, is chaunced. For that reuoking of our mind frō the thought of grefe (which Epicurus would haue) [Page] is to no poynct at all. For it is not in our power, when we are prycked with miserye, or mischaunce, to dissemble or forget it. For suche chaunces teare, vexe, pricke, and enflame vs. And fynallye, suffer vs not to take anye quyete rest. And yet neuerthelesse, thou Epicurus, wyllest me to forget that, whyche is agaynst nature.
But nowe, to the helpe whyche thou shewest of an olde rooted gryefe. Trulye, althoughe it be somewhat s [...]owe, yet great is the remedye, that length of time and space of yeares doth bring. But thou willest me to propose to my selfe, the hope of good thynges, and forget the euell. Nowe trulye thy sayinge were somewhat, yea and worthy a notable philosopher, yf thou though [...]est those thinges to be good, whyche in deede are most worthy a mans trauayle and paines. If Pythagoras, Socrates, or Plato, should saye thus vnto me: Why lyest thou sadde? Wherfore [...]urnest thou? or why doest thou thus [Page] faynt, and yeld to the stroke of fortune Which, as perhaps she maye pull and pricke the, so she can not wholy daunte thy couragious force. Uertues are of great power, to resyst and wythstande the same. Them (if perhaps they slepe in the) rayse & quicken. Then will the valyaunte fortitude forthwith be at hande, whiche will cause the to be of so good courage, that thou shalt despise and esteme as nothinge, all chaunces whych may happen to a man. Then shall stand by the, temperaunce (which is also moderance, and by me termed somewhat afore frugalitye) whych wil suffer the to do nothinge shamefullye, or dishonestlye. But what is worse or shamefuller, thē an effeminate person? Nowe trulye, iustice will not suffer the so to do: whych seemes to haue least to doe in this matter. She wil saye, that thou art two wayes iniurious. Thone in that thou desyrest that whych is not thine, who being borne mortall, doest looke for the estate of the immortall gods: thother, for that it greeueth the, to restore that, whyche was lente thee [Page] onelye to vse for a space. But to prudence what wylt thou aunswere, whē she shall saye, that vertue is sufficente of her selfe, to make a good and happye life? The excellency of the whych, if it hange vpon outward chaunce, and be not cont [...]nted wyth his owne force, and power, but lacketh the ornamente of forren goodes: I see no cause whye it should be so muche eyther commended in wordes, or coueted in deedes.
To these goodes O Epicurus, yf thou cal me, I obey the, I folowe the, I take the as my guyde. I blot also (as thou wyllest me) out of my memory al euels and that also so muche the gladlyer because I count theym not worthye the name of euels. But thou drawest my thoughtes to pleasures, and delightes. Of what sort I pray the? Of the body, I thinke, or at the least wise suche, as we do eyther remember that oure bodye hath enioyed, or at the leaste wyse [...]hope, that it shal. Is it any otherwyse? Do I trulye interprete thy meanynge? For they are wonte to saye, that we do not vnderstand what Epicurus meaneth. [Page] Euen this truly he meaneth.
And this the olde Zeno, the Grecian, at Athenes in my hearynge was wont very earnestlye to affyrme, that happy was he, whyche dyd eyther presentlye enioye pleasure, or els did hope, he should enioye it: eyther throughout all his lyfe, or at the least wyse, throughe the greatest parte, withoute anye entercourse of gryefe. Or if there were any, if it were extreame, that it should be shorte. Or if it were somewhat long that it should haue more pleasure, then myserye. He that did so thinke, he sayd should be blessed: especially if he were contented wyth the pleasure, that he had before taken, and also feared not god. Thus here you see the happye life appoynted by Epicurus, descrybed so playnelye, wyth the wordes of Zeno, that therein is nothing that he can denye. Maye the proposyng, and thought of suche a lyfe then, ease eyther Thy [...] stes, or Aeta, of whom I spake before, or Telamon, a poore exyle banyshed from his natiue countrey. Of whom this wonder was made.
¶Trulye, if anye man with his substaunce hath loste his courage also, he must seeke his remedye of those graue and auncient philosophers, and not of those slaues of pleasure. For what companie of goodes is it, that they meane? Admit trulye, that it were the chiefest good that mighte be to feele no griefe. Howbeit that can not well be called pleasure. But is that such a thinge, as the syghte or minding thereof myghte ease our sorowe? Admit that gryefe be the greatest euell, that may be. Shall he then that feeleth not it, foorthwyth enioye the chiefest felicitye? But why dalyest thou Epicurus? And will not graunte that thou meanest, that pleasure, whyche thou thy selfe in other places doest expresse? Be these whiche I will rehearse, thy wordes or no?
In that booke whyche contayneth thy whole doctryne (for I wyll [Page] nowe playe the parte of an interpreter leaste anye man thinke I lye) thou spakest in this wyse. Neyther trulye do I perceyue what good thing I may imagine, voyde of those pleasures, that consist in taste, or voyde of those which consist in the hearynge of swete noyses: or wantynge those pleasa [...]n [...]e syghtes, whych the eyes do gather of fayre beautyes: or lackinge the pleasures requysite to any of the foure senses in man. Neyther maye we trulye saye that the delight of the minde is onelye in suche goodnes as wante all these. For I knowe, that the minde will so reioyce, euen wyth the onely hope of those pleasures, which I haue afore named, that when it hath once attayned them, it is voyde of all griefe. These be the wordes of Epicurus. By the which euerye man maye righte well perceyue, what pleasure Epicurus ment. For somewhat after. Right oft, I haue demaunded of theym that were counted wyse, (sayeth he) what they would accompte good, if they take away those pleasures by me afore named. But I could get [Page] nothing of them, but onelye bare wordes. Who if they will name vertues, and wysedome, they do no more then shewe the waye of those pleasures, by me afore named. Those wordes that folowe are to the same purpose. And to conclude, all his booke entituled of the chiefest good, is stuffed with such wordes & sentēces. Wilt thou then to this life reuoke Telamō, to ease his griefe? And if thou chaunce to see anye of thy frendes vexed wyth sorowe, wylt thou gyue him rather a daynty dyshe of fishe then some comfortable booke of Socrates? Wilte thou exhorte him, to heare rather the counsell of dayntye courtyers, then of Plato? Thou wilt set afore him freshe syghtes to gase on, burne sweete smelles at his nose, and set garlandes, and roses about his head.
Trulye (I thinke) yf thou adde anye thinge more thou must needes take awaye all his mourninge. Eyther all these comfortes Epicurus must confesse, or elles all those thynges whyche euen nowe I recited worde for worde must be blotted out of his booke: or rather [Page] his whole booke must be called in For it is full of commendation of pleasures. I aske of him therefore, by what meanes we maye ease him of gryefe, whych cryeth out in this sort.
What? is it best to giue this mā some pleasaunte potion, to make him ceasse his mourning? Hercken another in the same poynct. ‘From great wealth fallen, I Hector come, thy ayde nowe to desyre.’
¶It is a poynct of gentlenes, to helpe him. For he desyreth ayde.
[Page] And diuers other such lyke exclama [...] ons as folowe. But thys inespecyallye.
O conning Poete. He thinketh that al sodayne chaunces, are more greeuous then others. And therfore, after he had reckned vp the treasure and power of the kynge, whyche seemed to be suche, that there was in maner no ende therof. See what he then sayeth.
A goodly verse. For it is both in deede, worde, and measure lamentable. [Page] Let vs ease him of his gryefe. Howe? Let vs laye him on a softe featherbed, brynge him a singinge woman, let vs burne cedre at his nose, and bring him some pleasaunt potion, and therewithall prouide him of some good meat.
Be these the goodes that are able to slake the greatest sorowes? For you euen nowe sayde, you knewe none other goodes. But I could well agre to Epicurus, that a man in sorow ought to be called to the contēplation of good yf we could agree what that is whyche we terme good. But some man perchaunce, will saye. What? thinke you that Epicurus ment as you enterprete him? And that his sentences, are to be referred to bodilye pleasure. No truly. I thinke nothing lesse. For I see many thinges, grauelye and notablye spoken of him. But as I haue often heretofore sayd the controuersy is of his wordes, and not of his maners or lyfe. Let him saye, that he despyseth those pleasures whyche he did whylome commend, yet I will well remember, what felicity [...] he seemeth by his wordes to declare.
[Page] For he did not onelye name it by thys worde pleasure, but also expounded his owne sayeng, taste (quod he) & the embrasyng of fayre and seemelye bodyes, playes, and songes, and those shapes, with the which the eyes are pleasauntlye delyghted. Do I fayne? Do I lye? I desyre to be reproued. For what els do I coueyte, but that the trueth maye appeare, in euerye question. He sayeth also, that the pleasure dothe not encrease, the gryefe beyng gone: and yet that it is the chiefest pleasure, to feele no gryefe. In a fewe wordes, he hathe made three great faultes. One, in that he is contrarye to him selfe. For euen nowe he said, that he could not so much as thinke, anye thynge to be good, vnlesse the senses were tickled wyth the pleasures of the same. And nowe he sayeth, that to lacke gryefe is greatest pleasure that may be. May any thinge be more contrarye? An other faulte is, that whereas there be naturally thre [...] yoyntes, the one to reioyce, the other to sorowe, the third neither to be glad nor sorye: he thinketh, the first and the last [Page] to be all one, and dothe not separate pleasure from the wante of gryefe.
The thyrde faulte (whyche is commen to some men) is, that whereas vertue is the thynge, whyche we oughte moste of all other to desyre, because that for the attaynynge of the same, Phylosophye was chiefelye inuented, yet he hathe separated felicitye frome vertue. But (some man will saye) he doth often commend vertue.
And trulye, Caius Gracchus, when he gaue abroade the commen moneye, and beggered the treasure, yet neuerthelesse in his talke defended the same. What shoulde I heare his wordes, when as I see his deedes to the contrarye? Piso the thryftye, had alwayes wythstoode the lawe of dystrybutynge corne. Yet neuerthelesse, that lawe beinge establyshed, he beynge once afore Consull, came to take corne. Whom when Gracchus espyed he asked him in the audience of all the people, what he meant, to come to demaunde [Page] corne by that lawe, whyche he had alwayes disswaded.
Whereunto he aunswered, I woulde not gladlye, O Gracchus (quod he) that thou shouldest distribute and geue awaye my goodes. But yf thou wylte needes do it, I will take some parte my selfe. Did not that graue and wyse counsayler, sufficientlye in those wordes declare that by the lawe of Gracchus, the commen treasure was scattered? Reade the oracions of Gracchus, you will saye, that he is a defender of the treasure house. So Epicurus denyeth that a man maye lyue pleasauntlye, vnlesse he lyue also vertuouslye. He denyeth also, that fortune hath anye force on a wyse man.
He preferreth a bare liuinge, before a sumptuous and costlye. He sayeth that there is no tyme, in the whych a wyse man is not happye. All these thynges are worthye to be spoken of a philosopher, neuerthelesse they are contrarye to pleasure. But he meaneth not [...] sorte of pleasure. Let hym mean [...] [Page] what pleasure he will, so he dothe not meane such a pleasure as hath in it not so much as one iote of vertue. Well, if we vnderstande not what pleasure he meaneth, neyther do we knowe what gryefe he vnderstandeth. But I do thinke that he whyche thinketh gryefe to be the chiefest euell, ought not once to make mention of vertue. Truly the Epicureans complayne, that I do of a set purpose inueyghe agaynste Epicurus. As though we dyd stryue for some honour or worshippe. I thinke that the chiefest good consysteth in the minde, and he placeth the same in the bodye. I thinke vertue to be it, and he taketh pleasure for the same. And hereaboute they contend, and call for theyr neyghbours helpe, with great outcryes.
But I am one, whiche litle passe for suche contention. For I do not nowe reason of the warre betwixt vs and the Carthaginenses: wherein neuertheles whē M. Cato, and L. Lentulus were of seuerall opinions, yet they did neuer stryue about it. But these men are nowe to muche angry, whereas otherwyse [Page] they do not stoutelye ynoughe defend theyr opinion: for the whych they are afrayd, either afore y• Senate, or at the barre, afore the army, or in presēce of the Censors, to pleade. But wyth them I wil reason at other times, and that truly, not wyth the minde to contende: but wholye glad to yelde to their reasons. Onely thus muche I will admonishe thē, that if it were true, that a wyse man should referre all thinges to his body, or (to speake somewhat more honestlye) that he should do nothinge, but that were for his owne profyte, or commoditye, because these thinges deserue no commen prayse, let thē laugh in theyr sleeues (as they say) and leaue of theyr open bragges. Nowe there remaineth the opiniō of the Cyrenaikes: whych thinke, that gryefe is then onelye caused, when any mischiefe comes vnloked for: and trulye that is a great occasion of gryefe, as I sayde before.
And also, I knowe that Chrisippus, thinketh, that chaunces not foreseene, happen most vehementlye. But this is not all. For we knowe, that the sodayne [Page] commynge of our enemyes doth more trouble vs than when we looke for theym: and also, a tempeste in the sea, risinge on a sodayne, dothe more feare the saylers, then that whyche they haue foreseene afore. And so is it most commonlye in all other thinges. But if you do diligentlye weyghe, the nature of suche sodayne chaunces, you shall perceyue, that they seeme the greater chyefelye for two causes.
Fyrst, because we haue not leasure to consyder, howe great the thynges are, whiche, haue chaunced vnto vs. Secondarilye, for that we thinke it might haue bene auoyded, if it had bene foreseene: and so, thinkynge it to haue chaunced onelye through oure owne faulte, it maketh oure gryefe the sharper. Whyche to be true, time it selfe declareth. Whiche in space doth so asswage oure sorowe, that the euels remaygninge all one, yet oure gryefe, is not onelye minyshed, but also manye times vtterlye abolyshed.
Manye Carthaginenses lyued in bondage [Page] at Rome. And lykewyse the Macedonians, theyr kynge Perses beinge taken prysoner. I sawe also, in Peleponnesus (whiles I was yong) certain Corynthians, whyche myghte hau [...] songe the songe of Andromacha, before mentioned. For their countenāce, talke, and miserable behauioure, was suche, that a man mighte well haue sayde, they were miserable Greekes.
Yet neuerthelesse, the sodayne sight of the reced walles of theyr citye Corynthus, moued me muche more, then it did the Corynthians theym selues: whose heartes, the dayly sight thereof, had euen hardened agaynste sorowe.
We reade the booke of Clitomachus, whych he, after the subduynge of Carthage sente to the citesens, that were prisoners, to comfort them. Therein is wrytten a disputacion of Carneades: whych Clitomachus sayeth, y• he there hath abridged. In it when it was fyrst proposed, yt it semeth that a wise man shoulde lamente the captiuitye of his countreye, forthewith folowe the reasons of Carneades to the contrarye: in [Page] the whyche truly, the philosopher, doth so much comfort theyr presēt calamity, as in an old gryefe a man would scarse haue wyshed, or desyred. And trulye, if that booke had bene sent a fewe yeares after to theym, it would not so muche haue holpen theyr sores, as their skarres. For sorowe, by litle, and litle, in processe of time, dothe weare and consume: not for that the thinges theym selues, eyther are wonte, or maye be chaunged: but because, at the last, that whych reason ought to haue done, experience dothe perswade vs: namelye that those thinges are but smal, which seemed to be so great. Why then (some wyll saye) what neede haue we of reason? Or of anye of those comfortes, whyche men do vse, when they would lyghten the sorowe of such as mourne? As this and suche other, that nothyng that is chaunced ought to seme straunge, or vnlooked for? Yes trulye, he shall more tolerablye beare euerye discommoditie, who knoweth, that of necessitie, suche thinges must chaunce to men. For suche perswasions in deede, [Page] do make the euell it selfe nothynge the lesse, only hereof it putteth vs in mind that nothing is happened, which was not to be looked for. Neyther yet therefore are that sorte of perswasions, nothynge auaylable, to the curynge of gryete: but they are rather of all other, the best. Wherefore, these sodayne chaunces, are not of suche force, that they onelye should be the causers of all gryefe. They smyte vs perhaps more sharpelye, then the rest. But they are not able, to make those thinges, which so chaunce, greater then the rest. They seeme greater, because they are newe, and freshe, and not because they came sodaynely. But there are .ii. wayes, to fynde out the truthe, not in those thinges onelye, whych haue the apparance of euell, but in those also, whyth seeme to be good. For eyther we question of the nature of the thing it selfe, of what sort, and howe great it is. As of pouerty sometimes, whose burden we make lyght wyth reason, shewing how smal and howe fewe thinges nature dothe requyre: or els, from the suttle disputation [Page] of the nature of thinges, we turne oure talke to examples. And in this part, we rehearse Socrates and Diogenes, and also that sayenge of Cecilius. ‘In bare threades oft full p [...]re y [...]lad, dame Sapience doth lye hyd.’
¶And inasmuch as the force of pouertye is alyke, wheresoeuer it lyghteth, what myght be the cause, that Cai [...] Fabritius coulde easelye beare it, and other men not? And to this last kinde, that sorte of consolation like, whyche sheweth that those thinges whych are chaunced, are commonlye incidente t [...] the lyfe of all men. For this perswasion is not onelye of this effect, to put him in remembraunce that he is a man: but also it sygnyfyeth that those thynges are tolerable, whyche other haue both in times paste borne, and also do dayly suffer. As if our talke were of pouertye many pacyent poore men, myghte be recyted. Or if we shoulde speake of the contempt of honour, manye men that haue despysed the same [Page] might be rehearsed, & trulye, euen the happyer, for so doyng: for surelye theyr life is aboue al others namely cōmended which haue preferred theyr priuate quyetnes, before the styrre of publyke affayres. Neyther is the saying of that myghty prince to be forgotten: wherein he commendeth an olde man, and accompteth him fortunate, because wythoute glorye, he shoulde in maner vnknowen, come to his last ende.
Lykewyse the mournynge of those, whyche lament the losse of theyr chyldren, is swaged, wyth the examples of them, that haue abyden the like.
So the tryall of other men afore hand, maketh that those thynges, whyche chaunce on a sodayne, seeme lesse in deede, then we tooke them at the fyrste to be. So it commeth to passe, that whyles we ponder the thynges well, by litle and litle, we perceyue howe muche oure opinion was deceyued, and that Telamon dothe well proue sayenge. ‘[Page] When fyrste of all I them begot, I knewe that they must dye.’
And Theseus. ‘In minde the mischiefes that might come, I did alway behold.’
¶And Anaxagoras, sayde. I knewe that he was borne to dye. For all these men, long weighing the chaunces that happen to men, perceiued that they are not to be feared, accordinge to the opinion of the commen people. And truly, me seemeth, that they whiche ponder thinges afore hande, are holpen after the same sort, that they are, whom continuance of time dothe helpe: sauynge that reason, healeth the fyrste, and nature the other: they hauinge thys alwayes in theyr mindes, whyche is the grounde of all such remedyes, namely, that the euel whych they thought to be so greate, is not suche, that it maye destroye a happye and a blessed lyfe.
Thus therfore we will conclude, that of a sodayne chaunce there commeth a sorer strype, not as they thinke, that when twoo equall chaunces do happen to a man, it onelye shou [...]de put him to [Page] gryefe, whyche commeth of a sodayn [...]: for it is wryten that some men vnderstandinge the commen miserye of mankind, namely that we are al borne vnder that lawe, that none may be for euer voyde of misery: hane taken it verye heauilye, yea and mourned for it.
For the whyche cause, Carneades (as Antiochus writeth) was wonte to reproue Chrisippus, for cōmending these verses of Euripides.
For he sayde, that suche kinde of talke was of no efficacye to ease a man of gryefe, but rather, gaue vs occasion to lament, that we were borne vnder so [Page] [...]ruell necessitye. And as for that kind [...] of comfort, whych cometh of the rehersall of other whyche hane abyden the lyke gryeues that he thoughte was good to comforte none other, but onely those whyche were delyghted to heare other mennes sorowes. But I trulye thynke farre otherwyse. For, both the necessity of bearyng the estate of mankynde, forbyds vs to stryue wyth god: and also it putteth vs in remembraūce that we are men (which onely thought doth greatlye ease all gryefe) and also the rehersall of exaumples, serueth not to delyght the myndes of enuious persons, but onelye to proue, that he whiche mourneth, ought to beare it pacyentlye, inasmuche as, he seeth that many [...] afore him, haue wyth greate moderation and quyetnes suffred the same. For they muste haue all maner of suche stayes, whyche are readye to fall, and can not wythstand the greatnes of gryefe. And wel did Chrisippus saye, that gryefe of minde was called [...], whyche sygnyfyeth the dissoluing [Page] loo [...]yng of euerye part of a man.
Whych may well be rooted oute euen at the fyrste, the cause of the gryefe beinge once knowen. But the cause of it is nothynge els, then the opynyon of some great euell that is prosent and at hande. But the gryefe of the bodye, whose prickes are ryghte sharpe, maye well be borne wyth the hope of ease. And the lyfe honestly and worshypfullye spente, is so great a comforte, that those whyche haue so lyued, eyther gryefe toucheth not at al, or at the least verye lyghtlye. But to this opinion of some great euell, when that also is adioyned, that we thinke we oughte, and that it is our dutye to take such chaūce greuoslye, then trulye, becometh that gryefe of minde a heauy perturbation. For of that opinion, proceede those diuers and detestable kyndes of lamentynge: tearynge of the heare like women, scratchynge of theyr face, beating of the brest, legges, and heade. So is Agamemnon of Homere, and also of A [...]ius described. ‘[Page]And renting oft for griefe his goodly bushe of heare.’
Whereupon, there is a merye ieste of Byon. Sayenge that the foolyshe king pulled of his heare, as though baldnes would helpe his sorowe. But all these thinges they doo, thinkynge that they ought of ryght so to do. And for that cause, Aeschines inueygheth agaynste Demosthenes, for that he three dayes after the deathe of his daughter, had done sacrafyce. But howe rhetorically pleadeth he? what reasons gathers he? Howe wryeth he his wordes? So that a man may welll perceyue, that a rh [...] torician may saye what he lyst. But truly his talke no man would allowe, vnlesse we had this foolishe opinion in oure mindes, that all good men ought to mourne, for the death of theyr frendes. Herof it commeth, that in greate grieues some men flye to solytarynes [...] as Homere wryteth of Belerophon.
[Page] And Niobe is fayned to haue bene turned into a stoane, (as I thinke) to note thereby her continuall solytarynes in mournynge. But Hecuba, for the cruell madnes of her minde, the Poetes [...]ayne to haue bene turned into a dog. And there be some, whom in sorowe it delyghteth, to talke wyth solytarines▪ As the nurse in Ennius.
¶All these thinges men do in gryefe, hauing opinion, that they oughte of ryght and dutye to be done. And if any perchaūce, at such time as thei thought that they ought to mourne, did behaue them selues somewhat gently, or spake any thing merily: they will reuoke thē s [...]l [...]es agayne to sadnes, & blame them [...]lues as of a faulte, for that they ceass [...] to mourne. But yong childrē theyr mothers and maysters are wonte to [...]hasten, not onely with wordes, but also wyth strypes, if in time of commen [...]urnynge, they chaunce eyther to do [Page] or speake anye thynge merelye, they compell them to weepe. What I pray you? when they leaue of theyr mournynge, and perceyue that they profyt [...] nothing [...] at all, wyth sorowe, doth not that declare, that all whyche they dyd afore, was onelye of theyr owne wyll, wythoute any other constraynte?
What? the olde man in Terence, the tormentour of hym selfe, dothe he not saye?
Loe he hath euē decreed to be a wretch and doth any man appoynt anye such thinge, agaynst his owne will? ‘I would my selfe worthy accompt of any miserye.’
Loe, he thinketh him selfe worthye [...] [...]iserye. You see therefore, that th [...] euell of his gryefe proceedeth of opinion, and not of nature.
Besydes this, sometimes, the thyng [...] it selfe dothe make theym cease they [...] [Page] mourninge: as in Homere the daylye murther, and death of men doth make theym to cease theyr sorowe. In whom this is wrytten.
Wherfore, it is in our power, to lay [...] apart gryefe, when we wyll and tim [...] bothe serue vs. And is there anye tim [...] (because the thynge it selfe is in our [...] power) to soone to laye awaye sorow [...] and care? It is wel knowen, that those that sawe Pompeius slayne (fearyng [...] in that sharpe and cruell fyght, greatly the losse of theyr owne lyues, because they sawe them selues on all sydes enclosed wyth the nauye of theyr enemyes) did at that present nothyng els, but encourage the shippemen to sayl [...] swiftely, for the safetye of theyr lyues. [Page] But afterwardes when they came t [...] Tyrus, began to afflyct them selues, and lament. Could feare therfore, stay them from sorowe, and shal not reason and wysedome be able to do it? But what is there, that maye sooner make vs leaue our sorowe, then whē we perceyue, that it profiteth vs nothing: and that all our laboure therein was spent in vayne? If then we may leaue sorow we may also not take it al. Wherfore, we must needes confesse, that of oure [...]wne will and accord, we suffer griefe to enter on vs. And that is well declared also, by theyr paciēce, who hauinge abiden many cruell chaunces, do more easelye beare whatsoeuer commeth.
And are in maner hardened agaynste the bl [...]wes of fortune. As he in Euripides.
Wherefore inasmuche as the wearinesse of miseryes, doth lighten griefe, we must nedes confesse, that the thing it selfe, which is chaunced vnto vs, is not the cause of oure sorowe. Those that are chiefely studious of wisedome and haue not as yet attained the same, do they not sufficiētly vnderstand, that they are in great misery? for they haue not gotten the perfection of wisedome. And truly there can be no greater miserye, then the imperfection of wysedome. Yet neuerthelesse, they do not lament this miserye. And why so? Because to this sorte of euels, there is not affixed that opinion, that it is ryghte and iust, or any part of our duty to take it heauilye, for that we are not wyse.
With the which opinion, that gryefe is alwayes accompanyed, oute of the whyche proceedeth mourning. For Aristotle, blaming the auncient philosophers, [Page] whiche thought that their wittes had made philosophye perfect: sayeth that they were eyther most foolishe or els most vayne glorious of all men. For he sawe, that within fewe yeares the same was greatly encreased. So that it was likely, that in shorte time, it would be finished. But Theophrastus, at the time of his deathe is reported to haue blamed nature. For that to hertes and dawes, whom the same serued to litle vse, she had graunted longe life: but to mē, to whom it mighte haue bene most commodious, she had graunted but a short terme. Whose age, if it might be lengthened, it woulde come to passe, that all artes beynge made perfecte, the lyfe of man shoulde be adourned wyth all kynd of learning.
And therefore, he did complayne, that when he fyrst began to perceyue somewhat therein, then it was his chaunce to be taken out of this life. Lykewyse of all the rest, doth not euerye of them that is counted wisest and grauest witted, [Page] confesse the ignoraunce of manye poynctes? And that there are manye thinges, the whiche he would gladlye learne? And yet neuerthelesse, albeit they knowe that they sticke in ignoraunce, then the which there can be no thinge worse, they do not sorowe nor mourne. For they haue no suche opinion, that it is anye parte of theyr dutye, to be sorye. They whyche thynke that men oughte not to mourne, as Quintus Maximus, who buryed his onelye sonne, that had bene once Consul: as Lucius Paulus, who loste bothe hys sonnes in one daye: as Marcus Cato, whose sonne dyed when he was appoyncted to be Pretor: As all the rest whom we haue reckened vp in ours booke whyche is entituled of the comforte of Philosophye. The mournings of all these men (I saye) what other thyng dyd staye, but that they thought sorowe and sadnes to be thynges not properlye belonging to any man.
[Page] So whereas other men, delayed with an opinion of dutye, do yelde thē selues to gryefe, they thinkinge it a shame, did wythstand sorowe. Whereby it is euident, that griefe of mind, consisteth not in the nature of the chaunce, but in the opinion of men. Agaynst this it is sayde, who is there so madde, y• would of his owne voluntary will be sad and mourne? Nature bringeth sorowe. To the whyche, your Crantor (saye they) thinketh, that we ought to yelde. For it doth pricke, and burden vs, neyther can we resyst it. So Oileus in Sophocles, which comforted Telamon afore, when he mourned for the deathe of Aiax, he (I saye) when he hearde of his owne mischaunce, was euen ouercome wyth sorowe. Of the sodayne chaunge of whose minde, these verses are wytnesse.
By suche kinde of proofes, they go about to perswade, that we maye by no meanes withstand nature. Yet neuerthelesse, they them selues confesse, that men sometimes take greater sorowe, then nature constraineth them. What madnes is it then, that we shoulde desyre euery man so to do? But there are manye causes of sorowe. Fyrste, the opinion which we haue, that is an euell whiche is chaunced vnto vs. Whyche when we be once perswaded, thē griefe of minde doth necessarilye ensue. The second occasion is, for that they thynke theyr mourninge to be acceptable to suche, as are departed. And hereunto is adioyned, a certayne effeminate superstition. For they thynke, that they shall the sooner contente the anger of the immortall gods, if they as men astonyed wyth theyr heauy stroke, do af [...]lycte [Page] and vexe theym selues. But in the meane tyme, these men marke not howe contrarye they are to theym selues. For they commend theim, whiche dye wyllinglye. And yet they disprayse those, that beare not heauilye the departure of theyr frendes. As though [...] it might be by anye meanes, that anye man shoulde loue another better than him selfe. That is a notable sayenge, and (if you marke it well) ryghte and true, that such as ought of all other to be dearest vnto vs, we loue as our selues. But that we shoulde loue theym more then our selues, I thinke that is trulye impossible. Neyther trulye is it to be desyred in frendeshippe, that my frende should loue me more, then hym selfe: or I hym more then my selfe.
For thereof woulde ensue, a confusion of the whole trade of oure lyfe, and of all sortes of dutyes. But hereof we will reason, in other places. Nowe this shalbe sufficiente to admonyshe, that to the losse of frendes we doe not [Page] adioyne our miserye: and that we loue them not more, then they them selues would, or at the leaste wyse more then our selues. For whereas some saye that suche kinde of comfortes, do helpe manye men nothynge at all, and adde thereunto, that suche as comforte others, when fortune tourneth her face to theym, are not able to cloke theyr owne miserye: the aunsweryng of both is easye ynoughe. For these are the faultes not of nature, but of follye.
But to inueyghe agaynste such follye, although I might at this present very largelye, yet I wyll not. For both they whych do not suffer theym selues to be holpen, do thereby prouoke others to miserye, & also, they y• take theyr owne chaunce more greuouslye, then afore they counsayled others, are not more to be blamed then the commen sorte, whyche beynge nygardes, yet reproue coueytous parsons, and beynge ambitious theym selues, reprehend [...] [...]ā ynegl [...]ryous fooles.
[Page] For it is a commen practise of fooles, to espye other mens faultes, and ouerpasse theyr owne. But this is a great proofe, that whereas it is certayne, that time taketh aways sorow, yet that helpe doth not consyste in time it selfe, but in long musing and ponderynge of the mischaunce. For if both the chaūce and also the man him selfe, are alwayes one, howe maye the sorowe be any part swaged? yf neyther the thing whiche caused it, neyther yet the man whych soroweth, are chaunged? wherfore, this continual opinion, that there is no euell in the thinge, that is chaunced, doth helpe the sorowe, and not the length of time. Here some men bryng in the moderation of all perturbations whych if it be naturallye in man, then wyll nature it selfe appoynt a measure of sorow. But they consist onely in the opinion. Let that opinion be wholye rooted out therefore. Nowe (I thinke) we ha [...] sufficientlye proued, that sorowe procedeth of the opinion of some present euel: to the which opinion also, this is adioyned, that we oughte of [Page] ryght to lament and be sorye. To this definition, Zeno hath well added, that that opinion of some presente euell, ought to be fresh. By the which terme he doth vnderstand, not onelye that to be freshe, whyche hapned but late, but also, as longe as, in that whyche we tooke to be euell, there is anye force or countenaunce whyche troubleth vs.
As Arthemisia, the wyfe of Mausolus, kinge of Carya, whyche made that famous tombe at Halycarnassus, she (I saye) all her life time lyued in sorowe: and therewyth also at lengthe consumed. To her, this opinion whiche we nowe talke of, was continually freshe. He therefore that wil assaye to comfort any man, in his sorowe, oughte eyther vtterlye to roote oute his gryefe, or to appease it, or els to mitigate it as much as maye be, or els to suppresse it, not suffering it to spreade any further, or els to tourne his minde frome one gryefe to another. There be some, who thinke, that this onelye is the dutye of him that would assay to comforte anye man, to proue that it is no euell at all. [Page] Of the whyche opinion Cleantes is.
There are other some whyche would huae him shewe, that the euell is not so great as he taketh it. And of this minde are the Peripatetikes, and other there be, whyche thynke it sufficiente to shewe, that it is no straunge chaunce, whyche is happened. Chrysippus thinketh, that it is one of the chyefest poynctes of comforte, to take awaye from him that is in heauinesse this opinion, that he ought of dutye to lament, and be sorye. There be some also, that put al these thinges togyther for dyuers men are dyuerselye moued. I haue put theym all in my booke, whyche I wrote of consolation. For at that present, my mynde was greatlye vexed, and I assayed all meanes to helpe my selfe. But we must take our tyme, as well in the diseases of the minde, as of the bodye. As Prometheus in Aeschilus. To whom when one sayde.
He aunswereth in this wyse.
The fyrst precept therefore in consolation, is to shewe that that whyche is chaunced, is eyther no euell, or els verye small. The nexte is, to shewe the commen estate and miserye of mankynde. The thyrde, that it is meere follye in vaine to waste him selfe wyth sorowe: especiallye, in asmuche as he perceyued, that he is nothinge holpen thereby. For Cleantes comfort, serues but for a wyse man, who nedes no comforte at all. For yf you perswade a sorowefull minde, that nothing is euell, but that whiche is dishonest, you shall not by that meanes take awaye his sorowe, but his follye. But trulye both the time, is yll t [...] teache, and also it seemeth, that Cleantes sawe not, that gryefe of mynde myght be styrred sometimes, vppon suche occasion, as I am sure he hym selfe wyll confesse [Page] not to be greatly euell. For what wyll he say hereunto? when Socrates perswaded Alcibiades, that there was no poynct of manhode in him, and that he was no better thē the vilest slaue, that went on the grounde. When Alcibiades did for thys cause afflicte him, and humbly weeping, requested Socrates to enstructe him in vertue, y• he mighte flye vyce: what? wil you say Cleantes? that the cause of Alcibiades griefe was no euell at all, because it was not the greatest euell that might be. Lycon, mindinge to make men esteeme griefe of minde, as a light matter, sayes that it is stirred vppon small occasions: as wyth the mischaunces of fortune, and bodilye hurt, wythout anye euels pertaynyng to the minde. But dyd not the griefe of Alcibiades, ryse chiefelye for the vyces, whiche he felte in his owne minde? Nowe of the consolation of Epicurus we haue spoken sufficientlye heretofore. Neyther truly is that kinde of comforte verye stronge, although it both is much vsed, and also manye tymes taketh effecte, I meane, to shewe, [Page] that suche chaunces come not to hym onely. It helpeth in deede (as I haue sayde) but neyther at all times, neither yet all men. For there are some that despyse it. But it is a great matter, bowe we beare it. For we oughte not to tell, what mischaunce euery priuate man hathe suffered, but howe wyselye wyse men haue borne it. The consolation of Chrisippus, is the strongest for the truth of the sayenge: but hardest to perswade in time of sorowe. For it is a hard worke to proue to one that mourneth, that he dothe it of his owne free will, and for that he thinketh he ought so to do. Wherefore, as in pleadyng of causes, we do not alwayes vse one kynde of state (for so we terme the sundrye sortes of controuersyes) but therein confyrme oure selues, to the tyme, the nature of the question, and the person of ye hearer, so must we do in the asswaging of griefe. For we must marke what kynde of cure eche man is apt to take. But I knowe not howe I haue made a longe digression from our purpose. For you moued your question of a [Page] wyse man, to whom eyther nothynge maye seeme euell, that wanteth dishonestye, or els if any euell chaunce vnto him, it is lightly ouercome wyth wisedome: so that it is scarce sene. Because he fosters no fonde opinion, to the encrease of his gryefe. Neyther thynketh it wysedome to vexe and waste hym selfe wyth mournynge. Then the whych there can be nothinge worse.
Yet neuerthelesse, reason hath taught vs (as I thynke) albeit it was not oure appoynted question at this presente tyme, that nothynge is euell, but that whyche is dishoneste. Or at the lea [...] wyse, if there be anye euell in gryefe, that it is not naturall, but proceedeth of our owne voluntarye will, and erronious opinion. Thus we haue treated of the nature of sorowe, whyche is the greatest of all gryefes. For it beinge taken awaye, the remedyes of the reste neede not greatlye to be soughte. Yet neuerthelesse, there are especyall [Page] [...]mfortes agaynste pouertye, and a base and lowe lyfe. And there are pry [...]ate scooles appoynted, to reason of banyshemente, the ruyne of our countrey, bondage, weakenes, blyndenes, and of euerye chaunce that maye haue the name of calamitye. For these thinges the Greekes deuyde into seuerall scooles. For althoughe they are matters worthye the reasonynge, yet they [...]ou [...]yte in handlyng of them onelye to delyght the hearer. But as Phisicians in curynge the whole bodye, helpe also euery least parte, that had anye gryefe in it. So lykewyse Phylosophye after it hathe taken awaye thys vnyuersall sorowe, ryddeth also all the reste, that vse to trouble vs, as pinchyng pouerty infamous shame, hatefull exyle, or anye of those gryeues whyche I hau [...] alreadye treated of.
Yet there are seuerall sortes of remedyes, for euerye one of these.
[Page] But we muste alwayes come to thy [...] foundation, that all griefe of minde, ought to be farre from a wyse man.
Because it is vayne and to no purpose Because it is not naturall, but proceedeth of a fond opinion, and iudgement alluryng vs to sorowe, when we haue once determined, that we oughte so to do. This beinge taken awaye, whyche wholy consisteth in our owne wyll, all sorowefull mourne, shall be vtterlye quenched. Perchaunce, certayne priuy prickes may remayne, whych let them count naturall, so that the heauye, terrible, and deadlye name of sorowe, be gone. Which may by no meanes dwel wyth wysedome. But there are many bytter braunches of sorowe, which the stocke beinge once rooted oute, muste needes wither and peryshe. Howe be it we had nede of seuerall reasoninges against them: wherein, we wyl bestowe some time of leasure. But there is one nature of all the gryeues of the mynde albeit there are seuerall names. For both to enuye is a poyncte of gryefe of the minde, and also to backe bite anye [Page] man to be pitifull, to be vexed, to h [...] waile, to mourne, to lamēt, to sorowe, to be careful, to be afflicted, and to despayre, all these, the Stoykes do seueral [...]ye define. And these wordes which I haue rehearced, are the names of seuerall thinges, and not (as they seeme to be) manye wordes signyfyenge one thing: but differ somewhat. As we wil in some other place perhaps, entreate more at large. These are the shootes of the stocke (whyche we spake of euen nowe) whyche we ought so to roote out that they might neuer ryse agayne.
A great worke and a harde as no man denyeth. But what notable thynge is there which is not hard? Yet neuerthelesse, philosophy wyll bryng it to passe. Let vs onely suffer our selues to be [...]ured of her. And thus we will finishe this Question. And of the rest at some other time in this selfe same place I will be readye to reason.
The fourth dayes reasoning of the fourth Question, disputed by Marke Tullye Cicer [...], in his manour of Tusculanum, as well contayning in it, the description and deuysion, of all those perturbations, whych commonly disquiete the minde, as also prouinge, that none suche may, or ought to be in a wyse man.
BOth in many other thinges, I am wont to wonder at the witte, and trauayle of oure countreymen (deare fr [...] ̄d Brutus, but chiefelye as ofte as I referre my minde to those studyes, which beinge crepte but verye late into some estimation wyth vs, and therefore scarcely missed or desyred vntil these later dayes, they haue nowe deriued our of Greece, into this our city. For wheras euen frō the very beginning of y• citie. Partlye by orders appoynted by the kynges, whych then [Page] reygned, & partly by written lawes, diuination by byrdes, ceremonies, elections of officers, appealementes, a parliament of lordes, a muster of horsemē, and footemē, were ordayned: yet much more afterwardes, the commen welth being once eased of the yoke of the kingdome, there was made a wonderfull forwardnes and a spedye course, to all kynde of excellency. But this place serueth not, to talke of the customes and ordinaunces of our forefathers, or of the orders and gouernaunce of the cytye. Thereof, we haue spoken sufficientlye in other places. But chiefely, in those .vi. bookes, which we haue written of a commen wealth. But in this place, whiles I consider wyth my selfe the studyes of all sortes of artes, and learninge, I haue manye occasions to thinke, that as they haue ben borowed [...]nd broughte from the Greekes, so of vs they haue not onelye bene desired, but also preserued and honoured. For there was well nye in the syght of our forefathers, Pythagoras, a man of wonderfull wisedome, and great fame [Page] [...]or learning. who li [...]ed in Italy, about the same time, that Lucius Brutus (the noble auncestoure, of your house) deliuered his countreye, from the bondage of the kinges. Pithagoras learning, spreadinge farre abrode, came at the last also into this our city: the which we may gather, both by manye probable coniectures, & also by euidente reasons, whiche in maner of steppes shall shewe vs the truthe. For who woulde thinke, that, whereas the countrey called great greece, wel stored with mighty cities▪ was famous throughoute all Italye, & in it, firste Pythagoras hym selfe, and afterwardes his scol [...]rs & folowers, began to haue a great r [...]por [...] [...] name, who could thin [...]e I say, that the eares of our countreymen, were stopped or closed against theyr learned doctrine? I do rather iudge, that because of the great estimation y• the Pithagoreans were in, such as l [...]ued after Numa, notwithstandinge, y• Pithagora [...] liued not in his time, est [...]emed him to be a scol [...]r & folower of Pithagoras.
For they knowing his orders & rules, and hearing of their forefathers the iu [...]ice [Page] & wisedome of king Numa, being ignoraunt of the ages & times, because it did farre passe the memorye of them that then liued, be leued, that he, who farre passed all the men of his time, in wisedome & learning was vndoubtedly the scoler and [...]earer of Pithagoras. And thus farre we haue, reasoned by coniecture. But nowe, as concerninge proofes▪ to shewe, y• our countreymen knewe the Pithagoreās. I could bring manye. But I will vse [...] [...]we, because▪ it is not our purpos [...], at this present time. For like as it is reported of th [...], that they were wont to giue darke preceptes in verses, & also to withdraw their mindes from weigh [...]y▪ meditations, wt song & instrumentes, so Cato a man of great grauitye, and authoritie, wrote in his b [...]ke whyche he made of the beginninges of this our citye, that it was a custome vsed among our forefathers, in al bankets, y• such as sate at the table should sing to y• tune of an instrument y• prayse & prowes of worthy men. wherby it is euidēt y• songes euen it y• time were pricked by note. Also y• law of the .xii. tables doth declare, that [Page] verses were wonte to be made at that present: in that they commaunde, that no man should make anye ditye, to the hurte of another. Neyther maye thys seeme a lyghte proofe, of the learninge whyche they vsed in those times: that, afore the pillowes of the gods, and at the feastes of the magistrates, musicians did playe: whyche was a thynge, chyefely vsed of that secte, of whyche I nowe speake. Furthermore the verse of Appius the blynde, which Paneti [...] cōmendeth hyghly, in an epistle which he wrote to Q. Tubero, seemeth is sauour Pithagoras doctrine. There be many of our orders also, which we had from them, which I do here ouerpasse, leaste we maye seeme to haue learned those thinges otherwhere, whyche we are thoughte to haue inuented our selues. But to brynge backe my talke to my fyrst purpose: in howe shorte tyme, howe many and howe notable poetes, but chiefely what excellent oratoures, haue there bene amonge vs? So that it may well appeare, that oure countreymen could attayne al thinges, as soone [Page] as they gaue theyr mindes vnto them. And of other studyes, we bothe will speake in other places, if neede shal requyre, and also haue already spoken very ofte. But the studye of wysedome, is rooted truly among vs: howebeit afore the time of Lelius and Scipio. I scarse fynde any, whom I might well name wyse. In whose youth I vnderstande, that Diogenes the Stoike, and Carneades the Academike, were sent emba [...]adours from the people of Athenes so oure Senate, who hauinge neuer borne any office in the commen welth: & being borne the one at Cyrene, the other at Babilon, trulye as I thinke, they had neuer bene appoynted to that office, vnlesse in theym, as in certayne principall men, all studyes of learnyng at that time had chiefelye flouryshed.
Such men, when they employed theyr wyttes, to writinge, some penned the ciuile lawe, some their owne orations, some the monumentes of theyr forefathers. But this moste ample and necessarye arte of all the rest. I meane the rule of good lyfe, they taughte more [Page] wyth theyr sincere cunning, then with anye monumentes of learninge. And therfore of that true and excellent philosophye, which inuented of Socrates, hath hitherto remayned amonges the Peripatetikes, there be almost, eyther none, or els very fewe Latine workes, either, because of the greatnes & hardnes of the thinges thē selues, or els, because they thought, that their trauayle therein, should be nothinge acceptable to such as were rude and ignoraunt.
But while those worthy sages whisted & kept silēce, there rose one Caius Amasanius, wt whose bookes the people being perswaded gaue them selues to his doctrine, whether it were, for that it was very easy to learne, either because they were allured thereunto, with the flattering baites of pleasure, or els because there was no other philosophye wryten, y• which they heard, they folowed. But after Amasianus manye folowers of his doctrine writing manye bookes, spred the same, throughout all Italye. And y•, whiche is a great proofe that there is no wittye inuention, in theyr reasons, I meane because they be [Page] both lightli perceiued, & also allowed of y• vnlearned, yt thei thinke to be a great strengthening to al their doctrine. but let euery mā defend what he likes best For eche mans iudgement ought to be free. I wil kepe mine old wonte: & binding my selfe to no one sect to y• whych I ought of necessitie to be subiect, will alway seke out, what in all thinges is most likelye to be true. Whiche I haue done, both in manye other places heretofore. But chiefelye of late in my manour of Tusculanū with earneste paynes. Wherfore since I haue alreadye tolde you our .iii. dayes reasoninges, it resteth that in this booke you heare the fourth dayes disputacion likewyse.
Therfore, when we came downe into our shaded walke, as we did all the rest of the dayes, y• matter fell out thus.
Let some man say, whereof he wil dispute.
I thinke that a wise man cā not want al perturbations of y• minde.
Yesterday you thoughte that he might want sorowe vnlesse perchaūce you agreed onely because of the shortenes of the time.
Not so, for your talke did meruaylously well please me.
Thinke you then that sorowe can not happē to a wise man.
Yea truly, I thinke it can not.
But if it can not trouble the minde of a wyse man, then truly can none at all. For what should do it? might feare disquiet it? But feare pr [...]ceedeth but of the absence of those thinges, whose presence causeth gryefe and sorowe. Takynge away sorowe therefore, feare is gone. Then there remayne two perturbations: light gladnes and desyre. Which if they can not chaunce to a wyse man, then shal his minde be alwaies quiete.
So in deede I thynke.
Whether wyl you then, that we forthwyth hoyse vp all oure sayles, or els as shipmen are wonte to do, when they come forth of a hauen, to rowe a while wyth ores.
What meane you by that? for I do not well vnderstande you.
Because Chrisippus, and the Stoykes, when they reason of the perturbations of the mind, do bestowe a great parte of the time, in deuidynge and defininge. Which talke of theyrs, assuredlye is of litle purpose, to ease a [Page] troubled minde. But the Peripatetikes, bryng manye reasons to the comfortyng of our mindes, and ouerpasse these crabbed partitions, and definitions. I did therefore aske of you, whether I should at the fyrst, hoyse the sayles of my talke, or els at the beginning rowe the same forwardes wyth the ores or logyke.
I thinke it best euen so. For by that meanes best, shall my question be discussed.
Truly, it is the wysest waye. For hereafter you may as [...]e of me, if any thing seeme some what darke vnto you.
I will do so in deede. But you neuerthelesse, after your accustomed wonte, shall expresse these darke reasons more plainelye, then the Greekes d [...] vtter them.
I wil do my endeuoure. But you had neede to heare attentiuelye: leaste yf you chaunce to forget some one smal thinge, all the reste also maye chaunce to slippe from you. Because those motions (which the Greekes terme Pathae, we call perturbations rather then diseases: in describing of them, I wil first f [...]lowe the auncient order of Pythagoras, [Page] then the trade of Plato. Who deuideth the minde into two poynctes: o [...] the which, the one they say is endewed with reason, & the other is wholy voide of the same. In that part which is partaker of reason, they place quietnesse with an assured constācy. In the other, they say, are al the troublous motions, as well of anger as desyre, whiche are all enemyes, and contrary to reason.
Let this therfore be oure foundacyon: but in describyng these perturbations, we wyll vse the [...] definitions and diuysions of the Stoykes, which in my opinion handle this questiō more wittely then all the rest. This therefore, is the definitiō of Zeno, that that, whych we terme perturbation, & he Pathos, is a turning from the rule of reason, contrary [...] to the nature of the minde. Some describe it more shortly, to be a vehement appetite. By vehemēt, thei meane such a lust, as hath swarued farre from the constancye of nature. But the sundrye kyndes of perturbatiōs (they say) haue their beginninge of the two sortes of goodes, and two sortes of euels. And so there are in noumber foure. Two [Page] that are stirred by the opinion of some good thing: whych are desyre and gladnes. For gladnes proceedeth of ioye, for some good thinge, that is present: & desire, of some good that is to come. And two that are caused of the opinion of some euell, whyche are feare and griefe of minde. Feare of euel to com [...], and sorowe for some present euell. For those thinges, whiche we feare, when they are coming, those put vs to griefe when they are come. But mirthe and desyre, proceede alwaies of the opinion of some good thinges▪ Desyre feruentlye co [...]eytinge some thing that seemes good vnto i [...], and mirth reioy [...]inge for the obtayning of some thynge which it had long time before c [...]ueted. For naturalli, euery man coueites that which s [...]emeth to be good, and flyes the contrarye, wherefore wheresoeuer there is any thing whych hath in it anye apparaunce or shewe of goodnes, forthwith na [...]re it selfe prouokes vs to desire the same. Suche a desyre or luste, the Stoykes name Voyl [...]s [...], and we terme willinge. It, they thynke, to be [Page] in a wyse man onelye, and defyne it thus. Willynge, is that, whyche desyreth any thyng according to reason.
But it whych coueytes agaynst reason is called lust, or immoderate desyre, whyche is in all fooles. Also when we haue attayned anye good thynge, oure minde is moued two maner wayes.
For eyther it is quyetelye moued vnto mirth according vnto reason: and then it is called i [...]ye: or els it reioiceth vaynlye wythout measure, and then it may wel be called light or ouermuch mirth. Whyche they defyne to be the ioye of the minde, wythoute reason. And as we do naturally coueyte such thinges, as seeme in oure eye to be good, so doe we naturallye flye from those thinges which seeme to be euell. Whych if we do according vnto reason, we may wel call it warynes: and saye, that it is in none, but onely such as are wyse. But yf it be wyth an humble submission, wythout reason, then may it be called feare. So feare is wearynes agaynst reason. But as for anye affection that should be in a wyse man, because [Page] of some presente euell, there is none at all. But that wherwith fooles are combred, is sorowe, whych procedeth of the opinion of some present euell, and causeth theym to abate theyr courage, and faynt, contrary to reason. For the whiche cause, it is defyned, to be a faynting of the minde, contrary to reason. So there are foure kindes of perturbatiōs: and but three sortes of good motions, because there is no good motion contrary to sorowe. But they thinke, that all these perturbations are stirred of our owne iudgement, and free wyll.
And for that cause, they defyne they [...] yet more strayghtly: that men may not [...]nelye perceyue, howe yll they be, but also, that they are in our owne power. Sorowe therfore, is a freshe opinion of s [...]e present euel. In the whych it seemeth ryghte, that the minde shoulde [...]mble and submitte it selfe to gryefe. [...]yrth, is a fresh opinion, of some good that i [...] presente, wherein, it seemeth [...]yght to reioyce. Feare is the opynyon [...] s [...]me euel hangyng ouer vs, whyche we thinke our selues scarse able to suffer. [Page] Desyre is the opinion of some good likely to come vnto vs, whych it were for our profyte presently to haue. But in these opinions, they do not onelye place the perturbations theym selues, but also those thinges whych are done by them. As gryefe of minde, causeth a certayne nippinge of sorowe, and feare a fayntinge & submission of the minde, and ioye an vnreasonable mirthe, and lust an immoderate desyre. And this worde opinion, which we haue put into euery one of the former definitions, they interprete to be a lyght agreemēt. But of euerye perturbation, there are many partes of the same sorte. As of gryefe of minde, inuyenge, (for we must vse at this time that word, albeit it be not much in vse. For enuye is not properly sayd to be in him onely, which dothe enuye another, but also in hym whych is enuied) emulation, obtraction, pitye, anguyshe, waylynge, mourninge, gryefe, sadnesse, lamentacion, carefulnesse, trouble somenes, afflictiō, desperation, and such like. The sundry sortes of feare, are slouthfulnes, shame [Page] terrour, f [...]are, dread, extreame, feare examination, trouble, fearefulnesse. Of ioye, there is maleuolence, reioycing at other mens losse, vaine delg [...]htes, boastinge, and others like. Of luste, or desyre, there are anger, shaking, hatred, enmity, indigence, desyre, wyth others of the same sorte. And all these partes, they defyne after this sorte. Enuienge, is a sorowe taken for some other mans prosperity, which nothinge hurtes the [...]your. For, yf anye man be aggreeued with the prosperitye of anye man, that is noysome to him, he can not be well sayde to enuye him. As no man would saye, that Agamemnon did enuye Hector. But he, whiche is grieued wyth the prosperity of some other man whyche is nothing hurteful to him, is sayde to enuye. But emulation is taken two maner wayes, the one prayse worthy, thother discommendable.
For, the desyre to excell in vertue, is [...]alled emulation. But thereof we will say nothing at this time. For it is commendable: and also, there is emulation which is a gryefe taken, for that another: [Page] hath obtayned that whych we [...] t [...] haue, and we do lacke it, and this we nowe speake of. Obtrectation is a [...]orowe taken, for that an other man hath gotten that whych we desysyred. Pitie, is a sorowe taken for the miserie of some man plagued therwith vniustlye. For the punishemente of a mankyller, or a traytoure mo [...]eth no man to pitye. Anguyshe, is a sharpe gryefe. Wayling is a sorowe taken of some mans death, whom we loued entyerly. Mourninge is a lamentable sorow. Griefe is a paynful sorowe. Sadnes is a vexinge sorowe. Lamentation is sorowe ioined with mourning. Carefulnesse is griefe ioyned with thought. Troublesomnes, is a cōtinuall gryefe. Affliction, is sorowe ioyned with vexation of the body. Desperation is grie [...] wythout hope of amendmēt. The partes of f [...]are are defyned thus. Slouthe, is a feare of some labour to come. Terroure is a quakynge feare. For like as blushyng foloweth shame: so doth after terroure, come palenes and quakyng. Dreade, is the feare of some euell nye [Page] at hande. Extreame feare is suche, as maketh a man besides him selfe. wherof there is this verse of Ennius. ‘Then extreame feare, out frō with in me, did berieue my wittes.’
¶Exanimation, is a feare folowynge and ensuinge extreame feare. Conturbatiō, is a feare, dispersing the thoughtes. Fearefulnesse, is a continual feare The partes of feare they describe in this wyse. Maleuolence, is a pleasure conceyued of an other mans aduersity, which is nothinge to our profyte. Delyghte, is a pleasure reioycinge the mind, with some pleasaunt noise, sight touching, smell, or taste. Which are al of one sorte. Pleasures inuented to effeminate the minde. Boastinge, is a light and a bragginge pleasure. The partes of desyre they define in thys wise. Anger is a desyre to punishe him which seemeth to haue hurt vs wythout cause. Chafing, is an anger soone begon & soone ended, which in Greeke is called Thymosis, Hatred, is an inueterate malice. Enmity, is anger, waitīg time to reuenge. Discorde, is a bytter [Page] anger, conceyued with inward hatred, from the heart. Indigence, is an insatiable lust. Desyre, is a lust to see some thinge that is not presente. But, the fountayne and spryng of all perturbations, is intemperance. Whiche is a swaxuinge of the whole minde, from the obedience of reason: so strayed from the rule of the same, that the lustes of the minde, can neyther be ruled nor brydeled. Wherfore, like as temperaunce doth quiete all lustes, and maketh theym to obey reason, and kepeth the iudgementes of the minde vncorrupted: so the enemye of the same, intemperaunce, disquieteth, troubleth, and vexeth euerye part of the mynde.
And for that cause, bothe sorowe and gryefe, and also the other perturbations, are stirred by her. Like as when the bloud in the bodye of man, is once corrupted, or fleaume or choler doth abound, it causeth syckenesses and diseases to rise in the body: so, the trouble of euell opinions, and theyr contraryetie amonges them selues, bereues the minde of healthe, and troubles it [Page] wyth dyseases. Those diseases take theyr first beginning of perturbatiōs▪ whyche the Greekes call Nosimata. In this poyncte the Stoikes take muche paynes, in comparynge the diseases of the minde, wyth the sickenesses of the bodye. Which (as a thyng nothing necessarye) being ouerpassed, let vs com [...] to the matter. Let this therfore be presupposed, that euery perturbation, because of opinions troublouslye tossyng to and fro, is alwaies mouing. When this heat and styrringe hath perced the minde, and is entered as it were into the vaynes and mary, thē ryseth there both some sickenes, and disease, and also those vyces whyche are contrarye to the same. For vertue, is not contrarye to anye perturbation but a meane betwyxt two of theym. These thynges whych I saye, differ in thinkynge, but in deede they are all one: and ryse of d [...]syre a [...]d ioye. For when a man coneyteth moneye, and hath not by hym forthwyth reason, whiche as the salue of Socrates, might heale that desyre, it spr [...]des forth into the vaynes, and [Page] [...]icketh in the inward bowels. An [...] there at the lengthe, becometh a syckenesse or disease. Whyche beynge once rooted, can neuer be remedyed: and is called auaryce. The lyke is the begynnynge of all the reste: as of the desyre of glorye, concupyscence of women, and all the other perturbations. But those thynges, whyche are contrary to the same, are thoughte to b [...] [...]aused o [...] feare, as the hat [...] of women, or of all mankynde, whyche was in Tymon.
Who was called [...], whyche sygnyfyeth a hater of women. Al these dyseases, ryse of a certayne [...]are o [...] those thinges, which they flye, or ha [...]e 'But the syckenesse of the minde, to be a vehement opinion, that some thinge ought to be desyred whych is not to be coueyted. And the same fyrmely sette and gra [...]ed in the mind [...]. But that disease, whych proceedeth of the minde beynge offended, they [...] to be an earnest opinion, in any [...] [...] that he ought to flye that, whyche [...]n deede he ought not. And this [...]pinion is in thinkynge, that he knoweth that, whyche [Page] [...] knoweth not. But vnder the name of sickenesses, are contayned all these. Co [...]eytise, ambition, concupiscence of women, stubburnes, ryot, dronkennes and such like. Couetise, is an opinion [...]rmelye fired in oure minde, that we oughte to desyre money. And after th [...] sam [...] sort are all the rest defyned. But [...]ose vyces, whyche growe by the offences of our minde agaynste certayn [...] thing [...], are thus defyned. In hospita [...]e▪ is a vehement opinion, fyrmelye [...]ooted in our mindes, that good house [...]pynge, and hospitalitye, ought to be [...]o [...]saken. After th [...] lyke sort is the hate of wom [...]n defy [...]ed. Whyche was in Tymon. And that I maye come at [...]ngthe, to th [...] comparyson of health, and sickenesse of the bodye: herewyth vsynge it neuerthelesse, more sparelye then the Stoykes are wonte: as there are some more prone to diseases, then other, whom we call syckelye, not for that they are alwayes sycke, but very [...] [...]): So are there also, some more prone to feare, and some to some other perturbation.
[Page] So in some men there is carefulness [...], whereof they are called careful: and in some angrynes, whych differeth from anger. For it is one thing to be angry▪ and another to be angerd. As carefulnes, differeth from anguyshe. For ne [...] ther are all men carefull at some time, when they feele anguyshe: neyther ar [...] all carefull men in anguishe. As dronkennes, and drowsines, differ, and it is one thyng to be a lou [...]r, and another to be louing. And this pronenes of diseases, extendeth farre. For both it do [...] pertayne to many perturbations, [...] also it is apparent in many vices▪ [...] it hath no certayne name▪ Therefore, men are called enuious, euell willers, feareful, and pitifull, because they [...] prone to these perturbations, thoughe they be not alwayes troubled wyth them. This pronenes, in comparison▪ may be called syckenes: so that pronenes be alwayes counted a readynes t [...] be sicke. But it in good thinges, because some are more apte to goodnes▪ than other, may be termed aptenes.
And in euell thinges, it may signifye a [Page] [...]adines t [...] [...]all. And in such thynges, [...]s are neyther good nor bad, it maye [...]aue his former name. But as there [...]re diseases and sickenesses in the [...], so like wise there are in the minde. A disease, they call the infection of the whole body [...] but a syckenes, they name [...] faynte disease: A faulte is, when the limmes of the bodye are not [...]quallye proporc [...]o [...]ed: but some miss [...] placed, and yll fauoured to see. So a disease, and sickenesse, are, when the whole b [...]dye is disquiete, or out of tempe [...] ▪ [...] maye be oftentimes per [...]yue [...], [...] [...]odye beyng of perfect health. But in the [...]nde, we can not separa [...]e [...] [...] from a disease, but onely [...] by thoughte. And in it that whiche we [...] a faulte in the bodye, maye well [...] called viciousnes. Whyche is an in [...]staunt and waueringe dssposition, [...] all the life tyme. So it [...] to passe, that the corrup [...]on [...] maners▪ breedeth a syckenesse and disease, and the other causeth inconstancy [...]nd repugnaunce. Neyther yet, doth e [...]ry imperfection, cause discordaunce [Page] in the mind. As they who are not farre from wisedome, yet whiles they are in that imperfectiō, haue some iarring in th [...]yr mindes, but no such contrarietye or repugnance. But, syckenesses and diseases, are partes of viciousnes. But whether perturbations be partes of the same, it is in doubt. For vices be permanente affection [...]: but perturbations, are continuallye in motion, so that they can be no partes of suche affections, as vse to cōtinue in the mind. [...]nd as in the proportion of euels, the minde maye well be resembled to the body, so it maye likewyse in good thinges. For the chyefe partes in the body are beautye, myght, health, and swiftnes. The same likewyse, there are in the minde. The bodye is in healthe when those principles of the which we consist, agree among them selues, and iarre not. So the mynde is sayde to be in good healthe, when it agreeth in ryght iudgemētes, and true opinions. [...]nd that is that vertue of the mynde, [Page] whyche some [...]all temperaunce▪ And other some name [...] be a vertue, folowing and obeyeng temperaunc [...] ▪ hauing no certayne name. But whyche of them so euer it be, they do all agree; that it is in a wyse man onely. But there is a certayne healthe of minde, whyche a [...]oole also maye haue. Which is, when by the helpe of philosophye, the perturbations of his minde are cured. And, is there is a certayne proportion of the [...]mes of the bodye, wyth a pleasaunt shape, whych is called beautye: so likewyse teh equalitye and consente of the mynde in opinions; and iudgementes▪ with a certayne stoutenes and co [...]tan [...]ye, folowynge vertue, or rather, con [...]ynyng the whole power and force of [...], [...] named the beautye of the minde. Nowe, as for the strengthe, [...]yntes, and styffenes of the bodye, there are like partes also in the minde. But whereas there is a certaine quick [...]esse in the body otherwise called swiftnes, neither doth the mynd want that [Page] prayse also: whyche in shorte tyme can runne ouer, the remembraunce of thinges, in number infinite. But these differences there are betwyxte the body [...] and the mynde: that the mynde beynge in good health, maye in no parte feele anye griefe: but the bodye maye. Also, the diseases of the body may sometime come wythout oure faulte. But so can not the diseases of the minde. The lyghtest troubles of the whyche, can not happen, wythout the despysyng of r [...]son. And for that cause, they be in me [...] on [...]lye. For beastes maye haue some such like chaunces▪ but they haue no [...]rturbations: and betwixt quicke and dulle witted men, this difference there is▪ that wyse men, like as the brasse [...] Cori [...]he will, [...]eeldo [...] [...] rows [...]ye, so will they likewyse, eyther hardly fall into a [...]ye disease, or els y [...] they chaunce to fall into anye, lightly [...] [...]e cured. And so it is not with dul witted men. Besides that, the minde of [...] wyse man is not subiect to euerye perturbation. For he doth none of those thinges whych are beastlye and cruell. [Page] Yea, and those perturbations, whyche sometimes chaunce vnto him, haue a certayne shewe of gentlenes: as pitye, sorowe, and feare. But those sickenesses, and diseases of the minde are more harde to be rooted oute, then those extreme vices, whyche are contrarye to vertues. For those olde rooted dyseases remayning, vices can not be taken awaye. Because they are not so lyghtlye healed, as the other rooted out. And thus you haue so much, as the Stoikes subtelye reason of perturbations.
Which they call logicall, because they are profoundlye wrytten. From the which, since our talke is now escaped, as it were from cragged rockes, nowe let vs go to the other part of our disputations: if you thynke that we haue spoken playnely ynoughe, respectinge the darkenesse of the matter.
Yea truly playnely ynough. Therfore, now we looke that you shoulde spreade the sayles of your talke, whyche why [...]ome you spake of.
Forasmuche as, [...]th at other times hertofore, we haue spoken muche of vertue, and must also [Page] hereafter do the same. In manye oth [...]r places, (for moste of those questions, whych pertayne to the trade of life and maners, are grounded vppon vertue) for that cause we wil nowe define vertue. Whych is a constante, and laudable affection of the minde: bothe makynge them in whom it is commendable: and also it selfe, euen wythoute the name of profyte, worthy of prayse.
From it, do procede all honest desyres, wordes, and deedes. And to be shorte, the whole rule of reason. Howebeit, vertue it selfe, may in the bryefest maner, well be termed the rule of reason. To this vertue, vyce is contrarye, for so, I thinke better to terme it, then malyce: whych the Greekes call Kaki [...]. For, malice is the name, of some one certayne vyce. But vice is the name of all. From whiche also, proceede al perturbations. Whiche be (as I sayde afore) the troubled and stirred motions of the minde, strayed from reason: enemyes of the mynde, and also of a quyete [Page] lyfe. For they brynge wyth they [...] carefull and bitter gryeues, they afflycte and weaken the minde, wyth feare. They inflame it also, wyth a greedy appetite. Whych we terme, eyther desyre or luste. Whiche is an impotencye of the minde, swaruing from temperaunce, and moderatiō. Whiche if it chaunce to obtayne that, whyche it did desyre, then it falleth into excessi [...]e myrth. So that, then, nothynge whyche he dothe is to anye purpose at all. Lyke as he, whyche thynketh ioy [...] and pleasure of the minde, to be th [...] chyefest erroure. The helpe of all these euels, consysteth in vertue onely. But what is there, not onelye more miserable, but also more fylthye, or yll [...]auoured, then to see a man afflycted or ouercome wyth gryefe? To whyche [...]iserye, he trulye is verye nyghe, who [...]eareth anye euell when it it is comming, and standes cōtinually in dread of the same. The power whereof, the Poetes myndinge to expresse, fayned [Page] that in hell, a stoane hangeth ouer the heade of Tantalus, for the mischieues whyche he had done, and his proude heart. And truly, it is the cōmon paine of all follye. For all men, whose myndes abhorre from reasō, haue alwayes some gryefe, or feare hangynge ouer them. And as these two, namely griefe and feare, are motions, wastinge and consuminge the minde: so, those which are some what more merye (I meane desyre, whiche dothe alwayes gredely [...] coueyte some thinge, and vayne gladnes, whyche is as muche as excessyue mirth) do eyther nothynge at all or els verye litle, differ from madnes.
Wherby we may wel perceyue, what maner of man he should be, whom we call moderate, modest, temperate, constant, and continent. Whiche wordes also, we vse sometimes, to referre to the name of frugalitie: as the chyefe of all the rest. And trulye, vnlesse vnder that name, al vertues were conteined: this sayeng had neuer bene so cōmen, that it had at these dayes purchased the name of a prouerbe. Namelye, that a [Page] a frugall man doth all thinges well.
Which selfe same sayeng, the Stoikes affyrme wyth great constancye, and stoutenes. Whosoeuer therfore, hath so fortifyed his minde with moderance and constancye, that he is neyther pyned with sorowe, nor discouraged with feare, neyther gredely coueytinge anye thyng, doth burne wyth desyre, neither reioysing, with excessiue mirth, dothe become effeminate: he is that mā whō we seke. He is happy to whom neither anye griefe shall seeme so intollerable, that it may constraine him to abate his courage: neyther yet any ioye so great, that it shoulde cause him vainelye to boaste and bragge of him selfe. For what may seeme great to him, in thys worlde, who museth on eternitye, and knoweth the largenes of the wide worlde? For what, either in the inuention of man, or els in this shortenes of life, may seeme straunge to a wise mā? whose minde, is alwayes so watchefull, that nothing can befal to him vnlooked for, nothinge vnprouided, nor straunge. Who also spreades his wyt [Page] so farre on all partes, that he dothe alwayes, see bothe place, and also tyme, howe, and where he maye liue in tyme of anguyshe. So y•, whatsoeuer chaūce fortune shall caste on him, he will quietly take it, and be content therewyth. Which, whosoeuer doth, he shal want not onelye gryefe of minde, but all the other perturbations also. And trulye, the minde being of them eased, is perfectly and absolutelye happye. And the same stirred and drawen bi them, from sure and perfecte reason, doth lose not onely constancy, but also, al his health. Wherefore, fonde and effeminate is the reason and talke of the Peripatetikes, who thinke it necessary, that our myndes should be troubled. But, they appoynte a certayne meane, which we ought not to exceede. Will you make anye meane in vyce? Or is it no vice, not to folowe reason? Or doth not reason teache, that it is not good, eyther thirstily to coueyte any thing, or when thou hast obtayned it, to reioyce vaynelye? Doth she teache, that it is no euel, eyther to be ouercome, or els not to be [Page] quiete in minde, because of sorowe?
Doth not she shewe the: that all exceadinge sadnes, or vayne myrthe, procedeth of erroure? For let vs seeke some meane in sorowe. For in it men take most payne. Fanius wryteth, that Publius Kutilius, toke greuouslye his brothers repulse, when he stoode in election for the Consulshippe. But it semeth that he passed measure. For it was the onelye cause of his death. He ought then, to haue taken it more moderately. But, what if whiles he tooke this so greuouslye, the death of some of his children had chaunced also? Then there had also come a newe griefe. Neuerthelesse, moderate: but yet it had bene a great encrease of his former sorowe. What, if then, there had ensued some disease in his bodye, the losse of goodes, blyndenes, banishemente, and some newe gryefe, and a newe sorowe for euerye one of theym? then it were made the greatest gryefe that myghte be: which could not be borne. So we se that, who so euer sekes to appoyncte a meane in anye vyce, dothe, like as if a [Page] man would thinke, that one y• shoulde cast him selfe downe from a rocke, into the sea, myght staye him selfe, when he would. For trulye, like as that can not be, so, neyther can a troubled, or moued minde, staye it selfe, where and when it wil. Also, those thinges which are yll, when they come to their rypenesse, and proofe, those same also are nought, when they are tender & yong. But sorowe, and all other perturbations, when they are encreased to the most, are vndoubtedly pestilent. Therfore, euen at the fyrst breeding they are not wythout vyce. For when they are departed once frō reason, they encrease of theyr owne accorde: and ouer owne frayletie flatters it: and so at the laste, vnwares launches into ye depe, where it can not stand. Wherfore there is no difference, whether they allowe a mediocritie of perturbations, or a meane of vnryghtuousnes, slouth, and intemperaunce. And he whych appoynteth a meane in vyce, confesseth, that some part thereof ought to be borne. Which bothe is odious of it selfe, and also so [Page] much the worse, as all vices are of slippery nature, and beinge once begon in anye man, do continually cause him to fall and slyde into all noughtines. So that, he can by no meanes, staye hym selfe. Furthermore, what a thing is it that the Parepatetikes saye, that these perturbations, which we thinke ought to be pulled out by the rootes, are not onelye placed in vs of nature, but also that the same was done for a greate commoditye? For this is theyr sayeng. Fyrst they commende anger hyghlye, naming it the whet sloane of fortitude and sayeng, that it enflameth the hertes of men, more stoutely both agaynst theyr enemies, and also agaynst a wicked citesen: terminge theyr reasons lyghte, who dyd thus perswade theym selues. It is right that we should wage this warre, that we shoulde fyghte for our lawes, libertye, and countrey.
These thinges, are of no force to enflame oure courage (saye they) unlesse anger be present. Neyther do they reason thus of warriours onely. But they thinke also, that there can be no seuere [Page] iudgementes, without some sharpenes of anger. Neither do they allowe anye oratour, not onely being pleintife, but also defendaunte, vnlesse he pleade angerlye. Or, if he be not angry, yet both in his wordes, and iestures, do fayne anger: so that, his wordes, may kindle and prouoke the hearers to anger. To conclude, they thinke he is no mā, that can not be angry. And that whyche we call gentlenes, they terme lenitie: and counte it a fault. Neyther do they onelye commend this kynde of lust (for anger as I haue already defyned it, is the lust to reuenge) but saye also that that other sorte of lust, or desire, was geuen vs of nature for a greate commodytie. For they thinke that no man can do anye thinge notable, vnlesse he haue an earnest luste, or desyre vnto it.
Themistocles walked in the nyghte tyme, in the open streete, because he could not sleepe. The cause whereof, when some men did enquyre, he aunswered, that the triumphe of Milciades would not suffer him to take hys reste. who hath not harde, of the watchefulnes [Page] of Demosthenes? who sayd that it greued him very much, if he shuld here any workemen vp afore hym. To conclude, the chiefest Philosophers, should neuer haue profyted so muche in theyr studies, without a burning desire, and zeale of learning. We haue heard, that Pithagoras, Democritus, and Plato, searched the farthest countreis that are knowen, for knowledge. For where so euer they harde, that there was anye thing for them to learne, thether, they thought, that they oughte to trauayle. And thinke we, that they woulde so haue done, wythout a great heat of desyre? Nowe, sorowe it selfe, whyche I sayde, that men oughte wyth all theyr myght to flye, as an horrible and vgly beast, they thinke to haue bene appointed of nature, not without some singuler cōmoditie. Which is, that it should gryeue men for theyr faultes to be chastened, rebuked, and put to shame. For they seeme safelye to haue sinned, who beare shame and reproche (whiche they deserued for theyr faulte) wythout any sorowe. It is better to haue his conscience [Page] gnawed wyth repenta unce.
Whereof proceeded that sayeng of Afranius, who when his effeminate sonne cryed out, alas I wretche, his seuere father aunswered. ‘If one part grieue the, would to god, that all did smart a like.’
¶Also, the other two partes of sorowe they saye, are profitable. Pity, to helpe and relieue the calamitye, of su [...]he as are vniu [...]lye tormented. Yea and that emulation is not vnprofitable: whych is, when we are agryeued, that eyther we haue not attained that, which some other hath, or els some other hathe obteined the same, whyche we haue gotten. But feare, if any man should take away, then were all diligence (thynke they) vtterlye gone. Which is chiefely sene in them, whyche feare the lawes, the officers, pouertye, shame, death, or sorowe. All these thinges, they saye, ought to be cut of, from theire ful styrryng and liberty, but to be rooted out, they thinke they neyther can, neyther neede to be. So that, as in all other thinges, so in this also, they thinke the [Page] meane to be best. In whych reasons, thynke you, that they speake any thing to the purpose, yea or no?
Truly, they seeme to me, to speake very reasonably. And therfore I looke, howe you wylt aunswere them.
I will fynde some what to obiect agaynst thē. But this one thinge before. Do you marke, howe great modesty there was emonges the Academikes? For they speake playnelye to the purpose. The Peripat [...]tikes, are aunswered of the Stoykes. Let theym contende for me: who neede not, but to enquyre what is most likely to be true, in euerye question. What is there then in this question, whereby that may be tryed? farther then the whyche the wytte of man can not reache, the definition of perturbations: whych I thynke, that Zeno hath well expressed. For he dothe thus defyne it. A perturbation, is a motion contrarye to reason, and agaynste the nature of the mind. Or more brieflye thus. A perturbation, is a vehemēt appetite, or lust. By vehement, be vnderstandeth such an appetite, as should [Page] farre swarue, from the constancye of nature. What is there that I may say agaynst these definitiōs? But these are for the most parte, the wordes of wyse and suttel disputers. But these termes of the Peripatetikes, the heate of the mynde, and the whetstones of vertue, come oute of the Rhetoricians scooles. But can not a man be stout, but when he begins to stomake the matter. Truly, that is a poynct of masters of fence: howebeit, oftentimes in them also, we see great modestye. They commen togither, they cōpany together, they aske questions one of another. So that they seeme to be pleased, rather then angry. But of their opinion, let there be some one like Pacidianus, whom Lucilius describeth wyth these wordes.
But wythout this dronken anger, we see Aiar in Homere, comming out manye times, wyth great mirth, when he should fyght wyth Hector. Whose entrye into the field, when he had put on his armour, reioyced his felowes, and feared his foes. Insomuche, that, (as Homere wryteth) it repented Hector him selfe, that he had prouoked hym to battell. And they trulye; commoninge gently, and quyetely, the one wyth the other, afore they foughte, did not in theyr very fyght, do any thyng angerlye, or outragiouslye. I trulye thynke, that not Torquatus, who gotte his name by fyghte, did wyth an angrye moode, take awaye the frenche mans [...]hayne. Neyther, that Marcellus was therefore to be counted stoute, at Clastidium, because he was angry. For Africanus, because he is better knowen vnto vs, for that he lyued but of late yeares, I durst sweare, that he was not [Page] then inflamed with anger, when he couered with his Tergat, Marcus Halienus, a Pelignian, & fastned his darte, in the breste of hys enemye: of Lucius Brutus, there is more doubt whether, because of the vnmeasurable hate, that he bare agaynste the Tirant, he ranne more fiercely against Aruns or no. For I vnderstande, that either of them, at one course, slew the other. What nede you, to bring in anger then? Hath fortitude no force, vnlesse she beginne to waxe madde? What? thynke you that Hercules, whom this selfe same valyauntnes, hath nowe placed in the hea [...]ens: was angry, whē he fought with the bore of Erimanthia, or wyth the lyon of the wood Nemeus? Dyd Theseus in a chafe, holde the bull of Marathonia, by the hornes? Take heede, that you ioyne not fortitude wyth madnes. Whereas anger is full of all lyghtenes. And fortitude, can not be wythout reason. Al chaunces that may happen to man, are to be despysed.
Deathe is not to be feared. We must thynke, all gryefe, and payne, tollerable. [Page] These thynges, when a man mindeth with him selfe, wyth a syncere [...]udgement, and reasonable decree: thē is fortitude in him stronge, and stable. Unlesse parchaunce they wil saye, that such thinges, as are done vehementlye and stoutelye, are done angerlye. But [...]rulye, Scipio, who was wonte to affyrme that sayeng of the Stoykes, that a wyse man was neuer angrye: in my opinion was not angry with T. Gra [...] [...]hus when he (I say) being chiefe priest forsooke the consull being sicke, and he him selfe, being but a payuate man, as if he had bene consull, commaunded e [...]erye man, that bare good will to the common wealth, to folowe him. I knowe not, whether I my selfe did any thinge stoutelye, when I bare office in the commen wealth. But if I dyd any such thing, trulye it was wythout anger. Is there any thing that doth more resemble madnes, then anger? why [...]he Ennius did well terme, the beginning [...]f madnes. The coloure, voyce, eyes, and breath, beyng scarse able as wel to speake as to do any thing, what poynt [Page] of health or wysedome do they declare▪ what may there be more foolyshe, then Achilles in Homere? or then Againem non scolding? for Aiax anger broughte both to madnes, and also to death. Fortitude therefore nedeth not the ayde of anger. It is sufficiently furnished, armed and ayded of it selfe. For after theyr opinion, we may saye, that dronkennes, is profitable for fortitude. And so likewyse of madnes. Because, bothe madde & dronken men, do many thinges verye stoutelye. Aiax was at all times stoute, but most of all in his madnesse. For then he did a valiaunt feate, when the Grecians, beinge readye to flye, he onely ayded them, and renued the batayle. Shal we therfore say, that madnes is profitable? Weygh the definition of fortitude. So shall you perceyue, that it nedeth not anger. Fortitude therefore, is an affection of the minde, obeyeng the hye lawe of reason in sufferyng thinges. Or the continuance, of a stable and sure iudgement, in the suffering or auoyding, of those thinges, which seeme to be feareful & terrible. [Page] Or, the knoweledge of such thynges, as ought to be feared, & also of the contraryes, continui [...]g a certayne and a sincere iudgement of the same. Or els, more bryefely, as Chrisippus doth (for all y• former definitions, are made by one Spherus, who according to the iudgementes of the Stoykes, is expert in defininge, and they are all in maner lyke, but the one declareth some thinges, mere playnely then the other.)
Howe then sayeth Chrisippus? Fortitude, is the knoweledge (sayeth he) howe to beare, or suffer gryeues. Or it is an affection of the minde, obeyinge the hyghe lawe of reason, in bearynge and sufferynge withoute all feare. Although, we vse to scoffe at these philosophers, as Carneades was wont, yet I feare, least they onely, are to be counted philosophers. For, whiche of these definitions, doth not open vnto vs, the opinion, which is hidden, and closed in our mindes, of the nature of fortitude? Whyche beinge opened, and knowen, who is there that would seeke anye other aide, for a warriour, iudge, or oratour. [Page] Or would not thinke, that they, wythout madnes or anger, could do any thyng stoutely? Why? the Stoykes when they proue, that all fooles are madde, do they not rehearce, these thinges, amonges theyr follye, and madnes. Take awaye the perturbations, and anger chiefelye, theyr reasons wil seeme to be monsters. They reason thus. We saye, that all fooles are mad likeas we saye, that donge smels yll.
But as donge doth not alwayes smell yll, but when you stirre it, you shall then perceyue it: so lykewise, an angry man, is not alwayes angerd. but prouoke him a litle, and then shall you see him starke mad. What? this warlyke anger, when it entreth into any house what diuision maketh it, betwyxte the man and wyfe, children, and all the householde? Is it then profitable also? Is there anye thinge, that a dysquyete mynde, can better do, then a quiet and constant? Or can any man be angrye, wythout the disquieting of his minde? Our countreymen therefore, whereas all diseases of the minde, are greate [Page] faultes and vices, yet, because none of them was worse then anger, did terme onely those, whych were angrye men, si [...]ke persons. But an oratour trulye, anger becometh not, and to dissemble, is it not a shame? Do you thinke vs then to be angry, whē we speake somewhat earnestly, or vehemently in pleadinge? Also, when the matters beynge paste and gone, we wryte oracions, do we then wryte angerly? Dyd any man thinke that eyther Aesopus, pleaded being angrye? or, that Accius, wrote in a chafe? All thinges, are handeled more notablye, and farre better, of some oratour, then of ani stage plaier. But they are handled by them, quietlye and peasablye. Nowe, to commend luste, what a toye of luste is it? You brynge for the Themistocles, and Demosthenes, to whome you ioyne also, Pythagoras, Democritus and plato. What? do you [...]all earnest studye, a lust? which beinge referred to the best sorte of thinges, yet ought we to be quyet and stedfast. But in praysing sorowe, of all others moste detestable, what philosophers, do they [Page] shewe them selues? But Afranins said well. ‘If one part grieue the, would to god, that all might smart alike.’
For he spake it, of a rechelesse, and a dissolute yonge man. But we put our question of a constant and a wise man. And so let vs leaue that anger, to some capitaine, or souldiour: whom we nede not here to rehearce. For it is good, for them to vse the motions of their minde who can not vse reason. But we (as I haue often heretofore sayd) put our question of a wyse man. But emulation, obtr [...]ctation, and pitye, are also profytable. Why shouldest thou pitie a man rather then helpe him, if thou canst? Can we not be liberall without pitye? We ought not to sorowe for other mē, put if we can, to ease others of sorowe. Nowe, obtrectation, and emulation, whereunto are they profitable? since it is the poynct of emulation, to be vexed at an other mans commoditye, whiche he him selfe hath not: and the nature of obtrectacion is, to be gryeued, with the prosperitye of an other, for that he hath [Page] gotten the selfe same commoditie, that we had. But who coulde fynde in his heart, to come to the experience of thinges, by sorowe? And the mediocritye of euels, who can iustly commende? For, who is there, in whome there is anye lust, or desyre at all, y• is not a noughty luster, & desirer of that, he should not?
Or who is there, in whom ther is any anger, that is not an angry person?
Or who is there, in whom there is sorowe, that is not soroweful? In whom is there feare, that is not feareful? And thinke you, that a wise man, maye be a vicious desyrer, of that, he should not, or an angrye, sorowefull, or fearefull person? Of whose prayse, althoughe, I could speake very much, yet thus much I will briefely saye, that wisedome, is the science, and knoweledge, of the proper, & appointed causes, of euery thing: as well in heauen as in earth. Wherby, it appeareth, that it pursueth onely such thinges, as are heauenly: & earthly thinges, it doth subdue & rule, wyth vertue: Did you then saye, that to him, as a sea lyeng open for euerye wynde, [Page] anye perturbation might chaunce.
What is there, that coulde trouble so greate grauitie, and constancie? Maye some sodayne or vnprouided chaunce do it? But what such thinge, may happen to him, to whom no chaunce, that may happen to man, doth come vnlooked for? For whereas they saye, that that, whych is ouermuche ought to be cutte awaye, and that those thynges onelye, whych are naturall, oughte to be left: what one thing is there, engraffed in vs of nature, of the whyche, we haue ouer much? For all these thynges sprynge oute of the rootes of erroure: whych oughte wholye to be pulled vp, and not to be pared, or cut away. But because I thinke, you do not put youre question of a wyse man: but of youre selfe, or of some other commen person, (for him perchaunce, you thinke to be voyde of all perturbations) let vs see what store of remedyes, philosophye hath deuysed, to helpe the diseases of the mind. For assuredly, there is some medecine. For nature was not so cruelly bent agaynst mankind, that wheras, [Page] she hath inuented so manye remedyes for the bodye, she woulde deuyse none for the minde. Of which also, she hath better deserued. For that whereas the medecines of the body, are made of thinges without the same: the helth and helpes of the minde are closed within it selfe. But looke, howe much more noble, and heauenly theyr nature is, so muche the more diligence they neede to be cured. Reason therfore, being in good plite, sees what is beste to doe: But being neclected, or impure, it is wrapped in many errours. To you therfore now I must turne al my talke For you fayne, that you put your question of a wyse man. But, perhaps you meane it by youre selfe. Of those perturbations therfore, whych I haue rehearsed, there are diuers and sundrye remedyes. For all sorowe is not swaged after one sorte. For, there is one waye to helpe him that mourneth: an other, to helpe him that pityeth: and an other to helpe him that enuieth. Also, there is this doubte in all the fower perturbations, whether we oughte, in [Page] consolatiōs, to applie our talke against all perturbations generallye (whyche are the despisinge of reason, or els a vehement appetite) or els frame our persuasion, agaynst euery singuler perturbation. As agaynste feare; desyre, or anye of all the reste. And whether we ought is reason, whether this pryuate chaunce, for the whyche he is so vexed, ought patientlye to be borne: or els, to shewe, that we must not be sorye for anye chaunce. As if a man were pricked with pouertye, whether, woulde you proue vnto him, that pouertye is no euell at all, or els, that a man oughte to take no mischaunce heauily. This last truly were the better: least, if you shuld not perswade him, that pouertye is no euel, you must nedes geue him leaue to sorowe. But if you take awaye all maner of gryefe, wyth suche reasons, as I yesterday vsed: you shal in maner, take awaye, all the euell of pouertye. But, let euery such perturbation, be finished with the quietnes of the minde. whych comes, when you proue, that it is no good, that we so desyre: or that causeth vs, to reioyce: and that it is no euell, [Page] whereof oure feare, or gryefe doth proceede. And this is a sure and approued remedye: to shewe, that the perturbations them selues, are vicious. And, that they are not in vs of nature: neyther are caused by necessitye. As we see that commenlye men swage their sorowe, when we cast in theyr teeth, the weakenes of theyr effeminate minde: & when we commend vnto theym, theyr grauitie, and stedfastnes, whych wythout anye trouble, do beare the like. Whyche trulye, is wonte sometimes to chaunce to them, whyche thynke them to be e [...]elles in deede, and yet neuerthelesse, that they are to be taken in good part. As perchaūce, some man thinkes pleasure to be a good thing: and some other hath the same opinion of moneye: yet neuerthelesse, both the one maye well be stayed from ryot, and also the other from coueteyse. But the other maner of perswasion, whych doth assaye, both to take away theyr fonde opinion, and also to ridde theyr sorowe: is in deede, more profitable. But it takes effecte but feeld, And also, it is not to be ministred [Page] to the commen people. Also, there are some sortes of sorowes, which that medecine can not helpe. As if any man be aggryeued for the lacke, that he feeleth in him selfe, of vertue, courage, good behauiour, or honestye: he trulye, were gryeued for a thynge, that is in deede euell. But there muste be some other salue ministred to him. And that is such trulye, as maye well ynoughe be a helpe of all the rest. For this euery man ought to confesse, that although, those thinges whych stirre vs to feare, or sorowe, be euell, yea, or no: or those thinges, whych cause vs to desyre, and reioyce, be good, yea or no: yet assuredly, that motion or stirring of the minde is euell. For, we will, that he, whome we terme a stout hearted, and valaiunt man, should be constant, quiete, gra [...]e and such a one, as should treade vnder his feete, all chaunces, that might happen to man. But such a one, can not be a sorowefull, fearefull, desyrous, or a fond, ioyous person. For, those thinges are in such, as suffer chaunces to beare dominion ouer them. Wherfore, thys [Page] is one precepte, commen amonges all philosophers, that we speake not of that, whyche troubleth the minde: but onelye of the perturbation it selfe. And therfore, fyrste as concerninge desyre, when we minde to take away that perturbation, we must not alwayes reason, whether that be good or no, which moued vs to desyre: but the desyre it selfe, must be taken awaye. So that, whether honestye be the chiefest good, and therfore chiefely to be desyred, or if pleasure be it, or els both of theym ioyned togyther, or all those three sortes of goodes, namely of the minde, bodye and fortune: yet neuerthelesse, if we vnto much desyre, euen vertue it selfe: we must vse the like meanes, to disswade men from that, as we vse in al the rest. Also, the description of the nature of mā, being set afore our eyes, is a great meanes to quiete our minde. Whych, that they may more playnely beholde, you muste describe in youre talke, the commen state, and miserye of mannes life. And therfore, it is reported, that Socrates, not without cause, cut away [Page] these three fyrste verses of Euripides, from that tragedie, in the which he describeth the historye of Orestes.
¶Also, to perswade, that it whiche is chaunced, both may, and also ought to be borne, the rehersall of many, whych haue suffered the same, is very profitable. Howebeit, we haue shewed, howe sorowe might be swaged, both in oure yesterdayes talke, and also in our boke of consolation: whyche, (for I muste nedes cōfesse: that I am no wise man) I wrote in the middes of all my gryefe and sorowe. And whereas, Chrisippus doth forbyd vs to minister oure medecines, when our minde is freshe swollen, wyth the wound: yet I did it, and ioyned thereunto, the whole strengthe of my nature: that, the sharpnes of my sorowe, myghte yelde, to the strength, of the medecine. But next to sorowe (of [Page] the which we haue sufficiently spoken) comes feare. Of the whych also, somewhat must be sayde. For as sorowe, proceedeth alwayes, of some presente griefe: so is feare alwayes caused, of some griefe that is to come. And for that cause, some sayde, that feare was a certayne braunche of gryefe: other some, sayd it was the forerunner and guyd of gryefe. Wherfore, by the same meanes, that we maye beare gryefe, when it is presente, by the same also we maye despyse it, that is likelye to [...]om [...]. For we must take great heede, that in them both, we do nothing more humblye, lowelye, wantonlye, effeminately, or abiect like, thē it becometh a man. But, although, we must treat of the inconstancie, weakenes, & lyghtnes of feare: yet it is good to despyse those thinges, whiche most men feare. And for that cause, whether it were by chaunce, or els of set purpose, it hapned very wel, that the first, and second daye, we reasoned of those thinges, whych men most of all feare, namelye of death, and of payne. Our reasons of [Page] the whyche, who so euer doth like, and beare away well: he may easelye be rid of feare. And hitherto we haue treated of those perturbations, whych procede of the opinion of some euell. Nowe, let vs consider those, which are styrred, by the opinion of some goodnes. Whyche are ioy and desyre. And I thinke trulye that of all perturbations of the minde, there is one onely cause: and that, they are al in our power: and, that we suffer them to enter vpon vs, of oure owne voluntarye free will. This erroure therefore, and fayned opinion, must be taken awaye, & as by reason, we make those thinges, which seeme to be euell, more tollerable, so we muste in those thinges also, which are thoughte to be greate and notable goodes, make oure minde more quiete and peasible. And this truly, is commen, as well to those thinges, which are counted euell, as also to those whyche are counted good: that, if there be anye difficultie to perswade, that those thinges, which trouble his mind, are not good, or that they are not euell, yet neuerthelesse, we [Page] must haue a seuerall remedye for euery [...]ynde of motion. For there is one way to helpe an enuious person, another to [...]elpe a louer. One meane to ease a so [...]owefull man, and an other to helpe a [...]earefull person. And truly, it were ea [...]ye for such a one, as foloweth the true opinion of good and euel, to deny, that [...]oole could at anye time be troubled wyth mirthe. Because nothinge that [...]ood were, could happen vnto hym.
But nowe, we speake after the comen [...]rte. Admit that those thinges, which [...] thoughte in this worlde to be the [...]efest goodes, were so in deede. I [...]eane, honour, riches, pleasure, & such [...]. Yet neuerthelesse, if we had obteyned anye of the same: fonde & lyghte [...]irth, were to be dispraysed. As, although it be lawful to laugh, yet light [...]aughter is discommendable. For the same faulte, is vayne ioye of the minde in mirth: that shrinkinge and abatinge [...]f courage, is in sorowe. And euen as lyght, and fonde, is desyre in coueting: as ioye is in obtayninge. And as ve [...]a [...]on in an afflicted: so, in a ioyful mind [Page] vayne mirthe is counted lyghte: and whereas, to enuye, is a braunche of gryefe, but to be delighted with other mens mischaunce, is a parte of lyghte mirth: both sortes, are wonte to be reproued, by settinge afore theym theyr owne crueltie, and fiercenes. And as it becometh vs, to be bolde, but to feare, it doth not beseeme vs: so we lawefullye maye reioyce, but not be drowned in vaine mirth. For, for to teache more playnely, we will at this time disseue [...] ioye and mirth. We haue sayd already that the shrynkyng of the minde, could neuer be wythout fault. But the raysinge or exaltinge of the same, mighte well be. For otherwyse Hector in Ne [...]ius doth reioyce.
¶And otherwise Cherea, in Trabea.
What a commoditye and pleasure, he thinketh this to be, his owne wordes, may well declare. ‘Thus my good chaunce shall passe, the lucke, of fortune loe it selfe.’
What a filthy mirth this is, it is sufficient, that who so euer lyst beholde it, maye sufficiently see, and looke howe [...]eastlye they be, that do then reioyce, when thei haue obtained the pleasures of the fleshe: alyke fylthy are they also, which feruently desyre the same. But all that, which is called loue, (and truly, I can fynde no other name that it hath) is of such lyghtnes, that I knowe not, whereunto I might compare it.
Of whom Cecilius wryteth.
O notable poetrye, the amender of our liues, whiche thinkes, that the loue of sinne, and the ancthoure of all lyghtenes, oughte to be placed emonges the immortall Goddes. But, hitherto, I speake of a comedye. Which consisteth of nothing els, but such mischieues.
But what sayeth the prince of the saylers in the ship Argo, in a tragedie? ‘Thou sauedst me but for my loue, and not mine honoures sake.’
This loue of Medea, what flames of miserye did it kyndle? And yet neuerthelesse, she in an other poete, dares to saye to her father, that she had a husband. ‘Whom loue her gaue, whose force did passe the dutie she ought him.’
¶But let vs geue the Poetes leaue to trifle, in whose tales, we see this vyce, attributed to Iupiter him selfe. And let vs come, to the Philosophers, the maysters of all vertue. Whyche denye [Page] that thereaboute contend muche with Epicurus. Who therein, in my opinion, lyeth nothinge. For what is this loue, that men terme frendshippe? Or why, doth no man loue a foule yonge man, or a fayre olde man? Trulye, I thinke, this custome began fyrst in the vniuersities of Greece, in the whyche, such loue is permitted. But well sayde Ennius.
Which sort of mē, if they be honest, (as I think they may) yet is it not wythout great paine and trouble. Yea, and that so much the more, for that, they do, in maner constrayne theym selues to refrayne. And that I maye ou [...]rpasse the loue of women, whiche is farre more naturall then the other: who doubtes what the Poetes ment, by the rape of Ganimedes? Or who knoweth not what Laius in E [...]ripides, doth bothe speake and wyshe? Furthermore, who seeth not, what songes and balades, [Page] the most chiefest, and best learned Poetes, set forth of theyr owne loues.
Alceus, beynge a man of good reputation, in the common wealth, yet what toyes wrote he, of the loue of yonge men? And all the wrytynges of Anacreon, are onely of loue. But moste of all other, Rheginus Ibicus, euen burned with loue: as it appeareth by hys wrytinges. And now, we philosophers also, (yea and that, by the councell and aucthoritye of Plato, whom Dicearchus doth therfore worthely reprehēd) are become the commenders, and honourers of loue. For the Stoikes, both saye, that euerye wyse man wyll loue: and also, defyne loue, to be the desyre to get amitie: stirred by the syghte of beauty. Which, if it maye be wythout care, desyre, & thought, I am well contented to admit. For thē, it wantes the perturbation of desyre. Agaynst the whych, we at this presēt reason. But if loue be, (as it is truly) not farre distant from madnes, as it was in him of the ile of Leucadia, who crieth out thus.
If so in heauen be any god, that doth [Page] for me take care.
Nowe trulye, it were but reason, that the gods should care, howe he myghte obtayne his fleshely lust. Then he goeth forwarde.
Alas vnhappy man:
Trulye, he spake nothinge in all his talke, more true. But he aunswereth hym well. ‘Maye I thinke, that thou thy wittes wel hast, that dost so sore lament?’
So he seemes, euen to his owne companion, to be madde. But hearke what tragedies he makes. ‘On the Apollo, nowe I call, on Neptune, and ye wyndes.’
He thinkes, that the whole world, wil turne to helpe him. Uenus onelye, he excludeth as vniust. Sayeng. ‘For wherfore should I nowe, call on thy name O Uenus vayne.’
For her, he thinkes, for the delyghte, that she takes in fleshelye pleasure, to care for nothing els. As though he him selfe, doth not both do and saye, all his flagitious toyes, onely for fleshely pleasure. Whosoeuer therfore, is herewith [Page] diseased, ought thus to be cured. Both by [...]hewynge, howe light, howe fonde, and also of how small effect, that thing is, whych he doth desyre: or els, howe ease lye in some other place, or by some other meanes, he may obtayne his dedesire, or vtterlye neglecte it. Also, he muste sometimes be turned to other thoughtes, cares, & busines Oftētimes chaunge of place helpeth, likeas it doth also, a diseased body. Also, some thinke that olde loue is driuen awaye with some newe fancye, lykeas, when wyth one nayle, we dryue out another. But chyefelye we must put him in mynde, what madnes is in loue. For of all the perturbations of the minde, there is none more vehemente. So that, if you would not blame it, for the whoredom adultery, & other vicious actes, whiche ensue thereupon: yet you must needes hate it, because of it selfe, it is a perturbatiō. For, that I may ouerpasse those thinges, whych declare starke madnes in it. Of what fondenes, are all these th [...]nges, which seeme to be but meane?
This inconstancye, and waueringe of minde, onelye, whom is it not able to feare? Also, we must shewe vnto them that which is commen to euery perturbation: that namelye, that they are all taken of a fond opinion, and of oure owne free wyll. For, if loue were naturall, bothe all men shoulde loue, and also be loued, and shoulde at all tymes loue, yea, and all men one thing. Neyther, should shame, thought, or satietie feare any man from the same. But anger, although it doth longe trouble the minde, yet it is not taken to be madnes: by force of the whych, there riseth sometimes, euen amonges brethren such like chiding.
You knowe what foloweth. For, verse for verse, there are very quicke tauntes betwyxte those brethren. So that it maye lightlye appeare, that they were the sonnes of Atreus. Who museth, howe to inuent some straunge cruelty, agaynst his brother.
Wyll you knowe what payse, or loade of mischiefe, this is? Then heare Thyestes sayeng. ‘My wycked brother, counsayles me, my childrens fleshe to eate.’
Lo he sets the bowelles of his children afore him. For what crueltie is there, to the whych, anger, & madnes woulde not perswade a mā? And for that cause we do well saye, that angrye men are out of theyr owne power. By the whiche, we meane, that they are wythoute counsell and reason. Whych onelye, ought to rule our mindes. From suche [Page] men, we must remoue them, on whom they would gladly auenge them selues till such time, as they come agayne to thē selues. Which, what other thinge is it, then to bryng home, the scattered partes of the minde, into their owne place? Or els we must desyre and entreat them, that if they haue any great desyre to reuenge: yet they would differre it, to some other time, till theyr anger coale. For, in theyr anger, the heate of theyr minde, doth euen boyle agaynst reason. For the whyche cause, the sayenge of Architas, is much commended. Who, being angry with one of his hindes, sayde. O howe would I haue beaten the, vnlesse I had bene angry? Who be they then, that saye, that anger is profitable? (so may madnes be profitable) or naturall? Can any thing be naturall, which is contrarye to reason? Also, yf anger were geuen vs of nature, howe should one man be more angrye then another? Or, howe could any man be sory for that, which he had done in his anger? As we haue heard of kynge Alexander, who when in hys [Page] rage, he had caused his very frend Clitus, to be put to death, afterwards, for sorow he would haue slayne him selfe. So much it did repent him. Wherfore is there any doubt, but that this motition also, doth wholye consiste in oure owne opinion, and will? For, who doubteth, that all diseases, suche as coueytousnes and desyre of glorye are: do rise, and are caused hereof: namely, for that we haue those thinges, of the whyche they take theyr beginninge, in great reputatiō? Wherfore, we do wel perceyue, that euery perturbation, consisteth in opin [...]on. And, if boldenes, be a certayne and sure knoweledge, and a constant opinion, not agreing rashely to any thing: then is feare, a mistrust, and doubt of some euell, that we looke for euen at hande. And, if hope, be the expectation of some good thinge: then, is feare the expectacion of some euell thing. As feare ther [...]ore, so al the other perturbatiōs also, are of the number of euels. And, as constancie, is caused of knowledge: so doth perturbatiō procede of erroure. But, such, as are sayd naturallye [Page] to be angry, pitifull, enuious, o [...] any such like: they truly, haue an il constitution of theyr mindes. But neuerthelesse, they may well be healed. As it is reported of Socrates, in whome, whē one Zopirus (which professed the knowledge of euery mans disposition, by the syghte of his face,) had reckened vp a great number of vices, in the presence of some of the frendes of Socrates, who knewe, that he was not faulty in theym: they laughed him to scorne. But Socrates, defended him.
Sayeng, that those sygnes and coniectures were in him in deede. But, that he did ouercome them wyth reason.
Wherefore, as men beinge in good health, may seeme yet, some more then other, to be giuen, to this or that disease: so likewyse some mans mynde is more prone to vice, then some others. But their vices, who are not of nature but onely be theyr owne fault vicious, consiste, of the false opinions of those thinges, which they count eyther good or euell. And a disease once rooted, like as in the bodye, so in the minde also, is [Page] hardly holpen. For, easier it is, to heale a sodayne swellinge, of the eyes, then a continuall blearynesse. So, the cause of al perturbations, being once knowen, whyche take theyr beginninge, of the sundrye iudgementes, of opinions, we will here finishe this dayes disputation. For the endes of good, and euell, beynge knowen, as muche as a man may knowe them, nothynge more profitable, maye be wyshed, or desyred, of all Philosophye, then those thynges, which in these foure daies we haue discussed. For, to the despysynge of death, and bearynge of all bodilye payne, we ioyned the ease of sorowe. Then the whiche, there is nothinge more troublous, to man. For although euerye perturbation be greuous vnto vs, and doth not muche differ frome madnes: yet, when men are in anye of the other perturbations, as feare, myrth, or desyre, we saye, that they are but troubled, or disquieted. But, those that are subiecte vnto sorowe, we terme wretched, afflycted, and full of calamitye.
And for that cause, it was not by [Page] chaunce, but well, and aduisedly [...], appoynted by you, that we made a seuerall discourse of sorowe, from all the other perturbations. For, in it, is the sprynge and fountayne, of all miserye. But there is one waye, to helpe, bothe it, and also al the other diseases of the minde. Namely, by the shewynge, that they are caused onelye, by oure owne fond opinion and will, because we thinke it ryght, and dutye, to take them on vs. This erroure, as the roote of all euell, philosophye promiseth to pull vppe, euen by the rootes. Let vs therefore, yelde our selues to it, and suffer it to heale vs. For, as long as these [...]uels are wythin vs, we shall neyther be happye, nor whole. Eyther let vs therefore playnelye denye, that reason can do any thing (whereas in dede, nothynge can well be done without it) or els, inasmuch as philosophie consisteth of the conference of reasons: of her, (yf we wil be eyther good, or blessed) let vs learne the helpes, to attayne to a happye, and a blessed lyfe.
THE FYFT AND LAST booke of M. Tullie Cicero: contayning his reasoninge of the last and fifte question, which he disputed, in his manor of Tusculanum being this in effecte, whether vertue onely, be sufficient to make a man leade a happye lyfe.
THis fyfte daye (fryende Brutus) shal make an ende of our disputations holden in our manor or Tusculanū: in the whiche, we reasoned of that Question, which you, most of all others are wont to allowe. For I perceiued, both by y• boke, which you wrote vnto me, & also bi your talk, at manye other times, that you like this opinion very well. Namelye, that vertue is sufficiente of it selfe, to the mayntayning of a happy and a blessed life. Which although it be verye harde to proue, because of so manye and sundrye strokes of fortune: yet neuerthelesse, [Page] suche it is, that we oughte to trauayle, and take paynes for the proofe thereof. For, there is nothing in al philosophye, more grauely or more wisely spoken. For, inasmuch, as it moued all those, that first gaue them selues to the studye of philosophye, despysynge all other thinges, to setle thē selues, wholye, to the searchinge of the happyest state of lyfe: trulye, they tooke so great trauayle, and paynes, onely in hope, to attayne a blessed life. And truly, if such men, haue eyther found out, or accomplyshed vertue: and if they found sufficient ayde in onelye vertue, for the attayninge of a blessed lyfe: who woulde not iudge, that well, and worthelye, both they did fyrst inuent, and we also haue, folowed, the studie of philosophy? But, if, vertue beinge subiecte, to sundrye and vncertayne chaunces, is the slaue of fortune, and not of sufficiente ability, to mayntayne her selfe: I feare muche then, least it be all one, to truste to the ayde of vertue, for the obtaining of a blessed life, & to sit still, a [...]d wishe after the same. In deede, remembring [Page] manye times, the chaunces, wyth the whyche, fortune hath galled me. I beginne to mistruste this opinion, and to feare, the weakenes, and frayletye of mankynde. For, I am wonte to feare, least, inasmuch as, nature hath geuen vs weake bodyes, to the whyche also, she hath fastned sundrye sortes of incurable diseases, & intollerable grieues: least, she (I say) hath likewise geuen vs mindes, agreable to the diseases & greues of our body. And also of thē selues, wrapped in other seuerall cares & troubles. But, in this poynct, I correct my selfe. For that, I iudge of the strength of vertue, according to the wantonnes and weakenes of other, yea, and perchaunce of my selfe: and not by vertue it selfe. For vertue trulye (if there be anye such thing at all, whyche doubt, if there were any, your fathers brother, (O Brutus) hath already taken away) hath vndoubtedly, all chaunces whych may happen to man, in subiection vnder it: and despysyng theym, contempneth all worldly casualtye: and, beyng it selfe, voyde of all blame, thinketh, [Page] that nothing besides it it selfe, is requisite vnto it. But we, encreasing all aduersitie, while it is comminge, wyth feare: and whē it comes, wyth sorowe: will condemne rather those thinges, whyche natural [...]ye are good, then oure owne pernicious erroure. But as well of this faulte, as also, of all the rest, we must seeke the redresse, in philosophye. Into whose bosome, beinge, in the very beginninge of my age, led by myne owne will, and earneste desyre: nowe, after that I was tost, wyth most troublesome stormes, I haue euen fled to the same, as to the hauen, from the whych I once departed. O philosophy, the guyde of our lyfe, the searcher of vertue, the expeller of vice, what were not we onely, but generally, all the life of man able to do wythout thee? Thou foundedst cityes, thou reclaymedst men, whiles they were yet wylde and wanderers, to a commen societye and feloweshippe of life: thou bredst loue betwyxt theym: fyrste by neyghbourhoode, nexte by mariage, and laste of all by communicatinge of talke, and [Page] wrytinge. Thou, wast the inuenter of lawes, the mistres of maners, and of all good order. To the we flye, of the we aske succour. To the, euen as afore for some part, so nowe, I geue my selfe wholye, to be ruled and gouerned. For one daye, wel spent, accordinge to thy preceptes, is to be preferred, wel night afore immortality. Whose ayde therefore, should we rather vse, then thyne? Who, both hast graunted vs, the quietnes of lyfe, and also, hast taken from vs, the feare and dread of death. But, so muche it lackes, that philosophye is so much commended, as it hath deserued of the life of man, that it is, of the most part, neglected, & of many wholy dispraysed. Who woulde thynke, that any man durst, to disprayse the parent of his life, and so defyle him selfe with parri [...]ide? and shewe him selfe so vnnaturallye vnkynde, as to disprayse her, whych he ought to feare, yea though he could not vnderstande? But I thynke, this errour and miste, is bredde in the heartes of the vnlearned, because, they are not able to discerne the truthe: and [Page] for that cause, thinke, that they were not philosophers, who did fyrste helpe, to garnyshe the lyfe of man. And truly though this studye, of it selfe, be moste auncient of all others: yet the name is but newe. For, wysedome trulye, who can denye to be ryght auncient, as wel in deede, as in worde? whych, obtayned this worthy name, amonges the auncient sages, for that, it doth consiste, of the knoweledge, as well of heauenlye thinges, as earthlye: Of the beginninges, causes, and nature of euerye thinge. And for that cause, those seuen whych of the Greekes, are called Sophi o [...]r forefathers, both counted, and also named wyse. So called they Licurgus likewyse, many yeares afore, in whose time it is reported that Homere liued, afore y• building of our citye. We haue heard also, that, when the halfe gods liued on the earth, Ulixes, and Nestor, both were in deede, and also were called wise. Neyther truly, had it bene reported, that Atlas sustayneth the heauen, or that Prometheus lyeth [...]ounde to the hill Caucasus, or that Cepheus [Page] is placed amonge the starres, wyth his wife, sonne in lawe, and doughter: vnlesse theyr knoweledge in heauenlye matters, had fyrst caused, such tales to be raised of their names. Whom, all the rest that since haue folowed, and placed theyr studye, in the contemplation of the nature of thinges: were, both counted, and also named wyse.
Which name continued vntil the time of Pithagoras. Who (as Heraclides borne in Pontus, a scoler of Plato, a man verye well learned doth wryte) came to Phliuns, a citie in Greece.
And there, reasoned bothe learnedlye and largelye, wyth Leo the chyefe of the same towne. Whose wyt, and eloquence Leo wonderinge at, asked of him, in what arte he was mooste perfecte. Whereunto, he aunswered, that he knewe no arte. But, that he was, a louer of wysedome. Leo, wonderynge at the straungenes of the name, asked of him, who were those louers of wisedome. And what difference was, betwyxte them, and other men. Whereunto, Pithagoras aunswered, that the [Page] lyfe of man myght well be resembled, to that fayre, whych, wyth al pompe of playes, al Greece is wont to frequent, and solēpnyse. For, like as there, some by the exercise of theyr bodyes, woulde assaye to winne some game, & crowne: and, some other, came thither, for the desyre to gayne, by byeng and sellynge and also, there was a thirde sorte, farre passing al the rest, who sought neither game, nor gaynes, but came thither onelye to beholde, and see, what was done, and howe: so likewyse we comminge into this life, as it were into a great frequented fayre, or market, seke some for glory, and some for money.
But very fewe, there are, which despisynge all other thinges, woulde studye the contemplatiō of nature. But those (he sayde) were they, whome he called the louers of wisedome. And like as there, it is counted a greater worship, to come for the syghte of thinges, than to medle wyth byenge and sellynge: euen so lykewyse in this lyfe, the contemplacion and knowledge of thinges did farre excell all other worldlye troubles. [Page] Neyther truly, was Pythagoras onely, the inuentour of this name, but also an increaser of the studye it selfe, Who, when after this communication at Phliuns, he came into Italy, enstructed that countrey, whych is nowe called great Greece, bothe priuatelye, and also openlye, wyth moste notable orders, and artes. Of whose doctryne, perhaps, we shal haue some more commodious time to speake. But that philosophye, whych in auncient time was in vse, till the time of Socrates, who was the hearer of Archelaus, the scoler of Socrates: dyd onelye treate of numbers, and motions, and whereof al thinges were made, and whereinto they did ende. They did also curiouslye search out the quantity, distaunce, and courses of the starres, and other heauē ly bodyes. But Socrates, fyrste of all, turned philosophy, from the consideration of the heauenly motions, and placed it in cityes, and brought it, euen into our housen: makynge it, to reason of our life, and maners: of al thinges that are good and euell. Whose sundrye [Page] kinde of reasoninge, wyth the varietie of the thinges them selues, and the sondrye compasses of mens wits, made diuers sectes of dissenting philosophers. Of all the which, I folowe that, which I suppose Socrates dyd vse. Namelye, to conceale, mine owne opinion, and reproue other mens errours. And, in al reasoning, to enquere, what is most likely to be true. Which custome, inasmuche as, Carneades did continue, maruaylous wittelie, and copiously: I also, enforced my selfe to do the same, of late, in my maner of Tusculanum. And the talke of our firste foure dayes, I haue already sent vnto you, reported in as many bookes. But the fyft daye, whē we came to our accustomed place, thus began our reasoninge.
I thinke, that vertue is not sufficient of it selfe, to make a happye and a blessed lyfe.
Trulye, my frende Brutus thinkes the contrary. Whose iudgement (you must geue me leaue to saye my fancie) I do alwayes preferre afore yours.
I do not doubte thereof, neyther is it nowe in controuersy, how [Page] much you loue him. But I woulde heare your opinion, what you thynke of that whych I haue proposed.
Do you denye, that vertue of it selfe, is sufficient, to make a mans life blessed?
Yea truly.
What? maye not a man with vertue onely liue wel, honestly and laudablye?
Yes trulye.
Can you then saye, that either he whiche liueth yll, is not wretched? or that he, whyche liueth well, liueth not also happelye?
What els? for, euen in tormentes, a man maye lyue well, honestly, and commendably.
So, you vnderstand, howe I meane to liue wel. Which is, to liue constantly, grauelye, wyselye, and stoutelye. For, these do sticke by a man, euen when he is on the racke. Yet there is no happye life.
Why so? wil you shut a blessed life onely, oute of the prison doare? when constancye, grauitye, fortitude, and wysedome, may enter wythin the same? and refuse no pryson, punyshemente, nor payne?
Trulye, if you minde to moue me, you must seke some other reasons then those: not onely, because [Page] they are commen: but also, because like as colde wines haue no taste in the water: so these reasons delyghte me, rather in the fyrst taste, then when I haue dronke them vp. As this whole companye of vertues, when it cometh to tormentes, placeth images and shades afore our cies, with great maiesty: so, that it would seeme, that blessed life would euen strayghte wayes, come to them, and not suffer them to thynke, that she would forsake them. But whē you haue, once turned youre minde, from these pictures and shades, to the thinge, and truth it selfe: then there is this onely left bare, whether any man may be happy, as longe as he is in torment. Wherefore, hereof let vs reason But you nede not to feare, least the vertues should complayne, that they are forsaken, betrayed, and left of a happy lyfe. For, if there can be no vertue wythoute prudence, prudence it selfe must nedes foresee, that all good men, can not be happye. She remembreth many historyes, of Marcus Attilius, Quintus Cepio, and Marcus Aquilius, [Page] and such others. And (if you thinke good, rather to vse the allusion of the images, then the thinges them selues) euen stayes her, when she would come to the racke, or to any other place of torment. Sayeng, that she hath nothyng to do, wyth gryefe, and torment.
I am well contented, to reason, euen after your appoyntment. Howebe it you do me wrong, in prescribyng me an order, howe you will haue me reason. But fyrst, I aske this, whether we haue concluded any thing, al the other dayes?
Yea, and that verye much.
If it be so, then, is this question almost, fullye aunswered.
Howe so?
Because, all troublesome mocions, sodayne, and vnaduysed tossinges of the minde, despysynge all [...]eason, leaue vs no parte of a blessed lyfe. For, who is there that feareth eyther death, or gryefe, (of the whiche the one chaunceth verye often, and the other dothe alwayes hange ouer oure heades) that is not wretched? Also, if any man (as the moste parte do) dothe feare pouertie, shame, or infamy: yf any [Page] dread weakenes, blyndnes, or (that which hath hapned, not onelye to pryuate men, but euen to whole nations) bondage. May any man, that feareth these thinges, be happy? Also, he, whiche doth not onely feare suche thinges, when they are coming: but also can not beare nor suffer them, when they are present: as banishement, mournynge, barennes: he, I saye, who beinge ouercome with these, and suche like, dothe yelde to sorowe: must he not nedes be wretthed? Furthermore, he that is enflamed, and euen rageth wyth desyre: rashely desiringe all thinges, wyth an vnsatiable gredines: and howe muche the more plenty he hath of pleasure, so much the more, thirsting, and desiring the same: him (I saye) myghte you not wel thinke, to be of all others most miserable? Also, he that is euen puffed vp with lyghtnes, and fondlye reioyceth in his vayne mirth: is he not so muche more miserable, as he seemeth to hym selfe to be happyer? Wherfore, as, all those whom we haue rehearsed, are wretched: so, they contraryewyse, are [Page] blessed, whome no feares affraye, no gryeues consume, no lust en [...]lames, no vayne ioye, or effeminate pleasures do puffe vp. And, like as the sea, is then thoughte to be calme, when no little puffe, doth rayse anye waues at all: so, that is thoughte, to be the quiete and peasible state of the minde, when as, it is voyde of all perturbations, that may eyther moue or styrre it. Whiche, if it be so, then, he, that counteth the strokes of fortune, and all chaunces, that may happen to man, tollerable: so that, for theym, neyther feare can vexe him, neyther sorowe torment him. He so, if he be neyther troubled with desire neyther, haue his minde puffed vppe, wyth any vayne pleasure: what cause is there, why he should not be happye? And, if all these thinges, are broughte to passe by vertue, what cause is there, why vertue of it selfe can not make vs happye?
Trulye, this can not be denyed, but that those, whych are troubled, neyther with feare, sorowe, desire nor mirth, must nedes be happy. Therfore, that I graūt you.
And truly, [Page] thother is not vnproued. For we shewed in oure former disputations, that, a wyse man, wanted all perturbations of the minde. So this question, semeth to be fullye aunswered.
Almost in deede.
But this is the maner of the Mathematicians, and not of philosophers. For, the Geometricians, when they will proue any thynge, if it pertayne to any of those thinges which they haue afore proued, they take all those thinges afore proued as thinges that ought to be graunted, and are vndoubted. And onely expre [...]se those thinges wherof they wrote nothing afore. Philosophers, what so euer thing they haue in hand to proue, bringe in forthwith all thinges, that are appliable to the proofe of the same. Althoughe they haue wrytten thē, in some other place, afore. For otherwyse, what needed the Stoykes, in prouinge, that vertue is sufficient, to make a blessed lyfe, to vse so manye wordes? whereas, it were enough for theym, to aunswere, that, they had shewed afore, that nothing is good, but that which is honest. Which being graunted, it must nedes folowe, [Page] that a blessed lyfe may, be attayned by vertue onely. And, like as this doth folowe vpon that, so lykewyse, by the other, this is concluded. That, if vertue onely will brynge vs to a happye lyfe, then no other thinge can be good, but that which is honest. Yet neuerthelesse they do not so. For, both of honestye, and also of the chiefest good, and felicitie, they haue wryten seueral bookes.
And, although, it be hereof sufficiently proued, that vertue is able enoughe of it selfe, to bringe vs to a blessed lyfe: yet neuerthelesse, they make a seueral discourse, more at large of the same. For euery question, must be handeled with his owne propre reasons, proofes, and admonitions, especially being so notable, and so large, as this is. For, I would not haue you thinke, that, there is any thinge more cleare in all philosophye, or that there is any promisse of the same more plentifull, then this is. For, marke wel, what it doth professe. Namely, to bryng to passe, that who so euer doth obeye the lawes of vertue, should be alwayes armed, agaynst fortune, [Page] and shoulde haue in him, all the aydes, of a blessed and happy lyfe. And to conclude, that he should be alwayes happye. But we wil talke in other places, of the effectes of philosophy. In the meane time, I esteme that greatly whyche she promyseth. For Xerxes, being glutted wyth all the rewardes and gyftes, that fortune myght gyue: not contented, wyth an infinite companye of horsemen, and footemen, with a wonderful sayle of ships, nor yet with innumerable store of golde, proposed a rewarde for him, that could deuise any straunge pleasure. For filthy lust hath no end nor measure. I would we could get one, who for hope of reward would make vs beleiue this more stedfastlye.
I would wyshe so lykewyse. But I haue one thing to saye vnto you. For I do well agree, that of those thinges, whyche you euen nowe rehearsed, the one doth well folowe vpon the graunt of the other. Namely, that, lyke as if it be graunted, that onely, that whiche is honest, is good: it must needes folowe that happy life consysteth in onely vertue: [Page] so if happy life do consist in vertue onely, then it must nedes be, that there is nothing good but onely vertue. But youre fryende Brutus, folowynge the aduise of Aristo, & Antiochus, thinketh not so: for he thinketh, that there are other sortes of goodes, besides vertue.
What? thinke you that I will at this time, reason against him?
Therein do as you shall thinke good.
For it is not my part, to appoynt you.
Then, to shewe, howe these conclusions folow, the one vpon the other, we wil deferre it to some other time.
For herein, whē I was captiue, being at Athenes, I dissented, both from Antiochus, and Aristo. For I thoughte, that no man might be happye, as long as he might be in any euell. And truly, a wyse mā may be combred with euels yf those, which they cal the euels of the bodye, and of fortune, be anye euels at all. Hereunto, this was aunswered, which also, Antiochus hath wryten in many places. Namely that vertue of it selfe, may make a blessed life. But not the most blessed, that may be. Also that many thinges, take their name of the [Page] greater part, although some parte dyd want or misse. As we call men strong, helthfull, riche, honourable, glorious, because they haue a great parte of such thinges in theim, althoughe they haue not the thinges thē selues, as perfecte, as they might haue. So likewise, a blessed life, they sayd, although it halted in some part: yet it toke his name of the greater part. I nede not now curiously to pike out these thinges. Howebeit they seeme to me, to be spoken scarse cō stantly. For both, I can not vnderstād, what he that is happye, should lacke to make him selfe more happye: (for if he lacke any thing then is he not happye at al). And also, whereas they say, that euerye thinge is named of the greater part, that is true in some other thinges and not in this. But whereas they say that there are thre sortes of euels: shall we say (I pray you) that he, that is burdened with the .ii. first sortes, namely, eyther with the aduersitye of fortune, orels wyth diseases in his bodye, doth therfore want any thinge of a happye life? Or of the happyest of all?
This is it that Theophrastus woulde [Page] not say. For when he had wryten, that strypes, tormentes, punishementes, the rasinge of our countrey, exyle, barennes, & such like, were able to make our life miserable, he was ashamed to speake stoutely, inasmuche as he wrote so fayntly, Although he doth not iustly complayne, yet truly he is constante in his owne opinion. And therfore, I like not them, who when they haue graunted the originall, yet will denye or reproue that, whyche necessarilye dependeth thereof. For they reprehende this moste excellente, and learned philosopher. But slenderly, for that he appointeth three sortes of goodes. Yet they al reproue him in that booke, whiche he wrote of the attayning of a happy lyfe. For that, he reasoneth muche, that he which is in torment, can not be blessed In that booke also, they thinke he sayeth, that to the whele (which is a kinde of torment among the Grecians) happie life cannot come, trulye he saieth in no place so. But he saies as much in effect. And truly, if I should graunt to anye man, that the grieues of the bodye [Page] or the shipwrackes of fortune, ought to be counted euels: could I be iustlye angrye, wyth the same, if he should saye, that then, al good men are not blessed? For as much as, such euels, might happen to the best mē that myght be. The same Theophrastus, is bayted at, as wel in the bookes, as in the scooles of all philosophers, for that he commended this sayeng of Calisthenes. ‘Not wysedomes lore, but fortunes force, this world loe doth rule.’
They say, that no philosopher, myght haue spoken any thing more fayntly.
And therein in deede they saye well.
But yet I can not see, howe he myght speake more constantli, folowing their opiniō. For, if there be so many goods in the bodye, and so many wythout the body, subiect to casualtye and fortune: is it not probable, that fortune, whych is the ruler of all outward thinges, pertayning to the body, should beare more swaye in our life then prudence? Or rather should we folowe Epicurus, who oftentimes speaketh many thinges very wisely? but litle cares, how constant [Page] and agreable he be in his talke. He cōmendeth bare liuing. And truly, so it becomes a philosopher. If Socrates or Antisthenes, had said it, & not he, who esteemeth pleasure to be the ende of all goodes. He denies, that any man may [...]lue pleasauntly, vnlesse he liue honestly, wysely, and iustly. Truly, nothynge could be more sagely spoken, nor more worthye a philosopher. Unlesse, he dyd referre that same honestye, wysedome, and iustice, to pleasure. What can be better spoken, then that a wise man oughte to be contented, wyth a meane and bare life? But doth he saye this? Who inas much as, he hath not onely sayde, that gryefe is the chiefest euell, but also, that it onelye is euell: maye, euen then, when he shal boast him selfe moste agaynste fortune, be ouercome wyth a litle gryefe in his bodye? the same also, Metrodorus spake in stouter wordes. Sayenge, I haue nowe taken the captiue O fortune, and stopped vp all thy holes, so that thou mayst by no meanes come vnto me. A notable sayenge, if it had bene spoken, eyther of [Page] Aristo, Chius, or Zeno the Stoyke.
Who would thinke nothing euell, but that whych were dishonest. But thou, O Metrodorus, which hast placed all good in dayntie dishes, and delicate feedinge, and haste defyned that to be the chiefest good, that doth consiste in the good health of the bodye, and the certayne hope, that it shall so endure:
Hast thou (I saye) shut vp all the holes [...]f fortune? How: I pray the. For, that whiche thou thinkest to be so greate good, thou mayst lyghtye lose. But, these are your baytes, for suche, as are vnlearned, and such sētences haue caused so manye to be of that sect. But it is the poynct of a wyse reasoner, not to waye what euerye man doth saye, but what they ought to saye. As in thys selfe same position, which is nowe proposed to dispute: I saye, that all good men are happye and blessed. Whom I name good, it is playne enough. For such as are adourned with all kinde of vertues, we terme both wyse and good men. Nowe, let vs see, whom we call blessed. Truly I thinke, those whyche [Page] enioy such thinges, as are good, without the entermedling of any euell. For truly, when we call anye man blessed, we vnderstand thereby, no other thing thē the perfect conioyning of such thinges, as are good, seuered, and disioyned, from all those thinges that are euell. It, vertue can neuer attayne, yf there be any thing good besides it. For there wil alwaies be at hand, a throng of euels (if we maye well terme theym euels) such as pouerty, basenes of birth solitarines, the losse of fryendes, greuous infyrmities of the bodye, the losse of health, weakenes, blyndnes, the captiuitie of our countrey, banishemente, and bondage) In these, and such lyke, a man may be good, and wyse. For these thinges, casualtie, and chaunce, bryng vpon vs, whych may happen euen to a wyse man. But, if these thynges be euel, who cā iustly affirme, that a wise man is alwayes happye? since, euen in all these, he may be at one instant.
Wherfore, I wyll not gladly graunt, neyther to bothe our maysters, nor yet to those auncient philosophers, Aristotle, [Page] Speusippus, Xenocrates, and Polemon: that inasmuch as they count al those thinges, which I haue afore rehersed to be euel) thei may wel affirme that a wyse man shoulde be alwayes blessed. But, if this fayre, and glorious sayeng doth delyght thē: being in deede most worthy of Pithagoras, Socrates and Plato: then, let them finde in their heartes, to despyse those thinges, with the whych they are nowe so muche delighted. namely, strength, health, beautye, ryches, honour, and substaunce.
And to set at noughte those thinges, whych are contrary to that which they [...]ayne they do desyre. Then maye they playnly professe, that they are nothing moued neyther wyth the force of fortune, neyther with the opinion of the people, neyther with gryefe nor pouertye. But that all theyr ayde, consisteth in theym selues: and that there is nothing wythout theyr power, that they esteeme to be good. For it can not be by any meanes, that any should speake these wordes whych belong, to a stout and hie minded man: and yet shoulde [Page] think those thinges to be good, or euel, which the common people so counteth. With the whych glory, Epicurus beinge moued, firste rose vp who (if god will) thinkes, that a wyse man may be alwayes blessed. He is delyghted with the worthines of this sayeng. But trulie, he woulde neuer saye it, if he did agree to his owne wordes. For, what is there lesse agreable then, that, he, whych thinketh griefe to be the greatest euell, or els, that it onelye is euell, that he (I saye) shoulde thinke, that a wyse man euen in his tormētes should saye? O howe pleasaunte is this? We must not therfore, iudge philosophers, by euery perticuler saieng: but by their continuall, and constant asseueration, in all their assertions.
You moue me somewhat to agree vnto you. But, beware, lest you also may seme to lacke a poynt of constancie.
Why so?
Because I did of late, read youre booke, of the endes of good and euell. In the whyche, me thoughte, that reasoninge agaynste Cato, you assayed to proue, this (which liked me very well) [Page] I meane, that betwyxte Zeno, and the Peripatetikes, there is no more difference, thē the straungenes of certaine termes. Whiche, if it be true, what cause is there, whye, yf Zeno thinke, that vertue is of it selfe sufficiente, to leade an honest life, the Peripatetikes also, do not thinke the same?
For, I thinke, we oughte to haue regarde to theyr meaninge, and not to theyr wordes.
You trulye, worke strayghtly wtth me. For, you reporte, whatsoeuer I haue sayd or wrytten.
But I reason wyth other men, which wel nie of necessity maintaine the opiniō of any one sect, after this sort. We liue but a shorte time, whatsoeuer seemeth probable vnto vs, that we do affirme. Wherfore, we onely, of al other are free. But forasmuche as, I spake somewhat afore of constanry, and stedfastenes: I minde not in this place, to dispute, whether it were true, that Zeno liked best, and his folower Aristo: I meane, that that onely is good, whych is honeste: but, that, if it be so, then he [Page] should place blessed and happy lyfe, in onely vertue: wherfore, let vs graunte to my frend Brutus, that according to his opinion, a wise man shoulde be alwayes happye. For, who is more worthy, to haue the glorye of that sayenge, then he? But yet, howe well it doth agree wyth his owne opinion, let hym selfe consider. But let vs holde that a wise man is alwayes most happye.
And although Zeno, a straunger born in Citium, a towne of Cypres, an obscure caruer of wordes, woulde gladly creepe into the name of an aunciente philosopher: Yet, the grauitie of this opinion, ought fyrst to be deriued, from the authority of Plato. In whom, this is verye often repeated, that nothynge ought to be called good, but onely vertue. As in his booke, which he entituled Gorgias, when one demaunded of Socrates, whether he did not thinke, that Archelaus (who thē was counted most fortunate of all other) was happy & blessed? He answered, y• he knew not. For, he neuer talked with him, in all [Page] his life. What? sayest thou so? canst thou not knowe it otherwise? No trulye. Doest thou doubte, then, whether the myghtye kynge of the Persians be happye, yea or no? Whye should I not since I knowe not, howe learned he is, or whether he be a good man, or no? Whye? thynkest thou, that happy lyfe consysteth therein? I truly thinke, that all good men are happye: and that all noughty men are wretched. Is Archelaus then a wretche? Yea trulye, if he be a vicious lyuer. Doth not this man (thinke you) place happy lyfe in vertue onely? He also, in his booke, whiche is entituled Epitaphium, hath these wordes. For that man (quod he) who wythin him selfe, hath all thinges necessarye for a happy life, and wauereth not, depending vpon the good or euel chaunce of anye other thinge, he hath euen gotten, the trade of a perfect life. He is a modest, stoute, and a wyse man. He, although all other forrayne commodities, eyther ryse or fall, will alwayes obey the olde precept, & neyther reioyce [Page] neyther sorowe ouer much, because, all his hope is fixed onely in him selfe.
Out of this holy and sacred sprynge of Plato, shall flowe all our talke that foloweth. From whence therefore maye we better take our beginninge, then, from nature: the common parent, and authour of all thinges? Who, what so euer she made, not onelye beinge a liuing creature, but also, either any such thing, as springeth out of the ground: made it, euerye thinge, perfecte in his owne kynde. And for that cause, both trees & vines, & also the lowe floures, whiche can not springe hie from the ground, some of thē are alwaies grene And some of them, being made bare in the winter, yet reuiuing in the spring, beginne to bud out agayne. For there is none of theym, that is not so nouryshed, eyther wyth some inwarde motion, or els some power enclosed in it, that it dothe not at certayne times of the yeare, yelde eyther, floures, fruites or beries. And all thinges, as much as partayneth to theyr nature, are perfect wythin them selues, vnlesse, they [Page] be hurt by the iniury of some forrayne force. But we may much more plainelye, perceyue this power of nature in beastes. Because, there are by nature, senses geuen to theym. For some beastes nature would to be swimmynge, and abiding in the waters: whiche are called fishes. To other some, she gaue the open aer, to inhabite: which are called birdes. Some she made crepers, & some goers, and of theym all, some she made solitarye: and some flockers together: some wylde: some tame: some hidden and couered with the ground. And of all these, euery one folowynge his dutye, and, being not able to turne into the nature of any other liuing creature: abydes still, within that lawe, which nature hath appoynted it. And, likeas, there is naturallye geuen to euery beast, some especial property from al the rest, which it doth alwayes kepe and neuer parte from: so is there lyke wyse to man. But it is much more excellent, then the other. Howe be it, excellent, is not properlye spoken, but of th [...]se thinges, betwyxte the whiche, [Page] there is some comparyson. But the mynde of man, proceedinge fyrst, euen from the spyryte of God, oughte to be compared wyth no other thynge, then God him selfe. It therefore, if it be well garnished, and his sighte so cleared, that it be not blynded with errours: then it becomes a perfect mind, which is, as much to saye, as absolute reasō. Which is euē the same y• vertue is. And if that be happy, which lacketh nothing, but is perfect of it selfe in his owne kinde, and that properlye belongeth onelye to vertue: then nedes must all suche as haue attayned vertue, be happye. And herein, trulye both Brutus, Aristoteles, Xenocrates, Speusippus, and Polemon, do agree with me. But I thinke further, that suche as are partakers of vertue, are also moste happye. For what doth he lacke to a happye life, whyche trusteth on no other goodes, thē his owne? Or he that doth mistrust his goodes, howe can he be happie? But he must nedes mistrust them, who makes thre sortes of goods For, howe can he assure him selfe, eyther [Page] of the good estate of his bodye, or els of any staye in fortune? But truly, no man can be made happy wyth anye good, vnlesse the same be stable and sure. And what certayntye is there, of any of those goodes? None at all. To the whych, that mery sayenge of a citesin of Lacedemon, may in my opinion be wel applied. To whom, when a certayne marchaunt man made his bragges, that he had set forthe a great companye of shippes, to sundrye realmes, laden with marchaundise: nowe trulye (quod he) I lyke not thys wealth, that hangs all on gable endes. And is it any doubte that those thynges whyche maye be loste, are not of that sorte of goodes whyche make a hapyye, and a blessed life? For, none of those thynges of the whyche such a lyfe doth consyst, can eyther waxe aged, peryshe, or moult and fall away. For he that standeth in feare of the losse of anye suche thynges, can not be happye. For we wyll, that he, whom we counte happye, shall be quyete, inuincible, and [Page] troubled I saye, not with a litle feare, but wyth none at all. For as he is called innocent, which not onelye hurteth no man lyghtlye, but also, hurteth no man at all: so he is to be counted voyde feare, not whyche feareth smallye, but who feareth nothinge at all. For, what is fortitude, otherwyse, then a pacient affection of the minde, as well in attempting perillous affayres, as also in abidinge trauayle and griefe, farre from all feare? And trulye, thys were not so, vnlesse, all good did consist in honestye onely. But howe might he obtayne quietnes of minde (whyche euery man so greatly wysheth and desyreth (by quietnes, I meane the lacke of all sorowe, in the whych happy lyfe doth consist) who eyther presentlye had or els myght haue, a great number of euels fall on him? Also, howe maye he be stoute, and hye minded, despysing al chaunces, which may happen to man: as trifles (as a wise man must) vnlesse he think, that he nedeth no more helpe then that which is within him selfe?
The Lacedemonians, when kynge [Page] Philip threatned them, that he would barre al their enterprises: asked of him whether he wold forbid thē also to die? And shal we notsoner find out this one man, whō we nowe treate of, of such a stomacke, then a whole citie? Furthermore, when to this stoutenes (of the which we nowe talke) temperaunce is once adioyned, whyche is the cooler of all motions: What then may he lacke of a blessed lyfe? whom fortitude shall defend from gryefe, sorowe, and feare: and temperance shal reuoke from gredy desyre, and vayne mirth? And that these thinges are wrought by vertue, I would now proue, if I had not, more largely shewed the same afore. And in asmuche, as the perturbations, & troubles of the minde, do make a wretched life: and, contrarywise, the quietnes of the same, causeth a happye life: And there are two sortes of perturbations: the one proceedinge out of the opinion of euel, whych are sorowe, and feare: the other caused of the opinion of good: which are desyre and lyght mirth: inasmuche as, all these striue with reason, [Page] and councell, will you doubte to saye, that he whyche is quyete, and rydde from such troublous motions, repugnant and contrarye the one to the other, is blessed? But, a wyse man is alwayes so. A wyse man therefore, is alwayes blessed. Also, we oughte to reioyce, of all thynge, that good is.
But that, whych we ought to reioyce, of, is worthy prayse: and, what so euer is suche, it also is glorious. If it be glorious, it is also commendable. But whatsoeuer is commendable, the same is honest also. Therfore, whatsoeuer is good, the same is honest. But those thinges, whych these men call goods, they them selues trulye, will not saye that they are honest. But that onelye is good, whyche is honest. It foloweth therfore, that in honestye onelye, consi [...]teth a happye lyfe. And those are neyther to be counted, neither yet to be named goodes: with the which, although a man do abound, yet he may be moste miserable. But who doubteth but a man beynge in good healthe, perfecte strength, seemely beautye, hauyng his [Page] senses also as quicke and as cleare, a [...] they myghte be. Adde thereunto, also, swyftnes, and lyghtenes, let him haue riches, honour, rule, wealth, and glorye: if he, that hath all these thynges, be an vnryghtuous man, a ryotter, a fearefull person, or a man of slender wyt, or none at all, wyll you doubte (I saye) to call him wretched? Wherefore what maner goodes be these, which he that hath, neuerthelesse, may be wretched? We must remember, that like as a heape of corne, is made of a number of graynes, of one sorte: so lykewyse happye life doth consist of many partes in nature, lyke to it selfe. Whych, if it be so, then must we frame a happy life, of those goodes onelye, whyche are honest. For if there be a mixtion of vnlyke and contrarye partes, then can there be no honestye made thereof.
Whych being taken awaye what can there be happye? For whatsoeuer is good, that oughte to be desyred. And whatsoeuer ought to be desyred, ought to be allowable. whatsoeuer oughte to [...]e allowed, the same oughte well and [Page] fully to be accepted. And for that cause it must be had in worshippe and reuerence also. Whych, if it be so, thē must it needes be laudable. All good therefore is laudable. Whereof, I do conclude, that whatsoeuer is honeste, the same onely is good. Which assertion, vnlesse we holde fast, we shall make an infinite number of goodes. For, that I ouerpasse ryches (whiche, inasmuch as euery man (be he neuer so vnworthye) may haue, I wil neuer coūt for goods. For, that which is good, no noughtye person may haue). That I maye ouerpasse also, nobilitie, the brute of the people, raysed by the consent of fooles, and vicious persons. Yet these tryfles whyche I will rehearse, will be counted goodes. White teethe, rollyng eyes, a beautiful complexion, and that which Euriala praysed, when she washed the feete of Ulires, namelye gentle speache, and tender fleshe. And these thinges, if we do once cal goods, what more wyt shall there be accompted, in the graue wysedome of philosophers, then in the rashe brute of the [Page] [...]ascall people? These thynges, whych those men terme goodes, the Stoykes call additions. Withoute the whyche, they thinke a happy life can not be fullye furnished. But these men thinke, that wythout them, there is no happy life at all. Or if it be happye, that it is not the happiest life of all. But we wil haue it, to be the happyest of all.
And that we confyrme, by a conclusion of Socrates. For in this sorte, that prince and founder of philosophy, dyd reason. Suche, as the affection of man is, such is his talke. To his talke, his deedes be like. To his deedes his lyfe. But there is no affection in the minde of a good man, but good and commendable. Then it must needes be honest also, if it be commendable. Whereof it is necessarilye concluded, that all good men leade a happye life. For, haue we done nothing wyth our former disputations? Haue we made a vayne speake onely, for pleasure, and to spende the time, when we reasoned, that a wyse man was alwayes free from all motions of the minde, whych I terme perturbations? [Page] And, that there is alwaies nothing, but quiete peace, within hys heart? Therfore, a temperate, and constant man, wythout any feare, wythout any gryefe, wythout anye excessiue mirth or desyre, is not he (I saye) happye? But a wyse man is alwayes so.
He is therfore alwayes happye. Furthermore, howe can a good man do any thing els, then referre al his deedes and thoughtes, to that, whych is commendable? But, he referres them al to a happy life. A happie life then is commendable. but nothing is commendable, wythou [...]e vertue. A happye, and a blessed life therefore, is attayned by vertue. The same also, is concluded after this sort. There is nothing praise worthye, eyther in a miserable life, or els, in suche, as is neyther miserable, nor blessed. But there is some kinde of life, in the whych there is some thinge prayse worthy, and to be desyred. As Epaminundas sayeth. ‘Our wittye counsels haue debased, the Lacedemonians prayse.’
And Africanus sayeth.
Whiche if it be so, then a happye lyfe ought to be desyred. For there is nothinge els, that ought to be praysed, or desyred, Which being once concluded, you knowe what foloweth. And truly, vnlesse that lyfe be happy, which is also honeste, there shoulde be somewhat better then a blessed life. For if honestye, and it, myght be separated: euerye man would graunt, that honesty were better. And so there shoulde be somethynge better then a blessed life. Then the whyche, what could be sayde more fondly? Also, when they confesse, that vice is sufficiente, to make vs leade a miserable life: do they not then graunt that vertue is of the lyke power, to make a happye life? For of contraries, the conclusions also are contrarye.
And in this place, I woulde fayne knowe, what Critolaus ment, by his balance. Who, when into the one scale, he had put the goods of the mind [Page] and into the other, the goods of the bodye, and of fortune, makes, that scale of goods of the minde, so farre to wey downe the other, as the heauen doth the earth and seas. What lets hym then, or Xenocrates, that moste graue philosopher (who doth so much amplyfie the power of vertue, and debase and depsise al the rest) that he can not finde in his hearte, to place the happyest lyfe of all others, in onely vertue? Whych truly, vnlesse it be so, there must nedes ensue, the decaye of all vertues. For, to whom sorowe maye come, to hym also maye feare. For fearinge is a carefull wayting for sorowe, that is comming. And whosoeuer is subiecte to feare, he must needes be combred also with all the mates of the same: fearefulnes, dreade, and quakynge. And for that cause, he must not thinke him selfe inuincible, neyther that, that sayenge of Atreus was spoken to him.
[Page] But suche a man, will strayght ways be ouercome: and not onely be vanquished, but become euen a slaue. And we will haue vertue alwayes free and inuincible. For otherwyse it is no vertue. But if there be sufficient helpe, in vertue it selfe to liue well: there shalbe sufficient also, to liue blessedlye. For truly, vertue, is able enough, of it selfe to make vs liue stoutelye. If it be able enough, of it selfe, thereto, it is able also, to make vs to be of a stout courage. So that, we shal neither be feared, neither yet ouercome, of any other thing. And thereof, it must nedes folow, that nothing maye make vs to repent: that we may lacke nothynge: nor nothinge can withstand vs. So we shal haue all thinges abundantlye, fullye, and prosperouslye. And for that cause, blessedly also. Furthermore, vertue, is able enoughe, to make vs liue stoutelye, and for that cause happely also. For, as follye, althoughe it hathe obtayned that, whiche it did desyre, yet neuerthelesse, neuer thinkes it selfe satisfied: so wisedome contraryewyse, is alwayes contented [Page] wyth that whyche it hath, and neuer repenteth her owne estate.
Thinke you, that it was not al one, to Caius Lelius, to be once chosen consull, and another time to take a repulse? Althoughe, when a wyse, and a good man (as he was) lacketh voyces: the people, ought rather to be deemed, to haue the repulse from a good Consull, then that he hath anye repulse, of the vayne multitude. But whether would you (if you might choose) be consull once, as Lelius was, or foure tymes, as Cinna? I do litle doubte what you will aunswere. For I knowe to whom I speake. I would not so boldly aske the same, of some other. For, I knowe, that some there be, that would aunswere me, that thei would preferre not onely the foure Consulshippes, of Cinna, but euen one day of his raigne afore the liues of many notable men. But Cinna, commaunded the heades of his felowe consul Caius Octauius, of Publius Crassus, and Lucius Cesar, thre most notable mē (whose wits had bene well proued, as well in time [Page] of warre, as peace) of Marcus Antonius also, the moost eloquente Oratour, that euer I heard: and of Caius Cesar (in whom, in my opinion, was the perfection of all gentlenes, pleasauntnes, and mirth) to be stryken of. Is he then happye, which put these men to death? Truly, in my opinion, he is not onely wretched, for that he caused that to be done: but also, because he behaued him selfe so, that he myght do it. Although, no man maye lawefully sinne. But I erre, vsing y• wonted maner of speach. For, we saye commonlye, that a man may do that, whyche he hath power to do. Yet whether was Caius Marius more happye, then, when he communicated the glory of his victory, which he obtayned agaynst the Cymbrians, wyth his felowe in office Catulus, in wysedome an other Lelius: (for in my opinion, they maye well be compared) or els, when he, being conqueroure in the ciuile battayle, angrye with the frendes of the same Catulus, whyche entreated for him, would geue theym no other word, but let him dye: let him [Page] dye. Nowe truly, more happy was he, that obeyed that blouddy commaundement, then he, that commaunded it.
For, bothe it is farre better, to suffer, then to do iniury: and also, willynglye to meete death, when it approcheth (as Catulus did) it was farre better done, then as Marius did: by the death of so worthy a man, to stayne the glorye of his sixe firste consulshippes: and with bloudshed, to defile the last time of his age. Eyght and thirtye yeares, Dionisius was tyrant of Siracusa, comynge to the kingdome, at .xxv. yeares of age. That beautifull citie, of so notable wealth, howe did he kepe in bondage? And of this man, we reade thus much written in historyes. That he vsed a merueylous temperate dyet, and that in all his deedes, he proued him selfe a maruaylous wittye, & a paineful man. And yet neuerthelesse, he was of a mischieuous cruell nature. Wherefore to all such, as do well weygh his case, he must nedes seeme to be wretched.
For, that, which he so much desired, he could not then attaine, whē he thought [Page] he might haue done, what he lysted.
Who, hauinge good and honeste parentes, and beinge come of an honest stocke, (howebeit thereof diuers men diuersly do write) hauing also great acquayntaunce, and familiaritie wyth princes, and also certayne yong boyes, according to the maner of Greece, appoynted for his loue & playe: yet, durst, to trust none of them all. But committed the custody of his bodye, to certaine slaues, whom he him selfe had made free: to hyred seruauntes, and to cruell Barbarians. So, onely, for the desyre he had, to beare rule: he had in maner, shut vp him selfe, into a pryson. Also, because he would not trust any barber to shaue him, he caused his owne doughters to learne to shaue. So the maydens of honoure, when they had learned, that filthy and slauishe science as barbers, shaued the beard, & heares of theyr father. And yet neuerthelesse, theym also, when they came to yeares of discrescretion, he would not truste, wyth a raser: but, commaunded that with the shales of walnuttes heated, [Page] they should burne of his beard, and his heares. And although he had two wiues, Aristomache borne in the same citye, and Doris, borne in the citye of Locris: yet, he would neuer come to any of them, in the night, afore that, all places were searched, for feare of treason. And then, would he haue an artificiall trench aboue his bed, whych had but one way, to passe ouer, which was by a draw bridge. Which he him selfe when the chamber dore was locked, would draw to him. And furthermore daringe not, to come to any place of resorte, he would talke to his subiectes, downe from a hye tower. On a certayne time, when he woulde playe at tenesse (for that game he vsed verye much) it is sayde, that he deliuered to a yonge man whom he loued very well his sworde to kepe. which when one of his familiar frendes, espyenge, sayd in [...]este: to him nowe you truste your life: and, the yong man smyled at it: he commaunded them both to be slayne. The one, because he had shewed the waye howe he might be slaine: the other, for [Page] that he seemed in smilinge, to allowe the same. But, that deede afterwardes so much repented him, that nothing in all his life, greued him more. For, he had caused him to be put to death, whō he loued entierly. But this tirant, seemeth him selfe, to haue shewed, howe happye he was in deede. For, when on a time, Damocles, one of his flatterers, did recken vp his power, myght, maiestie, and rule: his greate aboundaunce of all thinges, and his magnificence in building, sayenge, that there was no man at any time, more happye then he: wylt thou then, O Damocles, (quod he) because this life doth so much delight the, thy selfe taste thereof? and, try the pleasure, of my happy chaunce? Whereunto, when he aunswered that he would very gladly: Dionisius, commaunded him, to be layde in a bedde of gold, hauing a couerlet of cloth of gold and hanginges of beatē gold: wrought with verye fayre workes. Also he set coupbordes, and chestes afore him, full of plate, bothe of golde, and also of sil [...]er gylt. Then he commaunded, cer [...]ayne [Page] boyes of notable beautye, to attend on his person, and to be readye at his becke. There were brought in precious oyntmentes, imperiall crownes the perfumes burnt in euery place, and the tables were spredde, wyth the most [...]ayntye dishes that mighte be gotten. Then, seemed Damocles to be happy. But, in the middes of all this iolitye Dionisius commaunded a glisterynge sword, to be hanged ouer his head, by a horse heare. So that it mighte well nye touche his necke. Wherewyth, Damocles being feared, could neyther fynde in his hearte, to looke vpon hys fayre boyes, neyther yet vpon the grauen gold, neyther would he reache his hand to the table, to taste of any thyng that was thereon. The crownes fell downe from his head. To be shorte, he desyred the tyrant to lycence him to depart. Sayeng, that he would no longer be happye. Dyd not he (thynke you) declare sufficientlye, that he can haue no happynesse, ouer whom there hangeth any feare? Yet neuerthelesse, he trulye was not able to retourne to iustice.
[Page] Neyther to restore to his citesens they [...] libertye and lawes. For, he was euen from his youth vpwarde bred in tirannye. So that, though he would haue repented, yet he could not haue lyued in safety. Yet how much he desyred frendshippe (the vnfaithfulnes of the which, he did much mistrust) he did wel shewe in those two Pithagoreans. The one of the whyche, when he was taken for suretye, that the other should retourne at a certayne daye to suffer death: and, the other came in deede, at the day appoynted: I would to god (quod he) that I were worthy to be your thyrd frend. What a miserye was it, for him to want the companye of his frendes, all societye of life, and all familiar talke? being especiallye, a man very wel learned, a [...] one, from his childehoode vpwardes, stil bred vp in learning? We haue heard also, that he loued musicians very wel, and, that he was a good poete, in compiling of tragedies.
But, howe good he was therein, it is nothynge to oure purpose to talke of. For in this kynde of studye, inespceiallye, [Page] more then in all the reste, euerye man likes his owne doinges best. For I neuer thitherto knewe anye Poete (yet I was verye well acquaynted, both wyth Aquinius, and also wyth manye other) who did not thinke, his owne doynges better, then all the others. So it is alwaye. Your doinges like you best, and mine, me.
But to retourne to Dionisius. He lyued wythoute anye gentlenes, or maners, as it becomes a man. He lyued with caytifes, cutthrotes, and barbarians. He thoughte no man to be his frende, that eyther was worthye to be free, or would be free. I wil not nowe, wyth this mans life (then the whyche there coulde be nothinge more miserable, beastlye, or detestable) compare the liues of Plato, or Architas, famous learned, and wyse men. But I wyll rayse vp from the duste and dungehill, Archimedes a poore, and an obscure person [...]borne in the same citie, who liued many yeares after. Whose tombe, when I was Questor, I founde out at Siracusa, all beset and ouergrowen [Page] wyth bushes and thornes. Whereas, the men of the citie told me, that there was no such thinge. For I remembred certayne verses, whiche I hearde saye, were written vpon his tombe. Which did declare, that vpon his graue, there was a spheare, and a Cilindre. But I, after I had diligently vewed on euery syde, (for there is at the gates called Agragians, a great company of graues) I espied at last, a litle piller, somewhat higher then the bushes, in the whyche there was the forme of a Spheare, and of a Cilindre. Then, I tolde the worshipfull of the citie, whyche were there with me, that I thoughte, that same was it, which I l [...]oked for. Thē, forthwith, certayne labourers, set in wyth scyues, and cutting hookes, opened the place. Into the which, when we came, at the farther part of the bottome, ther appeared an Epigramme, wyth the later part of certayn verses, some who lye worne away, & some, halfe remayning, and halfe worne. So, one of the noblest cities in all Greece, yea, and in time paste one of the best learned, had [Page] not knowen the tombe of this theyr most famous citesin, vnlesse, they had learned it, of a man borne at Arpinas. But I will retourne thither, from whence I firste came. What man is there, who hath anye familiaritie, not wyth the muses onely, but eyther with any part of honestie, or learninge, that woulde not wishe him selfe, rather to be this Mathematician, then that tyran? If we desyre to knowe the maner and trade of bothe their liues. The minde of the one, liued in the searching and conferring of reasons wyth the delyght of knoweledge: which is the swetest foode, that our soules may haue.
But, the minde of the other, was nourished wyth slaughter, and iniury, and beset wyth continuall feare. But now brynge in Democritus, Pithagoras, and Anaragoras. What kyngedome, or what riches, would you preferre afore theyr studies and delyghtes? For trulye, that, whyche we nowe seeke: namely, the most happy and blessed life of all others: muste needes be in that part, whyche is best in all the man.
[Page] But what is there in anye man, better, then a wyse and a good minde?
That therfore, whiche is the chyefe good of the minde, we muste studye to attayne, if we will be happye. But the chiefe good of the minde, is vertue.
Wherfore, it must needes folowe, y• in it is contayned a happy life. And hereof issue all those thinges, which we cal beautifull, honest, and fayre. But we must speake this same more at large.
For all these thinges are full of ioye.
But of continuall and perfect ioye, it is euident, that a happye life doth proceede. Wherfore it must needes consist of honestye. But, let vs not onelye in wordes, moue the same, which we wil proue: but also, propose some certayne ymage of the same, whyche may nowe moue vs the more, to the knoweledge, and vnderstandinge of these thynges, For let vs propose some notable man, endued with most excellent qualities, and imagine and conceyue him, onelye in our minde. Firste, he must needes haue a notable witte. For dul heades, do not so easely attayn vertue, as those [Page] whyche are quicke witted. Then, he must needes haue a very earnest zeale, and desire, to searche out the truth.
Whereof, rise those three properties, of the mind. The one, consisting in the knoweledge of thinges, and description of nature: the other, in the descrybing of those thinges, that ought to be desyred or auoyded: and the thirde, in iudging, what doth necessarily folowe of anye thinge, or what is contrarye to the same. In the whyche, is contayned both all the sutteltye of reasoning, and also the truthe of iudgementes. What [...]oye, then, must the minde of this wise man needes dwell in, daye and nyght, with such pleasaunt thoughtes? when he shall also beholde the motions and turninges of the whole worlde: and shall see innumerable starres fastened in the skyes, and turned, onelye by the motion of the same. And other some, to hau [...] motiōs, & courses of theyr owne, distante the one from the other, eyther in hyghnes or lowenes. Whose wanderinge motions, kepe neuerthelesse, a stedfast and certayne course. Trulye, [Page] the syghte of those, moued and learned those auncient philosophers, to searche further. Thereof came the firste searchinge oute of principles, as it were of seedes, and the enquiring, whereof all thinges, had theyr beginninge and beinge. As well thinges liuing, as wythout lyfe. As wel dumme, as speaking. Also, howe they lyued, and by what natural cause they came to death and corruption. Also, howe one thing is chaunged and tourned to another. Howe the earth had fyrst his beginning. Howe it was so paysed, in the middest of the world. Also, into what vautes, it doth receyue, the flowing and ebbing of the seas. And howe that all heauy thinges naturally fall into it, as into the middell place of the world. Which is, alwayes the lowest, in anye rounde bodye. About these thinges, whiles the minde is busyed nyghte and daye, he must needes also some times remember, that precepte, whyche the God of Delphos gaue. Namely, that it knowe it selfe free from all vyce, and vnderstande, that it is parte of the nature of [Page] god. Whereby, it is filled with insatiable ioy. For, the very thinking, of the power, & nature of the gods, enflames our heartes, to folowe that eternitye, and not to despayre for the shortnes of lyfe. Inasmuch as, we see the causes of all thinges, to be necessarilye knyt one to an other. Which euen from the beginning, cotinuing til the end, yet the mind, & reason, of men may well comprehend, and rule. These thinges, he beholding, and maruaylinge at, wyth what quietnes of minde must he nedes consider, both all earthly thinges, and also all other aboue the same? Hereof riseth the knoweledge of vertue. And hereof springe out all the sondry sortes and braunches of the same. Hereby we fynde out, what is the best of al goods, and what is the vttermost, and extreemest of all euels. Also, to what end we ought to referre all our dutyes, in this life. An [...] what trade we ought to chose to passe our life in. Which, with suche other like thinges, beinge once founde out, then is that brought to passe, whiche in this reasoning we seke to proue. [Page] Namely, that vertue is of it selfe onely sufficient, to make a man leade a blessed life. There foloweth nowe the third kynd, whych spreadeth and is deriued, through out al the parts of wisedome. Which defyneth euery thynge: deuideth it into sondry partes: ioyneth thereunto such thinges, as may folow of it: concludes thinges perfectlye, and iudgeth them to be eyther true or false. I meane, the trade and oder of reasoninge. Of the which, there ryseth, both great profite, in the weyging of ouerye question, and also very great delyghte, and euen worthy of a wyse man. But all these thinges, pertayne to tyme of leasure: let the same wise man, come to the gouerninge of a common welth. Who can do it better then he? inasmuch as, he shall see, that in his prudence and polecye, the profyte of al the citesens doth consiste. And iustice will not suffer him, to deriue anye thynge, that ought to be common, to his owne pryuate commdditye. And so, in lykewyse, he shall haue the helpe of all the other vertues. Ioyne thereto the fruite [Page] of frendshippe, in the whiche, all learned men, do place both the vniuersall and frendlye consent, for the maynteyninge of our common life: and also, a great ioy and pleasure, in the common societie, and vse of neyghbourhood.
What (I pray you) may such a life lack to make it more happy? To the which, beynge furnished and accomplished, wyth so greate ioyes, euen fortune it selfe, must needes yelde. Trulye, if to reioyce, for the obtaining of such goods and commodities of the minde, be to be blessed: and all wyse men do feele such pleasure, then must you nedes confesse, that all suche are happye.
What? in thyyr payne and tormentes also.
Why, do you thinke, that I meane, y• they are happy in some pleasaunt garden. Or in a [...]ed of violets, or roses? Shall it be lawefull for Epicurus (who is a philosopher onelye, to the face outwardes; and gaue him selfe that name) to saye (whych sayenge neuerthelesse, I woulde not gladlye take from him) that there is no tyme, in the whych a wyse man, although he were [Page] burned, racked, or cut in pieces, would not say, howe litle do I esteme al this? Whereas he him selfe thinketh, that all euel consisteth in paine: and al good in pleasure. And iesteth at those thinges, whiche we call honest and dyshonest. Sayenge, that we are occupyed onely in vaine wordes, and care for no thinge, but onely the gentle or sharpe sufferinge of the bodie. He therefore, whose iudgement doth not muche differ, from the iudgemente of brute beastes: may lawefully forget him selfe.
And so, despyse fortune. Whereas all, his good and euell, doth consiste, onely in the power of fortune. He may think him selfe happy in payne and tormentes, whereas he not onelye thinketh, that pain is the greatest euel that may be, but also, that it onely is euell. Neyther yet hath he gotten these remedies agaynst the suffering of griefe. Namely the stoutenes of stomacke, shame of dishonesty, exercise, and custome of sufferynge the preceptes of fortitude, and manly stoutenes. But he, sayeth, he is contented onely with the remēbraunce [Page] of his former pleasures. As if, a man well nye parched wyth heate, so that, he is no longer able to abide the sonne should comfort him selfe, with the remembraunce, that once heretofore, he had bathed him selfe in the colde ryuers of Arpynas. For truly, I see not, howe the pleasures that are past, may ease the gryeues that are present. But inasmuche as he (I saye) sayeth, that a wyse man is alwayes happye, who, if he woulde be agreeable to him selfe, might worst of al other speake it: what shall they do whyche thinke, that nothinge ought to be desyred, or counted good whyche wanteth honesty? Truly in my opinion, let the Peripatetikes, yea, & the auncient Academikes, ceasse any longer to doubte: and playnely say that happye life, maye come euen into the bull of Phalaris. For let there be foure sortes of goodes that we maye nowe departe from the brakes of the Stoykes, whiche I vnderstande nowe that I haue vsed more then I would.
Let there be therfore (I say) thre sortes of goodes, so that the goodes of the bodye, [Page] and of fortune, maye lye on the ground: and be counted goodes, onely, because they are not to be refused. But the other, which are in maner heauenlye, may in comparison of them, reache vnto the heauens. So that we neede not doubt, to call him, which hath once attayned them, not onelye happy, but euen the happyest that may be. Nowe, shall a wyse man feare gryefe?
Whereas he is most contrarye to this opinion. For agaynst the feare of oure owne deathe, and the sorowe that we might take for the death of our frendes we seeme to be sufficientlye armed and prepared by the former dayes disputations. But, payne seemeth, to be the sharpest aduersarye of vertue. It shaketh his brandes at vs, it threateneth, that she will weaken fortitude, stoutenes of minde, and patience. To it, shal vertue geue place? Or the happye lyfe of a wyse and constant man yelde? O god, what a shame were that? The boyes of Sparta, do not so muche as syghe, when theyr skin are euen torne wyth stripes. My selfe, sawe whols [Page] companies of yonge men, in Lacedemon, striuinge one agaynste an other, wyth theyr fystes, heeles, nayles, and teeth. So long, that they would be euē out of breath, and almoste ouercome, afore they would confesse theym selues to be beaten. What parte of Barbary, is there, more wylde or rude, [...]then India? Yet neuerthelesse, emonges theim those whyche are counted wyse men, are fyrst bred vp, bare and naked. And yet suffer both the colde of the hil Caucasus, and also, the sharpenes of the winter, without any paine. And when they come to the fyer, they are able to abide the heate, well nie, till they rost. But the women there, when anye of theyr husbandes dieth, are wont to fal in contention, whyche of them (for they haue many wyues) he loued best in his life. She that winneth, beynge verye ioyfull (a great company of her frendes and kinsfolke, folowing her) is cast into the fyer, wyth her dead husbande.
Trulye, custome would neuer ouercome nature. For it is of it selfe inuincible. But we, with want [...]nnes, pleasure [Page] ydlenes, and slouth, do first infect our mindes. And afterwardes effeminating it, with peruerse opinions, and euell custome, we cause it euen wholye to degenerate. Who is ignoraunt, of the errour of the Egiptians? who perswaded with a foolishe opinion, would rather abide anye tormente, then they woulde hurte the beast called Ibis, or the serpent called Aspis, or a Cat, or a Dogge, or a Crocodyle. But, if they chaunce, to hurt any of them vnwares they wil refuse no punishemēte for the same. Hitherto I haue spoken of men. But what shall I saye of beastes? Do not they suffer cold and hunger? runne both vp hill and downe hill, when they be coursed? Do not they fyghte so for theyr whelpes, that they are oft wounded, fearing no blowes nor strokes? I ouerpasse here, what paynes ambitious men take, to obtayne honour. And vaine glorious men, to get that, which they thinke to be glory. Or such as are enflamed wyth loue, to accomplyshe theyr desyre. Our life is full of examples. But I will measure my talke, [Page] and retourne thither from whence I first strayed. Happye life (I saye) will offer it selfe into tormentes. And wyll not, inasmuch as it hath alwaies afore folowed iustice, temperance, fortitude, stoutenes of stomake, and patience: as soone as it shall see the face of the tormentoure, then turne backe and slip awaye. And inasmuch as al the vertues wythout any feare, shall hasarde them selues, in the payne of tormente: she onely, shall not stand wythout the dore and entry of the prison. For what may be more filthy or ill fauoured, then happye lyfe, when it is destitute, and separated from the fayre traine of vertues? Which neuerthelesse, can by no meanes be. For, neyther can a man haue all the vertues, without a happye lyfe: neyther yet may there be a happy lyfe, wythout vertue. And for that cause they will not suffer it to tary behinde. But wil alwayes, take her with them to what so euer griefe, or torment they shall go. For, it is the poynct of a wyse man, to do nothiuge that may repente him, nor anye thinge agaynst his will. [Page] But, to do al things comely, constantlye, grauelye, and honestlye. To looke for nothinge, as thoughe it were certayne. And also to thynke nothynge straunge, or vnaccustomed, when it is happened. To referre all thinges to his owne discrecion, and stande to hys owne iudgement. Then the which truly. I can see nothing that may be moe happye. The Stoykes, conclude this question lyghtlye. Sayenge, that inasmuch as, the chiefe ende of all good, is to agree vnto nature: and to lyue accordyng vnto her preceptes: and, it, is in the power of a wyse man. It must needes folowe, that in whose power it is, to attayne the chiefest good, in his power also it lyeth, to leade a quyete life. So, euery wise man, doth leade a blessed life. Thus you haue that, whyche I thynke to be moost stoutelye spoken, of a blessed and happy life. And (as the case standeth) vnlesse you can bryng any proofe, that also, which is as trulye spoken, as it may be.
Trulye, I haue nothing better to saye. But I [Page] would gladlye entreate you, if it were not troublesome vnto you, because you are not bound to any one feet, but onely, borowe of euerye one, that whyche seemeth to you to be moste true. For that somewhat afore, you seemed to exhort the Peripatetikes, and the auncient Academikes, that wythoute anye feare, they would boldelye saye, that a wise man is alwayes most happy: that (I saye) I woulde gladlye heare, howe you could make agreable, to theyr opinion. For you haue spoken very muche against this opinion. Yea, and concluded it with the reason of the Stoykes.
Let vs then vse our liberty. The fruition of the which, we chiefely of al other philosophers do feele. Whose talke iudgeth nothinge, but is applyed agaynst all opiniōs. That it may, by it selfe, wythout any other authoritye be iudged. And that the gladlyer, because you seme to be well pleased, that what soeuer of the same sondry sortes of opinions be true, yet vertue should be sufficient to make vs leade a happy lyfe.
(whych also Carneades was wonte to [Page] dispute, and that very sharply, against the Stoykes, whom he did alwayes gladly reproue, and agaynst whose doctrine, his minde was in maner enflamed. But we wil do the same quietly. For, if the Stoikes, haue well appointed the endes of good and euel: then, is the matter dispatched. For then must a wyse man nedes be happye. But let vs examine, the opinions of all the rest that, this, so notable a decree, of a blessed and happy lyfe, may be confyrmed, wyth all theyr verdites. The opinions which yet continue, and are openly defended, as cōcerning the endes of good and euell (as farre as I knowe) are these. Firste, foure generall, or simple opinions. Namely, that nothinge is good, but that whych is honest. As the Stoykes say. Or that nothing is good but pleasure. As Epicurus affyrmeth. Or that nothinge is good, excepte the lacke of payne. As Hierome thinketh. Or that nothing is good, but to enioye and encrease those most excellente and principall goodes, whych are geuen vs of nature. These are the generall, or [Page] simple opinions. But the mixt or compound are these. Fyrst the three sortes of goodes. The chiefest of the minde, the next of the body: and the last of fortune. As the Peripatetikes saye. Neyther do the aūcient Academikes, much dyffer from them. But Clitomachus, and Calipho, ioyned pleasure with honestye: and Diodorus the Peripatetike ioyned the want of gryefe, with honestye. These are all the opinions, which haue any certayntie in them. For, the opinions of Aristo, Pirrho, Herillus, and manye others: are euen worne away. What would folowe of all these opinions, ouerpassinge the Stoykes, (whose authoritye, we haue alreadye sufficiently defended) and the Peripatetikes (whose cause is alreadye debated: exceptinge Theophrastus, who wyth his folowers, feared griefe more then he neded) let vs nowe se. For trulye, as for all thother, they maye do (as they commonly are wont) namelye, to amplifye the grauitye, and dignitye of vertue, which, when they haue extolde euen to the skyes, (as eloquente men [Page] should) in all the rest of theyr talke they treade it vnder feete, and despyse it.
But they, which think, that we ought euen with gryefe, to labour for praise: must not they nedes confesse, that they are happye which haue attayned it?
For although they be in some euel, yet this name of a blessed, and happye lyfe extendeth farre. For, like as tillage, is counted a gaynefull, & profytable trade although some yeare, tempest or some other chaunce doth let the successe: yet it is counted profitable, because it is so most commonlye. Euen so our lyfe not onely if it be replenished with al goods but also, if it haue more goodes, then euels, is to be counted happy. Wherefore, by theyr owne reason, happy life, must needes accompanye vertue, euen to punishement. And shall go with her into tormentes. Yea, Aristotle, Xenocrates, Speusippus, & Polemon, wytnessing the same. And shall neuer forsake it, at the entysemēt of a fewe flattering pleasures. To the same ende, shall come the opinions of Caliphon, and Diodorus: both the which, so embrace [Page] honesty, that they thinke, that al such thinges as are wythout the same, ought vtterly to be despysed, and set at nought. The other philosophers sticke more. And with more payne, swimme oute of the myer. I meane Epicurus, and Hieronimus, & all the rest, whiche a say to defend, the eloquent Carneades. For there is none of them, whiche thinketh that the minde oughte to be the iudge of all goods: or that doth accustome the same, to despise those thinges, whych onely haue the apparaunce eyther of good or euell. For what soeuer thou thinke O Epicure, the same wil both Hieronimus, and Carneades and also all the rest saye. Yet, who of them is there, not sufficiently prouided agaynst death or gryefe? Let vs begin of him (if you please) whom we call so wanton and full of pleasure. Doth not he (thinke you) despyse death and paine who counteth that daye, in the whyche he shall dye, happy and blessed? And thinketh, that suche as are in the greatest panges of payne, may comfort thē selues, with the remembraunce of pleasures [Page] past? Neyther yet doth he speake that, as if he did rashely blabbe it out. For his reason why death oughte not to be feared is this. Because when the life is gone, al sense is past. And, when we are once withoute sence or feelinge: there is no maner chaunce, that maye greue vs. Also, he hath certayne remedies for griefe. For, if it be greate he comforteth him selfe with the shortnes of the time, that it shall endure.
And if it be long, then he thinketh that space of time wil make it waxe lyghter and lyghter. I praye you, in what better case, are al the graue philosophers, against these two most dreadful [...]uels, then Epicurus? Also, agaynst all the other, which are counted euels: are not Epicurus, and all the other philosophers sufficiētly armed? Who is there that doth not feare pouertye? And yet what philosopher is there? yea or Epicurus him selfe, wyth howe litle is he content? No man hath spoken, or written, more of a spare, and bare life. For inasmuch as, he doth so muche au [...]yde all those thinges, which necessarily requyre [Page] money. Namely, loue, ambition and such like. What [...] cause might ther be, why he should eyther desyre, or care for money? Coulde Anacharses a Scithian despyse money, and shall not our philosophers be able to do the same?
There is an epistle of his writē in this maner. Anacharses to Hanno sendeth greeting. My clothing is a beastes skin [...]f Scithia. My shoes, are the harde brawne in the sooles of my feete. My bed is the ground. My sauce is honger. My meate is milke, butter, and fleshe. Wherefore you may wel come quietly vnto me. But as for those gyftes, with the which, you thinke you should pleasure me, I pray you geue theym eyther to your owne citesins, or els to the immortall gods. Truly, all philosophers, of whatsoeuer secte they were, vnlesse they be suche, as a vicious nature hath turned from the rule of reason, maye well be of the same minde. Socrates, when there was a great plenty of gold and siluer brought vnto him, now lord (quod he) howe litle do I passe for such store? Xenocrates, when the messengers [Page] whych came to him from Alexander, had brought him twenty talentes (whiche was counted at that tyme, at Athenes inespeciallye, a great summe of money) he brought the ambassadors into that place, where Plato once kept his scoole, and there made them a supper, onely of so muche, as was sufficient, without any great cost. And when they asked him on the morowe, to whō he would haue theym tell the money, Why (quod he) did you not vnderstand by the supper, I made you ye laste night that I lacke no money? But when he sawe them very sadde at that sayenge, he toke thirty poundes, least he should seeme to despise, the kinges liberalitie. But Diogenes, whē Alexander asked what he lacked, aunswered more like a currishe philosopher. Sayenge, stande out of the sonne. For he stoode betwixt the sonne and him. And he was wonte to dispute, how much he did surmount the king of Persia, in a happy lyfe, and good lucke. Sayeng, that he lacked nothing, and the other would neuer hau [...] enough. And that he desyred not pleasures [Page] wyth the which, the other could not be satisfyed. And yt those pleasures, which he felt, the other might neuer attayne. You remember (I thinke) howe Epicurus deriued the sondry sortes of desyres: although not ouer suttelly, yet commodiously enough. Sayenge, that they are partly naturall and necessary: and partly, neyther naturall nor necessary. And that suche as are necessary, may be contented, and suffised, wel nie with nothing. For, sufficiēt for nature may lightly be gotten. But the seconde sort, he thinkes it neyther harde to obtayne, neyther yet to lacke. And the thrd, because they were vtterly vaine and fonde, and were requisite, neyther for necessity, nor nature: he said ought vtterlye to be rooted out. Hereabout, the folowers of Epicurus reasō much, and do debase, and despise in their talk these pleasures, very much. Which neuerthelesse, they do not despyse, but seeke to haue plentye of. For, both they saye, that filthy pleasures, of the which they haue great talke, are easy, cōmon and ri [...]e to be gottē: and also, if nature [Page] do require thē, they thinke they oughte to be measured, by beautye, age, and hansomnes. And that it is nothinge harde to abstayne from them, if eyther our health, duty, or fame, do so require [...] And that this kind of pleasure, is then best, when it hurteth not. For it neuer profyteth. And all these preceptes of pleasures, he gaue, to y• ende, he would shewe, that pleasure, for it selfe onely, because it is pleasure, is to be wyshed and desyred. And contrarywise, that payne onely, because it is payne, ought to be hated and auoyded. And this moderatiō, he thinketh a wise man ought to vse. Namelye, to flye pleasure, if he think that it wil bring a greater paine And to suffer payne, if he thinke, it wil cause a greater pleasure. And that all pleasure, although it be iudged by the senses of the bodye: yet neuerthelesse, [...]ught to be referred to the minde. And that for that cause, the bodye doth reioyce, onelye so longe, as it doth feele the pleasure present. But the mind, do both ioye with the bodye, and also whē [...]t fores [...]es, anye pleasure comming: or [Page] remembreth, that which is paste. So that, a wyse man, must needes haue a continual and an euerlasting pleasure Inasmuche as, to the hope of suche as are comming, he did ioyne also, the remembraunce of such as are past. Such like also, is theyr talke, as concerninge moderation of fare. They disprayse all magnificence, and cost in bankets.
Sayeng, that nature is cōtented with a litle. For trulye, who knowes not, that the best sauce, is lacke or want?
Darius, when in his flyght, he dranke muddye and stinking water, sayd, that he neuer dranke a sweter draught.
For truly, he was neuer afore thirsty, when he dranke. No [...]dre had P [...]olomeus, eaten at any time wyth honger. To whom, when (as he rode his progresse in Egipte, and strayed from his garde) a certaine old man gaue a house hold loafe, in a poore cotage: he sayde, that he neuer eat sweter bred, in al his life. They say, that Socrates walkyng earnestly, towardes the eueninge, and beinge demaunded, for what cause he did so: aunswered, that, to thintent he [Page] might suppe the better, he dyd hunt for hunger. What? see we not the dyet of the Lacedemonians, in their bankets, whych they call Philitia? In the which when the tyran Dionisius, [...]n a tyme supped, he sayed: that their blacke porridge, whiche was the best parte of the supper, liked not him. Then the cooke which made them, aunswered. It is no meruaile, since you lacke sauce. What sauce quod he? Mary quod he, the laboure in huntinge, sweate, runninge, from the riuer Eurotas, hunger, and thirst. For these be the sauces of the Lacedemonians meat. And this truly, may well be perceyued, not onelye by the custome of men, but also by beastes The which, as soone as, any thinge is set afore them, which is not contrarye to nature, contentinge theym selues therewyth, seke no further. Yea whole cities, taught by custome, are sometimes delyghted wyth thinne dyet. As we haue alreadye shewed, of the Lacedemonians. Xenophon describeth the liuing of the Persians. Who (as he sayeth) eate nothing with their bread, but [Page] onely water cresses. Although, if theyr nature should desyre anye pleasaunter meate, there are manye fruytes, there both springing out of the ground, and also, growyng on the trees, whych excell, both in pleasure and plentye.
Ioyne hereunto, the tēperatenes that commeth of this continencie in liuing: and the conseruacion, of health. Compare herewith, those that sweate, and belche with eating lyke fatte Oxen.
Then shall you perceyue, that they whiche moste desire pleasure, do moost seeldome obtayne it. And, that the pleasure of meate, consisteth in a hungrye, and empty stomake, and not in fulnes and sacietie. They saye, that Timotheus a noble man in Athenes, and chiefe of the citie, when on a time he supped with Plato, and was very well pleased wyth his cheare: seeinge hym the next daye after, sayde. Your supper trulye, is not onelye for the time presente, but also for manye dayes after pleasaūt. Also, what a thinge is it, that beinge muche stuffed with meate and [Page] drynke, we can not vse our wit at libertye? There is a notable Epistle of Plato, written to the kynsemen of Dion. In the whyche, in maner worde for worde, this is wrytten. Thither when I came, that, which the Italians, and Siracusa [...]s, count a happye life.
Namelye, to be fed with a great number of daynty dishes, liked me no whit. Neyther yet, to be filled twise in a day nor sit vppe all nighte. And suche lyke thinges (whych do necessarilye solowe that kynde of life) litle pleased me. By the whych, no man may be made wise, and much lesse moderate. For what nature maye keepe so wonderfull a temperature? Wherefore, howe may [...] that lyfe be pleasaunt, in the whyche, there lacketh prudence or moderation? And herein, I remember the errour of that most welthy kinge of Siria, Sar [...]anapalus. Who commannded this, to be grauen on his tombe.
[Page] What more meete thing (quod Aristotle) could a man chose out, to graue on the tombe of an Oxe, not of a kynge? He being dead, sayeth he hath all those thinges, whiche euen whiles he liued, he had no longer, then whiles he vsed them. Wherfore then, should we feele any misse of richesse? Or where wyll not pouerty suffer vs to be happy? perhaps in fayre tables, playes, & painted signes. Do not pore mē enioy the same better, than they ye are plētifully stored with them? For there is great store of all suche thinges in the common buyldinges of our citye. Whiche they that haue priuatelye in theyr owne houses, see neither so manye, neyther yet so often: onely whē they go downe to their manours in the countrey. Whom also many times their consciece prickes, when they remember, howe, or from whence, they came by them. A whole day would be to litle for me, if I should here pleade the cause of pouerty. Both it is playne enough of it selfe, and also daylye experience sets before our eyes, howe fewe thinges, howe small, and [Page] howe base those are, whych the nature man requireth. Shall pouertye therefore, or basenes of birth: yea or the anger and grudge of the people let a wise man to be happye? Beware that you proue not, that this prayse of the people, and glory that euery man so much desyreth, doth bring more trouble, then pleasure. And therefore truly, Demosthenes was to lyght, who sayde, that it delyghted him, to heare a woman, as she wente to fetche water, (as the maner is in Greece) saye vnto her felowe, when he passed by. This is that same Demosthenes. What coulde be more [...]ondly said? Yet howe famous an oratour was he? But it appeareth, that he was wōte to talke much afore other men, & not to commen with his owne conscience. We must therefore knowe this, that neyther hye place, or glorye, are for theym selues to be desired: neyther pouertie and basenes to be feared. For, Democritus sayd. Come to Athenes, there no man knoweth me.
A constante man, and a graue trulye: whych gloryeth that he was withoute [Page] glorye. Shall trumpetters and other musicians playe and blowe accordyng as it shall seeme good to thē. And shall a wyse man, whose arte is farre more excellent seeke out and folowe not that that is truest, but what the people lyketh? Is there any thing more foolysh? thē, that those, whom takyng one and one, you despise as slaues and fooles, to thinke (I saye) that those altogither are any better? But a wise man truly, will despise al our ambition, and lyghtnes. Yea, he will despise all honoure, though it be profered vnto him. But we can not despise them, afore repentaunce driue vs to it. In the bookes Hermodorus a wryter of naturall philosophye, there is such a sayenge. He would, that all the Ephesians should be put to death. For that, when they banyshed Hermodorus theyr king, out of the citie, they spake in this wise. Let there no man emonges vs be aboue the rest. Or, if there be any, that would be so, let him go to some other place, and amonges other men. Is it not so in the common people euerye where [Page] likewise? Doth it not spite them, to see any man, passe all the reste in vertue? What? Aristides (for I had rather to bryng forth the examples of the Grecians, then our owne:) was not he banished from his coūtrey, because he was iust aboue al measure, as they thought What troubles therefore, want they, whyche haue nothinge to do with the people? Or what is more pleasaunt thē leasure bestowed on learninge? Suche learninge I meane, as teacheth vs the knoweledge of all nature: the heauen, the earth, the seas, and all the rest.
Despising therefore, honoure, and riches, What is there, that a mā should feare? Exile perhaps, which is counted one of the greatest euels. It, if you coūt to be euell, because of the pleasure and grudge of the people, then howe litle we ought to esteeme it, I haue spoken afore. But if you counte it a misery, to be from your countrey: then trulye is euery prouince ful of wretched men, of whō very fewe retourne home againe into theyr countrey. But all banyshed men lose their goods. What thē? haue [Page] we shewed nothinge howe men ought to beare pouertye? And truly, exyle and banishement, if we weygh the nature of the thinge, and not th [...] shame of the name, howe much differeth it frō that continuall wanderinge, in the whyche these most notable philosophers, Xenocrates, Crantor, Arcesilas, Lacides, Aristoteles, Theophrastus, Zeno, Cleanther, Chrisippus, Antipater, Carneades, Panetius, Clitomachus, Philo, Antiochus, Possidonius, and other innumerable, haue spēt their whole age, and the course of their life? Who, after they once departed from theyr countreyes, neuer came thither agayne.
And truly, it could put a wyse man (of whom only our talke is at this presēt) to no shame at all. Because, no suche thing, can rightfully come vnto him.
For such a one, as is ryghtfully banyshed, we ought not to comfort. To cō clude, to proue this, we may easely applie their opinion, who referre al thinges in this life to pleasure. For in what soeuer place we haue such thynges, there we may liue well and happelie. [Page] And therfore, hereunto, that sayeng of Tencer may well be applyed.
My countrey (quod he) is, wheresoeuer I [...]ue well. And Socrates, when one asked of him whence he was? He aunswered of the worlde, So, he thoughte him selfe to be a [...] and an inhabitaunt of euery place in the world. Also Titus Albutius. Did he not, when he was banished, go to Athenes, & there studye philosophie? Who also, shoulde not haue bene banished at all, if he holding his peace, would haue obeyed the lawes of Epicurus. And then I praye you, what was Epicurus the happyer for that he liued in his countrey: then Metrodorus liuinge at Athenes? Or wherein, was Plato more happy then Xenocrates? Or Polemon, then Arcesilas? Or howe is that citie to be estemed, out of the whiche good and wyse men are banished? Demaratus truly, the father of Tarquinius our king, because he coulde not abide the tirants Cypselus, ca [...]sed all the Tarquines to forsake Corinth. And here placed hys stocke, and encreased his familye. Did [Page] [...]e not wisely preferre, freedome in banishemente, afore bondage at home?
But nowe the motions, the cares, and gryefes of the minde, are swaged with forgetting the same, and drawynge of the mind to pleasure. It was not without some cause therfore, that Epicurus durst to saye. That a wyse man, hathe alwayes manye goodes, because he is alwayes in pleasure. Whereof he thinketh that it must necessarilye folowe, that a wyse man is alwayes happye.
Yea? if he lacke his sighte? or his hearing?
Yea, For he despyseth euen these lackes also. And fyrste of all this horrible blindenes, what pleasure wants it? Inasmuch as some say, that all the other pleasures, are wythin the senses them selues. But those thinges whych we see, are not anye pleasure to our eyes. As all those thinges, whiche we taste, smell, feele, or heare, are in that selfe same parte where we feele them. But in the eyes there is no such thinge. Our minde taketh those thynges which we see. But the minde may be delighted, many and diuers wayes, [Page] although our bodye can not see. For now I speake of a learned man, whose life is study. His thoughtes and wytte require not eyes to see that, whyche wyth his minde he can not see. Truly, if night can not let a man, but that he may be happy: why should a day like to nighte do it? For the aunswere of Appius, the Cyrenaike, is not so honest, although it be not much from this purpose. Whose blindenes when certaine women did lamente: what meane you quod he? Is there no pleasure in the night thinke ye? We perceyue, both by his offices, and also by his deedes, that that olde Appius whyche was blynde many yeres, yet in that his mischaūce supplied his dutye, bothe at home, and also abrode in the common welth. Also we haue heard that the house of Caius Drusus, was wonte to be full of Clye [...]tes. So that wheras they that could see, could not see theyr owne case, they were fayne to take a blinde man, to theyr guyde and counsaylour. Whiles I was a boye, Cneius Aufidius, who had bene once Pretor, beynge blynde, [Page] dyd both giue counsaile to his frendes and wryte an historye in Greeke, and also had good skill in all learnynge.
Diodorus the Stoyke, being blinde, liued manye yeares at my house. He (which is scarse credible) besydes that, he did cōtinually take more paynes in the study of philosophy, thē he did afore and also played on instrumentes, after the maner of the Pithagoreans: & had bookes red vnto him, day and night, in the whych studyes neuertheles he dyd not much neede his eyes: yet besides al this I saye (which may scarse be wtout eyes) he vsed the practise of Geometry. Teaching his scolers howe farre, & after what sort, they should drawe euery line. They saye, ye Asclepiades, no base nor meane philosopher, whē one asked of him, what discōmoditi blindnes had brought him he answered, that he had more nede of one boy, to waite on him. For, like as extreme pouerty were tollerable, if a man might do as certayne Greciās may, so likewise may blindenes easely be borne, if we lacke not helpes, for our necessity. Democritus hauing loste his eyes, could not discerne [Page] white & black. But thīges good & euell iust & vniust, honest & dishonest, profitable & vnprofitable, he could discerne.
So, although wtout the sight of sundry coloures he could liue happelye, yet wt out the knowledge of thinges he could not. And he also thought yt ye iudgemēt & quicknes of y• mind was hindred by ye sight of ye eyes. And wheras other men scarseli can se y•, which lieth afore their feete, he beheld in his minde the whole nature of eueri thing, so y• nothīg could be hidden frō him. It is sayd also, that Homere was blinde. But y• they maye say, y• see his picture, & not his poetry. For what region, what coaste, what place of Greece, what shape of beauty, what battel, what army what stirre of mē or beasts, is not so expressed in him? that, those thinges which he him selfe saw not yet he hath made vs to se, who neuer beheld y• same? Thē what delite or plesure of ye mind, did either Homer or any other learned mā, ye was blinde wāt at any time? none truly. For other wise, wold Anaragoras, or ye same Demo [...]ritus of whō we nowe spake, haue left their lāds & enheritaūce & geuē thē selues, [Page] to this heauenly delyght, of study and learninge? Also Tiresias the southsayer, whom the Poetes fayne to haue bene a wise mā, they neuer bring in complayning his blyndenes. But Homere, faynīg Poliphemus to haue bene a rude, and a huge gyant, maketh him talking wyth a ramme, commending his good chaūce, for that he could see to go where he woulde, and touche what he listed. And trulye, that talke was well applyed to such a person.
For he was no wiser then the ramme, wyth whom he talked. But in deafenes what euell is there? Marcus Crassus was somewhat deafe. But there was one thing worse than that, belonging to him. Namelye, that he had an euell reporte. Although that trulye, in my opinion, was wythout cause. Our Epicures can not vnderstande, nor speake Greeke. Neyther the Greeke, Epicures latine. They therefore were deafe in these mens language. And likewise, these men in theyrs. And all men in those languages whiche they vnderstand not, are no better thā deafe [Page] But some man will say. They can not heare the sweete noyse, of any instrument. No more can they the gratinge or iarring of a sawe, when he is whe [...] ted: neyther the squeakynge of a pigge when he is sticked: neyther, when they are disposed to take theyr rest, the roaringe of the mayne sea. And if they [...] so greatly delyghted wyth songes and instrumentes: they oughte to consider that afore anye suche thinges were inuented, there were manye wyse men, that ledde a happye lyfe. And also, that there may be farre greater pleasure taken, in readinge, then hearings suche toyes. Furthermore, as we did afore commende vnto blynde men, the pleasures of the eares: so we maye vnto deafe men, commende the pleasures of the eyes. And furthermore, who soeuer can commen secretelye with his owne conscience, he shall not neede the talke of another. Nowe let all these miseries be put together. So that some mā lacke both his syght and hearinge: and furthermore be payned wyth extreame gryefe in his body: whych both of themselues [Page] are able at the first to kil a man or els if they tary any thinge longe, do pricke a man more vehementlye, then that he should haue occasion to abide thē, yet what neede we to trouble oure selues? Inasmuch as, there is alwayes a hauen & baye readye for vs. Death I meane, the euerlastinge home of oure body, when it is once past sence. Theodorus, whē Lisimacus threatned him, that he would put him to death, sayde. Surely youre power is great, if you be able to do asmuche, as a Cantarides. Paulus whē Perses desired him, that he might not be led in his triumph: answered. That is in your choyce. Of death we spake much the first day whē we disputed purposely of it & sumwhat also, the next day, whē we entreated of gryefe, we sayd thereof: which who soeuer doth remember, there is no doubt but he wil either wishe for death, or at the least wise not feare it. I thinke that herein, we ought to kepe that custome which the Grecians vse in their feastes for they haue such a terme. Eyther let him drink or els depart. And but right For, eyther let him wyth other kepe feloweship in drinkinge: or els, least he [Page] being sober, should be in the companye of dronkardes, he must departe before. So likewise, the iniuries of fortune, which we cā not abide, we ought to auoyde by flight. The same that Epicurus sayeth, Hieronimus also affirmeth almost with the selfe same wordes.
Therfore if these philosophers, which think, vertue of it selfe to be of no force & that al that, which we cal honest and laudable, is but a vaine thing, only coloured with a fayre name: if these men neuerthelesse, thinke, that a wyse man is alwayes happy: what thē should we looke for, of Socrates, Plato, & other more excellēt philosophers? Of yt whiche some saye, that the goodes of the minde are of such excellencie, that they blemishe all the goodes of the bodye, & of fortune. And some other count these to be no goods at al, but place al things in y• minde only. Whose controuersie, Carneades was wonte to finishe like an honourable iudge. For he said, that there was no cause of controuersie betwixt thē, although, those things which the peripatetike [...] did cal goods, yt Stoikes did count but cōmodities: so y• the Peripatetikes did attribute no more [Page] to ryches, good health, and other suche like, then the Stoikes, when it comes to the pdndering of the thinge it selfe, and not of the word. And, as for the philosophers of other sectes, howe they can haue any place in this opinion, let them selues see. Yet I am glad, that they professe some thinge worthye the name of philosophers, of the ablenes of a wise man to liue well. But, inasmuch as, in the morninge we must go from hēce, let vs nowe penne out these our fyue dayes disputations. I trust, that I shall at the laste, haue some leasure to set theym abrode. For wherein may I better employe this litle leasure that I haue? And to my frende Brutus we will sende these fiue bookes, by whom I was not onely moued, but also prouoked to wryte of philosophy.
Wherein, howe much we shal profyte other men, I can not well say. But for mine owne sharpest sorowes, and sondry troubles, that on all sides compassed me, I could finde no better remedye.
¶Faultes escaped in printing.
| fol. | page. | line | |
| 3 | 2 | 7 | for vnto, read till |
| 8 | 2 | 2 | for Hea. reade Mar. |
| 9 | 1 | 8 | for also, reade aske. |
| 10 | 1 | 23 | for members, read numbers |
| 12 | 2 | 20 | for maye, read any |
| 13 | 2 | 8 | for where, read are |
| 14 | 2 | 4 | for his, read this |
| 14 | 1 | 23 | for foolishe, read foolishely |
| 15 | 2 | 16 | for hearty, read hauty. |
| 18 | 2 | 1 | for which, read when |
| 20 | 2 | 8 | for exhaltacions, read exha [...] |
| 21 | 1 | 1 | for as, read and lations. |
| 22 | 2 | 8 | for bound, reade boared. |
| 24 | 2 | 9 | for selfe, reade soule |
| 29 | 2 | 12 | for Nectari, read Nectar |
| 31 | 2 | 17 | for nowe, read newe |
| 32 | 2 | 17 | for motion, read mixtion. |
| [...]6 | 2 | 8 | for Aecus, read Aeacus. |
| fol. | pa. | li. | |
| 2 | 2 | 12 | for wits, read which |
| [...] | 2 | 16 | for which, reade wittes |
| 2 | 22 | for Peripatician and Academians, [Page] read Peripate [...]kes and academikes. |
| fol. | pa. | li. | |
| 5 | 2 | 22 | for as, read are |
| 8 | 12 | 9 | for excutue, read execute. |
| 11 | 1 | 7 | for we, reade no |
| 12 | 1 | 11 | for bed, read beard, |
| 20 | 2 | 14 | for goodnes, read goodes |
| 34 | 2 | 1 | for delayed, read deluded |
| 37 | 1 | 9 | for countenaunce, read continuaunce. |
| 39 | 1 | 6 | for beare, read minister, |
| 39 | 1 | 20 | for confirme, read conforme |
| 40 | 2 | 11 | for mourne, read mourning |
| fol. | pa. | li. | |
| 2 | 2 | 1 | for lined, read lyued |
| 4 | 2 | 1 | for cunning, read liuing |
| 10 | 1 | 10 | for feare, read ioye |
| 10 | 1 | 23 | for sonoe read soone |
| 17 | 1 | 21 | for for, read or |
| 28 | 2 | 19 | for valiunt, read valiaunt |
| fol. | pa. | li. | |
| 8 | 2 | 16 | for so, read also, |
| 12 | 2 | 7 | for line, read li [...]e |
| 27 | 2 | 3 | for thitherto, read hitherto |
Wordes left out.
❧ In the first booke.
16. leafe. first page, 11. line betwixt (for) and (what) bring in (for). 19. fol. 2. pa. 13. li. betwixt (but) and (he) bring in (he thought) 23. foli. 1. pa. 4. line. betwixte feare and for, bring in. What terroure I pray you? or what feare? 43. fol. 1. pa. 19. line. betwixt, such, and, as, bringe in, that
In the second booke.
4. fol. 2. pa. 2. li. betwixt, me, and, inasmuch, bring in, for. 4. fol. 2. pa. 22. li. betwixt, custome, and, Peripatetikes, bring in, of the
In the third booke.
6. fol. 1. pa. 26. li. betwixt, is, and, written, bring in, not .16. fol. 2. pa. 24. line. betwixt, in, and, thinkinge, bringe in, two poyntes, the one in withdrawyng our minde from the. 27. fol. 2. pa. 12. li. betwixt, kinde, & that, bringe in, is. 35. fol. 1. pa. 16. lin. betwixt, that, &, is, bryng in it.
In the fourth booke.
11. fol. 2. page .17. li betwixt, minde, &, to, bring in, they defyne. 13. fol. 2. page.
[Page] 22. line. betwixt, comparison, &, maye, bring in, of diseases of the body. 34. fo. 1. pa. 1. line. betwixt, that, &, therabout, bringe in, there is anye loue of whoredome. And.
In the fyft booke.
18. fol. 2, page. 6. line, betwixte, voyde, and, feare, bryng in, of.
¶Imprinted at Londō in Fletestrete nere to S. Dunstons church by Thomas Marshe.