Furthermore, if Nature suddenly found voice,
And thus in person upbraided one of us:
“What is it, mortal, can afflict thee so,
That thou to such exceeding bitter grief
Shouldst yield? Why thus bemoan and bewail death?
For if the life thou hast lived hitherto
Was pleasant to thee, and not all thy blessings,
As though poured into a perforated jar,
Have flowed through and gone thanklessly to waste,
Why not then, like a guest replete with life,
Take thy departure, and resignedly
Enter, thou fool, upon secure repose?
But if all that thou hast enjoyed has perished
Squandered away, and life is a mere grievance,
Why seek to add thereto, what in its turn
Must all come to destruction and be lost
Unprofitably? Why both of life and travail
Dost thou not rather make an end at once?
For there is nothing more I can contrive
Or find to please thee. All things are the same
At all times. Though thy body be not yet
Decayed with years, nor have thy worn-out limbs
Grown feeble, yet all things remain the same;
Though thou shouldst overlive all generations,
Nay, even more if thou shouldst never die.”
What could we answer, save that Nature’s claim
Was just, and her indictment a true plea?
But if some other more advanced in years
Should miserably complain and lament death
Beyond all reason, would she not yet more justly
Lift up her voice and chide him with sharp speech?
“Hence with thy tears, buffoon. Cease thy complaints.
After thou hast enjoyed all life’s best gifts
Thou now decayest. But because thou hast yearned
Always for what was absent, and despised
That which was present, life has glided from thee
Incomplete and unprofitable. So now
Ere thou didst look for it, at thy pillow Death
Has taken his stand, before thou canst depart
Satisfied with existence and replete.
But now resign all vanities that so ill
Befit thine age: come then, with a good grace
Rise and make room for others; for thou must.”
Justly, I think, would she so plead with him,
Justly reproach and chide: for things grown old
Yield place and are supplanted evermore
By new, and each thing out of something else
Must be replenished; nor to the black pit
Of Tartarus was yet any man consigned.
Matter is needed, that therefrom may grow
Succeeding generations: which yet all,
When they have lived their life, shall follow thee.
Thus it is all have perished in past times
No less than thou, and shall hereafter perish.
So one thing out of another shall not cease
For ever to arise; and life is given
To none in fee, to all in usufruct.
Consider likewise how eternal Time’s
Bygone antiquity before our birth
Was nothing to us. In such wise does Nature
Show us the time to come after our death
As in a mirror. Is aught visible
Therein so appalling? aught that seems like gloom?
Is it not more secure than any sleep?
Moreover all those things which people say
Are found in Acheron’s gulf, assuredly
Exist for us in life. No wretched Tantalus,
Numbed by vain terror, quakes, as the tale tells,
Beneath a huge rock hanging in the air;
But in life rather an empty fear of gods
Oppresses mortals; and the fall they dread
Is fortune’s fall, which chance may bring to each.
Nor verily entering the large breast of Tityos,
As he lies stretched in Acheron, do vultures
Find food there for their beaks perpetually.
How vast soever his body’s bulk extends,
Though not nine acres merely with outspread limbs
He cover, but the round of the whole earth,
Yet would he not be able to endure
Eternal pain, nor out of his whole body
For ever provide food. But here for us
He is a Tityos, whom, while he lies
In bonds of love, fretful anxieties
Devour like rending birds of prey, or cares,
Sprung from some other craving, lacerate.
A living Sisyphus also we behold
In him who from the people fain would beg
The rods and cruel axes, and each time
Defeated and disconsolate must retire.
For to beg power, which, empty as it is,
Is never given, and in pursuit thereof
To endure grievous toil continually,
Is but to thrust uphill mightily straining
A stone, which from the summit after all
Rolls bounding back down to the level plain.
Moreover to be feeding evermore
The thankless nature of the mind, yet never
To fill it full and sate it with good things,
As do the seasons for us, when each year
They return bringing fruits and varied charms,
Yet never are we filled with life’s delights,
This surely is what is told of those young brides,
Who must pour water into a punctured vessel,
Though they can have no hope to fill it full.
Cerberus and the Furies in like manner
Are fables, and that world deprived of day
Where from its throat Tartarus belches forth
Horrible flames: which things in truth are not,
Nor can be anywhere. But there is in life
A dread of punishment for things ill done,
Terrible as the deeds are terrible;
And to expiate men’s guilt there is the dungeon,
The awful hurling downward from the rock,
Scourgings, mutilations and impalings,
The pitch, the torches and the metal plate.
And even if these be wanting, yet the mind
Conscious of guilt torments itself with goads
And scorching whips, nor in its boding fear
Perceives what end of misery there can be,
Nor what limit at length to punishment,
Nay fears lest these same evils after death
Should prove more grievous. Thus does the life of fools
Become at last an Acheron here on earth.
This too thou may’st say sometimes to thyself:
“Even the good king Ancus closed his eyes
To the light of day, who was so many times
Worthier than thou, unconscionable man.
And since then many others who bore rule
O’er mighty nations, princes and potentates,
Have perished: and he too, even he, who once
Across the great sea paved a path whereby
His legions might pass over, bidding them
Cross dry-shod the salt deeps, and to show scorn
Trampled upon the roarings of the waves
With horses, even he, bereft of light,
Forth from his dying body gasped his soul.
The Scipios’ offspring, thunderbolt of war,
Terror of Carthage, gave his bones to the earth,
As though he were the meanest household slave.
Consider too the inventors of wise thoughts
And arts that charm, consider the companions
Of the Heliconian Maidens, among whom
Homer still bears the sceptre without peer;
Yet he now sleeps the same sleep as they all.
Likewise Democritus, when a ripe old age
Had warned him that the memory-stirring motions
Were waning in his mind, by his own act
Willingly offered up his head to death.
Even Epicurus died, when his life’s light
Had run its course, he who in intellect
Surpassed the race of men, quenching the glory
Of all else, as the sun in heaven arising
Quenches the stars. Then wilt thou hesitate
And feel aggrieved to die? thou for whom life
Is well nigh dead, whilst yet thou art alive
And lookest on the light; thou who dost waste
Most of thy time in sleep, and waking snorest,
Nor ceasest to see dreams; who hast a mind
Troubled with empty terror, and ofttimes
Canst not discover what it is that ails thee,
When, poor besotted wretch, from every side
Cares crowd upon thee, and thou goest astray
Drifting in blind perplexity of soul.”
If men not only were to feel this load
That weighs upon their mind and wears them out,
But might have knowledge also of its cause
And whence comes this great pile of misery
Crushing their breasts, they would not spend their lives,
As now so oft we see them, ignorant
Each of his life’s true ends, and seeking ever
By change of place to lay his burden down.
Often, issuing forth from his great mansion, he
Who is weary of home will suddenly return
Perceiving that abroad he is none the happier.
He posts to his villa galloping his ponies,
As though hurrying with help to a house on fire,
Yawns on the very threshold, nay sinks down
Heavily into sleep to seek oblivion,
Or even perhaps starts headlong back to town.
In this way each man flies from his own self,
Yet from that self in fact he has no power
To escape. He clings to it in his own despite,
Although he loathes it, seeing that he is sick,
Yet perceives not the cause of his disease:
Which if he could but comprehend aright,
Relinquishing all else, each man would study
To learn the Nature of Reality,
Since ’tis our state during eternal time,
Not for one hour merely, that is in doubt,
That state wherein mortals must pass the whole
Of what may still await them after death.
And in conclusion, what base lust of life
Is this, that can so potently compel us
In dubious perils to feel such dismay?
For indeed certain is the end of life
That awaits mortals, nor can death be shunned.
Meet it we must. Furthermore in the same
Pursuits and actions do we pass our days
For ever, nor may we by living on
Forge for ourselves any new form of pleasure.
But what we crave, while it is absent, seems
To excel all things else; then, when ’tis ours,
We crave some other thing, gaping wide-mouthed,
Always possessed by the same thirst of life.
What fortune future time may bring, we know not,
Nor what chance has in store for us, nor yet
What end awaits us. By prolonging life
No least jot may we take from death’s duration;
Nought may we steal away therefrom, that so
Haply a less long while we may be dead.
Therefore as many ages as you please
Add to your life’s account, yet none the less
Will that eternal death be waiting for you.
And not less long will that man be no more,
Who from to-day has ceased to live, than he
Who has died many months and years ago.
BOOK IV, lines 962-1287
And generally to what pursuits soever
Each of us is attached and closely tied,
Or on whatever tasks we have been used
To spend much time, so that therein the mind
Has borne unwonted strain, in those same tasks
We mostly seem in sleep to be engaged.
Lawyers imagine they are pleading causes,
Or drafting deeds; generals that they are fighting
In some pitched battle; mariners that they still
Are waging with the winds their lifelong war;
And we that we are toiling at our task,
Questioning ever the nature of all things,
And setting our discoveries forth in books
Written in our native tongue. And thus in general
Do all other pursuits and arts appear
To fill men’s minds and mock them during sleep.
And with those who for many days together
Have watched stage shows with unremitting zeal,
We generally find that when they have ceased
To apprehend them with their senses, yet
Passages remain open in the mind
Through which the same images of things may enter.
Thus the same sights for many days keep passing
Before their eyes, so that even when awake
They seem to be beholding figures dancing
And moving supple limbs; also their ears
Seem to be listening clear-toned melodies
Of the lyre’s eloquent strings, while they behold
In fancy the same audience, the stage too,
Glowing with all its varied scenery.
So great the influence of zeal and pleasure,
And of those tasks whereon not only men
Are wont to spend their energies, but even
All living animals. Thus you will see
Strong horses, when their limbs are lying at rest,
Nevertheless in slumber sweat and pant
Continually, and as though to win some prize
Strain their strength to the utmost, or else struggle
To start, as if the barriers were thrown open.
And often hunters’ dogs while softly slumbering
Will yet suddenly toss their legs about
And utter hurried yelps, sniffing the air
Again and again, as though following the trail
Of wild beasts they have scented: and roused from sleep
They often chase the empty images
Of stags, as if they saw them in full flight,
Till having shaken their delusions off
They come back to themselves. But the tame brood
Of dogs reared in the house, will shake themselves
And start up from the ground, as if they saw
Unknown figures and faces: and the more savage
Each breed is, the more fierce must be its dreams.
And in the night-time birds of various kinds,
Suddenly taking flight, trouble with their wings
The groves of deities, when in gentle sleep
Hawks have appeared threatening them with havoc
Of battle, flying after them in pursuit.
Again the minds of men, which greatly labouring
Achieve great aims, will often during sleep
Act and perform the same. Kings take by storm,
Are made captive, join battle, cry aloud
As though assassinated then and there.
Many men struggle and utter groans in pain,
And as though mangled by a panther’s fangs
Or savage lion’s, fill the whole neighbourhood
With vehement clamourings. Many in their sleep
Discourse of great affairs, and often so
Have revealed their own guilt. Many meet death:
Many, as though falling with all their weight
From high cliffs to the ground, are scared with terror,
And like men reft of reason, hardly from sleep
Come to themselves again, being quite distraught
By the body’s tumult. Likewise a man will sit
Thirsting beside a river or pleasant spring
And gulp almost the whole stream down his throat.
Innocent children also, slumber-bound,
Often believe they are lifting up their dress
By a tank or broken vessel, and so pour
The liquid, drained from their whole body, forth,
Soaking the gorgeous-hued magnificence
Of Babylonian coverlets. Then too
To those into the currents of whose age
For the first time seed is entering, when the ripe
Fulness of time has formed it in their limbs,
From without there come images emanating
From some chance body, announcing a glorious face
And beautiful colouring, that excites and stirs
Those parts that have grown turgid with much seed,
So that, as if all things had been performed,
The full tide overflows and stains their vesture.
This seed whereof we spoke is stirred in us
When first ripening age confirms our frame.
For different causes move and stimulate
Different things. From man the influence
Of man alone rouses forth human seed.
So soon as, thus dislodged, it has retired
From its abodes throughout the limbs and frame,
It withdraws from the whole body, and assembling
At certain places in the system, straightway
Rouses at last the body’s genital parts.
These places, irritated, swell with seed;
And so the wish arises to eject it
Towards that whereto the fell desire tends;
While the body seeks that by which the mind
Is smitten by love. For all men generally
Fall towards the wound, and the blood glistens forth
In that direction whence the stroke was dealt us.
And if he is at close quarters, the red drops
Sprinkle the foe. Thus he who has been struck
By the missiles of Venus, whether a boy
With womanish limbs launches the shaft, or else
Some woman darting love from her whole body,
Yearns towards that whereby he has been wounded,
And longs to unite with it, and shoot the stream
Drawn from the one into the other body.
For dumb desire gives presage of the pleasure.
This desire we call Venus: from it came
The Latin name for love[E]; and from this source
There trickled first into the heart that drop
Of Venus’ honeyed sweetness, followed soon
By chilling care. For though that which you love
Be absent, yet are images of it present,
And its sweet name still haunts within your ears.
But it is wise to shun such images,
And scare off from you all that feeds your love,
Turning your mind elsewhere, and vent instead
Your gathering humours on some other body,
Rather than hold them back, set once for all
Upon the love of one, and so lay up
Care and unfailing anguish for yourself.
For the wound gathers strength and grows inveterate
By feeding, while the madness day by day
Increases, and the misery becomes heavier,
Unless you heal the first wounds by new blows,
And roving in the steps of vagrant Venus
So cure them while yet fresh, or can divert
To something else the movements of your mind.
Nor does the man who shuns love go without
The fruits of Venus; rather he makes choice
Of joys that bring no after-pain: for surely
The pleasure of intercourse must be more pure
For those that are heart-whole than for the love-sick.
For in the very moment of possession
The passion of lovers fluctuates to and fro,
Wandering undecidedly, nor know they
What first they would enjoy with eyes and hands.
What they have sought, they tightly press, and cause
Pain to the body, and often print their teeth
Upon the lips, and kiss with bruising mouths,
Because the pleasure is not unalloyed,
And there are secret stings which stimulate
To hurt that very thing, whate’er it be,
From which those germs of madness emanate.
But easily, while love lasts, Venus allays
Such pains; and soft delight, mingled therein,
Bridles their bites. For in this there is hope
That from that very body whence proceeds
Their burning lust, the flame may in turn be quenched,
Although Nature protests the opposite
Must happen, since this is the one sole thing
Whereof the more we have, so much the more
Must the heart be consumed by fell desire.
For food and drink are taken within the body;
And since they are wont to settle in fixed parts,
In this way the desire for water and bread
Is easily satisfied: but from the face
And beautiful colouring of a man there enters
Nothing into the body to enjoy
Save tenuous images, a love-sick hope
Often snatched off by the wind. As when in sleep
A thirsty man seeks to drink, and no liquid
Is given to quench the burning in his limbs,
Yet he pursues the images of water,
Toiling in vain, and still thirsts, though he drink
In a rushing river’s midst; even so in love
Venus deludes lovers with images:
For neither, gaze intently as they may,
Can bodies satiate them, nor with their hands
Can they pluck anything off from the soft limbs,
Aimlessly wandering over the whole body.
And when at last with limbs knit they enjoy
The flower of their age, when now the body
Presages rapture, and Venus is in act
To sow the fields of woman, eagerly
They clasp bodies and join moist mouth to mouth
With panted breath, imprinting lips with teeth;
In vain, for naught thence can they pluck away,
Nor each with the whole body entering pass
Into the other’s body; for at times
They seem to wish and struggle so to do.
So greedily do they hug the bonds of Venus,
While their limbs melt, enfeebled by the might
Of pleasure. Finally, when the gathered lust
Has burst forth from the frame, awhile there comes
A brief pause in their passion’s violent heat.
Then returns the same madness: the old frenzy
Revisits them, when they would fain discover
What verily they desire to attain;
Yet never can they find out what device
May conquer their disease: in such blind doubt
They waste away, pined by a secret wound.
Consider too how they consume their strength
And are worn out with toiling; and consider
How at another’s beck their life is passed.
Meantime their substance vanishes and is changed
To Babylonian stuffs; their duties languish;
Their reputation totters and grows sick.
While at her lover’s cost she anoints herself
With precious unguents, and upon her feet
Beautiful Sicyonian slippers laugh.
Then doubtless she has set for her in gold
Big green-lit emeralds; and the sea-purple dress,
Worn out by constant use, imbibes the sweat
Of love’s encounters. The wealth which their fathers
Had nobly gathered, becomes hair-ribbons
And head-dresses, or else may be is turned
Into a long Greek gown, or stuffs of Alinda
And Ceos. Feasts with goodly broideries
And viands are prepared, games, numerous cups,
Unguents, crowns and festoons; but all in vain;
Since from the well-spring of delights some touch
Of bitter rises, to give pain amidst
The very flowers; either when the mind
Perchance grows conscience-stricken, and remorse
Gnaws it, thus to be spending a life of sloth,
And ruining itself in wanton haunts;
Or else because she has launched forth some word
And left its sense in doubt, some word that clings
To the hungry heart, and quickens there like fire;
Or that he fancies she is casting round
Her eyes too freely, or looks upon some other,
And on her face sees traces of a smile.
When love is permanent and fully prosperous,
These evils are experienced; but if love
Be crossed and hopeless, there are evils such
That you might apprehend them with closed eyes,
Beyond numbering; so that it is wiser,
As I have taught you, to be vigilant
Beforehand, and watch well lest you be snared.
For to avoid being tripped up in love’s toils
Is not so difficult as, once you are caught,
To issue from the nets and to break through
The strong meshes of Venus. None the less
Even when you are tangled and involved,
You may escape the peril, unless you stand
In your own way, and always overlook
Every defect whether of mind or body
In her whom you pursue and long to win.
For this is how men generally behave
Blinded by lust, and assign to those they love
Good qualities which are not truly theirs.
So we see women in various ways misformed
And ugly, to be fondly loved and held
In highest favour. And a man will mock
His fellows, urging them to placate Venus,
Because they are troubled by a degrading love,
Yet often the poor fool will have no eyes
For his own far worse plight. The tawny is called
A honey brown; the filthy and unclean,
Reckless of order; the green-eyed, a Pallas;
The sinewy and angular, a gazelle;
The tiny and dwarfish is a very Grace,
Nothing but sparkle; the monstrous and ungainly,
A marvel, and composed of majesty.
She stammers, cannot talk, why then she lisps;
The mute is bashful; but the fiery-tongued
Malicious gossip becomes a brilliant torch.
One is a slender darling, when she scarce
Can live for lack of flesh; and one half dead
With cough, is merely frail and delicate.
Then the fat and full-bosomed is Ceres’ self
Suckling Iacchus; the snub-nosed, a female
Silenus, or a Satyress; the thick-lipped,
A kiss incarnate. But more of this sort
It were a tedious labour to recite.
Yet be she noble of feature as you will,
And let the might of Venus emanate
From every limb; still there are others too;
Still we have lived without her until now;
Still she does, and we know she does, the same
In all things as the ugly, and, poor wretch,
Perfumes herself with evil-smelling scents,
While her maids run and hide to giggle in secret.
But the excluded lover many a time
With flowers and garlands covers tearfully
The threshold, and anoints the haughty posts
With oil of marjoram, and imprints, poor man,
Kisses upon the doors. Yet when at last
He has been admitted, if but a single breath
Should meet him as he enters, he would seek
Specious excuses to be gone, and so
The long-studied, deep-drawn complaint would fall
To the ground, and he would then convict himself
Of folly, now he sees he had attributed
More to her than is right to grant a mortal.
Nor to our Venuses is this unknown:
Wherefore the more are they at pains to hide
All that takes place behind the scenes of life
From those they would keep fettered in love’s chains
But all in vain, since in imagination
You yet may draw forth all these things to light,
Discovering every cause for ridicule:
And if she be of a mind that still can charm,
And not malicious, you may in your turn
Overlook faults and pardon human frailty.