This is a modern-English version of The Consolation of Philosophy, originally written by Boethius. It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling, and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If you click on a paragraph, you will see the original text that we modified, and you can toggle between the two versions.

Scroll to the bottom of this page and you will find a free ePUB download link for this book.

ὄμως δὲ και ἐν τούτοις διαλάμπει τὸ καλὸν,
ἐπειδὰν φέρῃ τις εὐκόλως πολλὰς καὶ μεγάλας
ἀτυχίας, μη δι᾿ ἀναλγησίαν, ἀλλὰ γεννάδας
ὤν καὶ μεγαλόψυχος.

However, even in these circumstances, beauty shines through,
when someone carries many and great misfortunes with ease,
not out of indifference, but by being noble
and high-spirited.

[Greek: homôs de kai en toutois dialampei to kalon,
epeidan pherê tis eukolôs pollas kai megalas
atychias, mê di analgêsian, alla gennadas
ôn kai megalopsychos.]

Aristotle's 'Ethics,' I., xi. 12.

Aristotle's 'Ethics,' I, xi, 12.

Diptych representing Narius Manlius Boethius, father of Anicius Manlius Severinus Boethius. The inscription in full would run thus:—

NARivs MANLivs BOETHIVS Vir Clarissimvs ET INLvstris
EXPraefectvs Praetorio Praefectvs VrbiS Et
Comes Consvl ORDinarivs ET PARTICivs

(For description vid. Preface, p. vi)

Diptych depicting Narius Manlius Boethius, father of Anicius Manlius Severinus Boethius. The full inscription would read as follows:—

NARIVS MANLIVS BOETHIVS Most Distinguished and Notable
Former Prefect of the Praetorium, Prefect of the Cities,
and Regular and Participating Count Consul

(For a description see Preface, p. vi)

THE CONSOLATION OF PHILOSOPHY OF BOETHIUS.

Translated into English Prose and Verse

by

H.R. JAMES, M.A.,
CH. CH. OXFORD.

Quantumlibet igitur sæviant mali, sapienti tamen corona non decidet, non arescet.

Melioribus animum conformaveris, nihil opus est judice præmium deferente, tu te ipse excellentioribus addidisti; studium ad pejora deflexeris, extra ne quæsieris ultorem, tu te ipse in deteriora trusisti.

LONDON:
ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW.

1897.

PREFACE.

The book called 'The Consolation of Philosophy' was throughout the Middle Ages, and down to the beginnings of the modern epoch in the sixteenth century, the scholar's familiar companion. Few books have exercised a wider influence in their time. It has been translated into every European tongue, and into English nearly a dozen times, from King Alfred's paraphrase to the translations of Lord Preston, Causton, Ridpath, and Duncan, in the eighteenth century. The belief that what once pleased so widely must still have some charm is my excuse for attempting the present translation. The great work of Boethius, with its alternate prose and verse, skilfully fitted together like dialogue and chorus in a Greek play, is unique in literature, and has a pathetic interest from the time and circumstances of its composition. It ought not to be forgotten. Those who can go to the original will find their reward. There may be room also for a new translation in English after an interval of close on a hundred years.

The book called 'The Consolation of Philosophy' was a trusted companion for scholars throughout the Middle Ages and into the early modern period in the sixteenth century. Few books had as much influence during their time. It has been translated into every European language and into English nearly a dozen times, from King Alfred's paraphrase to the translations by Lord Preston, Causton, Ridpath, and Duncan in the eighteenth century. The idea that something once so popular must still have some appeal is my reason for attempting this translation. Boethius's great work, with its alternating prose and verse, skillfully woven together like dialogue and a chorus in a Greek play, is unique in literature and has a poignant significance due to the time and circumstances of its creation. It should not be forgotten. Those who can access the original will find it rewarding. There is also a possibility for a new English translation after nearly a hundred years.

Some of the editions contain a reproduction of a bust purporting to represent Boethius. Lord Preston's translation, for example, has such a portrait, which it refers to an original in marble at Rome. This I have been unable to trace, and suspect that it is apocryphal. The Hope Collection at Oxford contains a completely different portrait in a print, which gives no authority. I have ventured to use as a frontispiece a reproduction from a plaster-cast in the Ashmolean Museum, taken from an ivory diptych preserved in the Bibliotheca Quiriniana at Brescia, which represents Narius Manlius Boethius, the father of the philosopher. Portraiture of this period is so rare that it seemed that, failing a likeness of the author himself, this authentic representation of his father might have interest, as giving the consular dress and insignia of the time, and also as illustrating the decadence of contemporary art. The consul wears a richly-embroidered cloak; his right hand holds a staff surmounted by the Roman eagle, his left the mappa circensis, or napkin used for starting the races in the circus; at his feet are palms and bags of money—prizes for the victors in the games. For permission to use this cast my thanks are due to the authorities of the Ashmolean Museum, as also to Mr. T.W. Jackson, Curator of the Hope Collection, who first called my attention to its existence.

Some editions include a reproduction of a bust that claims to represent Boethius. For instance, Lord Preston's translation features such a portrait, which is said to be based on an original marble piece in Rome. I haven't been able to track that down and suspect it's not genuine. The Hope Collection at Oxford has a completely different portrait in a print, which lacks any credible source. I've chosen to use a reproduction from a plaster cast in the Ashmolean Museum, which is based on an ivory diptych preserved in the Bibliotheca Quiriniana at Brescia, showing Narius Manlius Boethius, the philosopher's father. Portraits from this time are so rare that, in the absence of a likeness of the author himself, this authentic representation of his father might be interesting, as it showcases the consular attire and insignia of the period, while also highlighting the decline of contemporary art. The consul wears a richly embroidered cloak; his right hand holds a staff topped with the Roman eagle, and his left hand holds the mappa circensis, or napkin used to start the races in the circus; at his feet are palms and bags of money—prizes for the winners of the games. I'm grateful to the authorities at the Ashmolean Museum for allowing me to use this cast, as well as to Mr. T.W. Jackson, Curator of the Hope Collection, who initially pointed out its existence to me.

I have to thank my brother, Mr. L. James, of Radley College, for much valuable help and for correcting the proof-sheets of the translation. The text used is that of Peiper, Leipsic, 1874.

I want to thank my brother, Mr. L. James, from Radley College, for all his valuable help and for proofreading the translation. The text I used is from Peiper, Leipzig, 1874.

PROEM.

Anicus Manlius Severinus Boethius lived in the last quarter of the fifth century A.D., and the first quarter of the sixth. He was growing to manhood, when Theodoric, the famous Ostrogoth, crossed the Alps and made himself master of Italy. Boethius belonged to an ancient family, which boasted a connection with the legendary glories of the Republic, and was still among the foremost in wealth and dignity in the days of Rome's abasement. His parents dying early, he was brought up by Symmachus, whom the age agreed to regard as of almost saintly character, and afterwards became his son-in-law. His varied gifts, aided by an excellent education, won for him the reputation of the most accomplished man of his time. He was orator, poet, musician, philosopher. It is his peculiar distinction to have handed on to the Middle Ages the tradition of Greek philosophy by his Latin translations of the works of Aristotle. Called early to a public career, the highest honours of the State came to him unsought. He was sole Consul in 510 A.D., and was ultimately raised by Theodoric to the dignity of Magister Officiorum, or head of the whole civil administration. He was no less happy in his domestic life, in the virtues of his wife, Rusticiana, and the fair promise of his two sons, Symmachus and Boethius; happy also in the society of a refined circle of friends. Noble, wealthy, accomplished, universally esteemed for his virtues, high in the favour of the Gothic King, he appeared to all men a signal example of the union of merit and good fortune. His felicity seemed to culminate in the year 522 A.D., when, by special and extraordinary favour, his two sons, young as they were for so exalted an honour, were created joint Consuls and rode to the senate-house attended by a throng of senators, and the acclamations of the multitude. Boethius himself, amid the general applause, delivered the public speech in the King's honour usual on such occasions. Within a year he was a solitary prisoner at Pavia, stripped of honours, wealth, and friends, with death hanging over him, and a terror worse than death, in the fear lest those dearest to him should be involved in the worst results of his downfall. It is in this situation that the opening of the 'Consolation of Philosophy' brings Boethius before us. He represents himself as seated in his prison distraught with grief, indignant at the injustice of his misfortunes, and seeking relief for his melancholy in writing verses descriptive of his condition. Suddenly there appears to him the Divine figure of Philosophy, in the guise of a woman of superhuman dignity and beauty, who by a succession of discourses convinces him of the vanity of regret for the lost gifts of fortune, raises his mind once more to the contemplation of the true good, and makes clear to him the mystery of the world's moral government.

Anicius Manlius Severinus Boethius lived in the last quarter of the fifth century A.D. and the first quarter of the sixth. He was coming of age when Theodoric, the famous Ostrogoth, crossed the Alps and took control of Italy. Boethius came from a respected family that claimed ties to the legendary glories of the Republic, and it remained among the wealthiest and most distinguished during Rome's decline. After his parents died when he was young, he was raised by Symmachus, who was considered almost saintly and later became his father-in-law. His various talents, combined with an excellent education, earned him the reputation of the most accomplished man of his time. He was an orator, poet, musician, and philosopher. He is notably recognized for passing down the tradition of Greek philosophy to the Middle Ages through his Latin translations of Aristotle's works. He was called to a public career early on, and the highest honors of the State came to him without his seeking them. He was the sole Consul in 510 A.D. and was later appointed by Theodoric as Magister Officiorum, or head of the entire civil administration. His domestic life was equally fulfilling, with a virtuous wife, Rusticiana, and the promising future of his two sons, Symmachus and Boethius; he also enjoyed the company of a refined circle of friends. Noble, wealthy, accomplished, and universally admired for his virtues, he was highly regarded by the Gothic King, making him a prime example of hard work and good fortune combined. His happiness peaked in 522 A.D. when, through special favor, his young sons were appointed joint Consuls and rode to the senate-house accompanied by a crowd of senators and cheers from the public. Boethius himself, amidst the general acclaim, delivered the customary public speech in honor of the King. Within a year, however, he found himself a solitary prisoner in Pavia, stripped of honors, wealth, and friends, facing death and an even greater dread of what might happen to those he loved most because of his downfall. This is the context in which the opening of the 'Consolation of Philosophy' introduces Boethius. He depicts himself as seated in his prison, overwhelmed with grief, furious at the injustice of his misfortunes, and seeking solace by writing verses about his situation. Suddenly, the Divine form of Philosophy appears to him, manifested as a woman of extraordinary dignity and beauty. Through a series of conversations, she convinces him of the futility of mourning lost fortunes, helps him refocus on what is truly good, and reveals to him the mystery of the world’s moral order.

INDEX

OF

VERSE INTERLUDES.

BOOK I.
THE SORROWS OF BOETHIUS.
- SONG PAGE
- I. BOETHIUS' COMPLAINT 3
- II. HIS DESPONDENCY 9
- III. THE MISTS DISPELLED 12
- IV. NOTHING CAN SUBDUE VIRTUE 16
- V. BOETHIUS' PRAYER 27
- VI. ALL THINGS HAVE THEIR NEEDFUL ORDER 33
- VII. THE PERTURBATIONS OF PASSION 38
BOOK II.
THE VANITY OF FORTUNE'S GIFTS.
- I. FORTUNE'S MALICE 47
- II. MAN'S COVETOUSNESS 51
- III. ALL PASSES 55
- IV. THE GOLDEN MEAN 62
- V. THE FORMER AGE 70
- VI. NERO'S INFAMY 76
- VII. GLORY MAY NOT LAST 82
- VIII. LOVE IS LORD OF ALL 85
BOOK III.
TRUE HAPPINESS AND FALSE.
- I. THE THORNS OF ERROR 93
- II. THE BENT OF NATURE 99
- III. THE INSATIABLENESS OK AVARICE 105
- IV. DISGRACE OF HONOURS CONFERRED BY A TYRANT 109
- V. SELF-MASTERY 113
- VI. TRUE NOBILITY 116
- VII. PLEASURE'S STING 118
- VIII. HUMAN FOLLY 121
- IX. INVOCATION 130
- X. THE TRUE LIGHT 141
- XI. REMINISCENCE 150
- XII. ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE 158
BOOK IV.
GOOD AND ILL FORTUNE.
- I. THE SOUL'S FLIGHT 166
- II. THE BONDAGE OF PASSION 177
- III. CIRCE'S CUP 182
- IV. THE UNREASONABLENESS OF HATRED 194
- V. WONDER AND IGNORANCE 197
- VI. THE UNIVERSAL AIM 212
- VII. THE HERO'S PATH 219
BOOK V.
FREE WILL AND GOD'S FOREKNOWLEDGE.
- I. CHANCE 229
- II. THE TRUE SUN 233
- III. TRUTH'S PARADOXES 241
- IV. A PSYCHOLOGICAL FALLACY 250
- V. THE UPWARD LOOK 255

BOOK I.
THE SORROWS OF BOETHIUS.

SUMMARY.

Boethius' complaint (Song I.).—CH. I. Philosophy appears to Boethius, drives away the Muses of Poetry, and herself laments (Song II.) the disordered condition of his mind.—CH. II. Boethius is speechless with amazement. Philosophy wipes away the tears that have clouded his eyesight.—CH. III. Boethius recognises his mistress Philosophy. To his wondering inquiries she explains her presence, and recalls to his mind the persecutions to which Philosophy has oftentimes from of old been subjected by an ignorant world. CH. IV. Philosophy bids Boethius declare his griefs. He relates the story of his unjust accusation and ruin. He concludes with a prayer (Song V.) that the moral disorder in human affairs may be set right.—CH. V. Philosophy admits the justice of Boethius' self-vindication, but grieves rather for the unhappy change in his mind. She will first tranquillize his spirit by soothing remedies.—CH. VI. Philosophy tests Boethius' mental state by certain questions, and discovers three chief causes of his soul's sickness: (1) He has forgotten his own true nature; (2) he knows not the end towards which the whole universe tends; (3) he knows not the means by which the world is governed.

Boethius' complaint (Song I.).—CH. I. Philosophy appears to Boethius, drives away the Muses of Poetry, and herself laments (Song II.) the disordered condition of his mind.—CH. II. Boethius is speechless with amazement. Philosophy wipes away the tears that have clouded his eyesight.—CH. III. Boethius recognizes his mistress Philosophy. To his wondering questions, she explains her presence and reminds him of the persecutions that Philosophy has often faced from an ignorant world. —CH. IV. Philosophy asks Boethius to share his sorrows. He tells the story of his unfair accusation and downfall. He ends with a prayer (Song V.) that the moral disorder in human affairs may be corrected.—CH. V. Philosophy acknowledges the validity of Boethius' self-defense but feels sorrow for the unfortunate change in his mind. She will first calm his spirit with soothing remedies.—CH. VI. Philosophy assesses Boethius' mental state with specific questions and identifies three main causes of his soul's distress: (1) He has forgotten his true nature; (2) he doesn't understand the ultimate purpose of the universe; (3) he is unaware of how the world is governed.

BOOK I.

SONG I.
Boethius' Complaint.

Who created my diligent figures Smoothly back in happier days,
Now inevitably in tears and sadness Learn a sad melody to perform. Look, the Muses, grief-stricken, Guide my pen and express my sorrow; Genuine tears rolled down their cheeks. To my sad complaints, flow!
These alone in danger's hour Faithful found, have chosen to attend On the heels of the exile To the end of his lonely journey. These were the pride and joy. In my youth and high status
Still the only comfort About the old man's sad fate.
Old? Ah yes; it happened so quickly, before I even realized it,
By these sorrows weighing on me Time has passed; behold, Grief has summoned me
Wear the outfit that suits her best.
Over my head unexpectedly sprinkled These white hairs reveal my sadness,
And the skin hangs loose and shriveled. On this sorrow-shrunk frame. Blessed is the death that does not interrupt During the joyful years of peace,
But to the brokenhearted,
When they call him, it brings relief!
Yet Death passes by the miserable,
Closes his ears and falls into a deep sleep; Will not listen to the cry of pain,
Will not shut the eyes that cry.
For, while still unpredictable Fortune She shared her talents, and everything became vibrant,
Death's dark hour had almost consumed me
In the darkness of everlasting night.
Now, because of bad luck
Has overshadowed that false face, Cruel Life still pauses and hangs on,
Though I dislike his tired kind. Friends, why did you once take so lightly Celebrate my happiness among people? Surely, the one who has fallen like this Wasn't firmly established then.

I.

While I was thus mutely pondering within myself, and recording my sorrowful complainings with my pen, it seemed to me that there appeared above my head a woman of a countenance exceeding venerable. Her eyes were bright as fire, and of a more than human keenness; her complexion was lively, her vigour showed no trace of enfeeblement; and yet her years were right full, and she plainly seemed not of our age and time. Her stature was difficult to judge. At one moment it exceeded not the common height, at another her forehead seemed to strike the sky; and whenever she raised her head higher, she began to pierce within the very heavens, and to baffle the eyes of them that looked upon her. Her garments were of an imperishable fabric, wrought with the finest threads and of the most delicate workmanship; and these, as her own lips afterwards assured me, she had herself woven with her own hands. The beauty of this vesture had been somewhat tarnished by age and neglect, and wore that dingy look which marble contracts from exposure. On the lower-most edge was inwoven the Greek letter Π [Greek: P], on the topmost the letter θ [Greek: Th],[A] and between the two were to be seen steps, like a staircase, from the lower to the upper letter. This robe, moreover, had been torn by the hands of violent persons, who had each snatched away what he could clutch.[B] Her right hand held a note-book; in her left she bore a staff. And when she saw the Muses of Poesie standing by my bedside, dictating the words of my lamentations, she was moved awhile to wrath, and her eyes flashed sternly. 'Who,' said she, 'has allowed yon play-acting wantons to approach this sick man—these who, so far from giving medicine to heal his malady, even feed it with sweet poison? These it is who kill the rich crop of reason with the barren thorns of passion, who accustom men's minds to disease, instead of setting them free. Now, were it some common man whom your allurements were seducing, as is usually your way, I should be less indignant. On such a one I should not have spent my pains for naught. But this is one nurtured in the Eleatic and Academic philosophies. Nay, get ye gone, ye sirens, whose sweetness lasteth not; leave him for my muses to tend and heal!' At these words of upbraiding, the whole band, in deepened sadness, with downcast eyes, and blushes that confessed their shame, dolefully left the chamber.

While I was silently reflecting and jotting down my sorrowful thoughts, I noticed a remarkable woman appear above me. Her gaze was bright like fire, sharp beyond human limits; her complexion was vibrant, and she showed no signs of weakness despite her old age, clearly not from our current time. Her height was hard to determine; sometimes she seemed average, while other times her brow appeared to touch the sky. Whenever she lifted her head higher, it looked as if she could penetrate the heavens, overwhelming the sight of those who looked at her. Her clothing was made from an everlasting fabric, intricately woven with fine threads, which, as her own lips later confirmed, she had crafted with her own hands. This garment had lost some of its beauty due to age and neglect, bearing the dullness that marble acquires from exposure. Along the bottom edge was the Greek letter Π [Greek: P], and at the top was the letter θ [Greek: Th], with steps resembling a staircase connecting the two letters. This robe had also been torn by violent individuals, each grabbing what they could. In her right hand, she held a notebook, and in her left, she carried a staff. When she saw the Muses of Poetry standing by my bedside, dictating my lamentations, she was briefly filled with anger, her eyes flashing sternly. "Who," she demanded, "let these pretentious seducers approach this sick man—those who, far from offering real medicine to heal him, only feed his illness with sweet poison? They are the ones who destroy the rich harvest of reason with the thorny weeds of passion, leading minds to dysfunction instead of freeing them. If it were some ordinary person seduced by your charms, as is typically the case, I wouldn't be as upset. I wouldn’t have wasted my efforts on such a one. But this is someone raised in the Eleatic and Academic philosophies. Now, leave, you sirens whose sweetness fades quickly; allow my muses to care for and heal him!" At her reproachful words, the entire group, now more sorrowful, with downcast eyes and blushes revealing their shame, sadly exited the room.

But I, because my sight was dimmed with much weeping, and I could not tell who was this woman of authority so commanding—I was dumfoundered, and, with my gaze fastened on the earth, continued silently to await what she might do next. Then she drew near me and sat on the edge of my couch, and, looking into my face all heavy with grief and fixed in sadness on the ground, she bewailed in these words the disorder of my mind:

But I, with my vision blurred from so much crying, couldn’t tell who this commanding woman was—I was completely stunned, and, keeping my eyes on the ground, I waited silently to see what she would do next. Then she came closer and sat on the edge of my couch, and, looking into my tear-stained face, weighed down with sorrow and fixed on the ground, she mourned in these words about the chaos in my mind:

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Π (P) stands for the Political life, the life of action; θ (Th) for the Theoretical life, the life of thought.

[A] Π (P) represents Political life, which is centered around action; θ (Th) represents Theoretical life, which is focused on thought.

[B] The Stoic, Epicurean, and other philosophical sects, which Boethius regards as heterodox. See also below, ch. iii., p. 14.

[B] The Stoics, Epicureans, and other philosophical groups that Boethius considers unorthodox. See also below, ch. iii., p. 14.

SONG II.
His Despondency.

Unfortunately, in what abyss his mind Is plunged, how wildly tossed! Still, still towards the outer night She sinks, her true light gone,
As often as, lashed tumultuously From the storms of the earth, waves of worry swell.

Yet once he explored the open skies,
The sun's bright path tracked; I observed how the cold moon grew and shrank; Nor rested, until there was no more
To his broad knowledge, no star that guides In the midst of the maze of revolving spheres.

The reasons for the strong winds Disturb the ocean's calm surface,
Whose hand turns the spinning globe,
Or why his race even From the bright eastern sky, the sun Runs to the western waves:

What tempers cunningly The calm hours of spring,
So it blooms with the rose
For Earth’s engarlanding:
Who carries the ripe harvest of the year With bunches of grapes in the fall:

He knew all of this—so he always tried. Deep Nature's knowledge to explore.
Now, stripped of reason's light, he lies,
And binds his neck down; While weighed down by a heavy burden, His eyes are fixed on this dull earth.

II.

'But the time,' said she, 'calls rather for healing than for lamentation.' Then, with her eyes bent full upon me, 'Art thou that man,' she cries, 'who, erstwhile fed with the milk and reared upon the nourishment which is mine to give, had grown up to the full vigour of a manly spirit? And yet I had bestowed such armour on thee as would have proved an invincible defence, hadst thou not first cast it away. Dost thou know me? Why art thou silent? Is it shame or amazement that hath struck thee dumb? Would it were shame; but, as I see, a stupor hath seized upon thee.' Then, when she saw me not only answering nothing, but mute and utterly incapable of speech, she gently touched my breast with her hand, and said: 'There is no danger; these are the symptoms of lethargy, the usual sickness of deluded minds. For awhile he has forgotten himself; he will easily recover his memory, if only he first recognises me. And that he may do so, let me now wipe his eyes that are clouded with a mist of mortal things.' Thereat, with a fold of her robe, she dried my eyes all swimming with tears.

'But the time,' she said, 'calls for healing rather than sorrow.' Then, with her eyes fixed on me, she exclaimed, 'Are you that man who, once nourished by the milk I provided and raised on what I could offer, has grown into a strong, spirited adult? And yet I gave you armor that would have been an unbeatable defense, if only you hadn't thrown it away. Do you recognize me? Why are you silent? Is it shame or shock that has left you speechless? I wish it were shame; but as I see it, a daze has overcome you.' Then, when she saw that I was not only unresponsive but completely at a loss for words, she gently touched my chest with her hand and said, 'There’s no danger; these are signs of lethargy, the common illness of confused minds. For a while, he has forgotten himself; he will easily regain his memory if he just recognizes me first. And to help him do that, let me wipe away the mist clouding his eyes.' With that, she used a fold of her robe to dry my tear-filled eyes.

SONG III.
The Mists dispelled.

Then the darkness of night was broken, Sight returned to my eyes.
So, when suddenly rainy Caurus Moves the storm clouds across the sky,
The sun is hidden; the entire sky Is hidden in starless night.
But if, in a fierce and overwhelming rush, Boreas releases the day's light,
Suddenly, the shining god emerges, And dazzles our eyes with his rays.

III.

Even so the clouds of my melancholy were broken up. I saw the clear sky, and regained the power to recognise the face of my physician. Accordingly, when I had lifted my eyes and fixed my gaze upon her, I beheld my nurse, Philosophy, whose halls I had frequented from my youth up.

Even so, the clouds of my sadness began to clear. I saw the bright sky and was able to recognize the face of my doctor. So, when I lifted my eyes and focused on her, I saw my nurse, Philosophy, whose halls I had visited since I was young.

'Ah! why,' I cried, 'mistress of all excellence, hast thou come down from on high, and entered the solitude of this my exile? Is it that thou, too, even as I, mayst be persecuted with false accusations?'

'Ah! why,' I cried, 'mistress of all excellence, have you come down from on high and entered the solitude of my exile? Is it that you, too, like me, might be tormented with false accusations?'

'Could I desert thee, child,' said she, 'and not lighten the burden which thou hast taken upon thee through the hatred of my name, by sharing this trouble? Even forgetting that it were not lawful for Philosophy to leave companionless the way of the innocent, should I, thinkest thou, fear to incur reproach, or shrink from it, as though some strange new thing had befallen? Thinkest thou that now, for the first time in an evil age, Wisdom hath been assailed by peril? Did I not often in days of old, before my servant Plato lived, wage stern warfare with the rashness of folly? In his lifetime, too, Socrates, his master, won with my aid the victory of an unjust death. And when, one after the other, the Epicurean herd, the Stoic, and the rest, each of them as far as in them lay, went about to seize the heritage he left, and were dragging me off protesting and resisting, as their booty, they tore in pieces the garment which I had woven with my own hands, and, clutching the torn pieces, went off, believing that the whole of me had passed into their possession. And some of them, because some traces of my vesture were seen upon them, were destroyed through the mistake of the lewd multitude, who falsely deemed them to be my disciples. It may be thou knowest not of the banishment of Anaxagoras, of the poison draught of Socrates, nor of Zeno's torturing, because these things happened in a distant country; yet mightest thou have learnt the fate of Arrius, of Seneca, of Soranus, whose stories are neither old nor unknown to fame. These men were brought to destruction for no other reason than that, settled as they were in my principles, their lives were a manifest contrast to the ways of the wicked. So there is nothing thou shouldst wonder at, if on the seas of this life we are tossed by storm-blasts, seeing that we have made it our chiefest aim to refuse compliance with evil-doers. And though, maybe, the host of the wicked is many in number, yet is it contemptible, since it is under no leadership, but is hurried hither and thither at the blind driving of mad error. And if at times and seasons they set in array against us, and fall on in overwhelming strength, our leader draws off her forces into the citadel while they are busy plundering the useless baggage. But we from our vantage ground, safe from all this wild work, laugh to see them making prize of the most valueless of things, protected by a bulwark which aggressive folly may not aspire to reach.'

"Could I abandon you, child," she said, "and not lighten the burden you've taken on due to the hatred of my name, by sharing this trouble? Even forgetting that it wouldn't be right for Philosophy to leave the innocent alone, should I really worry about facing criticism or shrink from it, as if something new and strange has happened? Do you think that now, for the first time in a dark time, Wisdom is facing danger? Didn’t I, long ago, before my student Plato, engage in a fierce battle against the recklessness of foolishness? Even during his lifetime, Socrates, his teacher, achieved the victory of an unjust death with my help. And when the Epicurean crowd, the Stoics, and others tried to claim the legacy he left behind, dragging me off like their prize against my will, they tore apart the garment I had woven with my own hands, grabbing the pieces and believing they had taken all of me. Some of them, because they bore traces of my garment, were wrongly destroyed by the foolish crowd, who mistakenly thought they were my followers. You might not know about the exile of Anaxagoras, the poison given to Socrates, or the torture of Zeno, because these events happened far away; yet you could have learned of the fate of Arrius, Seneca, and Soranus, whose stories are neither old nor unknown. These men were destroyed solely because their lives, rooted in my principles, were a clear contrast to the wicked ways around them. So don’t be surprised if, on the seas of this life, we are tossed by storms, since our greatest aim has been to refuse to comply with wrongdoers. And even if the number of the wicked is large, it is nothing to fear, as they lack leadership and are driven aimlessly by the blind force of error. And if, at times, they gather against us with overwhelming strength, our leader retreats her forces to safety while they busy themselves plundering what’s worthless. But from our secure position, safe from this chaos, we laugh at them for acquiring the most useless things, protected by a stronghold that reckless folly cannot reach."

SONG IV.
Nothing can subdue Virtue.

Who is calm, serene, and relaxed, Places his foot on arrogant destiny;
Strong and unyielding, no matter what happens,
Keeps his demeanor unconquered still; The anger of wild seas toward him, Tossing high wild threats,
Nor the flames from smoky forges That Vesuvius erupts,
Nor the lightning that strikes from the sky Destroys the tower, can scare.
Why, then, should you feel afraid? At the tyrant's weakness? Don't be afraid of him, and don't worry about any harm,
And you will disarm his rage; But who to hope for or fear from gives way—
Lost his close control—
He has thrown away his shield,
Like a coward, he ran away from the fight;
He has forged all unknowingly He must bear the chains he created for himself!

IV.

'Dost thou understand?' she asks. Do my words sink into thy mind? Or art thou dull "as the ass to the sound of the lyre"? Why dost thou weep? Why do tears stream from thy eyes?

"Do you understand?" she asks. Do my words register with you? Or are you as dull "as the ass to the sound of the lyre"? Why are you crying? Why are tears streaming down your face?

"Speak up, don’t keep it in your heart."

If thou lookest for the physician's help, thou must needs disclose thy wound.'

If you’re seeking the doctor’s help, you must reveal your injury.

Then I, gathering together what strength I could, began: 'Is there still need of telling? Is not the cruelty of fortune against me plain enough? Doth not the very aspect of this place move thee? Is this the library, the room which thou hadst chosen as thy constant resort in my home, the place where we so often sat together and held discourse of all things in heaven and earth? Was my garb and mien like this when I explored with thee nature's hid secrets, and thou didst trace for me with thy wand the courses of the stars, moulding the while my character and the whole conduct of my life after the pattern of the celestial order? Is this the recompense of my obedience? Yet thou hast enjoined by Plato's mouth the maxim, "that states would be happy, either if philosophers ruled them, or if it should so befall that their rulers would turn philosophers." By his mouth likewise thou didst point out this imperative reason why philosophers should enter public life, to wit, lest, if the reins of government be left to unprincipled and profligate citizens, trouble and destruction should come upon the good. Following these precepts, I have tried to apply in the business of public administration the principles which I learnt from thee in leisured seclusion. Thou art my witness and that divinity who hath implanted thee in the hearts of the wise, that I brought to my duties no aim but zeal for the public good. For this cause I have become involved in bitter and irreconcilable feuds, and, as happens inevitably, if a man holds fast to the independence of conscience, I have had to think nothing of giving offence to the powerful in the cause of justice. How often have I encountered and balked Conigastus in his assaults on the fortunes of the weak? How often have I thwarted Trigguilla, steward of the king's household, even when his villainous schemes were as good as accomplished? How often have I risked my position and influence to protect poor wretches from the false charges innumerable with which they were for ever being harassed by the greed and license of the barbarians? No one has ever drawn me aside from justice to oppression. When ruin was overtaking the fortunes of the provincials through the combined pressure of private rapine and public taxation, I grieved no less than the sufferers. When at a season of grievous scarcity a forced sale, disastrous as it was unjustifiable, was proclaimed, and threatened to overwhelm Campania with starvation, I embarked on a struggle with the prætorian prefect in the public interest, I fought the case at the king's judgment-seat, and succeeded in preventing the enforcement of the sale. I rescued the consular Paulinus from the gaping jaws of the court bloodhounds, who in their covetous hopes had already made short work of his wealth. To save Albinus, who was of the same exalted rank, from the penalties of a prejudged charge, I exposed myself to the hatred of Cyprian, the informer.

Then I, gathering what strength I could, began: "Is there still a need to say anything? Isn't the cruelty of fate against me obvious enough? Doesn't the very sight of this place move you? Is this the library, the room you chose as your favorite spot in my home, the place where we often sat together discussing everything under the sun? Was my appearance like this when I explored the hidden secrets of nature with you, and you used your wand to trace the paths of the stars, shaping my character and my entire way of life after the celestial order? Is this how I am rewarded for my obedience? Yet you've taught, through Plato, the idea that 'states would be happy if philosophers ruled them or if their rulers happened to be philosophers.' You've also pointed out why philosophers should engage in public life, so that if the government is left to unprincipled and reckless citizens, chaos and destruction would fall upon the good. Following these principles, I've tried to apply the lessons I learned from you in my work in public administration. You are my witness, along with that divine presence who has instilled this in the hearts of the wise, that I approached my duties with nothing but a desire for the public good. Because of this, I've found myself caught up in bitter and irreconcilable conflicts, and, as often happens, if a person stands firm in their conscience, I haven't hesitated to upset the powerful in the name of justice. How many times have I encountered and thwarted Conigastus in his attacks on the vulnerable? How many times have I stopped Trigguilla, the king's steward, even when his wicked plans were nearly complete? How often have I risked my position and influence to protect the innocent from the countless false charges brought against them by the greed and lawlessness of the barbarians? No one has ever swayed me away from justice towards oppression. When disaster was looming over the people due to the combined weight of private theft and public taxation, I grieved just as much as those who suffered. When, during a season of severe scarcity, a forced sale, as disastrous as it was unfair, was announced, threatening to leave Campania in starvation, I entered into a struggle with the prætorian prefect for the public interest. I contested the case at the king's court and succeeded in preventing the enforcement of the sale. I saved the consular Paulinus from the relentless court hounds, who were already feasting on his wealth in their greedy hopes. To save Albinus, who held a similar esteemed position, from the consequences of a preordained charge, I exposed myself to the wrath of Cyprian, the informer."

'Thinkest thou I had laid up for myself store of enmities enough? Well, with the rest of my countrymen, at any rate, my safety should have been assured, since my love of justice had left me no hope of security at court. Yet who was it brought the charges by which I have been struck down? Why, one of my accusers is Basil, who, after being dismissed from the king's household, was driven by his debts to lodge an information against my name. There is Opilio, there is Gaudentius, men who for many and various offences the king's sentence had condemned to banishment; and when they declined to obey, and sought to save themselves by taking sanctuary, the king, as soon as he heard of it, decreed that, if they did not depart from the city of Ravenna within a prescribed time, they should be branded on the forehead and expelled. What would exceed the rigour of this severity? And yet on that same day these very men lodged an information against me, and the information was admitted. Just Heaven! had I deserved this by my way of life? Did it make them fit accusers that my condemnation was a foregone conclusion? Has fortune no shame—if not at the accusation of the innocent, at least for the vileness of the accusers? Perhaps thou wonderest what is the sum of the charges laid against me? I wished, they say, to save the senate. But how? I am accused of hindering an informer from producing evidence to prove the senate guilty of treason. Tell me, then, what is thy counsel, O my mistress. Shall I deny the charge, lest I bring shame on thee? But I did wish it, and I shall never cease to wish it. Shall I admit it? Then the work of thwarting the informer will come to an end. Shall I call the wish for the preservation of that illustrious house a crime? Of a truth the senate, by its decrees concerning me, has made it such! But blind folly, though it deceive itself with false names, cannot alter the true merits of things, and, mindful of the precept of Socrates, I do not think it right either to keep the truth concealed or allow falsehood to pass. But this, however it may be, I leave to thy judgment and to the verdict of the discerning. Moreover, lest the course of events and the true facts should be hidden from posterity, I have myself committed to writing an account of the transaction.

'Do you think I had built up enough enemies for myself? Well, at least my safety should have been guaranteed among my fellow countrymen since my sense of justice left me no hope of safety at court. But who brought the charges that brought me down? One of my accusers is Basil, who, after being kicked out of the king's household, resorted to filing a complaint against me out of desperation due to his debts. There's Opilio, there's Gaudentius—men who were condemned to exile by the king's sentence for various offenses. When they refused to leave and tried to save themselves by seeking refuge, the king declared that if they did not leave the city of Ravenna within a set time, they would be branded on the forehead and thrown out. What could be more harsh than this? And yet, on that very day, these same men filed a complaint against me, and it was accepted. Good heavens! Did I deserve this? Does it make them suitable accusers just because my conviction was predetermined? Does fortune have no sense of shame—if not for accusing the innocent, at least for the disgraceful behavior of the accusers? Perhaps you wonder what the charges against me are? They say I wanted to save the senate. But how? I’m accused of stopping an informer from providing evidence to prove the senate guilty of treason. So, tell me, what do you think, my lady? Should I deny the charge to protect your honor? But I did want it, and I will always wish for it. Should I admit it? Then the effort to thwart the informer will end. Should I call the desire to protect that esteemed institution a crime? Indeed, the senate, through its decrees regarding me, has made it such! Yet blind folly, though it tricks itself with false labels, cannot change the true nature of things, and, keeping in mind Socrates' principle, I believe it's wrong to hide the truth or let falsehoods go unchallenged. But whatever the case may be, I leave it to your judgment and the decision of the wise. Furthermore, to ensure that the chain of events and the truth are not lost to future generations, I have taken it upon myself to write down an account of what happened.

'What need to speak of the forged letters by which an attempt is made to prove that I hoped for the freedom of Rome? Their falsity would have been manifest, if I had been allowed to use the confession of the informers themselves, evidence which has in all matters the most convincing force. Why, what hope of freedom is left to us? Would there were any! I should have answered with the epigram of Canius when Caligula declared him to have been cognisant of a conspiracy against him. "If I had known," said he, "thou shouldst never have known." Grief hath not so blunted my perceptions in this matter that I should complain because impious wretches contrive their villainies against the virtuous, but at their achievement of their hopes I do exceedingly marvel. For evil purposes are, perchance, due to the imperfection of human nature; that it should be possible for scoundrels to carry out their worst schemes against the innocent, while God beholdeth, is verily monstrous. For this cause, not without reason, one of thy disciples asked, "If God exists, whence comes evil? Yet whence comes good, if He exists not?" However, it might well be that wretches who seek the blood of all honest men and of the whole senate should wish to destroy me also, whom they saw to be a bulwark of the senate and all honest men. But did I deserve such a fate from the Fathers also? Thou rememberest, methinks—since thou didst ever stand by my side to direct what I should do or say—thou rememberest, I say, how at Verona, when the king, eager for the general destruction, was bent on implicating the whole senatorial order in the charge of treason brought against Albinus, with what indifference to my own peril I maintained the innocence of its members, one and all. Thou knowest that what I say is the truth, and that I have never boasted of my good deeds in a spirit of self-praise. For whenever a man by proclaiming his good deeds receives the recompense of fame, he diminishes in a measure the secret reward of a good conscience. What issues have overtaken my innocency thou seest. Instead of reaping the rewards of true virtue, I undergo the penalties of a guilt falsely laid to my charge—nay, more than this; never did an open confession of guilt cause such unanimous severity among the assessors, but that some consideration, either of the mere frailty of human nature, or of fortune's universal instability, availed to soften the verdict of some few. Had I been accused of a design to fire the temples, to slaughter the priests with impious sword, of plotting the massacre of all honest men, I should yet have been produced in court, and only punished on due confession or conviction. Now for my too great zeal towards the senate I have been condemned to outlawry and death, unheard and undefended, at a distance of near five hundred miles away.[C] Oh, my judges, well do ye deserve that no one should hereafter be convicted of a fault like mine!

What’s the point of discussing the fake letters that try to show I wanted Rome to be free? Their fakeness would be obvious if I could use the informers’ own confessions, which are always the most convincing evidence. What hope for freedom is left for us? If only there was! I would have replied with Canius's saying when Caligula accused him of knowing about a conspiracy against him: “If I had known, you would never have known.” My grief hasn’t dulled my perception enough to complain that wicked people plot against the virtuous; I am, however, amazed at how easily they achieve their goals. Perhaps evil intentions stem from the flaws of human nature; it’s truly monstrous that scoundrels can execute their worst plans against the innocent while God watches. That’s why, not without reason, one of your disciples asked, “If God exists, where does evil come from? Yet where does good come from if He doesn’t exist?” It’s possible that those scoundrels who want to harm all honest people and the entire senate also want to destroy me, as they see me as a protector of the senate and all honest citizens. But did I deserve such a fate from the Fathers as well? You’ll remember—since you’ve always been by my side to guide my actions—you’ll remember how at Verona, when the king, eager for total destruction, tried to involve the entire senate in the treason accusation against Albinus, I defended the innocence of all its members, indifferent to my own risk. You know what I say is true, and I’ve never boasted about my good deeds to seek praise. When someone proclaims their good actions for the fame, they lessen the secret reward of a clear conscience. You see what has happened to my innocence. Instead of gaining the rewards of true virtue, I face the punishments of a false accusation—more than that, an open confession of guilt has never prompted such harshness from the judges that some couldn’t be swayed by the weakness of human nature or the unpredictability of fortune. If I had been accused of plotting to set fire to the temples, slaughtering the priests with a wicked sword, or planning a massacre of all honest men, I would still have been brought to court and only punished with a proper confession or conviction. Now, for my strong loyalty to the senate, I’ve been sentenced to exile and death, unheard and unrepresented, nearly five hundred miles away. Oh, my judges, you truly deserve that no one should ever face a charge like mine again!

'Yet even my very accusers saw how honourable was the charge they brought against me, and, in order to overlay it with some shadow of guilt, they falsely asserted that in the pursuit of my ambition I had stained my conscience with sacrilegious acts. And yet thy spirit, indwelling in me, had driven from the chamber of my soul all lust of earthly success, and with thine eye ever upon me, there could be no place left for sacrilege. For thou didst daily repeat in my ear and instil into my mind the Pythagorean maxim, "Follow after God." It was not likely, then, that I should covet the assistance of the vilest spirits, when thou wert moulding me to such an excellence as should conform me to the likeness of God. Again, the innocency of the inner sanctuary of my home, the company of friends of the highest probity, a father-in-law revered at once for his pure character and his active beneficence, shield me from the very suspicion of sacrilege. Yet—atrocious as it is—they even draw credence for this charge from thee; I am like to be thought implicated in wickedness on this very account, that I am imbued with thy teachings and stablished in thy ways. So it is not enough that my devotion to thee should profit me nothing, but thou also must be assailed by reason of the odium which I have incurred. Verily this is the very crown of my misfortunes, that men's opinions for the most part look not to real merit, but to the event; and only recognise foresight where Fortune has crowned the issue with her approval. Whereby it comes to pass that reputation is the first of all things to abandon the unfortunate. I remember with chagrin how perverse is popular report, how various and discordant men's judgments. This only will I say, that the most crushing of misfortune's burdens is, that as soon as a charge is fastened upon the unhappy, they are believed to have deserved their sufferings. I, for my part, who have been banished from all life's blessings, stripped of my honours, stained in repute, am punished for well-doing.

'Yet even my very accusers recognized how honorable the charge they brought against me was, and to cast a shadow of guilt over it, they falsely claimed that in chasing my ambitions, I had sullied my conscience with sacrilegious acts. And yet your spirit, living within me, had expelled from my soul all desire for earthly success, and with your gaze ever upon me, there could be no room for sacrilege. For you daily whispered in my ear and filled my mind with the Pythagorean saying, "Follow after God." It was unlikely, then, that I would seek the help of the lowest spirits when you were shaping me into something that resembled God. Furthermore, the purity of my home’s inner sanctuary, the company of friends with the highest integrity, and a father-in-law respected for his virtuous character and active generosity shield me from even the suspicion of sacrilege. Yet—appalling as it is—they draw credibility for this charge from you; I am likely to be thought guilty of wickedness for the very reason that I am filled with your teachings and grounded in your ways. So it’s not enough that my devotion to you should benefit me in no way, but you also must be attacked because of the ill-will I have incurred. Truly, this is the peak of my misfortunes, that people's opinions mostly disregard real merit and focus on the outcome; they only recognize foresight when Fortune has blessed the result. Thus it happens that reputation is the first thing to abandon the unfortunate. I remember with regret how twisted public opinion can be, how varied and conflicting people’s judgments are. This much I will say: the heaviest burden of misfortune is that as soon as a charge is laid on the unfortunate, they are believed to have deserved their suffering. I, for my part, who have been banished from all of life’s blessings, stripped of my honors, stained in reputation, am punished for doing good.'

'And now methinks I see the villainous dens of the wicked surging with joy and gladness, all the most recklessly unscrupulous threatening a new crop of lying informations, the good prostrate with terror at my danger, every ruffian incited by impunity to new daring and to success by the profits of audacity, the guiltless not only robbed of their peace of mind, but even of all means of defence. Wherefore I would fain cry out:

'And now I think I see the evil places of the wicked filled with joy and happiness, while the most reckless and unscrupulous among them threaten to spread new falsehoods. The good people are lying down in fear for my safety, every thug motivated by a sense of being untouchable and encouraged by the rewards of boldness. The innocent are not just stripped of their peace of mind but also of any means to defend themselves. So, I want to shout out:'

FOOTNOTES:

[C] The distance from Rome to Pavia, the place of Boethius' imprisonment, is 455 Roman miles.

[C] The distance from Rome to Pavia, where Boethius was imprisoned, is 455 Roman miles.

SONG V.
Boethius' Prayer.

'Builder of that starry dome,
You who whirl, eternal throne, Heaven's quick globe, and as they wander,
You guide the stars by higher laws:
So in full-sphere splendor dressed Cynthia lowers the nighttime lamps,
But to the brotherly sphere Closer drawn,__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ loses her light.

'Who at dusk,
Hesper, his cold light shows,
Lucifer hides his beams,
Fading as the sun's light grows, While winter's chill is still around,
By your will, the daylight hours; Swift, when summer's heat shines,
Speed through the hours of the night.

You govern the changing year:
When rude Boreas blows, Leaves fall; they come back,
Wooed by Zephyr's gentle touches.
Fields that Sirius scorches deeply grown By Arcturus' watch were planted:
Each reign of law acknowledges,
Maintains his own space.

'Sovereign Ruler, Lord of all!
Could it be that You look down on me? Only man? Against him, poor servant, Fortune plays her most vain. Guilt's rightful punishment Falls on the innocent; High elevated, the most profane They are just venting their anger.

'Virtue hides in dark places,
The righteous bear the dirty stain of crime,
Lying and deceit Don't hurt the one who dares; But whenever the wicked trust Unable to work out their desires, Kings, whom nations admire Mighty, kneel in the dust.

"Look, just look at this earth,
You who stand on the solid foundation of the law Framed all! Do we have no value,
Are we the unfortunate ones of all living beings? We painfully drift on the waves of fate; Master, calm the waves!
And earth's ways with fulfillment Guide of Your heavenly order!

FOOTNOTES:

[D] The moon is regarded as farthest from the sun at the full, and, as she wanes, approaching gradually nearer.

[D] The moon is seen as being furthest from the sun during the full phase, and as she decreases in brightness, she gradually gets closer.

V.

When I had poured out my griefs in this long and unbroken strain of lamentation, she, with calm countenance, and in no wise disturbed at my complainings, thus spake:

When I had expressed my sorrows in this long, uninterrupted outpouring of lament, she, with a calm face and completely unfazed by my complaints, said this:

'When I saw thee sorrowful, in tears, I straightway knew thee wretched and an exile. But how far distant that exile I should not know, had not thine own speech revealed it. Yet how far indeed from thy country hast thou, not been banished, but rather hast strayed; or, if thou wilt have it banishment, hast banished thyself! For no one else could ever lawfully have had this power over thee. Now, if thou wilt call to mind from what country thou art sprung, it is not ruled, as once was the Athenian polity, by the sovereignty of the multitude, but "one is its Ruler, one its King," who takes delight in the number of His citizens, not in their banishment; to submit to whose governance and to obey whose ordinances is perfect freedom. Art thou ignorant of that most ancient law of this thy country, whereby it is decreed that no one whatsoever, who hath chosen to fix there his dwelling, may be sent into exile? For truly there is no fear that one who is encompassed by its ramparts and defences should deserve to be exiled. But he who has ceased to wish to dwell therein, he likewise ceases to deserve to do so. And so it is not so much the aspect of this place which moves me, as thy aspect; not so much the library walls set off with glass and ivory which I miss, as the chamber of thy mind, wherein I once placed, not books, but that which gives books their value, the doctrines which my books contain. Now, what thou hast said of thy services to the commonweal is true, only too little compared with the greatness of thy deservings. The things laid to thy charge whereof thou hast spoken, whether such as redound to thy credit, or mere false accusations, are publicly known. As for the crimes and deceits of the informers, thou hast rightly deemed it fitting to pass them over lightly, because the popular voice hath better and more fully pronounced upon them. Thou hast bitterly complained of the injustice of the senate. Thou hast grieved over my calumniation, and likewise hast lamented the damage to my good name. Finally, thine indignation blazed forth against fortune; thou hast complained of the unfairness with which thy merits have been recompensed. Last of all thy frantic muse framed a prayer that the peace which reigns in heaven might rule earth also. But since a throng of tumultuous passions hath assailed thy soul, since thou art distraught with anger, pain, and grief, strong remedies are not proper for thee in this thy present mood. And so for a time I will use milder methods, that the tumours which have grown hard through the influx of disturbing passion may be softened by gentle treatment, till they can bear the force of sharper remedies.'

When I saw you sad and crying, I immediately knew you were miserable and in exile. But how far that exile is, I wouldn’t know if your own words hadn’t revealed it. Yet really, how far from your homeland are you? It’s not that you were banished, but rather that you wandered off; or if you want to call it banishment, you’ve banished yourself! No one else could ever have the right to do that to you. Now, if you remember where you come from, it’s not ruled like the old Athenian democracy, by the will of the crowd, but “one is its Ruler, one its King,” who finds joy in the number of His citizens, not in their exile; to submit to His rule and obey His laws is true freedom. Are you unaware of that very old law of your homeland, which states that no one who chooses to live there can be sent into exile? Because truly, there's no reason to fear that someone protected by its walls deserves to be exiled. But anyone who no longer wishes to live there no longer deserves to stay. And so, it’s not so much the look of this place that affects me, but your look; not so much the library walls adorned with glass and ivory that I miss, but the richness of your mind, where I placed not just books, but what gives books their value—the ideas that my books carry. Now, what you’ve said about your services to the community is true, but it’s far too little compared to the greatness of what you deserve. The accusations against you that you’ve mentioned, whether they reflect well on you or are just false claims, are widely known. As for the crimes and deceit of the informers, you’ve rightly chosen to treat them lightly, since public opinion has already spoken better and more thoroughly on the matter. You’ve complained bitterly about the unfairness of the senate. You’ve mourned my defamation and lamented the damage to my reputation. Finally, your anger flared up against fate; you’ve grumbled about how unfairly your merits have been rewarded. In the end, your frantic thoughts formed a wish that the peace reigning in heaven might also rule on earth. But since a flood of chaotic emotions has attacked your soul, since you are overwhelmed with anger, pain, and sorrow, strong remedies aren’t suitable for you right now. So for a while, I will use gentler methods, to soften the hard swellings caused by your distress until they can handle stronger treatments.

SONG VI.
All Things have their Needful Order.

He who plows the unwilling fields Gives the generous grain, When the Crab with dangerous intensity Scorches the whole plain;
He will find his storage empty,
Acorns for his meager meal.

Don't go out to pick sweet violets
From the purple hillside,
As the harsh winds of winter Through the valleys flow; Nor the grape rush to grow To the media in the springtime.

For everything, God has given Its scheduled time;
No confusing change allows him In His awesome plan.
So who leaves the order because of __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__? Does a bad problem regret.

VI.

'First, then, wilt thou suffer me by a few questions to make some attempt to test the state of thy mind, that I may learn in what way to set about thy cure?'

'First, will you let me ask you a few questions to try to understand your state of mind, so I can figure out how to help you?'

'Ask what thou wilt,' said I, 'for I will answer whatever questions thou choosest to put.'

"Ask whatever you want," I said, "and I will answer any questions you choose to ask."

Then said she: 'This world of ours—thinkest thou it is governed haphazard and fortuitously, or believest thou that there is in it any rational guidance?'

Then she said, "This world of ours—do you think it's run randomly and by chance, or do you believe there’s some logical guidance behind it?"

'Nay,' said I, 'in no wise may I deem that such fixed motions can be determined by random hazard, but I know that God, the Creator, presideth over His work, nor will the day ever come that shall drive me from holding fast the truth of this belief.'

'No,' I said, 'I can't believe that such fixed movements can be decided by chance. I know that God, the Creator, oversees His work, and the day will never come that will make me waver in my belief in this truth.'

'Yes,' said she; 'thou didst even but now affirm it in song, lamenting that men alone had no portion in the divine care. As to the rest, thou wert unshaken in the belief that they were ruled by reason. Yet I marvel exceedingly how, in spite of thy firm hold on this opinion, thou art fallen into sickness. But let us probe more deeply: something or other is missing, I think. Now, tell me, since thou doubtest not that God governs the world, dost thou perceive by what means He rules it?'

"Yes," she said. "You just sang about it, lamenting that men alone have no share in divine care. As for the rest, you were unwavering in the belief that they are guided by reason. Yet I am really surprised that, despite your strong hold on that belief, you have fallen ill. But let's dig deeper: I think something is missing. Now, tell me, since you don't doubt that God governs the world, do you see how He rules it?"

'I scarcely understand what thou meanest,' I said, 'much less can I answer thy question.'

'I barely understand what you mean,' I said, 'and I can't answer your question at all.'

'Did I not say truly that something is missing, whereby, as through a breach in the ramparts, disease hath crept in to disturb thy mind? But, tell me, dost thou remember the universal end towards which the aim of all nature is directed?'

'Did I not say that something is missing, like a gap in the walls, allowing disease to invade and upset your mind? But tell me, do you remember the ultimate goal that all of nature is working toward?'

'I once heard,' said I, 'but sorrow hath dulled my recollection.'

"I once heard," I said, "but sadness has blurred my memory."

'And yet thou knowest whence all things have proceeded.'

'And yet you know where all things have come from.'

'Yes, that I know,' said I, 'and have answered that it is from God.'

"Yeah, I know that," I said, "and I've replied that it comes from God."

'Yet how is it possible that thou knowest not what is the end of existence, when thou dost understand its source and origin? However, these disturbances of mind have force to shake a man's position, but cannot pluck him up and root him altogether out of himself. But answer this also, I pray thee: rememberest thou that thou art a man?'

'Yet how is it possible that you do not know what the purpose of life is, when you understand where it comes from? However, these mental disturbances can shake a person's stability, but they cannot completely uproot them. But please answer this as well: do you remember that you are human?'

'How should I not?' said I.

'How could I not?' I said.

'Then, canst thou say what man is?'

'So, can you tell me what a man is?'

'Is this thy question: Whether I know myself for a being endowed with reason and subject to death? Surely I do acknowledge myself such.'

'Is this your question: Do I recognize myself as a being capable of reason and subject to death? Of course, I do acknowledge that about myself.'

Then she: 'Dost know nothing else that thou art?'

Then she said, "Don't you know anything else about who you are?"

'Nothing.'

'Zero.'

'Now,' said she, 'I know another cause of thy disease, one, too, of grave moment. Thou hast ceased to know thy own nature. So, then, I have made full discovery both of the causes of thy sickness and the means of restoring thy health. It is because forgetfulness of thyself hath bewildered thy mind that thou hast bewailed thee as an exile, as one stripped of the blessings that were his; it is because thou knowest not the end of existence that thou deemest abominable and wicked men to be happy and powerful; while, because thou hast forgotten by what means the earth is governed, thou deemest that fortune's changes ebb and flow without the restraint of a guiding hand. These are serious enough to cause not sickness only, but even death; but, thanks be to the Author of our health, the light of nature hath not yet left thee utterly. In thy true judgment concerning the world's government, in that thou believest it subject, not to the random drift of chance, but to divine reason, we have the divine spark from which thy recovery may be hoped. Have, then, no fear; from these weak embers the vital heat shall once more be kindled within thee. But seeing that it is not yet time for strong remedies, and that the mind is manifestly so constituted that when it casts off true opinions it straightway puts on false, wherefrom arises a cloud of confusion that disturbs its true vision, I will now try and disperse these mists by mild and soothing application, that so the darkness of misleading passion may be scattered, and thou mayst come to discern the splendour of the true light.'

"Now," she said, "I realize another reason for your condition, and it's quite serious. You've lost touch with your true self. So, I've figured out both the causes of your illness and how to help restore your health. It’s because you’ve forgotten who you are that you see yourself as an exile, as someone stripped of their blessings; it’s because you don’t understand the purpose of life that you believe that evil and wicked people can be happy and powerful; and because you’ve forgotten how the world is governed, you think that changes in fortune happen randomly without any guiding force. These are serious enough to cause not just sickness but even death; but thankfully, the Source of our health hasn't completely abandoned you. In your correct understanding of how the world operates, believing it to be governed not by chance but by divine reason, we find the spark of divinity from which your recovery can be hoped for. So, have no fear; from these faint embers, the vital warmth will be reignited within you. However, since it isn't yet time for strong remedies, and since the mind, when it sheds true beliefs, quickly adopts false ones, creating a fog of confusion that clouds its vision, I will now attempt to clear these mists with gentle and soothing methods, so that the darkness of misleading emotions can be dispelled, and you can see the brilliance of the true light."

SONG VII.
The Perturbations of Passion.

Stars don't shed light Through the dark night,
When the clouds cover; And the whipped wave,
If the winds howl Over the ocean's tide,—

Though once calm As the day’s beautiful glow,—
Soon messed up and ruined By the storm's wrath,
Visually appealing Murky and dirty.

Often the beautiful stream, Down the steep hill Seaward that wanders,
Some fallen block Of fallen rocks Obstacles and blocks.

Then you are happy Clear and straightforward Truth to uncover,
The right way Stick around, Nor turn away from it?

Joy, hope, and fear Don't suffer nearby,
Drive away grief:
Chained and blind And the mind is lost
Where these hold influence.

BOOK II.
THE VANITY OF FORTUNE'S GIFTS

Summary

CH. I. Philosophy reproves Boethius for the foolishness of his complaints against Fortune. Her very nature is caprice.—CH. II. Philosophy in Fortune's name replies to Boethius' reproaches, and proves that the gifts of Fortune are hers to give and to take away.—CH. III. Boethius falls back upon his present sense of misery. Philosophy reminds him of the brilliancy of his former fortunes.—CH. IV. Boethius objects that the memory of past happiness is the bitterest portion of the lot of the unhappy. Philosophy shows that much is still left for which he may be thankful. None enjoy perfect satisfaction with their lot. But happiness depends not on anything which Fortune can give. It is to be sought within.—CH. V. All the gifts of Fortune are external; they can never truly be our own. Man cannot find his good in worldly possessions. Riches bring anxiety and trouble.—CH. VI. High place without virtue is an evil, not a good. Power is an empty name.—CH. VII. Fame is a thing of little account when compared with the immensity of the Universe and the endlessness of Time.—CH. VIII. One service only can Fortune do, when she reveals her own nature and distinguishes true friends from false.

CH. I. Philosophy criticizes Boethius for his foolish complaints about Fortune. Her very nature is unpredictable.—CH. II. Philosophy responds to Boethius’ accusations in Fortune's name and shows that the gifts of Fortune are hers to give and take away.—CH. III. Boethius dwells on his current misery. Philosophy reminds him of how bright his former fortunes were.—CH. IV. Boethius argues that recalling past happiness is the most painful part of being unhappy. Philosophy explains that there is still much for which he can be grateful. No one has perfect satisfaction with their circumstances. But happiness doesn’t rely on anything Fortune can provide. It should be sought within.—CH. V. All the gifts of Fortune are external; they can never truly be ours. A person can’t find true good in material possessions. Wealth brings anxiety and trouble.—CH. VI. A high position without virtue is a curse, not a blessing. Power is just an empty title.—CH. VII. Fame is insignificant compared to the vastness of the Universe and the infinity of Time.—CH. VIII. There is only one valuable service Fortune can provide: revealing her true nature and distinguishing real friends from fake ones.

BOOK II.

I.

Thereafter for awhile she remained silent; and when she had restored my flagging attention by a moderate pause in her discourse, she thus began: 'If I have thoroughly ascertained the character and causes of thy sickness, thou art pining with regretful longing for thy former fortune. It is the change, as thou deemest, of this fortune that hath so wrought upon thy mind. Well do I understand that Siren's manifold wiles, the fatal charm of the friendship she pretends for her victims, so long as she is scheming to entrap them—how she unexpectedly abandons them and leaves them overwhelmed with insupportable grief. Bethink thee of her nature, character, and deserts, and thou wilt soon acknowledge that in her thou hast neither possessed, nor hast thou lost, aught of any worth. Methinks I need not spend much pains in bringing this to thy mind, since, even when she was still with thee, even while she was caressing thee, thou usedst to assail her in manly terms, to rebuke her, with maxims drawn from my holy treasure-house. But all sudden changes of circumstances bring inevitably a certain commotion of spirit. Thus it hath come to pass that thou also for awhile hast been parted from thy mind's tranquillity. But it is time for thee to take and drain a draught, soft and pleasant to the taste, which, as it penetrates within, may prepare the way for stronger potions. Wherefore I call to my aid the sweet persuasiveness of Rhetoric, who then only walketh in the right way when she forsakes not my instructions, and Music, my handmaid, I bid to join with her singing, now in lighter, now in graver strain.

After that, she stayed quiet for a bit, and when she caught my attention again with a brief pause in her speech, she started: “If I’ve figured out the nature and reasons behind your sadness, it’s because you’re longing regretfully for your past good fortune. It’s this change in your luck that has affected you so deeply. I completely understand the deceptive tricks of the Siren, the deadly allure of the friendship she pretends to offer her victims while plotting to ensnare them—how she suddenly leaves them, drowning in unbearable grief. Think about her nature, her character, and what she deserves, and you’ll quickly realize that with her, you neither had nor lost anything of true value. I doubt I need to convince you of this too hard, since even when she was still with you, even while she was being affectionate, you would criticize her in strong terms, rebuking her with wisdom drawn from my sacred treasure. But sudden changes in circumstances always stir up some turmoil within. That’s why you’ve also been disconnected from your inner peace for a while. But now it’s time for you to take and enjoy a drink, soft and pleasant to the taste, which, as it goes down, will prepare you for stronger remedies. So I call upon the gentle persuasion of Rhetoric, who only stays on the right path when she follows my guidance, and I ask my servant Music to join her in singing, sometimes light-hearted, sometimes serious.”

'What is it, then, poor mortal, that hath cast thee into lamentation and mourning? Some strange, unwonted sight, methinks, have thine eyes seen. Thou deemest Fortune to have changed towards thee; thou mistakest. Such ever were her ways, ever such her nature. Rather in her very mutability hath she preserved towards thee her true constancy. Such was she when she loaded thee with caresses, when she deluded thee with the allurements of a false happiness. Thou hast found out how changeful is the face of the blind goddess. She who still veils herself from others hath fully discovered to thee her whole character. If thou likest her, take her as she is, and do not complain. If thou abhorrest her perfidy, turn from her in disdain, renounce her, for baneful are her delusions. The very thing which is now the cause of thy great grief ought to have brought thee tranquillity. Thou hast been forsaken by one of whom no one can be sure that she will not forsake him. Or dost thou indeed set value on a happiness that is certain to depart? Again I ask, Is Fortune's presence dear to thee if she cannot be trusted to stay, and though she will bring sorrow when she is gone? Why, if she cannot be kept at pleasure, and if her flight overwhelms with calamity, what is this fleeting visitant but a token of coming trouble? Truly it is not enough to look only at what lies before the eyes; wisdom gauges the issues of things, and this same mutability, with its two aspects, makes the threats of Fortune void of terror, and her caresses little to be desired. Finally, thou oughtest to bear with whatever takes place within the boundaries of Fortune's demesne, when thou hast placed thy head beneath her yoke. But if thou wishest to impose a law of staying and departing on her whom thou hast of thine own accord chosen for thy mistress, art thou not acting wrongfully, art thou not embittering by impatience a lot which thou canst not alter? Didst thou commit thy sails to the winds, thou wouldst voyage not whither thy intention was to go, but whither the winds drave thee; didst thou entrust thy seed to the fields, thou wouldst set off the fruitful years against the barren. Thou hast resigned thyself to the sway of Fortune; thou must submit to thy mistress's caprices. What! art thou verily striving to stay the swing of the revolving wheel? Oh, stupidest of mortals, if it takes to standing still, it ceases to be the wheel of Fortune.'

What’s gotten into you, poor soul, that has thrown you into sadness and mourning? Some strange sight, I think, has caught your eye. You believe Fortune has turned her back on you; you’re mistaken. That’s just how she’s always been. In her constant changes, she has shown you her true nature. She was the same when she showered you with affection and tricked you with the allure of false happiness. You've realized how unpredictable the blind goddess can be. She who hides herself from others has revealed her true self to you. If you like her, accept her as she is, and don’t complain. If you despise her betrayal, turn away from her in disgust and reject her, for her deceptions are harmful. The very thing causing your great sorrow should have brought you peace. You’ve been abandoned by someone whose loyalty is never guaranteed. Do you really value a happiness you know will vanish? Again, I ask, is Fortune’s presence precious to you if she can't be relied on to stay, and brings sorrow when she leaves? If she can’t be kept for your pleasure, and her departure brings disaster, what's this fleeting visitor but a sign of impending trouble? It truly isn’t enough to look at just what you see; wisdom considers the consequences of things, and this very changeability, with its two sides, makes Fortune’s threats seem less frightening and her affections less desirable. In the end, you should endure whatever happens within the limits of Fortune’s domain once you’ve placed your head under her rule. But if you want to dictate when she stays and when she leaves to the one you’ve chosen as your mistress, aren’t you acting unjustly? Aren’t you making your situation worse with impatience when you can’t change it? If you've set your sails to the winds, you wouldn’t end up where you intended but where the winds take you; if you’ve sown your seeds in the fields, you would balance the fruitful years against the barren ones. You’ve submitted to Fortune’s control; you must accept your mistress's whims. What? Are you really trying to stop the spinning wheel? Oh, foolish mortal, if it stops, it’s no longer the wheel of Fortune.

SONG I.
Fortune's Malice.

Mad Fortune moves forward with reckless pride,
Uncertain as Euripus' strong tide; Now she crushes powerful kings under her feet;
Now places the conquered in the victor's seat.
She pays no attention to the cries of unfortunate sorrow,
But makes fun of the sorrows that come from her trouble. That’s her game; that’s how she shows her strength; And what a wonder, when in just one hour She holds her beloved up high in joy,
Then he jumped headfirst into the depths of misery.

II.

'Now I would fain also reason with thee a little in Fortune's own words. Do thou observe whether her contentions be just. "Man," she might say, "why dost thou pursue me with thy daily complainings? What wrong have I done thee? What goods of thine have I taken from thee? Choose an thou wilt a judge, and let us dispute before him concerning the rightful ownership of wealth and rank. If thou succeedest in showing that any one of these things is the true property of mortal man, I freely grant those things to be thine which thou claimest. When nature brought thee forth out of thy mother's womb, I took thee, naked and destitute as thou wast, I cherished thee with my substance, and, in the partiality of my favour for thee, I brought thee up somewhat too indulgently, and this it is which now makes thee rebellious against me. I surrounded thee with a royal abundance of all those things that are in my power. Now it is my pleasure to draw back my hand. Thou hast reason to thank me for the use of what was not thine own; thou hast no right to complain, as if thou hadst lost what was wholly thine. Why, then, dost bemoan thyself? I have done thee no violence. Wealth, honour, and all such things are placed under my control. My handmaidens know their mistress; with me they come, and at my going they depart. I might boldly affirm that if those things the loss of which thou lamentest had been thine, thou couldst never have lost them. Am I alone to be forbidden to do what I will with my own? Unrebuked, the skies now reveal the brightness of day, now shroud the daylight in the darkness of night; the year may now engarland the face of the earth with flowers and fruits, now disfigure it with storms and cold. The sea is permitted to invite with smooth and tranquil surface to-day, to-morrow to roughen with wave and storm. Shall man's insatiate greed bind me to a constancy foreign to my character? This is my art, this the game I never cease to play. I turn the wheel that spins. I delight to see the high come down and the low ascend. Mount up, if thou wilt, but only on condition that thou wilt not think it a hardship to come down when the rules of my game require it. Wert thou ignorant of my character? Didst not know how Crœsus, King of the Lydians, erstwhile the dreaded rival of Cyrus, was afterwards pitiably consigned to the flame of the pyre, and only saved by a shower sent from heaven? Has it 'scaped thee how Paullus paid a meed of pious tears to the misfortunes of King Perseus, his prisoner? What else do tragedies make such woeful outcry over save the overthrow of kingdoms by the indiscriminate strokes of Fortune? Didst thou not learn in thy childhood how there stand at the threshold of Zeus 'two jars,' 'the one full of blessings, the other of calamities'? How if thou hast drawn over-liberally from the good jar? What if not even now have I departed wholly from thee? What if this very mutability of mine is a just ground for hoping better things? But listen now, and cease to let thy heart consume away with fretfulness, nor expect to live on thine own terms in a realm that is common to all.'

Now I want to reason with you a bit in Fortune's own words. Can you see if her arguments are fair? "Man," she might say, "why do you pursue me with your daily complaints? What wrong have I done to you? What belongings of yours have I taken? Choose a judge if you want, and let’s argue before him about who really owns wealth and status. If you can prove that any of these things truly belong to humans, I’ll gladly give you what you claim. When nature brought you out of your mother’s womb, I took you, naked and helpless as you were, and nurtured you with my resources. In my favor for you, I raised you a bit too indulgently, and that’s what makes you rebel against me now. I surrounded you with a royal abundance of everything in my power. Now, I want to withdraw my hand. You should be grateful for the use of what wasn’t yours; you have no right to complain as if you lost what was entirely yours. So why do you lament? I haven’t harmed you. Wealth, honor, and all such things are under my control. My handmaidens know their mistress; they come to me, and when I leave, they go with me. I could firmly say that if those things you’re grieving over truly belonged to you, you could never have lost them. Am I the only one prohibited from doing what I want with my own? The skies freely show the brightness of day, then cover it in darkness with night; the year can now adorn the earth with flowers and fruits, and then disfigure it with storms and cold. The sea can invite with a calm surface today and roughen with waves and storms tomorrow. Shouldn’t man’s insatiable greed bind me to a constant nature that’s not true to my character? This is my craft, this the game I never stop playing. I turn the spinning wheel. I love to see the high come down and the low rise. Rise up if you want, but only on the condition that you won’t mind coming down when the rules of my game require it. Did you not know my character? Didn’t you hear how Croesus, King of the Lydians, once the feared rival of Cyrus, was later pitifully burned on a pyre, only saved by a shower from heaven? Did you miss how Paullus shed pious tears for the misfortunes of King Perseus, his prisoner? What do tragedies lament over if not the downfall of kingdoms by the random swings of Fortune? Didn’t you learn as a child how at the threshold of Zeus stand two jars, one full of blessings and the other full of calamities? What if you’ve taken too much from the good jar? What if I haven’t completely turned my back on you? What if this very changeability of mine gives you hope for better things? But listen now, and stop letting your heart wear away with worry. Don’t expect to live on your own terms in a world that belongs to everyone.

SONG II.
Man's Covetousness.

What if Abundance shares her gifts With a generous touch,
As countless as the stars,
As numerous as the sand,
Will humanity, satisfied,
Stop complaining and whining?

No, although God, all-giving, grants Gold for a man's desire—
Honors, status, and fame—content
Not a bit closer; But an insatiable greed Yawns with increasing urgency.

Then what limits can ever hold back This intense desire for having,
Whenever each new bounty is provided, Intensifies the frantic craving?
He is never wealthy whose fear Sees grim desire always nearby.

III.

'If Fortune should plead thus against thee, assuredly thou wouldst not have one word to offer in reply; or, if thou canst find any justification of thy complainings, thou must show what it is. I will give thee space to speak.'

'If Fortune were to argue like this against you, you definitely wouldn’t have a single word to say in response; or, if you can find any reason to justify your complaints, you need to show what it is. I’ll give you the chance to speak.'

Then said I: 'Verily, thy pleas are plausible—yea, steeped in the honeyed sweetness of music and rhetoric. But their charm lasts only while they are sounding in the ear; the sense of his misfortunes lies deeper in the heart of the wretched. So, when the sound ceases to vibrate upon the air, the heart's indwelling sorrow is felt with renewed bitterness.'

Then I said, "Truly, your arguments are convincing—yes, filled with the sweet allure of music and speech. But their charm only lasts while they are heard; the feeling of his misfortunes runs deeper in the heart of the suffering. So, when the sound stops echoing in the air, the heart's lingering sorrow is felt with fresh bitterness."

Then said she: 'It is indeed as thou sayest, for we have not yet come to the curing of thy sickness; as yet these are but lenitives conducing to the treatment of a malady hitherto obstinate. The remedies which go deep I will apply in due season. Nevertheless, to deprecate thy determination to be thought wretched, I ask thee, Hast thou forgotten the extent and bounds of thy felicity? I say nothing of how, when orphaned and desolate, thou wast taken into the care of illustrious men; how thou wast chosen for alliance with the highest in the state—and even before thou wert bound to their house by marriage, wert already dear to their love—which is the most precious of all ties. Did not all pronounce thee most happy in the virtues of thy wife, the splendid honours of her father, and the blessing of male issue? I pass over—for I care not to speak of blessings in which others also have shared—the distinctions often denied to age which thou enjoyedst in thy youth. I choose rather to come to the unparalleled culmination of thy good fortune. If the fruition of any earthly success has weight in the scale of happiness, can the memory of that splendour be swept away by any rising flood of troubles? That day when thou didst see thy two sons ride forth from home joint consuls, followed by a train of senators, and welcomed by the good-will of the people; when these two sat in curule chairs in the Senate-house, and thou by thy panegyric on the king didst earn the fame of eloquence and ability; when in the Circus, seated between the two consuls, thou didst glut the multitude thronging around with the triumphal largesses for which they looked—methinks thou didst cozen Fortune while she caressed thee, and made thee her darling. Thou didst bear off a boon which she had never before granted to any private person. Art thou, then, minded to cast up a reckoning with Fortune? Now for the first time she has turned a jealous glance upon thee. If thou compare the extent and bounds of thy blessings and misfortunes, thou canst not deny that thou art still fortunate. Or if thou esteem not thyself favoured by Fortune in that thy then seeming prosperity hath departed, deem not thyself wretched, since what thou now believest to be calamitous passeth also. What! art thou but now come suddenly and a stranger to the scene of this life? Thinkest thou there is any stability in human affairs, when man himself vanishes away in the swift course of time? It is true that there is little trust that the gifts of chance will abide; yet the last day of life is in a manner the death of all remaining Fortune. What difference, then, thinkest thou, is there, whether thou leavest her by dying, or she leave thee by fleeing away?'

Then she said, "You're right, we haven't dealt with your illness yet; these are just temporary measures for a stubborn problem. I'll apply the deeper remedies when the time is right. However, to counter your determination to feel miserable, I ask you: Have you forgotten how lucky you actually are? I'm not even mentioning how, when you were orphaned and alone, you were taken in by powerful people; how you were chosen to marry into the highest ranks—and even before that marriage, you were already cherished by them, which is the strongest bond of all. Didn’t everyone think you were incredibly fortunate because of your wife’s virtues, her father's great status, and the blessing of having sons? I won't even go into details about the opportunities you had in your youth, which many are denied as they grow older. I’d rather focus on the peak of your good fortune. If any earthly success contributes to happiness, how can the memory of that glory be washed away by any wave of troubles? That day when you saw your two sons leave home as consuls, surrounded by senators and celebrated by the people; when they sat in the Senate house in their official chairs, and your speech praising the king won you fame for your eloquence and skill; when in the Circus, seated between the two consuls, you filled the eager crowd with the triumphal gifts they were waiting for—it was as if you had charmed Fortune herself, making her your supporter. You received a blessing she had never granted to anyone else. So, do you really want to compete with Fortune now? It's the first time she’s shown jealousy towards you. If you weigh your blessings against your misfortunes, you can't deny that you are still lucky. Or if you don’t think of yourself as fortunate because that apparent prosperity has faded, don’t consider yourself miserable, since what you now believe to be a disaster will also pass. What? Have you only just arrived on this life’s stage, as a stranger? Do you think there is any stability in human affairs when people come and go so quickly? It’s true that there’s little faith to be had in the gifts of chance; yet the last day of life is sort of the end of all remaining fortune. So what difference do you think it makes if you leave her by dying or if she leaves you by fading away?"

SONG III.
All passes.

When, in a rosy chariot, Phoebus begins to light the dawn,
Attacked by his blazing rays,
Every shining star is dimmed.
When the grove, nourished by gentle winds, With rosy blushes red;— Does rude Auster breathe thereon,
It stands bare, its glory lost. Smooth and calm is the deep. While the winds are quiet in slumber. Soon, when fierce storms strike,
The waves crash wildly and high. Thus if Nature's changing appearance Does not hold a moment's space,
Fleeting judge man's fortunes; judge Happiness as fleeting as a dream.
One law stands firm: Things made may not last.

IV.

Then said I: 'True are thine admonishings, thou nurse of all excellence; nor can I deny the wonder of my fortune's swift career. Yet it is this which chafes me the more cruelly in the recalling. For truly in adverse fortune the worst sting of misery is to have been happy.'

Then I said: 'Your advice is indeed wise, you nurturer of all that is good; I can't deny how amazed I am by the swift turn of my fortune. But that's what hurts me even more when I think back on it. Because, in bad times, the worst part of suffering is having been happy.'

'Well,' said she, 'if thou art paying the penalty of a mistaken belief, thou canst not rightly impute the fault to circumstances. If it is the felicity which Fortune gives that moves thee—mere name though it be—come reckon up with me how rich thou art in the number and weightiness of thy blessings. Then if, by the blessing of Providence, thou hast still preserved unto thee safe and inviolate that which, howsoever thou mightest reckon thy fortune, thou wouldst have thought thy most precious possession, what right hast thou to talk of ill-fortune whilst keeping all Fortune's better gifts? Yet Symmachus, thy wife's father—a man whose splendid character does honour to the human race—is safe and unharmed; and while he bewails thy wrongs, this rare nature, in whom wisdom and virtue are so nobly blended, is himself out of danger—a boon thou wouldst have been quick to purchase at the price of life itself. Thy wife yet lives, with her gentle disposition, her peerless modesty and virtue—this the epitome of all her graces, that she is the true daughter of her sire—she lives, I say, and for thy sake only preserves the breath of life, though she loathes it, and pines away in grief and tears for thy absence, wherein, if in naught else, I would allow some marring of thy felicity. What shall I say of thy sons and their consular dignity—how in them, so far as may be in youths of their age, the example of their father's and grandfather's character shines out? Since, then, the chief care of mortal man is to preserve his life, how happy art thou, couldst thou but recognise thy blessings, who possessest even now what no one doubts to be dearer than life! Wherefore, now dry thy tears. Fortune's hate hath not involved all thy dear ones; the stress of the storm that has assailed thee is not beyond measure intolerable, since there are anchors still holding firm which suffer thee not to lack either consolation in the present or hope for the future.'

"Well," she said, "if you're suffering because of a mistaken belief, you can't really blame your circumstances. If it’s the happiness that Fortune offers that’s affecting you—though it's just a name—let's take a look at how wealthy you are in terms of your blessings. If, by the grace of Providence, you still have what you would consider your most valuable possession, no matter how you see your fortune, what right do you have to speak of misfortune while holding onto all of Fortune's better gifts? Yet Symmachus, your father-in-law—a man whose admirable character brings honor to humanity—is safe and sound; and while he mourns for your troubles, this rare individual, in whom wisdom and virtue are so beautifully combined, is himself out of danger—a gift you would have gladly paid for with your life. Your wife is still alive, with her gentle nature, her unmatched modesty and goodness—this culmination of all her virtues, that she is truly her father's daughter—she lives, I say, and for your sake alone she continues to breathe, even though she despises it, and she suffers in sorrow and tears for your absence, which, if nothing else, I would say dims your happiness a bit. What can I say about your sons and their consular reputation—how, as much as can be expected from boys their age, they reflect their father’s and grandfather’s character? Since the main concern of any person is to protect their life, how fortunate you are, if you could only see your blessings, who even now possess what no one denies is more precious than life! So, now wipe your tears. Fortune's hatred hasn't taken all your loved ones; the storm that has hit you isn't unbearably overwhelming, since there are still anchors holding firm that prevent you from lacking either comfort in the present or hope for the future."

'I pray that they still may hold. For while they still remain, however things may go, I shall ride out the storm. Yet thou seest how much is shorn of the splendour of my fortunes.'

'I hope they still hold on. Because as long as they do, no matter what happens, I can weather the storm. But you see how much of my good fortune has faded.'

'We are gaining a little ground,' said she, 'if there is something in thy lot wherewith thou art not yet altogether discontented. But I cannot stomach thy daintiness when thou complainest with such violence of grief and anxiety because thy happiness falls short of completeness. Why, who enjoys such settled felicity as not to have some quarrel with the circumstances of his lot? A troublous matter are the conditions of human bliss; either they are never realized in full, or never stay permanently. One has abundant riches, but is shamed by his ignoble birth. Another is conspicuous for his nobility, but through the embarrassments of poverty would prefer to be obscure. A third, richly endowed with both, laments the loneliness of an unwedded life. Another, though happily married, is doomed to childlessness, and nurses his wealth for a stranger to inherit. Yet another, blest with children, mournfully bewails the misdeeds of son or daughter. Wherefore, it is not easy for anyone to be at perfect peace with the circumstances of his lot. There lurks in each several portion something which they who experience it not know nothing of, but which makes the sufferer wince. Besides, the more favoured a man is by Fortune, the more fastidiously sensitive is he; and, unless all things answer to his whim, he is overwhelmed by the most trifling misfortunes, because utterly unschooled in adversity. So petty are the trifles which rob the most fortunate of perfect happiness! How many are there, dost thou imagine, who would think themselves nigh heaven, if but a small portion from the wreck of thy fortune should fall to them? This very place which thou callest exile is to them that dwell therein their native land. So true is it that nothing is wretched, but thinking makes it so, and conversely every lot is happy if borne with equanimity. Who is so blest by Fortune as not to wish to change his state, if once he gives rein to a rebellious spirit? With how many bitternesses is the sweetness of human felicity blent! And even if that sweetness seem to him to bring delight in the enjoying, yet he cannot keep it from departing when it will. How manifestly wretched, then, is the bliss of earthly fortune, which lasts not for ever with those whose temper is equable, and can give no perfect satisfaction to the anxious-minded!

"We're making some progress," she said, "if there's something in your life that you're not completely unhappy with yet. But I can't stand your fussiness when you complain so intensely about grief and worry because your happiness isn't perfect. Seriously, who enjoys such complete happiness that they have no issues with their circumstances? The conditions for human happiness are tricky; either they’re never fully achieved, or they never last. One person has great wealth but feels ashamed of their lowly origins. Another stands out for their nobility but would rather be unknown because of their financial struggles. A third person, blessed with both wealth and status, regrets their lonely single life. Then there’s someone happily married but unable to have children, hoarding their riches for a stranger to inherit. Finally, another person with children is left mourning the misbehavior of their son or daughter. So, it's not easy for anyone to be completely at peace with their circumstances. Each life has something that others who don't experience it can't understand, which makes the person suffering flinch. Besides, the more favored someone is by Fortune, the more touchy they tend to be; if everything doesn’t match their desires, they’re crushed by the smallest setbacks because they’re unprepared for hardship. It’s surprising how minor annoyances can rob the luckiest of perfect happiness! How many do you think would feel like they were nearly in heaven if just a bit of your misfortune fell to them? This very place you call exile feels like home to those who live here. It’s true that nothing is truly wretched unless we think it is, and every situation can be content if handled calmly. Who is so favored by Fortune that they wouldn’t want to change their situation if they let their rebellious side take over? How many bitter experiences mix with the sweetness of human happiness! Even if that happiness seems delightful while enjoying it, you can’t prevent it from slipping away whenever it chooses. How evidently wretched is the happiness of earthly fortune, which never lasts for those who maintain a balanced temperament and offers no real satisfaction to those who are anxious!"

'Why, then, ye children of mortality, seek ye from without that happiness whose seat is only within us? Error and ignorance bewilder you. I will show thee, in brief, the hinge on which perfect happiness turns. Is there anything more precious to thee than thyself? Nothing, thou wilt say. If, then, thou art master of thyself, thou wilt possess that which thou wilt never be willing to lose, and which Fortune cannot take from thee. And that thou mayst see that happiness cannot possibly consist in these things which are the sport of chance, reflect that, if happiness is the highest good of a creature living in accordance with reason, and if a thing which can in any wise be reft away is not the highest good, since that which cannot be taken away is better than it, it is plain that Fortune cannot aspire to bestow happiness by reason of its instability. And, besides, a man borne along by this transitory felicity must either know or not know its unstability. If he knows not, how poor is a happiness which depends on the blindness of ignorance! If he knows it, he needs must fear to lose a happiness whose loss he believes to be possible. Wherefore, a never-ceasing fear suffers him not to be happy. Or does he count the possibility of this loss a trifling matter? Insignificant, then, must be the good whose loss can be borne so equably. And, further, I know thee to be one settled in the belief that the souls of men certainly die not with them, and convinced thereof by numerous proofs; it is clear also that the felicity which Fortune bestows is brought to an end with the death of the body: therefore, it cannot be doubted but that, if happiness is conferred in this way, the whole human race sinks into misery when death brings the close of all. But if we know that many have sought the joy of happiness not through death only, but also through pain and suffering, how can life make men happy by its presence when it makes them not wretched by its loss?'

'So, then, why do you, children of mortality, look outside for happiness when its true place is within you? Mistakes and ignorance confuse you. Let me share, briefly, the key to perfect happiness. Is there anything more valuable to you than yourself? You would say no. If you are the master of yourself, you will possess what you would never want to lose, and what Fortune can’t take away. To help you see that happiness can’t possibly come from things that are controlled by chance, consider that if happiness is the highest good for a being that lives rationally, then anything that can be taken away can't be the highest good, because what cannot be taken is superior. It’s clear that Fortune can't grant happiness because it is unstable. Additionally, a person riding on this temporary happiness must either be aware or unaware of its instability. If they are unaware, how meager is the happiness that relies on the blindness of ignorance! If they know, they must fear losing a happiness they believe can be lost. Thus, a constant fear prevents them from being truly happy. Or do they consider the possibility of loss to be minor? If so, the good they possess must be pretty insignificant if they can handle its potential loss so easily. Furthermore, I know you believe that souls do not perish with the body, and you are convinced of this by many pieces of evidence; it's also clear that the happiness given by Fortune ends with the body’s death: therefore, it’s certain that if happiness is given this way, all humanity falls into misery when death marks the end of everything. Yet, if we acknowledge that many have sought joy and happiness not just through death, but also through pain and suffering, how can life bring happiness to people while it doesn’t make them miserable by its absence?'

SONG IV.
The Golden Mean.

Who founded Firm and Sure? Would ever live safely,
Despite the storm and wind Unshakeable and quick; Whoever wants to mock The ocean's menacing tide;—
His home should not seek On the beach or mountain top.
At the mountain's peak The storm winds unleash their fury:
The shifting sands look down on Their responsibility to maintain.
Flee these dangers, Fair as the prospect is,
And fix your resting place
On a stable base of low rock.
Then, even when the storms roar,
Waves crash on the shore,
You in your blessed stronghold And you shall rest undisturbed;
Live all your days peacefully,
And mock the heavens' anger.

V.

'But since my reasonings begin to work a soothing effect within thy mind, methinks I may resort to remedies somewhat stronger. Come, suppose, now, the gifts of Fortune were not fleeting and transitory, what is there in them capable of ever becoming truly thine, or which does not lose value when looked at steadily and fairly weighed in the balance? Are riches, I pray thee, precious either through thy nature or in their own? What are they but mere gold and heaps of money? Yet these fine things show their quality better in the spending than in the hoarding; for I suppose 'tis plain that greed Alva's makes men hateful, while liberality brings fame. But that which is transferred to another cannot remain in one's own possession; and if that be so, then money is only precious when it is given away, and, by being transferred to others, ceases to be one's own. Again, if all the money in the world were heaped up in one man's possession, all others would be made poor. Sound fills the ears of many at the same time without being broken into parts, but your riches cannot pass to many without being lessened in the process. And when this happens, they must needs impoverish those whom they leave. How poor and cramped a thing, then, is riches, which more than one cannot possess as an unbroken whole, which falls not to any one man's lot without the impoverishment of everyone else! Or is it the glitter of gems that allures the eye? Yet, how rarely excellent soever may be their splendour, remember the flashing light is in the jewels, not in the man. Indeed, I greatly marvel at men's admiration of them; for what can rightly seem beautiful to a being endowed with life and reason, if it lack the movement and structure of life? And although such things do in the end take on them more beauty from their Maker's care and their own brilliancy, still they in no wise merit your admiration since their excellence is set at a lower grade than your own.

But since my reasoning starts to calm your mind, I think I can use stronger remedies. Come on, let's say that the gifts of fortune were not temporary and fleeting. What is there in them that could ever truly belong to you or that doesn’t lose value when examined fairly? Are riches, I ask you, valuable either by their nature or on their own? What are they but just gold and piles of money? Yet these fine things show their true worth more in being spent than in being saved; it's clear that greed makes people unpleasant, while generosity earns respect. But what is given to someone else cannot stay with you; if that's the case, then money is only valuable when shared, and by being transferred to others, it stops being yours. If all the wealth in the world were gathered in one man's hands, everyone else would end up poor. Sound can reach many people at once without splitting into pieces, but your riches can't be shared without diminishing in value. When that happens, they inevitably make those who don’t have them poorer. How limited and constricted riches are, then, since no one can own them wholly without causing others to lose out! Is it the sparkle of jewels that captures the eye? Yet, no matter how brilliant they may be, remember that the shining light is in the jewels, not in the person. I really do marvel at people's admiration for them; what could truly seem beautiful to a living, thinking being if it lacks the movement and structure of life? And although such things may gain more beauty from the care of their maker and their own brilliance, they definitely don’t deserve your admiration since their excellence is ranked lower than your own.

'Does the beauty of the fields delight you? Surely, yes; it is a beautiful part of a right beautiful whole. Fitly indeed do we at times enjoy the serene calm of the sea, admire the sky, the stars, the moon, the sun. Yet is any of these thy concern? Dost thou venture to boast thyself of the beauty of any one of them? Art thou decked with spring's flowers? is it thy fertility that swelleth in the fruits of autumn? Why art thou moved with empty transports? why embracest thou an alien excellence as thine own? Never will fortune make thine that which the nature of things has excluded from thy ownership. Doubtless the fruits of the earth are given for the sustenance of living creatures. But if thou art content to supply thy wants so far as suffices nature, there is no need to resort to fortune's bounty. Nature is content with few things, and with a very little of these. If thou art minded to force superfluities upon her when she is satisfied, that which thou addest will prove either unpleasant or harmful. But, now, thou thinkest it fine to shine in raiment of divers colours; yet—if, indeed, there is any pleasure in the sight of such things—it is the texture or the artist's skill which I shall admire.

Does the beauty of the fields make you happy? Of course, it does; it’s truly a beautiful part of a beautifully overall scene. Sometimes we enjoy the peacefulness of the sea, admire the sky, the stars, the moon, and the sun. But do any of these things really matter to you? Do you dare to take pride in the beauty of any of them? Are you adorned with spring's flowers? Is it your own fertility that produces the fruits of autumn? Why are you excited by empty feelings? Why do you embrace an outside beauty as if it were your own? Fortune will never give you what the nature of things has excluded from being yours. Certainly, the fruits of the earth are meant to nourish living beings. But if you’re okay with meeting your needs just as nature requires, there’s no need to depend on fortune’s generosity. Nature is satisfied with a few things, and very little of those. If you’re trying to force extra things on her when she’s already content, what you add will likely be either unpleasant or harmful. Yet, now you think it’s great to shine in clothes of various colors; but—if there’s any enjoyment in seeing such things—it’s the fabric or the artist's skill that I will appreciate.

'Or perhaps it is a long train of servants that makes thee happy? Why, if they behave viciously, they are a ruinous burden to thy house, and exceeding dangerous to their own master; while if they are honest, how canst thou count other men's virtue in the sum of thy possessions? From all which 'tis plainly proved that not one of these things which thou reckonest in the number of thy possessions is really thine. And if there is in them no beauty to be desired, why shouldst thou either grieve for their loss or find joy in their continued possession? While if they are beautiful in their own nature, what is that to thee? They would have been not less pleasing in themselves, though never included among thy possessions. For they derive not their preciousness from being counted in thy riches, but rather thou hast chosen to count them in thy riches because they seemed to thee precious.

"Or maybe it's a long line of servants that makes you happy? Well, if they behave badly, they become a huge burden to your household and can be very dangerous to their master; but if they are honest, how can you count other people's goodness as part of what you own? From all this, it's clear that none of the things you consider your possessions truly belong to you. And if there's nothing beautiful about them to desire, why should you be sad about losing them or feel joy in keeping them? If they are beautiful in themselves, what does that matter to you? They would still be just as pleasing on their own, even if they were never part of your possessions. Their value doesn't come from being counted among your riches; instead, you've chosen to include them in your riches because they seem precious to you."

'Then, what seek ye by all this noisy outcry about fortune? To chase away poverty, I ween, by means of abundance. And yet ye find the result just contrary. Why, this varied array of precious furniture needs more accessories for its protection; it is a true saying that they want most who possess most, and, conversely, they want very little who measure their abundance by nature's requirements, not by the superfluity of vain display. Have ye no good of your own implanted within you, that ye seek your good in things external and separate? Is the nature of things so reversed that a creature divine by right of reason can in no other way be splendid in his own eyes save by the possession of lifeless chattels? Yet, while other things are content with their own, ye who in your intellect are God-like seek from the lowest of things adornment for a nature of supreme excellence, and perceive not how great a wrong ye do your Maker. His will was that mankind should excel all things on earth. Ye thrust down your worth beneath the lowest of things. For if that in which each thing finds its good is plainly more precious than that whose good it is, by your own estimation ye put yourselves below the vilest of things, when ye deem these vile things to be your good: nor does this fall out undeservedly. Indeed, man is so constituted that he then only excels other things when he knows himself; but he is brought lower than the beasts if he lose this self-knowledge. For that other creatures should be ignorant of themselves is natural; in man it shows as a defect. How extravagant, then, is this error of yours, in thinking that anything can be embellished by adornments not its own. It cannot be. For if such accessories add any lustre, it is the accessories that get the praise, while that which they veil and cover remains in its pristine ugliness. And again I say, That is no good, which injures its possessor. Is this untrue? No, quite true, thou sayest. And yet riches have often hurt those that possessed them, since the worst of men, who are all the more covetous by reason of their wickedness, think none but themselves worthy to possess all the gold and gems the world contains. So thou, who now dreadest pike and sword, mightest have trolled a carol "in the robber's face," hadst thou entered the road of life with empty pockets. Oh, wondrous blessedness of perishable wealth, whose acquisition robs thee of security!'

Then, what are you hoping to achieve with all this noise about fortune? To get rid of poverty, I suppose, by building up abundance. And yet, you find the opposite to be true. This variety of expensive furnishings actually requires more protection; it's a true saying that those who have the most often want the most, while those who measure their needs by nature rather than by excessive show want very little. Do you have no goodness inside you that you look for it in external, separate things? Is it really true that a being capable of reason can only see themselves as valuable through owning lifeless possessions? While other things are content with what they have, you, who are god-like in your intellect, seek adornment from the lowest things to enhance your superior nature, not realizing how greatly you offend your Creator. His intention was for humanity to surpass everything on Earth. You lower your self-worth beneath the most worthless things. If that which gives good to each thing is clearly more valuable than that which merely possesses it, by your reasoning, you place yourselves below the most worthless things when you consider those worthless things to be your good. And this isn't undeserved. Indeed, a person only surpasses other things when they know themselves; if they lose this self-awareness, they fall lower than animals. It’s natural for other creatures to be unaware of themselves, but in humans, it's a flaw. How absurd, then, is your mistake in thinking that anything can be made better by decorations that don't inherently belong to it. It can't be. If such adornments add any shine, it's the decorations that receive the praise, while what they cover remains unattractive. Again, I say, that is no good, which harms its owner. Is that untrue? No, you say, it's quite true. And yet, wealth has often harmed those who possess it, since the worst people, who are even more greedy because of their wickedness, think they alone deserve to possess all the gold and gems the world has. So, you, who now fear knives and swords, might have sung a cheerful song "in the robber's face," had you entered life with empty pockets. Oh, the incredible misfortune of fleeting wealth, whose acquisition robs you of security!

SONG V.
The Former Age.

The previous age was truly blessed; their life Who in the fields was satisfied led, And still, by untouched luxury,
On frugal acorns carefully fed.

No skill was theirs to cultivate the luscious grape. With honey's sweetness to mislead; Nor China's soft and shiny silks
To color with bold Tyrian shades.

The grass is their comfortable bed, their drink. The stream, with the tall shade of the pines above them; Not theirs to delve into the deep, nor to search In distant lands, the rewards of trade.

The sound of war hadn't been heard yet,
Nor did the fields become stained by bloodshed; Why should the intense madness of war equip When conflict causes pain but doesn't bring benefit?

Ah! I wish our hearts could still come back To follow in those ancient ways.
Sadly, the desire for wealth shines. More intense than Etna's blazing fire.

Alas, alas for him, whoever it was,
Who first uncovered the hidden treasure of gold, And—dangerous treasure trove—dug out The gems that wish to be hidden!

VI.

'What now shall I say of rank and power, whereby, because ye know not true power and dignity, ye hope to reach the sky? Yet, when rank and power have fallen to the worst of men, did ever an Etna, belching forth flame and fiery deluge, work such mischief? Verily, as I think, thou dost remember how thine ancestors sought to abolish the consular power, which had been the foundation of their liberties, on account of the overweening pride of the consuls, and how for that self-same pride they had already abolished the kingly title! And if, as happens but rarely, these prerogatives are conferred on virtuous men, it is only the virtue of those who exercise them that pleases. So it appears that honour cometh not to virtue from rank, but to rank from virtue. Look, too, at the nature of that power which ye find so attractive and glorious! Do ye never consider, ye creatures of earth, what ye are, and over whom ye exercise your fancied lordship? Suppose, now, that in the mouse tribe there should rise up one claiming rights and powers for himself above the rest, would ye not laugh consumedly? Yet if thou lookest to his body alone, what creature canst thou find more feeble than man, who oftentimes is killed by the bite of a fly, or by some insect creeping into the inner passage of his system! Yet what rights can one exercise over another, save only as regards the body, and that which is lower than the body—I mean fortune? What! wilt thou bind with thy mandates the free spirit? Canst thou force from its due tranquillity the mind that is firmly composed by reason? A tyrant thought to drive a man of free birth to reveal his accomplices in a conspiracy, but the prisoner bit off his tongue and threw it into the furious tyrant's face; thus, the tortures which the tyrant thought the instrument of his cruelty the sage made an opportunity for heroism. Moreover, what is there that one man can do to another which he himself may not have to undergo in his turn? We are told that Busiris, who used to kill his guests, was himself slain by his guest, Hercules. Regulus had thrown into bonds many of the Carthaginians whom he had taken in war; soon after he himself submitted his hands to the chains of the vanquished. Then, thinkest thou that man hath any power who cannot prevent another's being able to do to him what he himself can do to others?

'What should I say about rank and power, which you misunderstand, thinking it will elevate you? But when rank and power fall into the hands of the worst people, has there ever been a disaster like a volcano erupting with flames and lava? Truly, I believe you remember how your ancestors tried to eliminate the consular power, which had been the foundation of their freedoms, because of the excessive pride of the consuls, and how they had already done away with the title of king for the same reason! And if, as rarely happens, these privileges are given to virtuous people, it is only the virtue of those who wield them that is commendable. So it seems that honor doesn't come to virtue from rank, but rather rank comes from virtue. Consider the nature of the power you find so appealing and glorious! Do you never think, you earthly creatures, about what you are, and over whom you impose your imagined authority? Imagine, if a mouse claimed rights and powers above its peers, wouldn’t you laugh heartily? Yet, if you only look at his body, what creature is weaker than humans, who can be killed by a fly's bite or an insect crawling into their system! What rights can someone claim over another, except regarding the body and lower things—like fortune? What! Will you bind the free spirit with your commands? Can you disturb the calm mind that is grounded in reason? A tyrant tried to force a free man to reveal his conspirators, but the prisoner bit off his tongue and threw it in the furious tyrant's face; thus, the tortures that the tyrant thought would instill fear became an opportunity for the sage to show heroism. Moreover, what can one person do to another that he himself won’t face in turn? We know that Busiris, who used to kill his guests, was killed by his guest, Hercules. Regulus had imprisoned many Carthaginians he captured in battle, only to later submit his own hands to the chains of the defeated. So, do you really think a person has any power who can't stop others from doing to him what he can do to them?'

'Besides, if there were any element of natural and proper good in rank and power, they would never come to the utterly bad, since opposites are not wont to be associated. Nature brooks not the union of contraries. So, seeing there is no doubt that wicked wretches are oftentimes set in high places, it is also clear that things which suffer association with the worst of men cannot be good in their own nature. Indeed, this judgment may with some reason be passed concerning all the gifts of fortune which fall so plentifully to all the most wicked. This ought also to be considered here, I think: No one doubts a man to be brave in whom he has observed a brave spirit residing. It is plain that one who is endowed with speed is swift-footed. So also music makes men musical, the healing art physicians, rhetoric public speakers. For each of these has naturally its own proper working; there is no confusion with the effects of contrary things—nay, even of itself it rejects what is incompatible. And yet wealth cannot extinguish insatiable greed, nor has power ever made him master of himself whom vicious lusts kept bound in indissoluble fetters; dignity conferred on the wicked not only fails to make them worthy, but contrarily reveals and displays their unworthiness. Why does it so happen? Because ye take pleasure in calling by false names things whose nature is quite incongruous thereto—by names which are easily proved false by the very effects of the things themselves; even so it is; these riches, that power, this dignity, are none of them rightly so called. Finally, we may draw the same conclusion concerning the whole sphere of Fortune, within which there is plainly nothing to be truly desired, nothing of intrinsic excellence; for she neither always joins herself to the good, nor does she make good men of those to whom she is united.'

Besides, if there were any natural and rightful goodness in rank and power, they would never be found in the completely evil, since opposites usually don't mix. Nature doesn’t allow a union of opposites. So, since it's clear that wicked people often end up in high positions, it’s also evident that things associated with the worst people cannot be good by their own nature. In fact, we can reasonably make this judgment about all the fortunes that fall so easily to the most wicked. We should also consider this: No one doubts a man's bravery if they see a brave spirit in him. It’s clear that someone who is quick has speed; music makes people musical, healing makes physicians, and rhetoric creates public speakers. Each has its own natural effect; there’s no confusion with the effects of opposites—rather, it even rejects what doesn’t fit. Yet wealth cannot quench endless greed, nor has power ever freed someone from the chains of strong desires; the dignity given to the wicked doesn’t make them worthy; instead, it reveals and shows their unworthiness. Why does this happen? Because you take pleasure in calling things by false names that don’t match their true nature—names that the very effects of those things prove false; indeed, these riches, that power, and this dignity aren’t rightly named at all. Ultimately, we can draw the same conclusion about the entire realm of Fortune, where there’s clearly nothing to truly desire or of intrinsic worth; for she neither consistently aligns with the good, nor does she make good people out of those she connects with.

SONG VI.
Neros' Infamy.

We know the serious trouble he caused—
Rome fired, the leaders slain—
Whose hand is stained with a brother's blood A mother's blood stained.

No sympathetic tears wet his cheek, As he gazed at the track; That mother’s beauty, once so lovely,
A critic's opinion evaluated.

Yet all around, from East to West,
His influence over nations; And the blazing South and the freezing North Follow his wishes only.

Did, then, high power impose a limit On Nero's wild desire?
Oh, what a tragedy it is for the wicked heart Is united with the sword to slay!

VII.

Then said I: 'Thou knowest thyself that ambition for worldly success hath but little swayed me. Yet I have desired opportunity for action, lest virtue, in default of exercise, should languish away.'

Then I said: "You know that I haven't been very swayed by ambition for worldly success. Still, I have sought opportunities to take action, so that virtue doesn't fade away from lack of use."

Then she: 'This is that "last infirmity" which is able to allure minds which, though of noble quality, have not yet been moulded to any exquisite refinement by the perfecting of the virtues—I mean, the love of glory—and fame for high services rendered to the commonweal. And yet consider with me how poor and unsubstantial a thing this glory is! The whole of this earth's globe, as thou hast learnt from the demonstration of astronomy, compared with the expanse of heaven, is found no bigger than a point; that is to say, if measured by the vastness of heaven's sphere, it is held to occupy absolutely no space at all. Now, of this so insignificant portion of the universe, it is about a fourth part, as Ptolemy's proofs have taught us, which is inhabited by living creatures known to us. If from this fourth part you take away in thought all that is usurped by seas and marshes, or lies a vast waste of waterless desert, barely is an exceeding narrow area left for human habitation. You, then, who are shut in and prisoned in this merest fraction of a point's space, do ye take thought for the blazoning of your fame, for the spreading abroad of your renown? Why, what amplitude or magnificence has glory when confined to such narrow and petty limits?

Then she said, "This is that 'last weakness' that can attract minds that, despite their noble nature, haven't yet been shaped by the refinement of virtues—I mean, the love of glory and the fame that comes from significant contributions to society. And yet, think with me about how poor and unsubstantial this glory really is! The entire globe, as you've learned from astronomy, is no bigger than a speck when compared to the vastness of the heavens; in other words, when measured against the enormity of the sky, it occupies virtually no space at all. Now, from this tiny segment of the universe, about a quarter, as Ptolemy's evidence has shown us, is inhabited by living beings we know. If you mentally remove all that is taken up by seas and swamps or lies in vast, barren deserts, there’s hardly a tiny area left for human habitation. So, you who are confined in this minuscule fraction of space, do you really concern yourselves with promoting your fame and spreading your reputation? What kind of greatness or splendor does glory have when it’s limited to such narrow and trivial boundaries?"

'Besides, the straitened bounds of this scant dwelling-place are inhabited by many nations differing widely in speech, in usages, in mode of life; to many of these, from the difficulty of travel, from diversities of speech, from want of commercial intercourse, the fame not only of individual men, but even of cities, is unable to reach. Why, in Cicero's days, as he himself somewhere points out, the fame of the Roman Republic had not yet crossed the Caucasus, and yet by that time her name had grown formidable to the Parthians and other nations of those parts. Seest thou, then, how narrow, how confined, is the glory ye take pains to spread abroad and extend! Can the fame of a single Roman penetrate where the glory of the Roman name fails to pass? Moreover, the customs and institutions of different races agree not together, so that what is deemed praise worthy in one country is thought punishable in another. Wherefore, if any love the applause of fame, it shall not profit him to publish his name among many peoples. Then, each must be content to have the range of his glory limited to his own people; the splendid immortality of fame must be confined within the bounds of a single race.

Besides, the limited space of this small home is filled with many nations that differ greatly in language, customs, and ways of living. For many of these nations, due to the difficulty of travel, different languages, and lack of trade, the reputation of not just individuals but even cities cannot reach them. In Cicero's time, as he mentions somewhere, the reputation of the Roman Republic had still not extended beyond the Caucasus, yet by then its name had already become formidable to the Parthians and other nations in that area. Do you see how narrow and confined the glory you strive to spread really is? Can the fame of one Roman reach where the glory of the Roman name itself cannot? Furthermore, the customs and institutions of different races do not align, so what is considered praiseworthy in one country may be seen as punishable in another. Thus, if anyone desires the applause of fame, it won't benefit them to publicize their name among many peoples. Therefore, each person must be content to have their glory limited to their own people; the magnificent immortality of fame must remain within the confines of a single race.

'Once more, how many of high renown in their own times have been lost in oblivion for want of a record! Indeed, of what avail are written records even, which, with their authors, are overtaken by the dimness of age after a somewhat longer time? But ye, when ye think on future fame, fancy it an immortality that ye are begetting for yourselves. Why, if thou scannest the infinite spaces of eternity, what room hast thou left for rejoicing in the durability of thy name? Verily, if a single moment's space be compared with ten thousand years, it has a certain relative duration, however little, since each period is definite. But this same number of years—ay, and a number many times as great—cannot even be compared with endless duration; for, indeed, finite periods may in a sort be compared one with another, but a finite and an infinite never. So it comes to pass that fame, though it extend to ever so wide a space of years, if it be compared to never-lessening eternity, seems not short-lived merely, but altogether nothing. But as for you, ye know not how to act aright, unless it be to court the popular breeze, and win the empty applause of the multitude—nay, ye abandon the superlative worth of conscience and virtue, and ask a recompense from the poor words of others. Let me tell thee how wittily one did mock the shallowness of this sort of arrogance. A certain man assailed one who had put on the name of philosopher as a cloak to pride and vain-glory, not for the practice of real virtue, and added: "Now shall I know if thou art a philosopher if thou bearest reproaches calmly and patiently." The other for awhile affected to be patient, and, having endured to be abused, cried out derisively: "Now, do you see that I am a philosopher?" The other, with biting sarcasm, retorted: "I should have hadst thou held thy peace." Moreover, what concern have choice spirits—for it is of such men we speak, men who seek glory by virtue—what concern, I say, have these with fame after the dissolution of the body in death's last hour? For if men die wholly—which our reasonings forbid us to believe—there is no such thing as glory at all, since he to whom the glory is said to belong is altogether non-existent. But if the mind, conscious of its own rectitude, is released from its earthly prison, and seeks heaven in free flight, doth it not despise all earthly things when it rejoices in its deliverance from earthly bonds, and enters upon the joys of heaven?'

Once again, how many people who were famous in their own time have been forgotten because there was no record of them! Honestly, what good are written records anyway if, along with their authors, they fade into obscurity over time? But you, when you think about future fame, imagine it as an immortality that you’re creating for yourselves. Well, if you look at the vastness of eternity, how much space is there left for you to celebrate the lasting nature of your name? Truly, when you compare a moment to ten thousand years, it has some relative duration, no matter how small, since each period is finite. However, even that same number of years—and even many more—can't be compared to infinite time; finite periods can be compared to each other, but you can’t compare a finite period to an infinite one. So, it turns out that fame, no matter how far it stretches across years, seems not just short-lived when compared to everlasting eternity but utterly insignificant. But as for you, you don't know how to act properly unless it's to chase after popular opinion and win the empty praise of the crowd—no, you instead turn away from the true value of conscience and virtue, seeking your reward from the hollow words of others. Let me tell you how cleverly one person mocked the superficiality of such arrogance. A certain man challenged someone who had taken on the title of philosopher as a cover for pride and vanity, not for genuinely practicing virtue, and added: "I’ll know if you’re a philosopher if you can handle criticism calmly." The other pretended to be patient for a while, and after putting up with the insults, exclaimed mockingly, “Now, do you see that I’m a philosopher?” The other responded with sharp sarcasm, "I would have thought you were a philosopher if you had just kept quiet." Moreover, what do noble spirits—because it’s such men who seek glory through virtue—have to do with fame after the body has perished in the final moments of death? For if people die completely—which our logic tells us isn’t true—then glory doesn’t exist at all, since the one to whom the glory supposedly belongs no longer exists. But if the mind, aware of its own goodness, is released from its earthly prison and seeks heaven freely, wouldn’t it scorn all earthly things as it rejoices in being freed from its earthly restraints, entering into the joys of heaven?

SONG VII.
Glory may not last.

Oh, let him, who strives for the reward of glory,
Considering glory everything, Check out how vast the heavens are,
Earth's boundaries are so small!

It’s a shame if your inflated pride Cannot fill this small room!
Why, then, struggle so uselessly, oh, you proud people!
To escape your mortal fate?

Even though your name is spread to faraway places,
Across the earth, be widely spread, Even though there are many grand-sounding titles In your home, its shine reflects,

Death rejects all this pomp and glory. When his time approaches,
Covers both the great and the lowly,
Lowest and highest levels.

Where are the bones of the steadfast Fabricius now? Brutus, Cato—where are they now? Enduring fame, with a few carved letters,
Does their empty name show.

But it's not given to know the great deceased. Just from a fancy name; No, you all must lie forgotten, It's not you that fame reveals.

You fondly think of life's brief moments. Lengthened by fame's fleeting breath; There you will wait—when this is also taken—
Finally, a second death.

VIII.

'But that thou mayst not think that I wage implacable warfare against Fortune, I own there is a time when the deceitful goddess serves men well—I mean when she reveals herself, uncovers her face, and confesses her true character. Perhaps thou dost not yet grasp my meaning. Strange is the thing I am trying to express, and for this cause I can scarce find words to make clear my thought. For truly I believe that Ill Fortune is of more use to men than Good Fortune. For Good Fortune, when she wears the guise of happiness, and most seems to caress, is always lying; Ill Fortune is always truthful, since, in changing, she shows her inconstancy. The one deceives, the other teaches; the one enchains the minds of those who enjoy her favour by the semblance of delusive good, the other delivers them by the knowledge of the frail nature of happiness. Accordingly, thou mayst see the one fickle, shifting as the breeze, and ever self-deceived; the other sober-minded, alert, and wary, by reason of the very discipline of adversity. Finally, Good Fortune, by her allurements, draws men far from the true good; Ill Fortune ofttimes draws men back to true good with grappling-irons. Again, should it be esteemed a trifling boon, thinkest thou, that this cruel, this odious Fortune hath discovered to thee the hearts of thy faithful friends—that other hid from thee alike the faces of the true friends and of the false, but in departing she hath taken away her friends, and left thee thine? What price wouldst thou not have given for this service in the fulness of thy prosperity when thou seemedst to thyself fortunate? Cease, then, to seek the wealth thou hast lost, since in true friends thou hast found the most precious of all riches.'

But don’t think that I’m waging a never-ending battle against Fortune. I admit there’s a time when the deceptive goddess actually benefits people—I mean when she shows her true self, uncovers her face, and reveals her real nature. Perhaps you don’t fully understand what I’m trying to say. It’s strange, and because of that, I can hardly find the right words to express my thoughts. I truly believe that bad fortune is more beneficial to people than good fortune. Good fortune, when it appears as happiness and seems to embrace us the most, is always lying; bad fortune is always truthful because, by changing, it reveals its inconsistency. One deceives, while the other teaches; one binds the minds of those who enjoy its favors with a false sense of good, while the other frees them through the understanding of the fragile nature of happiness. Thus, you can see one is fickle, shifting like the wind and forever self-deceived; the other is sober-minded, alert, and cautious due to the very lessons learned from hardship. Ultimately, good fortune leads people away from true goodness, while bad fortune often brings people back to it with a strong pull. Now, do you think it’s a minor favor that this cruel, terrible fortune has revealed the true hearts of your loyal friends to you? That other fortune hid both the true friends and the false ones from you, but in leaving, it took away its friends and left you with yours? What wouldn’t you have given for this revelation during your peak when you thought you were blessed? So stop chasing after the wealth you’ve lost, since in true friends, you’ve found the greatest treasure of all.

SONG VIII.
Love is Lord of all.

Why are Nature's changes limited To a set and organized circle?
What peace has been achieved through diplomacy Every fighting element? Why does the rosy dawn Rise on Apollo's chariot? Why should Phœbe rule the night,
Guided by Hesper's light? What is the force that holds back In his stead, the restless sea,
That he stays within set limits,
Nor does it sweep over the earth in a flood? Love is what keeps the chains,
Love that rules over land and sea; Love—who else but sovereign Love?—
Love, high lord in heaven above!
Yet if he relaxes his care,
Everything that is now so close is connected. In loving kindness and sacred tranquility,
Would stop fighting altogether,
But with the harsh shock and clash of conflict All the fabric of the world's fair.

Tribes and nations united by love By the sacred rites of treaty; He sanctifies the bonds of marriage By the gentlest bonds of love. Love appoints, as is due,
Loyal laws to true comrades—
Love, all-powerful Love!—oh, then,
You are blessed, you sons of men,
If the love that governs the sky
In your hearts, it is elevated high!

BOOK III.
TRUE HAPPINESS AND FALSE.

SUMMARY

CH. I. Boethius beseeches Philosophy to continue. She promises to lead him to true happiness.—CH. II. Happiness is the one end which all created beings seek. They aim variously at (a) wealth, or (b) rank, or (c) sovereignty, or (d) glory, or (e) pleasure, because they think thereby to attain either (a) contentment, (b) reverence, (c) power, (d) renown, or (e) gladness of heart, in one or other of which they severally imagine happiness to consist.—CH. III. Philosophy proceeds to consider whether happiness can really be secured in any of these ways, (a) So far from bringing contentment, riches only add to men's wants.—CH. IV. (b) High position cannot of itself win respect. Titles command no reverence in distant and barbarous lands. They even fall into contempt through lapse of time.—CH. V. (c) Sovereignty cannot even bestow safety. History tells of the downfall of kings and their ministers. Tyrants go in fear of their lives. —CH. VI. (d) Fame conferred on the unworthy is but disgrace. The splendour of noble birth is not a man's own, but his ancestors'.—CH. VII. (e) Pleasure begins in the restlessness of desire, and ends in repentance. Even the pure pleasures of home may turn to gall and bitterness.—CH. VIII. All fail, then, to give what they promise. There is, moreover, some accompanying evil involved in each of these aims. Beauty and bodily strength are likewise of little worth. In strength man is surpassed by the brutes; beauty is but outward show.—CH. IX. The source of men's error in following these phantoms of good is that they break up and separate that which is in its nature one and indivisible. Contentment, power, reverence, renown, and joy are essentially bound up one with the other, and, if they are to be attained at all, must be attained together. True happiness, if it can be found, will include them all. But it cannot be found among the perishable things hitherto considered.—CH. X. Such a happiness necessarily exists. Its seat is in God. Nay, God is very happiness, and in a manner, therefore, the happy man partakes also of the Divine nature. All other ends are relative to this good, since they are all pursued only for the sake of good; it is good which is the sole ultimate end. And since the sole end is also happiness, it is plain that this good and happiness are in essence the same.—CH. XI. Unity is another aspect of goodness. Now, all things subsist so long only as they preserve the unity of their being; when they lose this unity, they perish. But the bent of nature forces all things (plants and inanimate things, as well as animals) to strive to continue in life. Therefore, all things desire unity, for unity is essential to life. But unity and goodness were shown to be the same. Therefore, good is proved to be the end towards which the whole universe tends.[E]—CH. XII. Boethius acknowledges that he is but recollecting truths he once knew. Philosophy goes on to show that it is goodness also by which the whole world is governed.[F] Boethius professes compunction for his former folly. But the paradox of evil is introduced, and he is once more perplexed.

CH. I. Boethius asks Philosophy to keep going. She promises to guide him to true happiness.—CH. II. Happiness is the ultimate goal that all beings seek. They pursue it in different ways, such as (a) wealth, or (b) status, or (c) power, or (d) fame, or (e) pleasure, thinking that they will achieve either (a) contentment, (b) respect, (c) influence, (d) recognition, or (e) joy in their hearts, believing happiness lies in one of these things.—CH. III. Philosophy then examines whether happiness can truly be attained through any of these means. (a) Instead of providing contentment, wealth only increases people's desires.—CH. IV. (b) A high position doesn’t automatically earn respect. Titles hold no weight in far-off and uncivilized places. They can even become despised over time.—CH. V. (c) Power cannot guarantee safety. History tells of the fall of kings and their ministers. Tyrants live in constant fear for their lives.—CH. VI. (d) Fame given to the undeserving is merely disgrace. The glory of noble lineage is not owned by an individual, but by their ancestors.—CH. VII. (e) Pleasure starts in the restlessness of desire and ends in regret. Even the pure joys of home can turn sour and bitter.—CH. VIII. All these paths fail to deliver what they promise. Moreover, there is a negative side to each of these pursuits. Beauty and physical strength are also of little value. In strength, humans are outdone by beasts; beauty is just a superficial appearance.—CH. IX. The root of people’s error in chasing these illusions of goodness is that they divide and separate what is inherently one and indivisible. Contentment, power, respect, fame, and joy are fundamentally interconnected, and to achieve them, they must be acquired together. True happiness, if it can be discovered, will encompass them all. However, it cannot be found among the transient things previously mentioned.—CH. X. Such happiness must exist. It resides in God. In fact, God is true happiness, and in a way, the happy person shares in the Divine essence. All other goals relate to this good, as they are all pursued for the sake of good; it is good that is the only ultimate aim. Since the ultimate goal is also happiness, it's clear that this good and happiness are essentially the same.—CH. XI. Unity is another characteristic of goodness. All things exist only as long as they maintain their inherent unity; when they lose this unity, they cease to exist. Yet, the nature of all things (including plants, inanimate objects, and animals) drives them to strive for life. Thus, all things seek unity, as unity is essential for life. But since unity and goodness are the same, it proves that good is the aim towards which the entire universe is directed.[E]—CH. XII. Boethius realizes that he is just recalling truths he once knew. Philosophy continues to show that it is goodness that governs the entire world.[F] Boethius expresses remorse for his past mistakes. However, the paradox of evil is introduced, leaving him confused once again.

FOOTNOTES:

[E] This solves the second of the points left in doubt at the end of bk. i., ch. vi.

[E] This clarifies the second issue that was still unclear at the end of book 1, chapter 6.

[F] This solves the third. No distinct account is given of the first, but an answer may be gathered from the general argument of bks. ii., iii., and iv.

[F] This addresses the third point. There isn’t a specific explanation for the first, but you can infer an answer from the overall arguments in books ii, iii, and iv.

BOOK III.

I.

She ceased, but I stood fixed by the sweetness of the song in wonderment and eager expectation, my ears still strained to listen. And then after a little I said: 'Thou sovereign solace of the stricken soul, what refreshment hast thou brought me, no less by the sweetness of thy singing than by the weightiness of thy discourse! Verily, I think not that I shall hereafter be unequal to the blows of Fortune. Wherefore, I no longer dread the remedies which thou saidst were something too severe for my strength; nay, rather, I am eager to hear of them and call for them with all vehemence.'

She stopped, but I stayed mesmerized by the beauty of the song, filled with wonder and anticipation, my ears still tuned in. Then, after a moment, I said: 'You, the ultimate comfort for the troubled soul, what relief have you brought me, not only through the beauty of your singing but also through the depth of your words! Truly, I believe I will no longer be unable to handle the challenges that life throws my way. Therefore, I no longer fear the remedies you said would be a bit too harsh for me; instead, I am eager to hear about them and ask for them with all my might.'

Then said she: 'I marked thee fastening upon my words silently and intently, and I expected, or—to speak more truly—I myself brought about in thee, this state of mind. What now remains is of such sort that to the taste indeed it is biting, but when received within it turns to sweetness. But whereas thou dost profess thyself desirous of hearing, with what ardour wouldst thou not burn didst thou but perceive whither it is my task to lead thee!'

Then she said, "I noticed you listening to my words silently and closely, and I expected—or to be more accurate, I created in you this state of mind. What’s left is something that may seem harsh at first, but once you take it in, it becomes sweet. But since you say you want to listen, how passionately would you not want to follow if you only knew where I’m trying to guide you!"

'Whither?' said I.

'Where to?' I asked.

'To true felicity,' said she, 'which even now thy spirit sees in dreams, but cannot behold in very truth, while thine eyes are engrossed with semblances.'

"To true happiness," she said, "which even now your soul glimpses in dreams, but can't truly see while your eyes are focused on appearances."

Then said I: 'I beseech thee, do thou show to me her true shape without a moment's loss.'

Then I said, 'I urge you, please show me her true form without any delay.'

'Gladly will I, for thy sake,' said she. 'But first I will try to sketch in words, and describe a cause which is more familiar to thee, that, when thou hast viewed this carefully, thou mayst turn thy eyes the other way, and recognise the beauty of true happiness.'

"Of course, I will, for your sake," she said. "But first, I want to try to describe something you're more familiar with so that, once you've looked at this closely, you can turn your eyes the other way and see the beauty of true happiness."

SONG I.
The Thorns of Error.

Who would gladly plant the unplanted land,
And check out the corn, First, remove the unnecessary weeds,
The bramble and the thorn.

After bad taste, honey's flavor Is sweeter to the mouth; After the storm, the shining stars
The eyes greet more cheerfully.

When night is over, the bright dawn arrives. In a pink car; So clear the false happiness from your mind,
And you will see the truth.

II.

For a little space she remained in a fixed gaze, withdrawn, as it were, into the august chamber of her mind; then she thus began:

For a moment, she stayed in a focused stare, as if withdrawn into the grand room of her thoughts; then she began:

'All mortal creatures in those anxious aims which find employment in so many varied pursuits, though they take many paths, yet strive to reach one goal—the goal of happiness. Now, the good is that which, when a man hath got, he can lack nothing further. This it is which is the supreme good of all, containing within itself all particular good; so that if anything is still wanting thereto, this cannot be the supreme good, since something would be left outside which might be desired. 'Tis clear, then, that happiness is a state perfected by the assembling together of all good things. To this state, as we have said, all men try to attain, but by different paths. For the desire of the true good is naturally implanted in the minds of men; only error leads them aside out of the way in pursuit of the false. Some, deeming it the highest good to want for nothing, spare no pains to attain affluence; others, judging the good to be that to which respect is most worthily paid, strive to win the reverence of their fellow-citizens by the attainment of official dignity. Some there are who fix the chief good in supreme power; these either wish themselves to enjoy sovereignty, or try to attach themselves to those who have it. Those, again, who think renown to be something of supreme excellence are in haste to spread abroad the glory of their name either through the arts of war or of peace. A great many measure the attainment of good by joy and gladness of heart; these think it the height of happiness to give themselves over to pleasure. Others there are, again, who interchange the ends and means one with the other in their aims; for instance, some want riches for the sake of pleasure and power, some covet power either for the sake of money or in order to bring renown to their name. So it is on these ends, then, that the aim of human acts and wishes is centred, and on others like to these—for instance, noble birth and popularity, which seem to compass a certain renown; wife and children, which are sought for the sweetness of their possession; while as for friendship, the most sacred kind indeed is counted in the category of virtue, not of fortune; but other kinds are entered upon for the sake of power or of enjoyment. And as for bodily excellences, it is obvious that they are to be ranged with the above. For strength and stature surely manifest power; beauty and fleetness of foot bring celebrity; health brings pleasure. It is plain, then, that the only object sought for in all these ways is happiness. For that which each seeks in preference to all else, that is in his judgment the supreme good. And we have defined the supreme good to be happiness. Therefore, that state which each wishes in preference to all others is in his judgment happy.

All living beings, in their anxious pursuits, though they take many different paths, are ultimately striving towards one goal—the goal of happiness. Now, *the good* is that which, once achieved, leaves a person wanting nothing more. This is the ultimate good, encompassing all specific goods; therefore, if anything is still missing, it can't be the supreme good because there would be something else left to desire. It’s clear that happiness is a state perfected by bringing together all good things. As we mentioned, everyone tries to reach this state, but they do so in various ways. The desire for true good is naturally ingrained in us; only mistakes lead people off track in search of the false. Some believe that the highest good is to lack for nothing, so they work hard to gain wealth; others, thinking that respect is the greatest good, aim to earn the admiration of their fellow citizens by securing official positions. Some people see the highest good as having supreme power, either wanting to be rulers themselves or trying to associate with those who are. Those who consider fame to be the utmost excellence rush to make their names known through war or peace. Many assess their good based on joy and happiness; they think it is the pinnacle of happiness to indulge in pleasure. Others confuse ends and means in their goals; for example, some seek wealth for pleasure and power, while others desire power for wealth or to boost their own fame. Thus, these goals and similar ones—noble lineage, popularity, which seem to promise a certain kind of recognition; spouses and children, which are valued for their sweetness; and the most sacred kind of friendship, regarded as a virtue rather than a fortune—are central to human actions and desires. Other friendships may be pursued for power or enjoyment. The same goes for physical attributes, which fit into this category as well. Strength and height suggest power; beauty and speed bring fame; health leads to pleasure. Clearly, the ultimate aim behind all these efforts is *happiness*. What each person seeks above all else is, in their view, the supreme good. We have defined the supreme good as happiness. Therefore, the state that each person desires above all others is what they consider happiness.

'Thou hast, then, set before thine eyes something like a scheme of human happiness—wealth, rank, power, glory, pleasure. Now Epicurus, from a sole regard to these considerations, with some consistency concluded the highest good to be pleasure, because all the other objects seem to bring some delight to the soul. But to return to human pursuits and aims: man's mind seeks to recover its proper good, in spite of the mistiness of its recollection, but, like a drunken man, knows not by what path to return home. Think you they are wrong who strive to escape want? Nay, truly there is nothing which can so well complete happiness as a state abounding in all good things, needing nothing from outside, but wholly self-sufficing. Do they fall into error who deem that which is best to be also best deserving to receive the homage of reverence? Not at all. That cannot possibly be vile and contemptible, to attain which the endeavours of nearly all mankind are directed. Then, is power not to be reckoned in the category of good? Why, can that which is plainly more efficacious than anything else be esteemed a thing feeble and void of strength? Or is renown to be thought of no account? Nay, it cannot be ignored that the highest renown is constantly associated with the highest excellence. And what need is there to say that happiness is not haunted by care and gloom, nor exposed to trouble and vexation, since that is a condition we ask of the very least of things, from the possession and enjoyment of which we expect delight? So, then, these are the blessings men wish to win; they want riches, rank, sovereignty, glory, pleasure, because they believe that by these means they will secure independence, reverence, power, renown, and joy of heart. Therefore, it is the good which men seek by such divers courses; and herein is easily shown the might of Nature's power, since, although opinions are so various and discordant, yet they agree in cherishing good as the end.'

You've put before yourself something like a plan for human happiness—wealth, status, power, fame, enjoyment. Now Epicurus, focusing solely on these aspects, consistently concluded that the highest good is pleasure, as all these other things seem to bring some joy to the soul. But going back to human goals and aspirations: people’s minds aim to find their true good, despite the confusion of their memories, but, like a person who is drunk, they don’t know the way back home. Do you think they are mistaken who try to escape want? No, truly nothing can complete happiness like a life filled with all good things, needing nothing from outside, but completely self-sufficient. Are those who believe that what is best also deserves utmost respect mistaken? Not at all. That which almost all of humanity strives for cannot be worthless and contemptible. So, isn’t power considered a good thing? After all, can something that is obviously more effective than anything else be seen as weak and powerless? Or is fame insignificant? No, it cannot be ignored that the highest fame is constantly linked with the highest excellence. And why mention that happiness isn’t shadowed by worry and sadness, or exposed to trouble and frustration, since that is simply the least we expect from the things we desire? So, these are the blessings people want; they want wealth, status, authority, fame, pleasure, because they believe these will lead to independence, respect, power, recognition, and joy. Therefore, it’s the good that people seek through these various paths; this clearly shows the power of Nature, as, despite the many differing and conflicting opinions, they all agree in valuing good as their goal.

SONG II.
The Bent of Nature.

How the power of Nature influences The entire world in organized ways,
How unstoppable laws control
Each small part of the whole—
I would gladly express in flowing verse On my flexible strings practice.

Look, the lion is captured. Humbly wears his gold chain; Yet even when he is fed by hand,
Though he fears a master's whip, If only once you experience the taste of blood
Kiss his cruel lips again,
Straight his sleeping fierceness wakes,
With one roar, he breaks his bonds,
And first unleashes his vengeful power
On his trainer's mangled corpse.

And the forest singer, trapped In lonely confinement,
Though a mistress's lavish care Shop of sugary treats prepare;
Yet, if in his small cage,
As he moves from bar to bar,
He should watch the woods in the distance,
Cool with leafy shelter, He will reject all these treats, His heart will turn to the woods; He longs only for the woods,
Pipes the woods in all his songs.

To harshly bend the sapling, As the hand applies its pressure; If the hand eases its grip,
The flexible wood snaps back. Phœbus in the western sea Sinks; but his car quickly rises again A hidden path leads To the usual gates of morning.

So everything seems to long for In good time for a proper return; And no set order can remain,
Save it in the designated way. Connects the end to the beginning
In a constant spinning cycle.

III.

'Ye, too, creatures of earth, have some glimmering of your origin, however faint, and though in a vision dim and clouded, yet in some wise, notwithstanding, ye discern the true end of happiness, and so the aim of nature leads you thither—to that true good—while error in many forms leads you astray therefrom. For reflect whether men are able to win happiness by those means through which they think to reach the proposed end. Truly, if either wealth, rank, or any of the rest, bring with them anything of such sort as seems to have nothing wanting to it that is good, we, too, acknowledge that some are made happy by the acquisition of these things. But if they are not able to fulfil their promises, and, moreover, lack many good things, is not the happiness men seek in them clearly discovered to be a false show? Therefore do I first ask thee thyself, who but lately wert living in affluence, amid all that abundance of wealth, was thy mind never troubled in consequence of some wrong done to thee?'

You, too, creatures of the earth, have some awareness of your origins, however vague it may be. Even if it comes in a dim and cloudy vision, you still grasp the true goal of happiness, and so nature’s purpose guides you toward that true good, while errors in many forms lead you away from it. Consider whether people can truly find happiness through the means they believe will achieve this desired end. Honestly, if wealth, status, or anything else brings them something that seems to be fully good, then we can agree that some find happiness in acquiring these things. But if these things cannot deliver on their promises and are missing many other good aspects, isn’t it clear that the happiness people pursue in them is just an illusion? Therefore, I first ask you, who just recently lived in luxury, amidst all that wealth: was your mind ever troubled because of some wrong done to you?

'Nay,' said I, 'I cannot ever remember a time when my mind was so completely at peace as not to feel the pang of some uneasiness.'

'Nay,' I said, 'I can’t ever remember a time when my mind was so completely at peace that I didn’t feel the twinge of some uneasiness.'

'Was it not because either something was absent which thou wouldst not have absent, or present which thou wouldst have away?'

'Was it not because either something was missing that you didn't want to be missing, or something was present that you wanted to get rid of?'

'Yes,' said I.

"Yeah," I said.

'Then, thou didst want the presence of the one, the absence of the other?'

'So, you wanted one person to be there and the other not to be?'

'Admitted.'

'Accepted.'

'But a man lacks that of which he is in want?'

'But a man is missing what he desires?'

'He does.'

'And he who lacks something is not in all points self-sufficing?'

'And someone who lacks something isn't fully self-sufficient?'

'No; certainly not,' said I.

'No way; definitely not,' I said.

'So wert thou, then, in the plenitude of thy wealth, supporting this insufficiency?'

'So were you, then, in the fullness of your wealth, supporting this lack?'

'I must have been.'

"I must have been."

'Wealth, then, cannot make its possessor independent and free from all want, yet this was what it seemed to promise. Moreover, I think this also well deserves to be considered—that there is nothing in the special nature of money to hinder its being taken away from those who possess it against their will.'

Wealth, then, can't make its owner completely independent and free from all need, even though it seems to promise that. Additionally, I believe it's important to note that there's nothing inherent in money that prevents it from being taken from those who have it against their will.

'I admit it.'

"I'll admit it."

'Why, of course, when every day the stronger wrests it from the weaker without his consent. Else, whence come lawsuits, except in seeking to recover moneys which have been taken away against their owner's will by force or fraud?'

'Of course, every day the stronger takes it from the weaker without their consent. Otherwise, where do lawsuits come from, except in trying to recover money that has been taken away from its owner by force or fraud?'

'True,' said I.

"Yeah," I said.

'Then, everyone will need some extraneous means of protection to keep his money safe.'

Then, everyone will need some extra ways to protect their money and keep it safe.

'Who can venture to deny it?'

'Who can dare to deny it?'

'Yet he would not, unless he possessed the money which it is possible to lose.'

'Yet he would not, unless he had the money that can be lost.'

'No; he certainly would not.'

'No; he definitely would not.'

'Then, we have worked round to an opposite conclusion: the wealth which was thought to make a man independent rather puts him in need of further protection. How in the world, then, can want be driven away by riches? Cannot the rich feel hunger? Cannot they thirst? Are not the limbs of the wealthy sensitive to the winter's cold? "But," thou wilt say, "the rich have the wherewithal to sate their hunger, the means to get rid of thirst and cold." True enough; want can thus be soothed by riches, wholly removed it cannot be. For if this ever-gaping, ever-craving want is glutted by wealth, it needs must be that the want itself which can be so glutted still remains. I do not speak of how very little suffices for nature, and how for avarice nothing is enough. Wherefore, if wealth cannot get rid of want, and makes new wants of its own, how can ye believe that it bestows independence?'

Then, we’ve come to the opposite conclusion: the wealth that was thought to make a person independent actually creates a need for even more protection. So, how can poverty be eliminated by riches? Can’t the rich feel hunger? Can’t they feel thirst? Aren’t the wealthy’s bodies sensitive to the winter’s cold? “But,” you might say, “the rich have the means to satisfy their hunger, the resources to escape thirst and cold.” That’s true; wealth can ease want, but it can’t completely eliminate it. If this never-ending, always-desiring want is satisfied by riches, it still means that the desire itself, which can be satisfied, remains. I’m not talking about how little is enough for basic needs and how nothing is enough for greed. So, if wealth cannot eliminate want and creates new wants of its own, how can you believe that it grants independence?

SONG III.
The Insatiableness of Avarice.

Though the greedy have grown rich Watch his stacks of gold grow taller; Even if he collects a lot of treasure, That will never satisfy;
Though his gorget shines with pearls,
Rarest finds from the ocean; Although a hundred oxen Work in his large fields; He will never be free from worrying troubles. As he takes this crucial breath,
And his wealth doesn't go with him,
When his eyes are closed in death.

IV.

'Well, but official dignity clothes him to whom it comes with honour and reverence! Have, then, offices of state such power as to plant virtue in the minds of their possessors, and drive out vice? Nay, they are rather wont to signalize iniquity than to chase it away, and hence arises our indignation that honours so often fall to the most iniquitous of men. Accordingly, Catullus calls Nonius an "ulcer-spot," though "sitting in the curule chair." Dost not see what infamy high position brings upon the bad? Surely their unworthiness will be less conspicuous if their rank does not draw upon them the public notice! In thy own case, wouldst thou ever have been induced by all these perils to think of sharing office with Decoratus, since thou hast discerned in him the spirit of a rascally parasite and informer? No; we cannot deem men worthy of reverence on account of their office, whom we deem unworthy of the office itself. But didst thou see a man endued with wisdom, couldst thou suppose him not worthy of reverence, nor of that wisdom with which he was endued?'

'Well, official rank does grant honor and respect to those who hold it! Do state offices really have the power to instill virtue in their holders and drive out vice? No, they often highlight wrongdoings rather than eliminate them, which leads to our frustration that honors frequently go to the most immoral people. For instance, Catullus calls Nonius an "ulcer-spot," even though he sits in the curule chair. Don’t you see the shame that high status brings upon the wicked? Their unworthiness would be less noticeable if their rank didn’t draw public attention! In your case, would you ever have considered sharing a position with Decoratus, knowing he has the qualities of a conniving parasite and informant? No; we can't regard people as deserving of respect on when we think they are unworthy of the position itself. But if you saw a person filled with wisdom, could you really believe he isn't worthy of respect or that the wisdom he possesses isn't valid?'

'No; certainly not.'

'No way; definitely not.'

'There is in Virtue a dignity of her own which she forthwith passes over to those to whom she is united. And since public honours cannot do this, it is clear that they do not possess the true beauty of dignity. And here this well deserves to be noticed—that if a man is the more scorned in proportion as he is despised by a greater number, high position not only fails to win reverence for the wicked, but even loads them the more with contempt by drawing more attention to them. But not without retribution; for the wicked pay back a return in kind to the dignities they put on by the pollution of their touch. Perhaps, too, another consideration may teach thee to confess that true reverence cannot come through these counterfeit dignities. It is this: If one who had been many times consul chanced to visit barbaric lands, would his office win him the reverence of the barbarians? And yet if reverence were the natural effect of dignities, they would not forego their proper function in any part of the world, even as fire never anywhere fails to give forth heat. But since this effect is not due to their own efficacy, but is attached to them by the mistaken opinion of mankind, they disappear straightway when they are set before those who do not esteem them dignities. Thus the case stands with foreign peoples. But does their repute last for ever, even in the land of their origin? Why, the prefecture, which was once a great power, is now an empty name—a burden merely on the senator's fortune; the commissioner of the public corn supply was once a personage—now what is more contemptible than this office? For, as we said just now, that which hath no true comeliness of its own now receives, now loses, lustre at the caprice of those who have to do with it. So, then, if dignities cannot win men reverence, if they are actually sullied by the contamination of the wicked, if they lose their splendour through time's changes, if they come into contempt merely for lack of public estimation, what precious beauty have they in themselves, much less to give to others?'

Virtue has its own inherent dignity that it immediately bestows upon those it connects with. Since public honors cannot achieve this, it's clear that they lack the true beauty of dignity. It's worth noting that if a person is more looked down upon as they are despised by a larger crowd, then high status doesn’t earn respect for the wicked; instead, it burdens them even more with contempt by bringing additional attention to them. But they don't go unpunished; the wicked return the insult they offer to prestigious titles by polluting them with their touch. Perhaps another thought might lead you to agree that genuine respect can't come from these fake dignities. Consider this: if someone who has been consul many times visits barbaric lands, would his title earn him respect from the barbarians? And yet, if respect were the natural result of titles, they wouldn’t lose their significance anywhere in the world, just as fire always produces heat. But since this effect isn’t actually based on their inherent value, but rather is attributed to them by the mistaken beliefs of people, they quickly lose their relevance when shown to those who don't recognize them as dignities. This is true for foreign cultures. But does their reputation last forever, even in their home country? The prefecture, which used to be powerful, is now just an empty title—a burden on a senator's fortune; the commissioner of the public corn supply was once an important figure—now it’s among the most contemptible jobs. As we mentioned earlier, what doesn’t have true grace of its own gains and loses shine at the whims of those associated with it. So, if titles can’t earn people respect, if they’re actually tainted by the wicked, if they lose their luster over time, and if they fall into disfavor just due to a lack of public esteem, what real beauty do they possess in themselves, let alone to offer to others?

SONG IV.
Disgrace of Honours conferred by a Tyrant.

Although royal purple eases his pride,
And snowy pearls decorate his neck,
Nero lives on in all his chaos. The mark of total disdain.

Yet he conferred on respected individuals The unworthy honors of the state.
Shall we consider them truly blessed? Who has become great because of such promotion?

V.

'Well, then, does sovereignty and the intimacy of kings prove able to confer power? Why, surely does not the happiness of kings endure for ever? And yet antiquity is full of examples, and these days also, of kings whose happiness has turned into calamity. How glorious a power, which is not even found effectual for its own preservation! But if happiness has its source in sovereign power, is not happiness diminished, and misery inflicted in its stead, in so far as that power falls short of completeness? Yet, however widely human sovereignty be extended, there must still be more peoples left, over whom each several king holds no sway. Now, at whatever point the power on which happiness depends ceases, here powerlessness steals in and makes wretchedness; so, by this way of reckoning, there must needs be a balance of wretchedness in the lot of the king. The tyrant who had made trial of the perils of his condition figured the fears that haunt a throne under the image of a sword hanging over a man's head.[G] What sort of power, then, is this which cannot drive away the gnawings of anxiety, or shun the stings of terror? Fain would they themselves have lived secure, but they cannot; then they boast about their power! Dost thou count him to possess power whom thou seest to wish what he cannot bring to pass? Dost thou count him to possess power who encompasses himself with a body-guard, who fears those he terrifies more than they fear him, who, to keep up the semblance of power, is himself at the mercy of his slaves? Need I say anything of the friends of kings, when I show royal dominion itself so utterly and miserably weak—why ofttimes the royal power in its plenitude brings them low, ofttimes involves them in its fall? Nero drove his friend and preceptor, Seneca, to the choice of the manner of his death. Antoninus exposed Papinianus, who was long powerful at court, to the swords of the soldiery. Yet each of these was willing to renounce his power. Seneca tried to surrender his wealth also to Nero, and go into retirement; but neither achieved his purpose. When they tottered, their very greatness dragged them down. What manner of thing, then, is this power which keeps men in fear while they possess it—which when thou art fain to keep, thou art not safe, and when thou desirest to lay it aside thou canst not rid thyself of? Are friends any protection who have been attached by fortune, not by virtue? Nay; him whom good fortune has made a friend, ill fortune will make an enemy. And what plague is more effectual to do hurt than a foe of one's own household?'

Well, does the power of kings really give them strength? Does the happiness of kings last forever? History is full of examples, even today, of kings whose happiness turned into disaster. What kind of power is it that can't even secure its own survival? If happiness comes from having power, isn't that happiness weakened and replaced by suffering when the power isn't complete? No matter how far human sovereignty stretches, there are still people left who aren't under any king's rule. Wherever the power that brings happiness ends, helplessness creeps in and causes misery; therefore, there must be some level of suffering that comes with being a king. The tyrant, aware of his dangerous position, imagined the fears that come with a throne as a sword hanging over his head. What kind of power is this that can't rid itself of anxiety or escape the fear it causes? They would love to feel secure, but they can't; yet they brag about their power! Do you really think someone possesses power if you see them wanting what they can't achieve? Do you count someone as powerful if they need bodyguards, fear those they intimidate more than they intimidate them, and, to project the appearance of power, are at the mercy of their own servants? What can I say about the friends of kings when I illustrate how weak royal authority can truly be—often, royal power brings them down or drags them into its downfall? Nero forced his friend and mentor, Seneca, to choose how he would die. Antoninus exposed Papinianus, who was powerful at court, to the soldiers' swords. Yet both were willing to give up their power. Seneca even tried to hand his wealth over to Nero and retire, but neither was successful. When they wavered, their own greatness pulled them down. So what kind of power keeps people in fear while they have it—one that makes them unsafe if they try to hold on to it and impossible to shed if they want to? Are friends a real protection when they are drawn together by luck, not by worth? No; a friend made by good fortune can easily become an enemy in tough times. And what greater danger is there than an enemy in your own house?

FOOTNOTES:

[G] The sword of Damocles.

The sword of Damocles.

SONG V.
Self-mastery.

Whoever is in power directs their goals,
First, he must control his own spirit; He must avoid leaning his neck to push. Under the unholy burden of lust.
For, though India’s distant land Bow before his vast power,
Utmost Thule tribute pay—
If he can't drive away Haunting care and deep distress,
In his power, he's weak.

VI.

'Again, how misleading, how base, a thing ofttimes is glory! Well does the tragic poet exclaim:

'Again, how misleading and shallow glory can be! The tragic poet expresses this well:

"Oh, dear Reputation, how many times and often "Lift them high with pride, you lowborn scoundrel!"

For many have won a great name through the mistaken beliefs of the multitude—and what can be imagined more shameful than that? Nay, they who are praised falsely must needs themselves blush at their own praises! And even when praise is won by merit, still, how does it add to the good conscience of the wise man who measures his good not by popular repute, but by the truth of inner conviction? And if at all it does seem a fair thing to get this same renown spread abroad, it follows that any failure so to spread it is held foul. But if, as I set forth but now, there must needs be many tribes and peoples whom the fame of any single man cannot reach, it follows that he whom thou esteemest glorious seems all inglorious in a neighbouring quarter of the globe. As to popular favour, I do not think it even worthy of mention in this place, since it never cometh of judgment, and never lasteth steadily.

Many people have gained a great reputation through the mistaken beliefs of the masses—and what could be more shameful than that? Indeed, those who are falsely praised must feel embarrassed by their own accolades! Even when praise is earned through one’s abilities, how does it enhance the peace of mind of a wise person who values their worth not by public opinion, but by the reality of their own convictions? And if it seems fair to have such fame spread widely, then any failure to do so is seen as a disgrace. But if, as I just mentioned, there are many tribes and peoples that cannot hear the fame of a single person, it follows that the one you consider glorious may be seen as completely unremarkable in another part of the world. As for popular favor, I don't think it’s even worth discussing here, since it never comes from true judgment and never lasts consistently.

'Then, again, who does not see how empty, how foolish, is the fame of noble birth? Why, if the nobility is based on renown, the renown is another's! For, truly, nobility seems to be a sort of reputation coming from the merits of ancestors. But if it is the praise which brings renown, of necessity it is they who are praised that are famous. Wherefore, the fame of another clothes thee not with splendour if thou hast none of thine own. So, if there is any excellence in nobility of birth, methinks it is this alone—that it would seem to impose upon the nobly born the obligation not to degenerate from the virtue of their ancestors.'

Then again, who doesn’t see how shallow and foolish the fame of noble birth is? If nobility is based on glory, that glory belongs to someone else! Truly, nobility seems to be a kind of reputation derived from the merits of ancestors. But if it’s the praise that brings fame, then it’s the ones who are praised that are truly famous. So, the fame of another doesn’t give you any glory if you don’t have any of your own. Therefore, if there’s any value in noble birth, it seems to be this alone—that it places an obligation on those of noble birth not to fall short of the virtues of their ancestors.

SONG VI.
True Nobility.

All men come from the same ancestry, even though they're spread out all over. For one is the Father of us all—one provides for everyone. He gave the sun its golden rays and the moon her silver crescent; He placed humanity on the earth, just like stars decorate the sky.
He trapped a spirit—a soul that came from heaven—inside the body. The noble background he gave to each person can be claimed. Why do you boast so loudly about your race and noble ancestry? If you see the source of your existence and God's ultimate plan,
No one is degenerate or low unless they are corrupted by sin.
And cherished vice he tarnished his divine origin.

VII.

'Then, what shall I say of the pleasures of the body? The lust thereof is full of uneasiness; the sating, of repentance. What sicknesses, what intolerable pains, are they wont to bring on the bodies of those who enjoy them—the fruits of iniquity, as it were! Now, what sweetness the stimulus of pleasure may have I do not know. But that the issues of pleasure are painful everyone may understand who chooses to recall the memory of his own fleshly lusts. Nay, if these can make happiness, there is no reason why the beasts also should not be happy, since all their efforts are eagerly set upon satisfying the bodily wants. I know, indeed, that the sweetness of wife and children should be right comely, yet only too true to nature is what was said of one—that he found in his sons his tormentors. And how galling such a contingency would be, I must needs put thee in mind, since thou hast never in any wise suffered such experiences, nor art thou now under any uneasiness. In such a case, I agree with my servant Euripides, who said that a man without children was fortunate in his misfortune.'[H]

'So, what can I say about the pleasures of the body? The desire for them is full of discomfort, and once satisfied, it leads to regret. What illnesses and unbearable pains do they often bring to those who indulge in them—the fruits of wrongdoing, so to speak! I can't say what sweetness the thrill of pleasure may bring, but anyone can understand that the outcomes of such pleasure are often painful if they reflect on their own carnal desires. If these pleasures could bring true happiness, there would be no reason for animals to be unhappy, since all they do is focused on satisfying their physical needs. I agree that the joy of having a wife and children should be truly wonderful, but it’s sadly accurate what was said about one person—that he found his sons to be his torturers. And how distressing such a situation would be, I must remind you, since you’ve never gone through anything like that, nor are you currently facing any discomfort. In this regard, I see eye to eye with my servant Euripides, who said that a man without children was lucky in his misfortune.'[H]

FOOTNOTES:

[H] Paley translates the lines in Euripides' 'Andromache': 'They [the childless] are indeed spared from much pain and sorrow, but their supposed happiness is after all but wretchedness.' Euripides' meaning is therefore really just the reverse of that which Boethius makes it. See Euripides, 'Andromache,' Il. 418-420.

[H] Paley translates the lines in Euripides' 'Andromache': 'Those without children may avoid a lot of pain and suffering, but their supposed happiness is really just misery.' Euripides' meaning is actually the opposite of what Boethius interprets. See Euripides, 'Andromache,' Il. 418-420.

SONG VII.
Pleasure's Sting.

This is the path of Pleasure:
She stings those who take advantage of her; And, like the winged worker Who's lost her sweet treasure,
She flies but leaves her smart. Deeply rooted in the heart.

VIII.

'It is beyond doubt, then, that these paths do not lead to happiness; they cannot guide anyone to the promised goal. Now, I will very briefly show what serious evils are involved in following them. Just consider. Is it thy endeavour to heap up money? Why, thou must wrest it from its present possessor! Art thou minded to put on the splendour of official dignity? Thou must beg from those who have the giving of it; thou who covetest to outvie others in honour must lower thyself to the humble posture of petition. Dost thou long for power? Thou must face perils, for thou wilt be at the mercy of thy subjects' plots. Is glory thy aim? Thou art lured on through all manner of hardships, and there is an end to thy peace of mind. Art fain to lead a life of pleasure? Yet who does not scorn and contemn one who is the slave of the weakest and vilest of things—the body? Again, on how slight and perishable a possession do they rely who set before themselves bodily excellences! Can ye ever surpass the elephant in bulk or the bull in strength? Can ye excel the tiger in swiftness? Look upon the infinitude, the solidity, the swift motion, of the heavens, and for once cease to admire things mean and worthless. And yet the heavens are not so much to be admired on this account as for the reason which guides them. Then, how transient is the lustre of beauty! how soon gone!—more fleeting than the fading bloom of spring flowers. And yet if, as Aristotle says, men should see with the eyes of Lynceus, so that their sight might pierce through obstructions, would not that body of Alcibiades, so gloriously fair in outward seeming, appear altogether loathsome when all its inward parts lay open to the view? Therefore, it is not thy own nature that makes thee seem beautiful, but the weakness of the eyes that see thee. Yet prize as unduly as ye will that body's excellences; so long as ye know that this that ye admire, whatever its worth, can be dissolved away by the feeble flame of a three days' fever. From all which considerations we may conclude as a whole, that these things which cannot make good the advantages they promise, which are never made perfect by the assemblage of all good things—these neither lead as by-ways to happiness, nor themselves make men completely happy.'

It's undeniable that these paths don't lead to happiness; they can't guide anyone to the promised goal. Now, I'll briefly point out the serious problems with following them. Just think about it. Are you trying to accumulate wealth? You have to wrest it from someone else's hands! Do you want to achieve the prestige of an official title? You'll need to ask those who have the power to grant it; if you want to outshine others in honor, you'll have to humble yourself and beg. Do you crave power? You'll face dangers, as you'll be at the mercy of your subjects' schemes. Is glory your goal? You'll be dragged through all sorts of hardships, and your peace of mind will vanish. Do you want to live a life of pleasure? Yet who respects someone who's a slave to the weakest and worst of things—their body? And consider how fragile and fleeting are the physical attributes that people admire! Can you ever be bigger than an elephant or stronger than a bull? Can you outrun a tiger? Look at the vastness, stability, and swift movement of the heavens, and for once, stop admiring things that are insignificant and worthless. And yet, the heavens are worthy of admiration not just for their beauty, but for the reason that governs them. Just how short-lived is the beauty of physical appearance! It fades faster than the blossoms of spring. Yet, if as Aristotle suggests, people could see as Lynceus does, penetrating through barriers, wouldn’t the outwardly stunning body of Alcibiades appear utterly repulsive when its insides are laid bare? So, it's not your nature that makes you seem beautiful; it’s the weakness of the eyes that look at you. But keep valuing that physical beauty as much as you want; just remember that what you admire, no matter how valuable, can be destroyed by a slight fever in just three days. From all these points, we can conclude that these things, which can’t deliver on their promises and are never perfected by bringing together all good things—these don't lead as side roads to happiness, nor do they make people truly happy.

SONG VIII.
Human Folly.

Alas! how far off Does ignorance lead these unfortunate souls? From Truth's own path!
For not on leafy stems Do you look for gold in the green woods, Nor take the vine for jewels;

You don't spread your nets. On the hilltops, where the creaking board With fish be provided; If you are eager to chase
The bounding goat, you don't search in vain. The ocean's choppy surface.

They know the distant depths of the sea,
Every hidden corner, where the waves wash over The pearl is as white as snow;
Where is the Tyrian shell,
Where fish and spiky sea urchins are abundant,
They all know this very well.

But not to know or care Where the good that all hearts long for is hidden—
They can tolerate this blindness; Looking down at the ground, They search for what goes far beyond The starry sky.

What curse should I invoke
On hearts that feel so dull? May they still continue the race. For wealth and fame!
And when with a lot of fuss The fake good they’ve clung to—oh, but it’s too late!—
May they see the truth!

IX.

'This much may well suffice to set forth the form of false happiness; if this is now clear to thine eyes, the next step is to show what true happiness is.'

'This much is enough to outline the nature of false happiness; if this is now clear to you, the next step is to show what true happiness is.'

'Indeed,' said I, 'I see clearly enough that neither is independence to be found in wealth, nor power in sovereignty, nor reverence in dignities, nor fame in glory, nor true joy in pleasures.'

'Definitely,' I said, 'I can clearly see that independence isn't found in wealth, power isn't found in sovereignty, respect isn't found in titles, fame isn't found in glory, and genuine happiness isn't found in pleasures.'

'Hast thou discerned also the causes why this is so?'

"Have you also figured out the reasons why this is the case?"

'I seem to have some inkling, but I should like to learn more at large from thee.'

"I think I have some idea, but I'd like to learn more from you."

'Why, truly the reason is hard at hand. That which is simple and indivisible by nature human error separates, and transforms from the true and perfect to the false and imperfect. Dost thou imagine that which lacketh nothing can want power?'

'Why, the reason is right in front of us. What is simple and indivisible by nature is separated by human error, and is changed from true and perfect to false and imperfect. Do you think that what has everything can lack power?'

'Certainly not.'

'Definitely not.'

'Right; for if there is any feebleness of strength in anything, in this there must necessarily be need of external protection.'

'Exactly; because if anything is weak, it will definitely need outside protection.'

'That is so.'

'That's so.'

'Accordingly, the nature of independence and power is one and the same.'

'So, independence and power are essentially the same thing.'

'It seems so.'

"Looks that way."

'Well, but dost think that anything of such a nature as this can be looked upon with contempt, or is it rather of all things most worthy of veneration?'

'Well, do you think that anything like this can be viewed with contempt, or is it actually one of the most deserving things of respect?'

'Nay; there can be no doubt as to that.'

'Nah; there's definitely no doubt about that.'

'Let us, then, add reverence to independence and power, and conclude these three to be one.'

'So, let’s combine respect with independence and strength, and see these three as one.'

'We must if we will acknowledge the truth.'

'We must if we want to acknowledge the truth.'

'Thinkest thou, then, this combination of qualities to be obscure and without distinction, or rather famous in all renown? Just consider: can that want renown which has been agreed to be lacking in nothing, to be supreme in power, and right worthy of honour, for the reason that it cannot bestow this upon itself, and so comes to appear somewhat poor in esteem?'

Do you think this combination of qualities is unclear and unremarkable, or is it well-known and distinct? Just think about it: can something that is universally acknowledged as lacking nothing, that is supreme in power and truly deserving of honor, really lack renown simply because it can't give itself that honor and therefore seems a bit low in esteem?

'I cannot but acknowledge that, being what it is, this union of qualities is also right famous.'

"I have to admit that, as it is, this combination of qualities is quite well-known."

'It follows, then, that we must admit that renown is not different from the other three.'

It follows that we have to acknowledge that fame is no different from the other three.

'It does,' said I.

"It does," I said.

'That, then, which needs nothing outside itself, which can accomplish all things in its own strength, which enjoys fame and compels reverence, must not this evidently be also fully crowned with joy?'

'So, that which requires nothing outside of itself, which can achieve everything through its own power, which is famous and inspires respect, shouldn’t this clearly be completely filled with joy too?'

'In sooth, I cannot conceive,' said I, 'how any sadness can find entrance into such a state; wherefore I must needs acknowledge it full of joy—at least, if our former conclusions are to hold.'

"I truly can’t understand," I said, "how any sadness could enter such a state; therefore, I have to admit that it’s filled with joy—at least, if our earlier conclusions still apply."

'Then, for the same reasons, this also is necessary—that independence, power, renown, reverence, and sweetness of delight, are different only in name, but in substance differ no wise one from the other.'

'Then, for the same reasons, this is also necessary—that independence, power, fame, respect, and joy are only different in name, but in essence, they are no different from one another.'

'It is,' said I.

"It is," I said.

'This, then, which is one, and simple by nature, human perversity separates, and, in trying to win a part of that which has no parts, fails to attain not only that portion (since there are no portions), but also the whole, to which it does not dream of aspiring.'

'This, then, which is one and simple by nature, human stubbornness separates, and in trying to claim a part of that which has no parts, fails to attain not only that portion (since there are no parts), but also the whole, which it does not even dream of aspiring to.'

'How so?' said I.

"How so?" I said.

'He who, to escape want, seeks riches, gives himself no concern about power; he prefers a mean and low estate, and also denies himself many pleasures dear to nature to avoid losing the money which he has gained. But at this rate he does not even attain to independence—a weakling void of strength, vexed by distresses, mean and despised, and buried in obscurity. He, again, who thirsts alone for power squanders his wealth, despises pleasure, and thinks fame and rank alike worthless without power. But thou seest in how many ways his state also is defective. Sometimes it happens that he lacks necessaries, that he is gnawed by anxieties, and, since he cannot rid himself of these inconveniences, even ceases to have that power which was his whole end and aim. In like manner may we cast up the reckoning in case of rank, of glory, or of pleasure. For since each one of these severally is identical with the rest, whosoever seeks any one of them without the others does not even lay hold of that one which he makes his aim.'

'Someone who seeks wealth to avoid poverty doesn’t care about power; they prefer a humble and lowly position, denying themselves many natural pleasures to protect the money they’ve earned. Yet, by doing this, they don’t even achieve independence—just a weak person overwhelmed by troubles, looked down upon, and lost in obscurity. On the other hand, someone who only craves power squanders their wealth, shuns pleasure, and sees fame and status as worthless without power. But you can see how flawed this state is too. Sometimes they lack basic necessities, are consumed by worries, and since they can’t escape these troubles, they even lose the power that was their sole goal. Likewise, we can assess the situation with rank, glory, or pleasure. Since each of these is essentially the same as the others, anyone who pursues one without the others doesn’t even grasp the one they aim for.'

'Well,' said I, 'what then?'

"Well," I said, "what now?"

'Suppose anyone desire to obtain them together, he does indeed wish for happiness as a whole; but will he find it in these things which, as we have proved, are unable to bestow what they promise?'

'If someone wants to get everything together, they truly want happiness as a whole; but will they find it in these things that, as we have shown, can't deliver what they promise?'

'Nay; by no means,' said I.

'No way,' I said.

'Then, happiness must certainly not be sought in these things which severally are believed to afford some one of the blessings most to be desired.'

Then, happiness definitely shouldn’t be sought in these things that are individually thought to provide some of the most desired blessings.

'They must not, I admit. No conclusion could be more true.'

'They shouldn't, I agree. No conclusion could be more accurate.'

'So, then, the form and the causes of false happiness are set before thine eyes. Now turn thy gaze to the other side; there thou wilt straightway see the true happiness I promised.'

'So, the shape and reasons for fake happiness are laid out in front of you. Now look to the other side; there you’ll immediately see the real happiness I promised.'

'Yea, indeed, 'tis plain to the blind.' said I. 'Thou didst point it out even now in seeking to unfold the causes of the false. For, unless I am mistaken, that is true and perfect happiness which crowns one with the union of independence, power, reverence, renown, and joy. And to prove to thee with how deep an insight I have listened—since all these are the same—that which can truly bestow one of them I know to be without doubt full and complete happiness.'

"Yeah, it's clear even to those who can't see," I said. "You just highlighted it while trying to explain the reasons behind the false. Because, unless I'm wrong, true and perfect happiness comes from having independence, power, respect, fame, and joy together. And to show you just how well I’m listening—since all these are the same—I know that whatever can truly give one of them is undoubtedly full and complete happiness."

'Happy art thou, my scholar, in this thy conviction; only one thing shouldst thou add.'

'You’re happy, my scholar, in this belief of yours; there’s just one thing you should add.'

'What is that?' said I.

"What's that?" I asked.

'Is there aught, thinkest thou, amid these mortal and perishable things which can produce a state such as this?'

'Is there anything, do you think, among these mortal and perishable things that can create a state like this?'

'Nay, surely not; and this thou hast so amply demonstrated that no word more is needed.'

'No, definitely not; and you've made that so clear that no further words are needed.'

'Well, then, these things seem to give to mortals shadows of the true good, or some kind of imperfect good; but the true and perfect good they cannot bestow.'

'Well, it seems that these things offer mortals glimpses of true goodness, or some sort of imperfect good; however, they cannot provide the true and perfect good.'

'Even so,' said I.

"Still," I said.

'Since, then, thou hast learnt what that true happiness is, and what men falsely call happiness, it now remains that thou shouldst learn from what source to seek this.'

'Now that you understand what true happiness is, along with what people mistakenly call happiness, it's time for you to learn where to find it.'

'Yes; to this I have long been eagerly looking forward.'

'Yes; I have been eagerly looking forward to this for a long time.'

'Well, since, as Plato maintains in the "Timæus," we ought even in the most trivial matters to implore the Divine protection, what thinkest thou should we now do in order to deserve to find the seat of that highest good?'

'Well, since, as Plato argues in the "Timæus," we should seek Divine protection even in the smallest matters, what do you think we should do now to deserve to discover the place of that highest good?'

'We must invoke the Father of all things,' said I; 'for without this no enterprise sets out from a right beginning.'

'We have to call on the Father of all things,' I said; 'because without this, no venture starts off on the right foot.'

'Thou sayest well,' said she; and forthwith lifted up her voice and sang:

'You speak well,' she said; and immediately raised her voice and sang:

SONG IX.[I]
Invocation.

Creator of earth and sky, from generation to generation
Who rules the world by reason; at whose command
Time issues from Eternity's abyss: To everyone that drives the source of movement, fixed Yourself and unmoving. No reason urged you. This external frame is designed to shape From formless matter; yet, deeply embedded within Your innermost self, the embodiment of perfect goodness,
From envy-free; and You shaped the whole To that heavenly pattern. Beautiful The world you created is a reflection of yourself. Most beautiful. So You crafted the work. In that beautiful appearance, asking it to wear it Perfection through exquisite perfection Of each part's design, you bind The elements in perfect harmony,
To balance the hot and cold, the moist and dry,
Do not fight; nor the pure fire jumping up Escape, or the weight of waters will overwhelm the earth.

You join and spread throughout everything,
Linking its various parts,
A soul with three aspects, influencing everything. This, split in two, and formed into two circles, Speeds along a path that loops back on itself,
Encompassing the mind's limits, and conforms The heavens to her true form. Weaker souls
And lower lives by a similar rule You send forth, each to its starry chariot Affixing, and spreading them far and wide
Over earth and heaven. These by a kind law You ask me to turn around and return. To you their fires. Oh, grant, mighty Father,
Grant us, on reason's wings, the ability to rise high. To the highest heights of heaven; allow us to see
The source of goodness; grant us the true light found,
To focus our steady gaze in clear sight
On You. Clear away the thick fogs of earth,
And shine in Your own brilliance. For You are
The real peace and complete relaxation
Of every devout soul—to see Your face,
The end and the beginning—One is the guide,
The traveler, the path, and the destination.

FOOTNOTES:

[I] The substance of this poem is taken from Plato's 'Timæus,' 29-42. See Jowett, vol. iii., pp. 448-462 (third edition).

[I] The content of this poem is derived from Plato's 'Timæus,' 29-42. See Jowett, vol. iii., pp. 448-462 (third edition).

X.

'Since now thou hast seen what is the form of the imperfect good, and what the form of the perfect also, methinks I should next show in what manner this perfection of felicity is built up. And here I conceive it proper to inquire, first, whether any excellence, such as thou hast lately defined, can exist in the nature of things, lest we be deceived by an empty fiction of thought to which no true reality answers. But it cannot be denied that such does exist, and is, as it were, the source of all things good. For everything which is called imperfect is spoken of as imperfect by reason of the privation of some perfection; so it comes to pass that, whenever imperfection is found in any particular, there must necessarily be a perfection in respect of that particular also. For were there no such perfection, it is utterly inconceivable how that so-called imperfection should come into existence. Nature does not make a beginning with things mutilated and imperfect; she starts with what is whole and perfect, and falls away later to these feeble and inferior productions. So if there is, as we showed before, a happiness of a frail and imperfect kind, it cannot be doubted but there is also a happiness substantial and perfect.'

'Now that you have seen what the form of the imperfect good is and what the form of the perfect good looks like, I think I should next show how this perfection of happiness is constructed. Here, I believe it's appropriate to first ask whether any excellence, like the one you just defined, can actually exist in the nature of things, so we don’t get misled by an empty idea that doesn’t correspond to any real existence. But it can't be denied that such a thing does exist and is, in a sense, the source of all things good. Everything termed imperfect is regarded as such due to the absence of some perfection; therefore, whenever imperfection is recognized in something, there must necessarily be a corresponding perfection for that same thing. For if there were no such perfection, it’s completely unimaginable how that so-called imperfection could even exist. Nature does not begin with things that are damaged or imperfect; she starts with what is whole and perfect and only later produces these weak and lesser forms. So if there is, as we discussed earlier, a happiness that is fragile and imperfect, it is undeniable that there is also a substantial and perfect happiness.'

'Most true is thy conclusion, and most sure,' said I.

"Your conclusion is mostly true and very certain," I said.

'Next to consider where the dwelling-place of this happiness may be. The common belief of all mankind agrees that God, the supreme of all things, is good. For since nothing can be imagined better than God, how can we doubt Him to be good than whom there is nothing better? Now, reason shows God to be good in such wise as to prove that in Him is perfect good. For were it not so, He would not be supreme of all things; for there would be something else more excellent, possessed of perfect good, which would seem to have the advantage in priority and dignity, since it has clearly appeared that all perfect things are prior to those less complete. Wherefore, lest we fall into an infinite regression, we must acknowledge the supreme God to be full of supreme and perfect good. But we have determined that true happiness is the perfect good; therefore true happiness must dwell in the supreme Deity.'

Next, let’s think about where this happiness comes from. Everyone generally agrees that God, the ultimate being, is good. Since nothing can be imagined to be better than God, how can we doubt that He is good, being the best of all? Reason shows that God is good in a way that proves He has perfect goodness. If that weren’t the case, He wouldn’t be the supreme being; there would have to be something else that is more excellent, possessing perfect goodness, which would logically seem to have a higher status and dignity, since it's clear that all perfect things come before those that are less complete. Therefore, to avoid an endless cycle of reasoning, we must recognize the supreme God as full of ultimate and perfect goodness. We’ve established that true happiness is perfect goodness; thus, true happiness must reside in the supreme Deity.

'I accept thy reasonings,' said I; 'they cannot in any wise be disputed.'

"I accept your reasoning," I said; "it can't be disputed at all."

'But, come, see how strictly and incontrovertibly thou mayst prove this our assertion that the supreme Godhead hath fullest possession of the highest good.'

'But come, see how clearly and undeniably you can prove our claim that the supreme God has complete control over the highest good.'

'In what way, pray?' said I.

'In what way, please?' I asked.

'Do not rashly suppose that He who is the Father of all things hath received that highest good of which He is said to be possessed either from some external source, or hath it as a natural endowment in such sort that thou mightest consider the essence of the happiness possessed, and of the God who possesses it, distinct and different. For if thou deemest it received from without, thou mayst esteem that which gives more excellent than that which has received. But Him we most worthily acknowledge to be the most supremely excellent of all things. If, however, it is in Him by nature, yet is logically distinct, the thought is inconceivable, since we are speaking of God, who is supreme of all things. Who was there to join these distinct essences? Finally, when one thing is different from another, the things so conceived as distinct cannot be identical. Therefore that which of its own nature is distinct from the highest good is not itself the highest good—an impious thought of Him than whom, 'tis plain, nothing can be more excellent. For universally nothing can be better in nature than the source from which it has come; therefore on most true grounds of reason would I conclude that which is the source of all things to be in its own essence the highest good.'

Do not hastily assume that He, who is the Father of all things, has received that ultimate good, of which He is said to possess, from some external source, nor that it is something He naturally has in such a way that you might consider the essence of the happiness He possesses and the God who possesses it as separate and different. For if you think it comes from outside, you might regard that which gives it as better than that which receives it. But we rightly acknowledge Him to be the most supremely excellent of all things. If, however, it is inherent in Him by nature, yet logically separate, the idea becomes inconceivable, since we are talking about God, who is supreme over all things. Who was there to link these distinct essences? Ultimately, when one thing is different from another, the things considered distinct cannot be the same. Therefore, that which is by its nature distinct from the highest good is not itself the highest good—this would be an outrageous thought about Him who is clearly the most excellent. For nothing can be better in nature than the source from which it originates; therefore, on the most solid grounds of reason, I conclude that the source of all things is in its own essence the highest good.

'And most justly,' said I.

"And most justly," I said.

'But the highest good has been admitted to be happiness.'

'But it is generally accepted that the highest good is happiness.'

'Yes.'

Yes.

'Then,' said she, 'it is necessary to acknowledge that God is very happiness.'

'Then,' she said, 'it’s essential to recognize that God is pure happiness.'

'Yes,' said I; 'I cannot gainsay my former admissions, and I see clearly that this is a necessary inference therefrom.'

'Yes,' I said; 'I can’t deny what I admitted before, and I clearly see that this is a necessary conclusion from that.'

'Reflect, also,' said she, 'whether the same conclusion is not further confirmed by considering that there cannot be two supreme goods distinct one from the other. For the goods which are different clearly cannot be severally each what the other is: wherefore neither of the two can be perfect, since to either the other is wanting; but since it is not perfect, it cannot manifestly be the supreme good. By no means, then, can goods which are supreme be different one from the other. But we have concluded that both happiness and God are the supreme good; wherefore that which is highest Divinity must also itself necessarily be supreme happiness.'

"Think about this too," she said, "whether the same conclusion is supported by the fact that there can't be two separate supreme goods. Different goods clearly can't each be what the other is; therefore, neither can be perfect since the other is missing something. Since it’s not perfect, it clearly can't be the supreme good. So, supreme goods can't be different from each other. But we've concluded that both happiness and God are the supreme good; therefore, the highest Divinity must also necessarily be supreme happiness."

'No conclusion,' said I, 'could be truer to fact, nor more soundly reasoned out, nor more worthy of God.'

'No conclusion,' I said, 'could be more accurate, better reasoned, or more deserving of God.'

'Then, further,' said she, 'just as geometricians are wont to draw inferences from their demonstrations to which they give the name "deductions," so will I add here a sort of corollary. For since men become happy by the acquisition of happiness, while happiness is very Godship, it is manifest that they become happy by the acquisition of Godship. But as by the acquisition of justice men become just, and wise by the acquisition of wisdom, so by parity of reasoning by acquiring Godship they must of necessity become gods. So every man who is happy is a god; and though in nature God is One only, yet there is nothing to hinder that very many should be gods by participation in that nature.'

'Then, additionally,' she said, 'just as mathematicians tend to draw conclusions from their proofs that they call "deductions," I will add here a sort of conclusion. Since people attain happiness through acquiring happiness, and since happiness is essentially godliness, it’s clear that they achieve happiness by the acquisition of godliness. Just as people become just by acquiring justice, and wise by gaining wisdom, it follows that by acquiring godliness, they must inevitably become gods. Therefore, every person who is happy is a god; and although in essence there is only one God, there's nothing to stop many from being gods through sharing in that nature.'

'A fair conclusion, and a precious,' said I, 'deduction or corollary, by whichever name thou wilt call it.'

'A fair conclusion, and a valuable one,' I said, 'a deduction or a corollary, whatever you want to call it.'

'And yet,' said she, 'not one whit fairer than this which reason persuades us to add.'

'And yet,' she said, 'not any more beautiful than what reason convinces us to add.'

'Why, what?' said I.

"What? Why?" I said.

'Why, seeing happiness has many particulars included under it, should all these be regarded as forming one body of happiness, as it were, made up of various parts, or is there some one of them which forms the full essence of happiness, while all the rest are relative to this?'

'Why, since happiness includes many different aspects, should we consider all these aspects as one whole concept of happiness, as if it’s made up of various parts, or is there one aspect that represents the true essence of happiness, while all the others are related to it?'

'I would thou wouldst unfold the whole matter to me at large.'

"I wish you would explain the whole situation to me in detail."

'We judge happiness to be good, do we not?'

'We consider happiness to be a good thing, right?'

'Yea, the supreme good.'

'Yeah, the ultimate good.'

'And this superlative applies to all; for this same happiness is adjudged to be the completest independence, the highest power, reverence, renown, and pleasure.'

'And this excellence applies to everyone; for this same happiness is considered to be the utmost independence, the greatest power, respect, fame, and enjoyment.'

'What then?'

'What's next?'

'Are all these goods—independence, power, and the rest—to be deemed members of happiness, as it were, or are they all relative to good as to their summit and crown?'

'Are all these things—independence, power, and so on—considered parts of happiness, or are they all connected to the greater good as their ultimate goal?'

'I understand the problem, but I desire to hear how thou wouldst solve it.'

"I get the problem, but I want to know how you would solve it."

'Well, then, listen to the determination of the matter. Were all these members composing happiness, they would differ severally one from the other. For this is the nature of parts—that by their difference they compose one body. All these, however, have been proved to be the same; therefore they cannot possibly be members, otherwise happiness will seem to be built up out of one member, which cannot be.'

Well, then, let’s examine the facts. If all these components made up happiness, they would each be different from one another. That’s the nature of parts—they combine their differences to create one whole. However, all these have been shown to be the same; therefore, they cannot truly be parts, or else happiness would appear to be formed from a single part, which isn’t possible.

'There can be no doubt as to that,' said I; 'but I am impatient to hear what remains.'

'There's no doubt about that,' I said; 'but I'm eager to hear what comes next.'

'Why, it is manifest that all the others are relative to the good. For the very reason why independence is sought is that it is judged good, and so power also, because it is believed to be good. The same, too, may be supposed of reverence, of renown, and of pleasant delight. Good, then, is the sum and source of all desirable things. That which has not in itself any good, either in reality or in semblance, can in no wise be desired. Contrariwise, even things which by nature are not good are desired as if they were truly good, if they seem to be so. Whereby it comes to pass that goodness is rightly believed to be the sum and hinge and cause of all things desirable. Now, that for the sake of which anything is desired itself seems to be most wished for. For instance, if anyone wishes to ride for the sake of health, he does not so much wish for the exercise of riding as the benefit of his health. Since, then, all things are sought for the sake of the good, it is not these so much as good itself that is sought by all. But that on account of which all other things are wished for was, we agreed, happiness; wherefore thus also it appears that it is happiness alone which is sought. From all which it is transparently clear that the essence of absolute good and of happiness is one and the same.'

'It’s clear that everything else relates back to the concept of good. The reason people seek independence is that they see it as good, and the same goes for power, as it is also believed to be good. The same can be said for respect, fame, and enjoyment. Therefore, good is the essence and source of everything we desire. Anything that has no good, whether real or seeming, cannot be desired at all. Conversely, even things that are not inherently good are sought after as if they were genuinely good, if they appear to be. This leads to the conclusion that goodness is rightly regarded as the sum, center, and cause of everything desirable. What we desire most is that which holds the reason for desire. For example, if someone wants to ride a horse for their health, they are not just craving the act of riding but the health benefits it brings. Since everything is pursued for the sake of what is good, it’s not these individual things but goodness itself that is ultimately sought. And what we agreed is the reason behind all desires is happiness; thus, it becomes evident that happiness itself is what we seek. From all this, it becomes clear that the essence of true good and happiness is fundamentally the same.'

'I cannot see how anyone can dissent from these conclusions.'

'I can't see how anyone can disagree with these conclusions.'

'But we have also proved that God and true happiness are one and the same.'

'But we have also proven that God and true happiness are the same thing.'

'Yes,' said I.

"Yeah," I said.

'Then we can safely conclude, also, that God's essence is seated in absolute good, and nowhere else.'

Then we can safely conclude that God's essence is rooted in absolute goodness and nowhere else.

SONG X.
The True Light.

Come here, all of you whose minds
Lust with rosy chains binds—
Desire for intense bondage The earthly souls that inhabit him—
Here is where your work ends; Welcome to your peaceful retreat. Come, take refuge in your one safe place; It stands wide to all distress!

Not the shimmer of yellow gold
Down bright Hermus' current flowed; Not the Tagus' sandy treasures,
Nor in distant hot places All the shining gems that are hidden
Under Indus' historic tide—
Emerald green and shimmering white—
Can light up our weak sight; But they prefer to leave the mind In its natural darkness, blind. For the most beautiful light they give off In the deepest parts of the earth, they were nourished; But the splendor that supplies Power and energy to the heavens,
And the universe is in control,
Avoid dark and ruined souls. He who has seen this light
Will not describe the sunbeam as bright.

XI.

'I quite agree,' said I, 'truly all thy reasonings hold admirably together.'

"I completely agree," I said, "all your arguments really fit together perfectly."

Then said she: 'What value wouldst thou put upon the boon shouldst thou come to the knowledge of the absolute good?'

Then she said, "What value would you place on the gift if you were to discover the absolute good?"

'Oh, an infinite,' said I, 'if only I were so blest as to learn to know God also who is the good.'

'Oh, an infinite,' I said, 'if only I were lucky enough to know God, who is the good.'

'Yet this will I make clear to thee on truest grounds of reason, if only our recent conclusions stand fast.'

'But I will make this clear to you based on the strongest reasons, as long as our recent conclusions hold true.'

'They will.'

'Have we not shown that those things which most men desire are not true and perfect good precisely for this cause—that they differ severally one from another, and, seeing that one is wanting to another, they cannot bestow full and absolute good; but that they become the true good when they are gathered, as it were, into one form and agency, so that that which is independence is likewise power, reverence, renown, and pleasant delight, and unless they are all one and the same, they have no claim to be counted among things desirable?'

'Have we not shown that the things most people want are not truly perfect goods because they differ from one another? Since each one lacks something the others have, they can’t offer complete or absolute goodness. However, they become true good when they come together, almost as if they merge into one form and purpose. Independence can also be seen as power, respect, reputation, and enjoyment. Unless they are all unified as one, they shouldn’t be considered truly desirable.'

'Yes; this was clearly proved, and cannot in any wise be doubted.'

'Yes, this was clearly proven and cannot be doubted in any way.'

'Now, when things are far from being good while they are different, but become good as soon as they are one, is it not true that these become good by acquiring unity?'

'Now, when things are not good while they are different, but become good as soon as they are united, isn't it true that they become good by gaining unity?'

'It seems so,' said I.

"Seems that way," I said.

'But dost not thou allow that all which is good is good by participation in goodness?'

'But don’t you agree that everything good is good because it shares in goodness?'

'It is.'

It is.

'Then, thou must on similar grounds admit that unity and goodness are the same; for when the effects of things in their natural working differ not, their essence is one and the same.'

'Then, you must on similar grounds admit that unity and goodness are the same; for when the effects of things in their natural workings do not differ, their essence is one and the same.'

'There is no denying it.'

There's no denying it.

'Now, dost thou know,' said she, 'that all which is abides and subsists so long as it continues one, but so soon as it ceases to be one it perishes and falls to pieces?'

'Now, do you know,' she said, 'that everything exists and endures as long as it remains whole, but as soon as it stops being whole, it perishes and falls apart?'

'In what way?'

'How so?'

'Why, take animals, for example. When soul and body come together, and continue in one, this is, we say, a living creature; but when this unity is broken by the separation of these two, the creature dies, and is clearly no longer living. The body also, while it remains in one form by the joining together of its members, presents a human appearance; but if the separation and dispersal of the parts break up the body's unity, it ceases to be what it was. And if we extend our survey to all other things, without doubt it will manifestly appear that each several thing subsists while it is one, but when it ceases to be one perishes.'

'Take animals, for example. When the soul and body come together and stay united, we call that a living creature; but when that unity is broken and the two are separated, the creature dies and is clearly no longer alive. The body, while it remains whole and its parts are joined together, looks human, but if the parts are separated and scattered, the body stops being what it was. And if we look at all other things, it will clearly show that everything exists as long as it is one, but when it stops being one, it dies.'

'Yes; when I consider further, I see it to be even as thou sayest.'

'Yes; when I think about it more, I see that it’s exactly as you say.'

'Well, is there aught,' said she, 'which, in so far as it acts conformably to nature, abandons the wish for life, and desires to come to death and corruption?'

'Well, is there anything,' she said, 'that, as long as it acts in accordance with nature, gives up the desire for life and wishes for death and decay?'

'Looking to living creatures, which have some faults of choice, I find none that, without external compulsion, forego the will to live, and of their own accord hasten to destruction. For every creature diligently pursues the end of self-preservation, and shuns death and destruction! As to herbs and trees, and inanimate things generally, I am altogether in doubt what to think.'

'When I think about living creatures that have some flawed choices, I see that none of them, without outside pressure, choose to give up on life or willingly head towards destruction. Every creature instinctively seeks to survive and avoids death and harm! As for plants, trees, and non-living things in general, I'm completely uncertain what to make of them.'

'And yet there is no possibility of question about this either, since thou seest how herbs and trees grow in places suitable for them, where, as far as their nature admits, they cannot quickly wither and die. Some spring up in the plains, others in the mountains; some grow in marshes, others cling to rocks; and others, again, find a fertile soil in the barren sands; and if you try to transplant these elsewhere, they wither away. Nature gives to each the soil that suits it, and uses her diligence to prevent any of them dying, so long as it is possible for them to continue alive. Why do they all draw their nourishment from roots as from a mouth dipped into the earth, and distribute the strong bark over the pith? Why are all the softer parts like the pith deeply encased within, while the external parts have the strong texture of wood, and outside of all is the bark to resist the weather's inclemency, like a champion stout in endurance? Again, how great is nature's diligence to secure universal propagation by multiplying seed! Who does not know all these to be contrivances, not only for the present maintenance of a species, but for its lasting continuance, generation after generation, for ever? And do not also the things believed inanimate on like grounds of reason seek each what is proper to itself? Why do the flames shoot lightly upward, while the earth presses downward with its weight, if it is not that these motions and situations are suitable to their respective natures? Moreover, each several thing is preserved by that which is agreeable to its nature, even as it is destroyed by things inimical. Things solid like stones resist disintegration by the close adhesion of their parts. Things fluid like air and water yield easily to what divides them, but swiftly flow back and mingle with those parts from which they have been severed, while fire, again, refuses to be cut at all. And we are not now treating of the voluntary motions of an intelligent soul, but of the drift of nature. Even so is it that we digest our food without thinking about it, and draw our breath unconsciously in sleep; nay, even in living creatures the love of life cometh not of conscious will, but from the principles of nature. For oftentimes in the stress of circumstances will chooses the death which nature shrinks from; and contrarily, in spite of natural appetite, will restrains that work of reproduction by which alone the persistence of perishable creatures is maintained. So entirely does this love of self come from drift of nature, not from animal impulse. Providence has furnished things with this most cogent reason for continuance: they must desire life, so long as it is naturally possible for them to continue living. Wherefore in no way mayst thou doubt but that things naturally aim at continuance of existence, and shun destruction.'

And yet there's no doubt about this either, since you can see how plants and trees grow in places that suit them, where, as much as their nature allows, they can't quickly wither and die. Some thrive in the plains, others in the mountains; some flourish in marshes, others cling to rocks; and some find fertile soil in barren sands. If you try to move them elsewhere, they wilt away. Nature gives each species the right soil and works hard to keep them alive as long as possible. Why do they all draw nutrients from their roots like a mouth in the earth, and spread the strong bark over the soft inner core? Why are the softer parts, like the core, deeply protected inside, while the outer parts have the tough texture of wood, and on the outside is the bark that withstands harsh weather, like a strong champion? Again, how great is nature's effort to ensure widespread reproduction by multiplying seeds! Who doesn't recognize these as mechanisms not just for the current survival of a species but for its lasting existence, generation after generation? And do not even the things we consider inanimate, based on the same reasoning, seek what is suitable for themselves? Why do flames rise lightly, while earth sinks under its weight, if not because these motions and positions fit their respective natures? Moreover, each thing is sustained by what is compatible with its nature, just as it is destroyed by opposing forces. Solid things like stones resist breaking down because their parts are closely bonded. Fluid things like air and water yield easily to separation but quickly flow back together with the parts they've been separated from, while fire, on the other hand, refuses to be divided at all. And we’re not discussing the voluntary movements of an intelligent being, but the flow of nature. Just as we digest food without thinking and breathe unconsciously while asleep; even in living beings, the desire to live doesn't come from conscious choice but from natural principles. For often, in difficult situations, will chooses death that nature fears, and conversely, will can suppress the reproductive processes essential for the survival of living creatures. So thoroughly does this love of life arise from the drift of nature, not from animal instinct. Providence has given things this compelling reason to continue: they must desire life, as long as it is naturally possible for them to continue living. Therefore, you cannot doubt that things naturally strive to continue existing and avoid destruction.

'I confess,' said I, 'that what I lately thought uncertain, I now perceive to be indubitably clear.'

'I admit,' I said, 'that what I recently thought was uncertain, I now see is definitely clear.'

'Now, that which seeks to subsist and continue desires to be one; for if its oneness be gone, its very existence cannot continue.'

'Now, what seeks to exist and persist wants to be unified; because if its unity is lost, its very existence cannot endure.'

'True,' said I.

"True," I said.

'All things, then, desire to be one.'

'Everything, then, wants to be one.'

'I agree.'

"Sounds good."

'But we have proved that one is the very same thing as good.'

'But we've shown that one is exactly the same as good.'

'We have.'

"We've."

'All things, then, seek the good; indeed, you may express the fact by defining good as that which all desire.'

'So, everything strives for what is good; in fact, you can put it this way: good is what everyone wants.'

'Nothing could be more truly thought out. Either there is no single end to which all things are relative, or else the end to which all things universally hasten must be the highest good of all.'

'Nothing could be more thoroughly considered. Either there is no single goal that everything relates to, or the goal that everything universally strives for must be the ultimate good for all.'

Then she: 'Exceedingly do I rejoice, dear pupil; thine eye is now fixed on the very central mark of truth. Moreover, herein is revealed that of which thou didst erstwhile profess thyself ignorant.'

Then she said, "I’m so glad, dear student; your focus is now on the very center of truth. Also, this shows what you once claimed to be unaware of."

'What is that?' said I.

"What’s that?" I asked.

'The end and aim of the whole universe. Surely it is that which is desired of all; and, since we have concluded the good to be such, we ought to acknowledge the end and aim of the whole universe to be "the good."'

'The end and purpose of the entire universe. Clearly, it's what everyone desires; and since we've determined that the good is what we should aim for, we must recognize that the end and purpose of the entire universe is "the good."'

SONG XI.
Reminiscence.[J]

Whoever seeks the truth, who turns away from false paths His careful steps would keep,
You must look inside with inner light. In deep meditation; He must hold back all outward emotions. The true treasure of his soul to hold.

Then all that mist of errors covered up Will shine brighter than light,
This body's unaware burden Hasn't completely stifled reason; The seeds of truth are still present within,
From where we can all gain through learning.

Otherwise, how could you find the correct answer? Untaught to answer questions, If it weren't for the depth within the soul
Does the secret of truth live? If Plato's teaching is correct,
We learn only what we have forgotten.

FOOTNOTES:

[J] The doctrine of Reminiscence—i.e., that all learning is really recollection—is set forth at length by Plato in the 'Meno,' 81-86, and the 'Phædo,' 72-76. See Jowett, vol. ii., pp. 40-47 and 213-218.

[J] The theory of Reminiscence—i.e., that all knowledge is essentially a form of remembering—is explained in detail by Plato in the 'Meno,' 81-86, and the 'Phædo,' 72-76. See Jowett, vol. ii., pp. 40-47 and 213-218.

XII.

Then said I: 'With all my heart I agree with Plato; indeed, this is now the second time that these things have been brought back to my mind—first I lost them through the clogging contact of the body; then after through the stress of heavy grief.'

Then I said, 'I wholeheartedly agree with Plato; in fact, this is the second time these thoughts have come back to me—first I lost them due to the burdens of the body; then later because of overwhelming sorrow.'

Then she continued: 'If thou wilt reflect upon thy former admissions, it will not be long before thou dost also recollect that of which erstwhile thou didst confess thyself ignorant.'

Then she continued: 'If you think back on what you've said before, it won't be long before you also remember what you admitted you didn't know.'

'What is that?' said I.

"What’s that?" I said.

'The principles of the world's government,' said she.

'The principles of the world's government,' she said.

'Yes; I remember my confession, and, although I now anticipate what thou intendest, I have a desire to hear the argument plainly set forth.'

'Yes; I remember my confession, and even though I can guess what you mean, I want to hear the argument stated clearly.'

'Awhile ago thou deemedst it beyond all doubt that God doth govern the world.'

'A little while ago, you believed without any doubt that God governs the world.'

'I do not think it doubtful now, nor shall I ever; and by what reasons I am brought to this assurance I will briefly set forth. This world could never have taken shape as a single system out of parts so diverse and opposite were it not that there is One who joins together these so diverse things. And when it had once come together, the very diversity of natures would have dissevered it and torn it asunder in universal discord were there not One who keeps together what He has joined. Nor would the order of nature proceed so regularly, nor could its course exhibit motions so fixed in respect of position, time, range, efficacy, and character, unless there were One who, Himself abiding, disposed these various vicissitudes of change. This power, whatsoever it be, whereby they remain as they were created, and are kept in motion, I call by the name which all recognise—God.'

'I don’t doubt this now, and I never will; and I’ll briefly explain the reasons for my certainty. This world could never have formed as a single system from such diverse and opposing parts if there weren’t a One who brings together these different things. Once it came together, the very diversity of natures would have pulled it apart in universal discord if there weren't a One who holds together what He has united. The order of nature wouldn’t function so consistently, nor would its course show such fixed movements in terms of position, time, range, effectiveness, and character, unless there was a One who, remaining unchanged, organized these various changes. This power, whatever it may be, that allows them to stay as they were created and keeps them in motion, I call by the name that everyone recognizes—God.'

Then said she: 'Seeing that such is thy belief, it will cost me little trouble, I think, to enable thee to win happiness, and return in safety to thy own country. But let us give our attention to the task that we have set before ourselves. Have we not counted independence in the category of happiness, and agreed that God is absolute happiness?'

Then she said, "Since that's what you believe, I think it won't be too hard for me to help you find happiness and safely return to your own country. But let's focus on the task we've set for ourselves. Haven't we considered independence as part of happiness and agreed that God is complete happiness?"

'Truly, we have.'

'We definitely have.'

'Then, He will need no external assistance for the ruling of the world. Otherwise, if He stands in need of aught, He will not possess complete independence.'

Then, He won't need any outside help to govern the world. Otherwise, if He relies on anything, He won’t have true independence.

'That is necessarily so,' said I.

"That’s definitely true," I said.

'Then, by His own power alone He disposes all things.'

'Then, by His own power alone, He controls everything.'

'It cannot be denied.'

"It can't be denied."

'Now, God was proved to be absolute good.'

'Now, God was shown to be completely good.'

'Yes; I remember.'

'Yeah, I remember.'

'Then, He disposes all things by the agency of good, if it be true that He rules all things by His own power whom we have agreed to be good; and He is, as it were, the rudder and helm by which the world's mechanism is kept steady and in order.'

'Then, He manages everything through goodness, if it's true that He governs all things with His own power, which we have accepted as good; and He is like the rudder and steering wheel that keeps the world's operations steady and orderly.'

'Heartily do I agree; and, indeed, I anticipated what thou wouldst say, though it may be in feeble surmise only.'

"I completely agree; in fact, I predicted what you would say, even if it might just be a weak guess."

'I well believe it,' said she; 'for, as I think, thou now bringest to the search eyes quicker in discerning truth; but what I shall say next is no less plain and easy to see.'

'I truly believe that,' she said; 'because, as I see it, you now approach the search with sharper eyes for spotting the truth; but what I'm about to say next is just as clear and obvious.'

'What is it?' said I.

"What is it?" I asked.

'Why,' said she, 'since God is rightly believed to govern all things with the rudder of goodness, and since all things do likewise, as I have taught, haste towards good by the very aim of nature, can it be doubted that His governance is willingly accepted, and that all submit themselves to the sway of the Disposer as conformed and attempered to His rule?'

'Why,' she said, 'since it's generally accepted that God governs everything with goodness, and since everything naturally aims towards good, as I've explained, can we really doubt that His governance is willingly embraced, and that all things submit themselves to the will of the One who guides them, aligning themselves with His rule?'

'Necessarily so,' said I; 'no rule would seem happy if it were a yoke imposed on reluctant wills, and not the safe-keeping of obedient subjects.'

"Absolutely," I replied. "No rule would feel right if it were just a burden on unwilling people, rather than a way to protect those who follow it."

'There is nothing, then, which, while it follows nature, endeavours to resist good.'

'There is nothing that, while it follows nature, tries to go against what is good.'

'No; nothing.'

'No, nothing.'

'But if anything should, will it have the least success against Him whom we rightly agreed to be supreme Lord of happiness?'

'But if anything does happen, will it succeed at all against Him whom we rightly acknowledge as the supreme Lord of happiness?'

'It would be utterly impotent.'

'It would be completely ineffective.'

'There is nothing, then, which has either the will or the power to oppose this supreme good.'

'There is nothing, then, that has either the will or the ability to oppose this ultimate good.'

'No; I think not.'

'No, I don't think so.'

'So, then,' said she, 'it is the supreme good which rules in strength, and graciously disposes all things.'

"So, then," she said, "it is the ultimate good that governs with strength and wisely arranges everything."

Then said I: 'How delighted am I at thy reasonings, and the conclusion to which thou hast brought them, but most of all at these very words which thou usest! I am now at last ashamed of the folly that so sorely vexed me.'

Then I said, "I’m so happy with your reasoning and the conclusion you’ve reached, but what I appreciate the most are your exact words! I finally feel ashamed of the foolishness that troubled me so much."

'Thou hast heard the story of the giants assailing heaven; but a beneficent strength disposed of them also, as they deserved. But shall we submit our arguments to the shock of mutual collision?—it may be from the impact some fair spark of truth may be struck out.'

'You have heard the story of the giants attacking heaven; but a helpful strength dealt with them as they deserved. But should we let our arguments clash?—it might be from the collision that some valuable spark of truth will emerge.'

'If it be thy good pleasure,' said I.

"If it makes you happy," I said.

'No one can doubt that God is all-powerful.'

'No one can argue that God is all-powerful.'

'No one at all can question it who thinks consistently.'

'No one can doubt it who thinks clearly.'

'Now, there is nothing which One who is all-powerful cannot do.'

'Now, there is nothing that someone who is all-powerful cannot do.'

'Nothing.'

'But can God do evil, then?'

'But can God commit evil, then?'

'Nay; by no means.'

'No way.'

'Then, evil is nothing,' said she, 'since He to whom nothing is impossible is unable to do evil.'

'Then, evil is nothing,' she said, 'since the one who can do anything is unable to do evil.'

'Art thou mocking me,' said I, 'weaving a labyrinth of tangled arguments, now seeming to begin where thou didst end, and now to end where thou didst begin, or dost thou build up some wondrous circle of Divine simplicity? For, truly, a little before thou didst begin with happiness, and say it was the supreme good, and didst declare it to be seated in the supreme Godhead. God Himself, too, thou didst affirm to be supreme good and all-complete happiness; and from this thou didst go on to add, as by the way, the proof that no one would be happy unless he were likewise God. Again, thou didst say that the very form of good was the essence both of God and of happiness, and didst teach that the absolute One was the absolute good which was sought by universal nature. Thou didst maintain, also, that God rules the universe by the governance of goodness, that all things obey Him willingly, and that evil has no existence in nature. And all this thou didst unfold without the help of assumptions from without, but by inherent and proper proofs, drawing credence one from the other.'

"Are you mocking me?" I asked, " weaving a maze of confusing arguments, starting where you ended and ending where you started, or are you creating some amazing circle of Divine simplicity? Because, honestly, a little while ago, you began with happiness, claiming it was the highest good, and said it was found in the supreme God. You also stated that God Himself is the highest good and complete happiness; and from this, you added, almost as a side note, that no one would be happy unless they were also God. Then you said that the very nature of good is the essence of both God and happiness, and you taught that the absolute One is the absolute good that universal nature seeks. You also argued that God governs the universe through goodness, that everything obeys Him willingly, and that evil doesn't exist in nature. And all this you unfolded without relying on external assumptions, but through inherent and proper proofs, drawing credibility from one to another."

Then answered she: 'Far is it from me to mock thee; nay, by the blessing of God, whom we lately addressed in prayer, we have achieved the most important of all objects. For such is the form of the Divine essence, that neither can it pass into things external, nor take up anything external into itself; but, as Parmenides says of it,

Then she replied, "It’s far from me to mock you; no, by the blessing of God, whom we recently prayed to, we have achieved the most important goal of all. For the nature of the Divine essence is such that it cannot change into anything outside itself nor take anything external into itself; but, as Parmenides said about it,

"In a body shaped like a perfectly round sphere from all sides,"

it rolls the restless orb of the universe, keeping itself motionless the while. And if I have also employed reasonings not drawn from without, but lying within the compass of our subject, there is no cause for thee to marvel, since thou hast learnt on Plato's authority that words ought to be akin to the matter of which they treat.'

it rolls the restless orb of the universe, remaining still all the while. And if I've also used arguments that come not from outside but are inherent to our topic, there's no reason for you to be surprised, since you've learned from Plato that words should relate closely to the subject they discuss.'

SONG XII.
Orpheus and Eurydice.

Blessed is the one whose feet have stood
Next to the source of good; Blessed is the one whose will could break
Earth's chains for knowledge's sake!

The Thracian bard, it's said,
Mourned his beloved partner dead; To hear the sad tune The woods followed him, And the stream stopped flowing,
Held by such a gentle sorrow; The unfazed deer Next to the lion lay; The dog, calmed by music,
No longer the hare chased,
But the unrelenting pain In his own heart raged. The music that soothes Nothing else brought him any relief.
Scolding the immortal powers,
He arrived at Hell's gate;
There lived all gentle things Upon his playing strings,
Each crafted rhapsody His mom, the goddess, taught—
All he could take from his grief And love amplifying sorrow,
Till, as the echoes awaken,
All Tænarus is disturbed;
While he persuades Ruth The ruler of the shadows With sweet prayer. Spellbound,
The three-headed dog At sounds so oddly sweet Falls crouching at his feet. The dreaded Avengers, too,
Guilty minds pursue With constantly lingering fears,
Are all crying. Ixion, on his wheel, A short break feels; For, look! the wheel is stopped.
And, while those sorrowful notes excite,
Thirst-crazed Tantalus Listening, unaware Of the stream's teasing And his prolonged suffering.
The vulture, too, spares A little while to tear At Tityus' rental side,
Satisfied and calm.

Finally, the shadowy king, Feeling sorry for his sorrows, "He has prevailed!" cried; 'We return his bride!' She will belong to him,
As a reward for his song. One single condition yet Set upon the blessing: Let him not look away
To see his hard-earned prize,
Until they safely pass The gates of Hell. Alas! What law can lovers break?
Love is the highest law! For Orpheus—woe is me!—
On his Eurydice—
Day's threshold almost won—
Looked, lost, and fell apart!

You who seek the light,
This story is for you, Who are looking for a way
To the brighter day.
If in the darkness past One backward glance you cast,
Your tired and drifting eyes
Have lost the unique prize.

BOOK IV.
GOOD AND ILL FORTUNE.

SUMMARY.

CH. I. The mystery of the seeming moral confusion. Philosophy engages to make this plain, and to fulfil her former promise to the full.—CH. II. Accordingly, (a) she first expounds the paradox that the good alone have power, the bad are altogether powerless.—CH. III. (b) The righteous never lack their reward, nor the wicked their punishment.—CH. IV. (c) The wicked are more unhappy when they accomplish their desires than when they fail to attain them. (d) Evil-doers are more fortunate when they expiate their crimes by suffering punishment than when they escape unpunished. (e) The wrong-doer is more wretched than he who suffers injury.—CH. V. Boethius still cannot understand why the distribution of happiness and misery to the righteous and the wicked seems the result of chance. Philosophy replies that this only seems so because we do not understand the principles of God's moral governance.—CH. VI. The distinction of Fate and Providence. The apparent moral confusion is due to our ignorance of the secret counsels of God's providence. If we possessed the key, we should see how all things are guided to good.—CH. VII. Thus all fortune is good fortune; for it either rewards, disciplines, amends, or punishes, and so is either useful or just.

CH. I. The mystery of the seeming moral confusion. Philosophy engages to clarify this and fulfill her earlier promise completely.—CH. II. Accordingly, (a) she firstly explains the paradox that only the good have power, while the bad are completely powerless.—CH. III. (b) The righteous never lack their reward, nor do the wicked lack their punishment.—CH. IV. (c) The wicked are unhappier when they achieve their desires than when they fail to obtain them. (d) Wrongdoers are luckier when they make amends for their crimes by facing punishment than when they escape unpunished. (e) The wrongdoer is more miserable than the one who suffers from their actions.—CH. V. Boethius still cannot grasp why the distribution of happiness and misery among the righteous and the wicked appears to be random. Philosophy responds that it only seems that way because we don’t understand the principles of God's moral governance.—CH. VI. The distinction between Fate and Providence. The apparent moral confusion stems from our ignorance of the secret workings of God's providence. If we had the key, we would see how everything is directed toward good.—CH. VII. Thus, all fortune is good fortune; it either rewards, disciplines, corrects, or punishes, making it useful or just.

BOOK IV.

I.

Softly and sweetly Philosophy sang these verses to the end without losing aught of the dignity of her expression or the seriousness of her tones; then, forasmuch as I was as yet unable to forget my deeply-seated sorrow, just as she was about to say something further, I broke in and cried: 'O thou guide into the way of true light, all that thy voice hath uttered from the beginning even unto now has manifestly seemed to me at once divine contemplated in itself, and by the force of thy arguments placed beyond the possibility of overthrow. Moreover, these truths have not been altogether unfamiliar to me heretofore, though because of indignation at my wrongs they have for a time been forgotten. But, lo! herein is the very chiefest cause of my grief—that, while there exists a good ruler of the universe, it is possible that evil should be at all, still more that it should go unpunished. Surely thou must see how deservedly this of itself provokes astonishment. But a yet greater marvel follows: While wickedness reigns and flourishes, virtue not only lacks its reward, but is even thrust down and trampled under the feet of the wicked, and suffers punishment in the place of crime. That this should happen under the rule of a God who knows all things and can do all things, but wills only the good, cannot be sufficiently wondered at nor sufficiently lamented.'

Softly and sweetly, Philosophy recited these verses to the end without losing any of her dignity or the seriousness of her tone. Just as she was about to say something more, I interrupted, saying: 'O you who guide us to the path of true light, everything you’ve said from the beginning until now has seemed both divine in its essence and, through your reasoning, impossible to refute. These truths haven't been entirely new to me before, though I had temporarily forgotten them out of anger at my own wrongs. But, look! Here lies the greatest source of my sorrow—that while a good ruler governs the universe, it seems that evil can exist at all, even more so that it can go unpunished. Surely, you must see how this, in itself, is astonishing. But an even greater marvel follows: While wickedness thrives, virtue not only goes unrewarded but is also pushed down and trampled by the wicked, suffering punishment instead of the actual crimes. That this happens under a God who knows everything, can do everything, but chooses only good, is something that cannot cease to amaze and sorrow.'

Then said she: 'It would indeed be infinitely astounding, and of all monstrous things most horrible, if, as thou esteemest, in the well-ordered home of so great a householder, the base vessels should be held in honour, the precious left to neglect. But it is not so. For if we hold unshaken those conclusions which we lately reached, thou shall learn that, by the will of Him of whose realm we are speaking, the good are always strong, the bad always weak and impotent; that vices never go unpunished, nor virtues unrewarded; that good fortune ever befalls the good, and ill fortune the bad, and much more of the sort, which shall hush thy murmurings, and stablish thee in the strong assurance of conviction. And since by my late instructions thou hast seen the form of happiness, hast learnt, too, the seat where it is to be found, all due preliminaries being discharged, I will now show thee the road which will lead thee home. Wings, also, will I fasten to thy mind wherewith thou mayst soar aloft, that so, all disturbing doubts removed, thou mayst return safe to thy country, under my guidance, in the path I will show thee, and by the means which I furnish.'

Then she said, "It would really be unbelievable, and of all the terrible things, the worst, if, as you think, in the well-ordered home of such a great leader, the lowly things were honored while the valuable were ignored. But that's not the case. If we hold firmly to the conclusions we reached recently, you'll see that, according to the will of Him whose realm we're discussing, the good are always strong, while the bad are always weak and powerless; that vices are never left unpunished, and virtues are never unrewarded; that good fortune always comes to the good, and bad fortune to the bad, among much else that will silence your complaints and establish you in strong conviction. And since you’ve recently learned what happiness looks like and where to find it, having gone through all the necessary steps, I will now show you the way that will lead you home. I will also give wings to your mind so you can rise above everything and, with all your doubts removed, return safely to your homeland, guided by me along the path I will show you, and with the resources I provide."

SONG I.
The Soul's Flight.

Wings are mine; over the pole
Up high I soar.
Dressed in these, my swift soul Scorns the hated shore,
Cuts through the sky on the wind,
Sees the clouds far behind.

Soon she gets closer to the glowing point,
Where the skies rotate,
Follows through the starry skies Phoebus' path, or straight Takes for a friend among the stars
Saturn cold or shiny Mars;

Thus each circling planet explores Through Night's veil that peers; Then, when everything is numbered, it rises. Far beyond the planets,
Reaching the highest point of heaven To the very source of light.

There is the Sovereign of the world
His calm sway continues; As the world keeps spinning forward Steers the chariot reins,
And in glittering splendor Reigns the universal King.

Come here if you're lost
Finally find a way,
Here, you will greet your long-lost home: 'Dear lost land,' you'll say,
'Even though I've strayed far from you,
So I have come, and here I will stay.

But if you ever feel like Visitor to be Of the world's dark night again, Surely you will see
Tyrants that nations fear Live in unfortunate exile here.

II.

Then said I: 'Verily, wondrous great are thy promises; yet I do not doubt but thou canst make them good: only keep me not in suspense after raising such hopes.'

Then I said, "Truly, your promises are amazing; yet I believe you can deliver on them. Just don’t leave me in suspense after raising such hopes."

'Learn, then, first,' said she, 'how that power ever waits upon the good, while the bad are left wholly destitute of strength.[K] Of these truths the one proves the other; for since good and evil are contraries, if it is made plain that good is power, the feebleness of evil is clearly seen, and, conversely, if the frail nature of evil is made manifest, the strength of good is thereby known. However, to win ampler credence for my conclusion, I will pursue both paths, and draw confirmation for my statements first in one way and then in the other.

'So first, let me explain,' she said, 'that good always has power behind it, while evil is completely lacking in strength.[K] These truths support each other; since good and evil are opposites, if we can clearly see that good embodies power, then the weakness of evil is obvious. Likewise, if we demonstrate how weak evil really is, then the strength of good becomes apparent. To give more credibility to my argument, I will explore both sides, and provide evidence for my claims in one way and then in another.'

'The carrying out of any human action depends upon two things—to wit, will and power; if either be wanting, nothing can be accomplished. For if the will be lacking, no attempt at all is made to do what is not willed; whereas if there be no power, the will is all in vain. And so, if thou seest any man wishing to attain some end, yet utterly failing to attain it, thou canst not doubt that he lacked the power of getting what he wished for.'

The execution of any human action relies on two things: will and ability. If either is missing, nothing can be achieved. If there’s no will, no attempt is made to do what isn’t desired; on the other hand, if there’s no ability, the will is pointless. So, if you see someone trying to reach a goal but completely failing to do so, you can’t doubt that they lacked the ability to get what they wanted.

'Why, certainly not; there is no denying it.'

'Of course not; that's obvious.'

'Canst thou, then, doubt that he whom thou seest to have accomplished what he willed had also the power to accomplish it?'

'Can you really doubt that the one you see achieving what they wanted also had the power to make it happen?'

'Of course not.'

'Definitely not.'

'Then, in respect of what he can accomplish a man is to be reckoned strong, in respect of what he cannot accomplish weak?'

'So, when it comes to what a person can achieve, he should be considered strong, but in terms of what he can’t achieve, he’s seen as weak?'

'Granted,' said I.

"Sure," I said.

'Then, dost thou remember that, by our former reasonings, it was concluded that the whole aim of man's will, though the means of pursuit vary, is set intently upon happiness?'

'Then, do you remember that, through our earlier discussions, we concluded that the ultimate goal of human will, even though the ways to pursue it differ, is focused entirely on happiness?'

'I do remember that this, too, was proved.'

'I remember that this was also proven.'

'Dost thou also call to mind how happiness is absolute good, and therefore that, when happiness is sought, it is good which is in all cases the object of desire?'

'Do you also remember how happiness is the ultimate good, and therefore, when we seek happiness, we are always desiring something good?'

'Nay, I do not so much call to mind as keep it fixed in my memory.'

'No, I don’t just remember it; I keep it firmly in my mind.'

'Then, all men, good and bad alike, with one indistinguishable purpose strive to reach good?'

'So, all men, both good and bad, with one shared goal, aim to achieve goodness?'

'Yes, that follows.'

'Yes, that makes sense.'

'But it is certain that by the attainment of good men become good?'

'But is it certain that by becoming good, men attain goodness?'

'It is.'

It is.

'Then, do the good attain their object?'

'So, do the good achieve their goals?'

'It seems so.'

"Looks like it."

'But if the bad were to attain the good which is their object, they could not be bad?'

'But if the bad were to achieve the good that is their goal, they could not be bad?'

'No.'

'Then, since both seek good, but while the one sort attain it, the other attain it not, is there any doubt that the good are endued with power, while they who are bad are weak?'

'Then, since both want what's good, but one group achieves it while the other does not, is there really any doubt that the good are endowed with strength, while those who are bad are weak?'

'If any doubt it, he is incapable of reflecting on the nature of things, or the consequences involved in reasoning.'

'If anyone doubts it, they are unable to think about the nature of things or the consequences of reasoning.'

'Again, supposing there are two things to which the same function is prescribed in the course of nature, and one of these successfully accomplishes the function by natural action, the other is altogether incapable of that natural action, instead of which, in a way other than is agreeable to its nature, it—I will not say fulfils its function, but feigns to fulfil it: which of these two would in thy view be the stronger?'

'Again, let's say there are two things that are meant to do the same thing naturally, and one successfully achieves that through natural means while the other can’t do it naturally at all. Instead, it tries to accomplish the function in a way that doesn’t align with its nature. I won’t say it actually fulfills its function, but rather pretends to. Which of these two do you think is stronger?'

'I guess thy meaning, but I pray thee let me hear thee more at large.'

"I think I understand what you mean, but please tell me more."

'Walking is man's natural motion, is it not?'

'Walking is the natural movement for humans, right?'

'Certainly.'

Absolutely.

'Thou dost not doubt, I suppose, that it is natural for the feet to discharge this function?'

'You don’t doubt, I guess, that it’s natural for the feet to do this job?'

'No; surely I do not.'

'No, I definitely do not.'

'Now, if one man who is able to use his feet walks, and another to whom the natural use of his feet is wanting tries to walk on his hands, which of the two wouldst thou rightly esteem the stronger?'

'Now, if one man can walk on his feet and another, who cannot use his feet, tries to walk on his hands, which of the two would you correctly consider the stronger?'

'Go on,' said I; 'no one can question but that he who has the natural capacity has more strength than he who has it not.'

"Go ahead," I said; "no one can argue that someone with natural talent has more strength than someone without it."

'Now, the supreme good is set up as the end alike for the bad and for the good; but the good seek it through the natural action of the virtues, whereas the bad try to attain this same good through all manner of concupiscence, which is not the natural way of attaining good. Or dost thou think otherwise?'

'Now, the ultimate good is regarded as the goal for both the bad and the good; however, the good pursue it through the natural expression of virtues, while the bad attempt to reach this same good through various forms of desire, which is not the natural way to achieve goodness. Do you think differently?'

'Nay; rather, one further consequence is clear to me: for from my admissions it must needs follow that the good have power, and the bad are impotent.'

'No; instead, one more consequence is clear to me: from what I've said, it must follow that the good have power, and the bad are powerless.'

'Thou anticipatest rightly, and that as physicians reckon is a sign that nature is set working, and is throwing off the disease. But, since I see thee so ready at understanding, I will heap proof on proof. Look how manifest is the extremity of vicious men's weakness; they cannot even reach that goal to which the aim of nature leads and almost constrains them. What if they were left without this mighty, this well-nigh irresistible help of nature's guidance! Consider also how momentous is the powerlessness which incapacitates the wicked. Not light or trivial [L] are the prizes which they contend for, but which they cannot win or hold; nay, their failure concerns the very sum and crown of things. Poor wretches! they fail to compass even that for which they toil day and night. Herein also the strength of the good conspicuously appears. For just as thou wouldst judge him to be the strongest walker whose legs could carry him to a point beyond which no further advance was possible, so must thou needs account him strong in power who so attains the end of his desires that nothing further to be desired lies beyond. Whence follows the obvious conclusion that they who are wicked are seen likewise to be wholly destitute of strength. For why do they forsake virtue and follow vice? Is it from ignorance of what is good? Well, what is more weak and feeble than the blindness of ignorance? Do they know what they ought to follow, but lust drives them aside out of the way? If it be so, they are still frail by reason of their incontinence, for they cannot fight against vice. Or do they knowingly and wilfully forsake the good and turn aside to vice? Why, at this rate, they not only cease to have power, but cease to be at all. For they who forsake the common end of all things that are, they likewise also cease to be at all. Now, to some it may seem strange that we should assert that the bad, who form the greater part of mankind, do not exist. But the fact is so. I do not, indeed, deny that they who are bad are bad, but that they are in an unqualified and absolute sense I deny. Just as we call a corpse a dead man, but cannot call it simply "man," so I would allow the vicious to be bad, but that they are in an absolute sense I cannot allow. That only is which maintains its place and keeps its nature; whatever falls away from this forsakes the existence which is essential to its nature. "But," thou wilt say, "the bad have an ability." Nor do I wish to deny it; only this ability of theirs comes not from strength, but from impotence. For their ability is to do evil, which would have had no efficacy at all if they could have continued in the performance of good. So this ability of theirs proves them still more plainly to have no power. For if, as we concluded just now, evil is nothing, 'tis clear that the wicked can effect nothing, since they are only able to do evil.'

You’re right in your anticipation, and, as doctors would agree, it's a sign that nature is at work, fighting off the illness. But since I see you understand so well, I’ll provide more evidence. Just look at how obvious the weakness of bad people is; they can’t even reach the goals that nature seems to drive them toward. Imagine if they were left without this strong and almost irresistible guidance of nature! Consider how serious the inability is that incapacitates the wicked. They strive for not insignificant rewards, yet they can't achieve or keep them; their failure impacts the very essence and peak of existence. Poor souls! They can't even grasp what they work hard for, day and night. This also highlights the strength of the good. Just as you would judge the strongest walker as someone whose legs can carry them to an unreachable destination, you must see someone powerful as those who achieve their desires completely, with nothing left to wish for. This leads to the clear conclusion that bad people are entirely lacking in strength. Why do they abandon virtue and pursue vice? Is it out of ignorance of what is good? Well, what’s more feeble than the blindness of ignorance? Do they know what they should follow but are led astray by their desires? If that's the case, they remain weak due to their lack of self-control since they can’t fight against vice. Or do they intentionally abandon the good and turn to vice? If so, then they not only lose their power but cease to exist altogether. Those who forsake the common goal of all that exists also cease to exist themselves. It might seem strange to some that we claim that the bad, who make up most of humanity, do not truly exist. But that's the truth. I don’t deny that those who are bad are indeed bad, but I argue that they do not 'exist' in an absolute sense. Just like we refer to a corpse as a dead person but can't simply call it a "person," I acknowledge that the vicious are bad, but I reject that they 'exist' absolutely. Only that which maintains its essence and nature truly exists; whatever falls away from this abandons the existence that's essential to its nature. "But," you might say, "the wicked have abilities." I don’t deny it; however, their abilities are not from strength but from weakness. Their ability is to do evil, which would have no impact at all if they could keep doing good. Thus, this ability actually shows even more clearly that they lack real power. Because if, as we concluded earlier, evil is nothing, then it’s clear that the wicked can achieve nothing since they are only capable of doing evil.

''Tis evident.'

It's clear.

'And that thou mayst understand what is the precise force of this power, we determined, did we not, awhile back, that nothing has more power than supreme good?'

'And so you can understand the exact impact of this power, we decided, didn't we, some time ago, that nothing is more powerful than the highest good?'

'We did,' said I.

"We did," I said.

'But that same highest good cannot do evil?'

'But that same highest good can’t do evil?'

'Certainly not.'

'Definitely not.'

'Is there anyone, then, who thinks that men are able to do all things?'

'Is there anyone who actually believes that men can do everything?'

'None but a madman.'

'Only a madman.'

'Yet they are able to do evil?'

'But can they do evil?'

'Ay; would they could not!'

'Ay; I wish they couldn't!'

'Since, then, he who can do only good is omnipotent, while they who can do evil also are not omnipotent, it is manifest that they who can do evil have less power. There is this also: we have shown that all power is to be reckoned among things desirable, and that all desirable things are referred to good as to a kind of consummation of their nature. But the ability to commit crime cannot be referred to the good; therefore it is not a thing to be desired. And yet all power is desirable; it is clear, then, that ability to do evil is not power. From all which considerations appeareth the power of the good, and the indubitable weakness of the bad, and it is clear that Plato's judgment was true; the wise alone are able to do what they would, while the wicked follow their own hearts' lust, but can not accomplish what they would. For they go on in their wilfulness fancying they will attain what they wish for in the paths of delight; but they are very far from its attainment, since shameful deeds lead not to happiness.'

Since someone who can only do good is all-powerful, while those who can do evil are not all-powerful, it's clear that those who can do evil have less power. Also, we've shown that all power is considered something desirable and that all desirable things are linked to good as a kind of ultimate goal of their nature. However, the ability to commit crimes can't be associated with good, so it's not something to be desired. Yet, all power is desirable; therefore, the ability to do evil isn't real power. From all this, we can see the strength of good and the undeniable weakness of evil, confirming that Plato's judgment was right; only the wise can do what they want, while the wicked follow their own selfish desires but can not achieve what they wish. They continue in their stubbornness believing they will find what they want through pleasure, but they're far from reaching it, as shameful actions don’t lead to happiness.

FOOTNOTES:

[K] The paradoxes in this chapter and chapter iv. are taken from Plato's 'Gorgias.' See Jowett, vol. ii., pp. 348-366, and also pp. 400, 401 ('Gorgias,' 466-479, and 508, 509).

[K] The contradictions in this chapter and chapter iv. come from Plato's 'Gorgias.' See Jowett, vol. ii., pp. 348-366, and also pp. 400, 401 ('Gorgias,' 466-479, and 508, 509).

[L]

This is no trivial game; the struggle
Is fought for Turnus' own dear life.

Conington.

See Virgil, Æneid,' xii. 764, 745: cf. 'Iliad,' xxii. 159-162.

SONG II.
The Bondage of Passion.

When the monarch sits on their high throne, shining with pride Dressed in purple robes, while gleaming steel protects him from all sides; When ominous fears hang over him with a threatening glare,
And Passion shakes his struggling heart—how terrifying his power seems!
But if you tear the clothing of his status from someone like that, You’ll see the heavy burden of secret ties this lord of the earth carries. Lust’s poison festers; a violent storm rages over his mind; His spirit is deeply troubled by sorrow, and empty hopes deceive him. Then you'll confess: one unfortunate person, whom many lords oppress,
He never does what he wants, but lives in the helplessness of being controlled.

III.

'Thou seest, then, in what foulness unrighteous deeds are sunk, with what splendour righteousness shines. Whereby it is manifest that goodness never lacks its reward, nor crime its punishment. For, verily, in all manner of transactions that for the sake of which the particular action is done may justly be accounted the reward of that action, even as the wreath for the sake of which the race is run is the reward offered for running. Now, we have shown happiness to be that very good for the sake of which all things are done. Absolute good, then, is offered as the common prize, as it were, of all human actions. But, truly, this is a reward from which it is impossible to separate the good man, for one who is without good cannot properly be called good at all; wherefore righteous dealing never misses its reward. Rage the wicked, then, never so violently, the crown shall not fall from the head of the wise, nor wither. Verily, other men's unrighteousness cannot pluck from righteous souls their proper glory. Were the reward in which the soul of the righteous delighteth received from without, then might it be taken away by him who gave it, or some other; but since it is conferred by his own righteousness, then only will he lose his prize when he has ceased to be righteous. Lastly, since every prize is desired because it is believed to be good, who can account him who possesses good to be without reward? And what a prize, the fairest and grandest of all! For remember the corollary which I chiefly insisted on a little while back, and reason thus: Since absolute good is happiness, 'tis clear that all the good must be happy for the very reason that they are good. But it was agreed that those who are happy are gods. So, then, the prize of the good is one which no time may impair, no man's power lessen, no man's unrighteousness tarnish; 'tis very Godship. And this being so, the wise man cannot doubt that punishment is inseparable from the bad. For since good and bad, and likewise reward and punishment, are contraries, it necessarily follows that, corresponding to all that we see accrue as reward of the good, there is some penalty attached as punishment of evil. As, then, righteousness itself is the reward of the righteous, so wickedness itself is the punishment of the unrighteous. Now, no one who is visited with punishment doubts that he is visited with evil. Accordingly, if they were but willing to weigh their own case, could they think themselves free from punishment whom wickedness, worst of all evils, has not only touched, but deeply tainted?

You can see, then, how deeply unrighteous actions are mired in darkness and how brilliantly righteousness shines. This clearly shows that goodness always gets its reward, while wrongdoing always faces its consequences. Indeed, in every situation, what motivates the action can rightly be seen as the reward for that action, just as the prize for completing a race is offered as a reward for running. We have established that happiness is the ultimate good for which everything is done. Therefore, absolute good is like the common prize for all human actions. However, this is a reward that cannot be separated from the good person, because someone without goodness cannot truly be called good at all; hence, righteous actions never fail to receive their reward. No matter how fiercely the wicked may rage, the crown will not fall from the head of the wise, nor will it fade. Indeed, the wrongdoing of others cannot take away the rightful glory from righteous souls. If the reward that the righteous soul delights in came from outside, then it could be taken away by whoever gave it, or by someone else; but since it stems from their own righteousness, they will only lose their reward when they cease to be righteous. Lastly, since every prize is desired because it is believed to be good, who can consider someone who possesses goodness to be without reward? And what a prize it is, the most beautiful and grand of all! Remember the point I emphasized earlier and reason this way: since absolute good is happiness, it’s clear that all that is good must be happy precisely because they are good. It was agreed that those who are happy are like gods. Thus, the prize for the good is one that no time can weaken, no man's power can diminish, and no man’s wrongdoing can tarnish; it is true godliness. With this in mind, the wise person cannot doubt that punishment is inseparable from the bad. For since good and bad, as well as reward and punishment, are opposites, it necessarily follows that for everything we see as a reward for good, there is a penalty attached as punishment for evil. Just as righteousness itself is the reward for the righteous, wickedness itself is the punishment for the unrighteous. No one who faces punishment doubts that they are experiencing evil. Therefore, if they were willing to reflect on their own situation, could they believe themselves free from punishment when wickedness, the worst of all evils, has not only touched them but has deeply stained them?

'See, also, from the opposite standpoint—the standpoint of the good—what a penalty attends upon the wicked. Thou didst learn a little since that whatever is is one, and that unity itself is good. Accordingly, by this way of reckoning, whatever falls away from goodness ceases to be; whence it comes to pass that the bad cease to be what they were, while only the outward aspect is still left to show they have been men. Wherefore, by their perversion to badness, they have lost their true human nature. Further, since righteousness alone can raise men above the level of humanity, it must needs be that unrighteousness degrades below man's level those whom it has cast out of man's estate. It results, then, that thou canst not consider him human whom thou seest transformed by vice. The violent despoiler of other men's goods, enflamed with covetousness, surely resembles a wolf. A bold and restless spirit, ever wrangling in law-courts, is like some yelping cur. The secret schemer, taking pleasure in fraud and stealth, is own brother to the fox. The passionate man, phrenzied with rage, we might believe to be animated with the soul of a lion. The coward and runaway, afraid where no fear is, may be likened to the timid deer. He who is sunk in ignorance and stupidity lives like a dull ass. He who is light and inconstant, never holding long to one thing, is for all the world like a bird. He who wallows in foul and unclean lusts is sunk in the pleasures of a filthy hog. So it comes to pass that he who by forsaking righteousness ceases to be a man cannot pass into a Godlike condition, but actually turns into a brute beast.'

See, also, from the opposite perspective—the perspective of the good—what punishment comes to the wicked. You learned recently that everything that exists is one and that unity itself is good. So, by this reasoning, anything that strays from goodness stops existing; thus, the bad no longer remain what they were, with only their outward appearance left to show they were once human. Because of their turning towards badness, they have lost their true human nature. Furthermore, since righteousness alone can elevate humans above mere humanity, it necessarily follows that unrighteousness brings down those who have rejected their human essence. Therefore, you cannot regard someone as human when you see them transformed by vice. The violent thief of others' property, consumed by greed, surely mirrors a wolf. A bold and contentious spirit, always arguing in court, resembles a yapping dog. The secret plotter, delighting in deceit and stealth, is truly like a fox. The hot-tempered person, driven by rage, might even seem to have the soul of a lion. The coward and the one who flees, terrified where there is no danger, can be compared to a timid deer. The person mired in ignorance and foolishness lives like a dull donkey. The one who is flighty and inconsistent, never committing to anything for long, is like a bird. The one who indulges in filthy and unclean desires wallows in the pleasures of a dirty pig. So it turns out that the person who gives up righteousness and stops being human cannot attain a Godlike state but instead becomes like a brute beast.

SONG III.
Circe's Cup.

The discreet Ithacan, And all his stormy fleet, Way across the ocean wave The winds of heaven drove—
Drove to the mystical island,
Where she hides in her deceit That fair and unfaithful one,
The Sun's daughter.
There for the new crew With clever spells she knew To mix the magic drink.
For whoever drinks it up,
Must endure terrible change To monstrous forms and oddities. One like a boar shows up; This huge form rises, Strong and powerful—
A fierce African lion With claws and fangs. Confessed A distressed wolf When he would cry, he howls; And, oddly calm, these prowl The Indian tiger's partners.

Even in such difficult times,
The god's pity Who holds the magic wand Had power the brave chief From her wicked skills to save; His friends, untamed, The poisoned cup was emptied.
All now with heads down,
Like pigs, fed on acorns; Man's speech and appearance were taken away,
No human traits left; But steadfast still, the mind, Unchanged, unyielding,
The huge change lamented.

How little, then, helped The powers of evil!
These herbs, this harmful skill, May change every external part,
But can't touch the heart. In its true home, deep-set, Man's spirit lives on. Those poisons are more deadly, More effective to expel Man from his high status,
Which subtly penetrate, And keep the body whole,
But deeply infect the soul.

IV.

Then said I: 'This is very true. I see that the vicious, though they keep the outward form of man, are rightly said to be changed into beasts in respect of their spiritual nature; but, inasmuch as their cruel and polluted minds vent their rage in the destruction of the good, I would this license were not permitted to them.'

Then I said, "This is very true. I see that the wicked, even though they maintain the outward appearance of a human, can rightly be described as having turned into beasts in terms of their spiritual nature. However, since their cruel and corrupted minds express their anger by harming the good, I wish this freedom to do so was not allowed."

'Nor is it,' said she, 'as shall be shown in the fitting place. Yet if that license which thou believest to be permitted to them were taken away, the punishment of the wicked would be in great part remitted. For verily, incredible as it may seem to some, it needs must be that the bad are more unfortunate when they have accomplished their desires than if they are unable to get them fulfilled. If it is wretched to will evil, to have been able to accomplish evil is more wretched; for without the power the wretched will would fail of effect. Accordingly, those whom thou seest to will, to be able to accomplish, and to accomplish crime, must needs be the victims of a threefold wretchedness, since each one of these states has its own measure of wretchedness.'

'It's not,' she said, 'as will be explained in the right place. But if that freedom you think is allowed for them were taken away, the punishment for the wicked would be mostly lifted. Because, incredibly as it may seem to some, those who are bad are actually worse off when they achieve what they want than when they're unable to. If it's miserable to wish for evil, being able to carry out evil is even worse; because without the ability, the miserable desire would fail to have any effect. Therefore, those you see who wish, are able to do, and do commit crimes must be suffering from a threefold misery, since each of these conditions has its own level of misery.'

'Yes,' said I; 'yet I earnestly wish they might speedily be quit of this misfortune by losing the ability to accomplish crime.'

'Yes,' I said; 'but I sincerely hope they can quickly escape this misfortune by losing the ability to commit crimes.'

'They will lose it,' said she, 'sooner than perchance thou wishest, or they themselves think likely; since, verily, within the narrow bounds of our brief life there is nothing so late in coming that anyone, least of all an immortal spirit, should deem it long to wait for. Their great expectations, the lofty fabric of their crimes, is oft overthrown by a sudden and unlooked-for ending, and this but sets a limit to their misery. For if wickedness makes men wretched, he is necessarily more wretched who is wicked for a longer time; and were it not that death, at all events, puts an end to the evil doings of the wicked, I should account them wretched to the last degree. Indeed, if we have formed true conclusions about the ill fortune of wickedness, that wretchedness is plainly infinite which is doomed to be eternal.'

"They will lose it," she said, "sooner than you might wish or they themselves think likely; because, honestly, within the short span of our lives, there's nothing so delayed that anyone, especially an immortal spirit, should consider it a long wait. Their high hopes and the grand structure of their crimes are often brought down by a sudden and unexpected end, which only limits their suffering. If being wicked makes people miserable, then the one who is wicked for a longer time is necessarily more miserable; and if it weren't for death, which ultimately ends the wrongdoings of the wicked, I would consider them completely wretched. In fact, if we've drawn accurate conclusions about the misfortunes of wickedness, that misery is clearly infinite which is destined to be eternal."

Then said I: 'A wonderful inference, and difficult to grant; but I see that it agrees entirely with our previous conclusions.'

Then I said, "That's a fascinating conclusion, and hard to accept; but I can see it aligns perfectly with what we've concluded before."

'Thou art right,' said she; 'but if anyone finds it hard to admit the conclusion, he ought in fairness either to prove some falsity in the premises, or to show that the combination of propositions does not adequately enforce the necessity of the conclusion; otherwise, if the premises be granted, nothing whatever can be said against the inference of the conclusion. And here is another statement which seems not less wonderful, but on the premises assumed is equally necessary.'

'You are right,' she said; 'but if anyone struggles to accept the conclusion, they should either prove that there is something false in the premises or demonstrate that the combination of propositions doesn't adequately support the necessity of the conclusion; otherwise, if the premises are accepted, nothing can be said against the inference of the conclusion. And here's another statement that seems just as amazing, but based on the assumed premises is equally necessary.'

'What is that?'

'What's that?'

'The wicked are happier in undergoing punishment than if no penalty of justice chasten them. And I am not now meaning what might occur to anyone—that bad character is amended by retribution, and is brought into the right path by the terror of punishment, or that it serves as an example to warn others to avoid transgression; but I believe that in another way the wicked are more unfortunate when they go unpunished, even though no account be taken of amendment, and no regard be paid to example.'

'The wicked are often happier facing punishment than if there were no consequences for their actions. I'm not suggesting that their bad behavior is corrected by retribution or that the fear of punishment guides them toward better choices, or that it serves as a warning to others to avoid wrongdoing; rather, I believe that in a different way, the wicked are worse off when they escape punishment, even if we don't consider the possibility of them changing for the better, and we ignore the example they set for others.'

'Why, what other way is there beside these?' said I.

'Why, what other way is there besides these?' I asked.

Then said she: 'Have we not agreed that the good are happy, and the evil wretched?'

Then she said, "Haven't we agreed that good people are happy, and bad people are miserable?"

'Yes,' said I.

"Yes," I said.

'Now, if,' said she, 'to one in affliction there be given along with his misery some good thing, is he not happier than one whose misery is misery pure and simple without admixture of any good?'

"Now, if," she said, "to someone in pain there is given along with their suffering some good thing, are they not happier than someone whose suffering is just suffering, without any mix of good?"

'It would seem so.'

"Looks that way."

'But if to one thus wretched, one destitute of all good, some further evil be added besides those which make him wretched, is he not to be judged far more unhappy than he whose ill fortune is alleviated by some share of good?'

'But if someone already miserable, lacking all good, is burdened with even more misfortune beyond what makes them unhappy, aren’t they far more unfortunate than someone whose bad luck is eased by some good?'

'It could scarcely be otherwise.'

'It couldn't be any other way.'

'Surely, then, the wicked, when they are punished, have a good thing added to them—to wit, the punishment which by the law of justice is good; and likewise, when they escape punishment, a new evil attaches to them in that very freedom from punishment which thou hast rightly acknowledged to be an evil in the case of the unrighteous.'

'Certainly, when the wicked are punished, they receive something good—specifically, the punishment that is just according to the law; and similarly, when they avoid punishment, a new misfortune comes upon them in that very freedom from punishment, which you have rightly pointed out is bad for the unjust.'

'I cannot deny it.'

"I can't deny it."

'Then, the wicked are far more unhappy when indulged with an unjust freedom from punishment than when punished by a just retribution. Now, it is manifest that it is just for the wicked to be punished, and for them to escape unpunished is unjust.'

'Then, the wicked are much unhappier when given an unfair freedom from punishment than when they face just consequences. It's clear that it's right for the wicked to be punished, and for them to go unpunished is wrong.'

'Why, who would venture to deny it?'

"Why, who would dare to say otherwise?"

'This, too, no one can possibly deny—that all which is just is good, and, conversely, all which is unjust is bad.'

'This, too, no one can deny—that everything that is fair is good, and, on the flip side, everything that is unfair is bad.'

Then I answered: 'These inferences do indeed follow from what we lately concluded; but tell me,' said I, 'dost thou take no account of the punishment of the soul after the death of the body?'

Then I replied, "These conclusions really do follow from what we just discussed; but tell me," I said, "aren't you considering the punishment of the soul after the body dies?"

'Nay, truly,' said she, 'great are these penalties, some of them inflicted, I imagine, in the severity of retribution, others in the mercy of purification. But it is not my present purpose to speak of these. So far, my aim hath been to make thee recognise that the power of the bad which shocked thee so exceedingly is no power; to make thee see that those of whose freedom from punishment thou didst complain are never without the proper penalties of their unrighteousness; to teach thee that the license which thou prayedst might soon come to an end is not long-enduring; that it would be more unhappy if it lasted longer, most unhappy of all if it lasted for ever; thereafter that the unrighteous are more wretched if unjustly let go without punishment than if punished by a just retribution—from which point of view it follows that the wicked are afflicted with more severe penalties just when they are supposed to escape punishment.'

"Really," she said, "these penalties are severe—some are imposed harshly as a form of retribution, while others serve as a means of purification. But I’m not here to discuss that right now. My goal has been to help you understand that the power of the wicked that shocked you so much isn't real power; to show you that those who seem to escape punishment always face the consequences of their wrongdoing; to teach you that the freedom you wished for them isn't lasting; that it would actually be worse if it lasted longer, and the worst if it lasted forever; and that the wicked suffer more when they are unjustly allowed to go unpunished than when they receive just punishment—which means that the wicked endure harsher penalties exactly when it looks like they will escape punishment."

Then said I: 'While I follow thy reasonings, I am deeply impressed with their truth; but if I turn to the common convictions of men, I find few who will even listen to such arguments, let alone admit them to be credible.'

Then I said, "While I understand your reasoning, I'm really struck by how true it is; however, when I look at what most people believe, I find very few who will even consider such arguments, let alone accept them as credible."

'True,' said she; 'they cannot lift eyes accustomed to darkness to the light of clear truth, and are like those birds whose vision night illumines and day blinds; for while they regard, not the order of the universe, but their own dispositions of mind, they think the license to commit crime, and the escape from punishment, to be fortunate. But mark the ordinance of eternal law. Hast thou fashioned thy soul to the likeness of the better, thou hast no need of a judge to award the prize—by thine own act hast thou raised thyself in the scale of excellence; hast thou perverted thy affections to baser things, look not for punishment from one without thee—thine own act hath degraded thee, and thrust thee down. Even so, if alternately thou turn thy gaze upon the vile earth and upon the heavens, though all without thee stand still, by the mere laws of sight thou seemest now sunk in the mire, now soaring among the stars. But the common herd regards not these things. What, then? Shall we go over to those whom we have shown to be like brute beasts? Why, suppose, now, one who had quite lost his sight should likewise forget that he had ever possessed the faculty of vision, and should imagine that nothing was wanting in him to human perfection, should we deem those who saw as well as ever blind? Why, they will not even assent to this, either—that they who do wrong are more wretched than those who suffer wrong, though the proof of this rests on grounds of reason no less strong.'

"True," she said. "They can't lift their eyes, used to darkness, to the light of clear truth, and are like those birds that are illuminated by night and blinded by day; because while they focus not on the order of the universe but on their own thoughts, they believe that the freedom to commit crime and avoid punishment is a stroke of luck. But pay attention to the eternal laws. If you've shaped your soul to resemble the better things, you don’t need a judge to award the prize—by your own actions, you’ve raised yourself in the scale of excellence; if you’ve twisted your feelings toward base things, don’t expect punishment from an outside source—your own actions have degraded you and pushed you down. Even if you occasionally look at the filthy earth and then up at the heavens, though everything outside remains still, simply by the nature of sight you appear now stuck in the mud, now soaring among the stars. But the average person doesn’t consider these things. So what? Should we join those whom we’ve shown to be like animals? Well, suppose now someone who completely lost their sight also forgot that they ever possessed the ability to see, and believed that nothing was missing in them for human perfection—should we say that those who can see are just as blind? They wouldn't even agree to that—that those who do wrong are more miserable than those who suffer wrong, though the evidence for this is based on equally strong reasoning."

'Let me hear these same reasons,' said I.

"Let me hear those same reasons," I said.

'Wouldst thou deny that every wicked man deserves punishment?'

'Would you deny that every evil person deserves punishment?'

'I would not, certainly.'

'Definitely not.'

'And that those who are wicked are unhappy is clear in manifold ways?'

'It's clear in many ways that those who are wicked are unhappy.'

'Yes,' I replied.

'Yeah,' I replied.

'Thou dost not doubt, then, that those who deserve punishment are wretched?'

'You don't doubt, then, that those who deserve punishment are miserable?'

'Agreed,' said I.

'Agreed,' I said.

'So, then, if thou wert sitting in judgment, on whom wouldst thou decree the infliction of punishment—on him who had done the wrong, or on him who had suffered it?'

'So, if you were sitting in judgment, who would you decide to punish— the person who did wrong, or the one who suffered because of it?'

'Without doubt, I would compensate the sufferer at the cost of the doer of the wrong.'

'Without a doubt, I would make up for the pain of the victim at the expense of the person who did the wrong.'

'Then, the injurer would seem more wretched than the injured?'

'So, would the one who caused harm seem more miserable than the one who was harmed?'

'Yes; it follows. And so for this and other reasons resting on the same ground, inasmuch as baseness of its own nature makes men wretched, it is plain that a wrong involves the misery of the doer, not of the sufferer.'

'Yes; it follows. And so for this and other reasons based on the same idea, since the nature of wrongdoing itself makes people unhappy, it’s clear that a wrong affects the misery of the wrongdoer, not the victim.'

'And yet,' says she, 'the practice of the law-courts is just the opposite: advocates try to arouse the commiseration of the judges for those who have endured some grievous and cruel wrong; whereas pity is rather due to the criminal, who ought to be brought to the judgment-seat by his accusers in a spirit not of anger, but of compassion and kindness, as a sick man to the physician, to have the ulcer of his fault cut away by punishment. Whereby the business of the advocate would either wholly come to a standstill, or, did men prefer to make it serviceable to mankind, would be restricted to the practice of accusation. The wicked themselves also, if through some chink or cranny they were permitted to behold the virtue they have forsaken, and were to see that by the pains of punishment they would rid themselves of the uncleanness of their vices, and win in exchange the recompense of righteousness, they would no longer think these sufferings pains; they would refuse the help of advocates, and would commit themselves wholly into the hands of their accusers and judges. Whence it comes to pass that for the wise no place is left for hatred; only the most foolish would hate the good, and to hate the bad is unreasonable. For if vicious propensity is, as it were, a disease of the soul like bodily sickness, even as we account the sick in body by no means deserving of hate, but rather of pity, so, and much more, should they be pitied whose minds are assailed by wickedness, which is more frightful than any sickness.'

'And yet,' she says, 'the way the courts work is completely different: lawyers try to gain the sympathy of the judges for those who have suffered severe and unfair harm; meanwhile, compassion should really be aimed at the criminal, who should be brought before the court by their accusers not with anger, but with understanding and kindness, like taking a sick person to a doctor, to have the sore of their wrongdoing treated with punishment. This would either cause the lawyer’s role to come to a complete halt, or if people chose to make it beneficial for society, it would only focus on prosecution. Even the wrongdoers themselves, if they were allowed a glimpse of the virtue they've abandoned, and saw that through the suffering of punishment they could rid themselves of the filth of their vices and earn the reward of righteousness, would no longer view these sufferings as pains; they would reject the assistance of advocates and completely surrender themselves to their accusers and judges. This is why for the wise, there is no room for hatred; only the foolish would hate the good, and hating the bad makes no sense. If immoral tendencies are, in a way, a sickness of the soul like physical illness, then just as we don't think of the sick in body as deserving of hatred, but rather of compassion, so too should we feel pity for those whose minds are plagued by wickedness, which is far more terrifying than any physical ailment.'

SONG IV.
The Unreasonableness of Hatred.

Why all this intense conflict? Oh, why With reckless and deliberate actions, invite the day of death that's meant to come? If you seek death—look! Death is near,
The swift horses won't delay from their master's command!

The wild animals unleash their fury on humans,
Yet against their brothers' lives, men wield the deadly weapon; They wage unfair and brutal wars,
And hurry to meet death with flying darts or confront it.

They can't provide any justification or explanation; It's just because their lands and laws are different. If you would give each person what they deserve, then understand You must love the good, and have pity for the bad.

V.

On this I said: 'I see how there is a happiness and misery founded on the actual deserts of the righteous and the wicked. Nevertheless, I wonder in myself whether there is not some good and evil in fortune as the vulgar understand it. Surely, no sensible man would rather be exiled, poor and disgraced, than dwell prosperously in his own country, powerful, wealthy, and high in honour. Indeed, the work of wisdom is more clear and manifest in its operation when the happiness of rulers is somehow passed on to the people around them, especially considering that the prison, the law, and the other pains of legal punishment are properly due only to mischievous citizens on whose account they were originally instituted. Accordingly, I do exceedingly marvel why all this is completely reversed—why the good are harassed with the penalties due to crime, and the bad carry off the rewards of virtue; and I long to hear from thee what reason may be found for so unjust a state of disorder. For assuredly I should wonder less if I could believe that all things are the confused result of chance. But now my belief in God's governance doth add amazement to amazement. For, seeing that He sometimes assigns fair fortune to the good and harsh fortune to the bad, and then again deals harshly with the good, and grants to the bad their hearts' desire, how does this differ from chance, unless some reason is discovered for it all?'

On this I said: 'I see how happiness and misery are based on the true qualities of the righteous and the wicked. Still, I wonder if there’s not some good and evil in fortune as most people understand it. Surely, no reasonable person would prefer to be exiled, poor, and disgraced rather than live well in their own country, powerful, wealthy, and respected. In fact, the work of wisdom is clearer and more evident when the happiness of leaders is somehow reflected in the lives of the people around them, especially since punishment, law, and other legal penalties are rightfully directed only at those who cause trouble, for whom they were originally established. So, I am truly amazed why this is all completely upside down—why the good suffer the penalties meant for criminals, and the bad reap the rewards of virtue; and I am eager to hear from you what reason may explain such an unfair situation. For I would be less astonished if I could believe that everything is just a random result of chance. But now my belief in God’s governance only adds to my amazement. For, since He sometimes gives good fortune to the righteous and bad fortune to the wicked, and then treats the good harshly while granting the wicked whatever they desire, how is this different from chance, unless some reason is found for it all?'

'Nay; it is not wonderful,' said she, 'if all should be thought random and confused when the principle of order is not known. And though thou knowest not the causes on which this great system depends, yet forasmuch as a good ruler governs the world, doubt not for thy part that all is rightly done.'

'No, it's not surprising,' she said, 'if everything seems random and chaotic when the principle of order isn't understood. And even though you don't know the reasons behind this huge system, since a good ruler oversees the world, don't doubt that everything is being done correctly.'

SONG V.
Wonder and Ignorance.

Who doesn't know how close the pole Bootes' journey goes,
Must wonder at what divine law He moves his cart so slowly; Why does he dive below the surface so late,
And quickly turns his beams back on again.

When the full moon grows pale In the middle of the night,
And suddenly the stars shine bright. That faded in her light,
The astonished nations stand in awe,
And struck the air in wild amazement.[M]

No one wonders why on the shore The stormy waves crashed, Nor why the ice-covered glaciers melt. In the sweltering summer heat; Here, the reason seems obvious and straightforward,
We only fear what is dark and hidden.

Weak-minded foolishness exaggerates
Everything that is rare and unusual,
And the uninspired crowd is overwhelmed with awe At an unexpected change.
But wonder inspires enlightened minds,
When ignorance doesn't blind anymore.

FOOTNOTES:

[M] To frighten away the monster swallowing the moon. The superstition was once common. See Tylor's 'Primitive Culture,' pp. 296-302.

[M] To scare off the creature that devours the moon. This superstition was once widespread. See Tylor's 'Primitive Culture,' pp. 296-302.

VI.

'True,' said I; 'but, since it is thy office to unfold the hidden cause of things, and explain principles veiled in darkness, inform me, I pray thee, of thine own conclusions in this matter, since the marvel of it is what more than aught else disturbs my mind.'

"That's true," I said, "but since it's your job to reveal the hidden reasons behind things and explain principles that are shrouded in darkness, please share your thoughts on this matter. The wonder of it is what troubles my mind more than anything else."

A smile played one moment upon her lips as she replied: 'Thou callest me to the greatest of all subjects of inquiry, a task for which the most exhaustive treatment barely suffices. Such is its nature that, as fast as one doubt is cut away, innumerable others spring up like Hydra's heads, nor could we set any limit to their renewal did we not apply the mind's living fire to suppress them. For there come within its scope the questions of the essential simplicity of providence, of the order of fate, of unforeseen chance, of the Divine knowledge and predestination, and of the freedom of the will. How heavy is the weight of all this thou canst judge for thyself. But, inasmuch as to know these things also is part of the treatment of thy malady, we will try to give them some consideration, despite the restrictions of the narrow limits of our time. Moreover, thou must for a time dispense with the pleasures of music and song, if so be that thou findest any delight therein, whilst I weave together the connected train of reasons in proper order.'

A smile briefly touched her lips as she replied, "You’re bringing up the greatest topic to explore, a task so vast that even the most thorough examination hardly does it justice. It’s like a Hydra: as soon as one doubt is resolved, countless others pop up, and there’s no end to their resurgence unless we use our minds' insight to quiet them. This includes questions about the fundamental nature of providence, the structure of fate, unexpected chance, Divine knowledge and predestination, , and the freedom of will. You can gauge how heavy all of this is for yourself. However, since understanding these matters is also part of addressing your issue, we’ll try to consider them, even within the limited time we have. Also, you’ll need to set aside the pleasures of music and song, if you find joy in them, while I arrange this series of arguments in the right order."

'As thou wilt,' said I.

'As you wish,' I said.

Then, as if making a new beginning, she thus discoursed: 'The coming into being of all things, the whole course of development in things that change, every sort of thing that moves in any wise, receives its due cause, order, and form from the steadfastness of the Divine mind. This mind, calm in the citadel of its own essential simplicity, has decreed that the method of its rule shall be manifold. Viewed in the very purity of the Divine intelligence, this method is called providence; but viewed in regard to those things which it moves and disposes, it is what the ancients called fate. That these two are different will easily be clear to anyone who passes in review their respective efficacies. Providence is the Divine reason itself, seated in the Supreme Being, which disposes all things; fate is the disposition inherent in all things which move, through which providence joins all things in their proper order. Providence embraces all things, however different, however infinite; fate sets in motion separately individual things, and assigns to them severally their position, form, and time.

Then, as if starting anew, she said: 'The emergence of all things, the entire process of development in changing things, every type of movement, receives its rightful cause, order, and form from the unwavering nature of the Divine mind. This mind, peaceful in its own essential simplicity, has decided that its way of governing will be diverse. When seen through the pure lens of Divine intelligence, this way is called providence; but when considered in relation to the things it influences and arranges, it is what the ancients referred to as fate. It's clear to anyone who examines their respective effects that these two are distinct. Providence is the Divine reason itself, residing in the Supreme Being, which orchestrates all things; fate is the inherent arrangement found in all moving things, through which providence connects everything in its proper order. Providence encompasses everything, no matter how different or infinite; fate moves individual things separately and assigns to each its position, form, and time.

'So the unfolding of this temporal order unified into the foreview of the Divine mind is providence, while the same unity broken up and unfolded in time is fate. And although these are different, yet is there a dependence between them; for the order of destiny issues from the essential simplicity of providence. For as the artificer, forming in his mind beforehand the idea of the thing to be made, carries out his design, and develops from moment to moment what he had before seen in a single instant as a whole, so God in His providence ordains all things as parts of a single unchanging whole, but carries out these very ordinances by fate in a time of manifold unity. So whether fate is accomplished by Divine spirits as the ministers of providence, or by a soul, or by the service of all nature—whether by the celestial motion of the stars, by the efficacy of angels, or by the many-sided cunning of demons—whether by all or by some of these the destined series is woven, this, at least, is manifest: that providence is the fixed and simple form of destined events, fate their shifting series in order of time, as by the disposal of the Divine simplicity they are to take place. Whereby it is that all things which are under fate are subjected also to providence, on which fate itself is dependent; whereas certain things which are set under providence are above the chain of fate—viz., those things which by their nearness to the primal Divinity are steadfastly fixed, and lie outside the order of fate's movements. For as the innermost of several circles revolving round the same centre approaches the simplicity of the midmost point, and is, as it were, a pivot round which the exterior circles turn, while the outermost, whirled in ampler orbit, takes in a wider and wider sweep of space in proportion to its departure from the indivisible unity of the centre—while, further, whatever joins and allies itself to the centre is narrowed to a like simplicity, and no longer expands vaguely into space—even so whatsoever departs widely from primal mind is involved more deeply in the meshes of fate, and things are free from fate in proportion as they seek to come nearer to that central pivot; while if aught cleaves close to supreme mind in its absolute fixity, this, too, being free from movement, rises above fate's necessity. Therefore, as is reasoning to pure intelligence, as that which is generated to that which is, time to eternity, a circle to its centre, so is the shifting series of fate to the steadfastness and simplicity of providence.

So, the unfolding of this temporal order unified in the Divine mind is providence, while that same unity, when broken up and revealed over time, is fate. Though these are distinct, they depend on each other; the order of destiny flows from the fundamental simplicity of providence. Just as a creator envisions an idea before making it and then realizes his plan step by step from what he saw all at once, God in His providence organizes everything as parts of a single, unchanging whole, but executes these plans through fate over time in a complex unity. Whether fate is fulfilled by Divine spirits acting as agents of providence, by the soul, or through the workings of nature—be it by the celestial movement of stars, angelic influence, or the complex schemes of demons—what's clear is this: providence represents the constant and straightforward structure of destined events, while fate represents their dynamic unfolding over time, determined by Divine simplicity. Thus, everything governed by fate is also subject to providence, which fate relies on; meanwhile, some things governed by providence lie beyond the reach of fate—specifically, those closest to the primal Divinity, remaining firmly fixed, beyond fate's movements. Just like the innermost circle rotating around the same center approaches the simplicity of the center point and acts as a pivot for the outer circles, which, as they move in wider orbits, encompass a greater expanse in proportion to their distance from the unity of the center—furthermore, whatever connects with the center simplifies and no longer spreads aimlessly into space—similarly, whatever strays far from the primal mind becomes more tangled in fate, while things become less entangled as they move closer to that central pivot; and if anything remains closely attached to the supreme mind in its absolute stability, it too, being motionless, transcends the necessity of fate. Therefore, just as reasoning relates to pure intelligence, generation relates to existence, time relates to eternity, and a circle relates to its center, so the shifting series of fate corresponds to the steadfastness and simplicity of providence.

'It is this causal series which moves heaven and the stars, attempers the elements to mutual accord, and again in turn transforms them into new combinations; this which renews the series of all things that are born and die through like successions of germ and birth; it is its operation which binds the destinies of men by an indissoluble nexus of causality, and, since it issues in the beginning from unalterable providence, these destinies also must of necessity be immutable. Accordingly, the world is ruled for the best if this unity abiding in the Divine mind puts forth an inflexible order of causes. And this order, by its intrinsic immutability, restricts things mutable which otherwise would ebb and flow at random. And so it happens that, although to you, who are not altogether capable of understanding this order, all things seem confused and disordered, nevertheless there is everywhere an appointed limit which guides all things to good. Verily, nothing can be done for the sake of evil even by the wicked themselves; for, as we abundantly proved, they seek good, but are drawn out of the way by perverse error; far less can this order which sets out from the supreme centre of good turn aside anywhither from the way in which it began.

'It is this chain of events that moves the heavens and the stars, harmonizes the elements with each other, and in turn transforms them into new combinations; this is what renews the cycle of all things that are born and die through similar processes of germination and birth; it is its effect that connects the destinies of people by an unbreakable link of cause and effect, and since it originates from unchangeable providence, these destinies must also be unchangeable. Therefore, the world is governed for the best if this unity residing in the Divine mind establishes a strict order of causes. This order, by its inherent immutability, limits things that are changeable, which would otherwise fluctuate randomly. Thus, although everything may seem chaotic and disorganized to you, who may not fully grasp this order, there is a predetermined limit that directs everything towards good. Indeed, nothing can be done for the sake of evil, even by the wicked themselves; for, as we have thoroughly demonstrated, they seek good but are misled by misguided choices; much less can this order, which originates from the ultimate source of good, stray from the path in which it began.'

'"Yet what confusion," thou wilt say, "can be more unrighteous than that prosperity and adversity should indifferently befall the good, what they like and what they loathe come alternately to the bad!" Yes; but have men in real life such soundness of mind that their judgments of righteousness and wickedness must necessarily correspond with facts? Why, on this very point their verdicts conflict, and those whom some deem worthy of reward, others deem worthy of punishment. Yet granted there were one who could rightly distinguish the good and bad, yet would he be able to look into the soul's inmost constitution, as it were, if we may borrow an expression used of the body? The marvel here is not unlike that which astonishes one who does not know why in health sweet things suit some constitutions, and bitter others, or why some sick men are best alleviated by mild remedies, others by severe. But the physician who distinguishes the precise conditions and characteristics of health and sickness does not marvel. Now, the health of the soul is nothing but righteousness, and vice is its sickness. God, the guide and physician of the mind, it is who preserves the good and banishes the bad. And He looks forth from the lofty watch-tower of His providence, perceives what is suited to each, and assigns what He knows to be suitable.

"Yet what confusion," you might say, "can be more unjust than that both good and bad people experience prosperity and adversity equally, with what they desire and what they dislike happening to bad people!" Yes, but do people in real life have such clarity of mind that their judgments of right and wrong must always align with reality? The truth is, their opinions differ on this very issue, and those who some view as deserving of reward, others see as deserving of punishment. Even if there were someone who could accurately distinguish between good and bad, could they truly look into the soul's deepest nature, so to speak? The wonder here is similar to the surprise of someone who doesn't understand why sweet foods suit some healthy individuals while bitter ones benefit others, or why some sick people feel better with mild treatments while others need something harsh. But a doctor who understands the specific characteristics and conditions of health and illness is not amazed. Now, the health of the soul is simply righteousness, while vice is its illness. God, who guides and heals the mind, is the one who protects the good and drives away the bad. He watches from the high tower of His providence, understands what is best for each person, and gives them what He knows is appropriate.

'This, then, is what that extraordinary mystery of the order of destiny comes to—that something is done by one who knows, whereat the ignorant are astonished. But let us consider a few instances whereby appears what is the competency of human reason to fathom the Divine unsearchableness. Here is one whom thou deemest the perfection of justice and scrupulous integrity; to all-knowing Providence it seems far otherwise. We all know our Lucan's admonition that it was the winning cause that found favour with the gods, the beaten cause with Cato. So, shouldst thou see anything in this world happening differently from thy expectation, doubt not but events are rightly ordered; it is in thy judgment that there is perverse confusion.

This is what the extraordinary mystery of destiny comes down to—that something is done by someone who knows, while the ignorant are left amazed. But let’s look at a few examples that show what human reason is capable of when trying to understand the divine unknowability. Here’s someone you think embodies complete justice and strict integrity; to all-knowing Providence, it seems quite different. We all know Lucan's advice that it’s the winning side that wins the favor of the gods, while the beaten side finds support from Cato. So, if you see anything in this world happening differently from what you expected, don’t doubt that events are ordered correctly; it’s your judgment that has the confusion.

'Grant, however, there be somewhere found one of so happy a character that God and man alike agree in their judgments about him; yet is he somewhat infirm in strength of mind. It may be, if he fall into adversity, he will cease to practise that innocency which has failed to secure his fortune. Therefore, God's wise dispensation spares him whom adversity might make worse, will not let him suffer who is ill fitted for endurance. Another there is perfect in all virtue, so holy and nigh to God that providence judges it unlawful that aught untoward should befall him; nay, doth not even permit him to be afflicted with bodily disease. As one more excellent than I [N] hath said:

'However, if there is someone with such a positive character that both God and people agree on how good he is, he might still be a bit weak in terms of mental strength. It’s possible that if he faces difficult times, he might stop practicing the innocence that hasn’t helped him succeed. So, in His wisdom, God protects those who might become worse under hardship and doesn’t let them endure suffering they aren't prepared for. Then there’s another person who embodies all virtues, so holy and close to God that fate considers it wrong for anything bad to happen to him; in fact, it doesn’t even allow him to suffer from physical illness. As someone greater than I [N] has stated:

"The physical body of the holy saint
Is made of purest ether."

Often it happens that the governance is given to the good that a restraint may be put upon superfluity of wickedness. To others providence assigns some mixed lot suited to their spiritual nature; some it will plague lest they grow rank through long prosperity; others it will suffer to be vexed with sore afflictions to confirm their virtues by the exercise and practice of patience. Some fear overmuch what they have strength to bear; others despise overmuch that to which their strength is unequal. All these it brings to the test of their true self through misfortune. Some also have bought a name revered to future ages at the price of a glorious death; some by invincible constancy under their sufferings have afforded an example to others that virtue cannot be overcome by calamity—all which things, without doubt, come to pass rightly and in due order, and to the benefit of those to whom they are seen to happen.

Often, governance is given to the good to prevent excess wickedness. To others, providence assigns a mixed fate suited to their spiritual nature; some may be tested to prevent them from becoming complacent through long periods of prosperity; others may be allowed to suffer from severe afflictions to strengthen their virtues through patience. Some overly fear what they have the strength to endure; others underestimate what they cannot handle. All of these experiences test their true selves through misfortune. Some have earned a name that will be honored in future ages through a glorious death; others, through unwavering steadfastness in their suffering, have shown that virtue cannot be defeated by hardship—all of which surely happens justly and in proper order, ultimately benefiting those experiencing it.

'As to the other side of the marvel, that the bad now meet with affliction, now get their hearts' desire, this, too, springs from the same causes. As to the afflictions, of course no one marvels, because all hold the wicked to be ill deserving. The truth is, their punishments both frighten others from crime, and amend those on whom they are inflicted; while their prosperity is a powerful sermon to the good, what judgments they ought to pass on good fortune of this kind, which often attends the wicked so assiduously.

'On the other hand, the fact that the wicked sometimes face suffering and sometimes get exactly what they want also comes from the same reasons. People don't really question the suffering because everyone thinks the bad deserve it. The reality is that their punishments not only deter others from committing crimes but also help change those who experience them; meanwhile, their success serves as a strong lesson to the good about how they should judge the good fortune of the wicked, which often seems to follow them closely.'

'There is another object which may, I believe, be attained in such cases: there is one, perhaps, whose nature is so reckless and violent that poverty would drive him more desperately into crime. His disorder providence relieves by allowing him to amass money. Such a one, in the uneasiness of a conscience stained with guilt, while he contrasts his character with his fortune, perchance grows alarmed lest he should come to mourn the loss of that whose possession is so pleasant to him. He will, then, reform his ways, and through the fear of losing his fortune he forsakes his iniquity. Some, through a prosperity unworthily borne, have been hurled headlong to ruin; to some the power of the sword has been committed, to the end that the good may be tried by discipline, and the bad punished. For while there can be no peace between the righteous and the wicked, neither can the wicked agree among themselves. How should they, when each is at variance with himself, because his vices rend his conscience, and ofttimes they do things which, when they are done, they judge ought not to have been done. Hence it is that this supreme providence brings to pass this notable marvel—that the bad make the bad good. For some, when they see the injustice which they themselves suffer at the hands of evil-doers, are inflamed with detestation of the offenders, and, in the endeavour to be unlike those whom they hate, return to the ways of virtue. It is the Divine power alone to which things evil are also good, in that, by putting them to suitable use, it bringeth them in the end to some good issue. For order in some way or other embraceth all things, so that even that which has departed from the appointed laws of the order, nevertheless falleth within an order, though another order, that nothing in the realm of providence may be left to haphazard. But

There’s another thing that I believe can happen in these situations: there’s someone whose nature is so reckless and violent that being poor would push him further into crime. His problems are eased by luck, which allows him to gather wealth. Someone like this, struggling with a guilty conscience, might start to worry about losing what he has become so fond of. He will then change his ways and, out of fear of losing his wealth, abandon his wrongdoings. Some people, through an undeserved success, have fallen into despair; others have been given power, so that the good can be tested and the bad punished. While there can be no peace between the righteous and the wicked, the wicked can’t even get along with each other. How could they when each is at war with himself, as his vices tear at his conscience, often leading him to do things that, afterward, he thinks shouldn’t have been done? This supreme providence creates a remarkable phenomenon—that the bad end up making the bad good. For some, when they witness the injustice they suffer from wrongdoers, they become infuriated with those offenders, and in trying to be different from those they despise, they revert to virtuous ways. It is only the Divine power that makes evil things also good, since by using them appropriately, they can ultimately lead to a positive outcome. For there is order in some way in everything, so that even what strays from the intended laws of order still falls into a different order, ensuring that nothing in the realm of providence is left to chance. But

'"Hard were the task, as a god, to recount all, nothing omitting."

"Recounting everything, leaving nothing out, would be a tough job, even for a god."

Nor, truly, is it lawful for man to compass in thought all the mechanism of the Divine work, or set it forth in speech. Let us be content to have apprehended this only—that God, the creator of universal nature, likewise disposeth all things, and guides them to good; and while He studies to preserve in likeness to Himself all that He has created, He banishes all evil from the borders of His commonweal through the links of fatal necessity. Whereby it comes to pass that, if thou look to disposing providence, thou wilt nowhere find the evils which are believed so to abound on earth.

Nor is it really lawful for humans to fully understand all the workings of the Divine creation or put it into words. Let us be satisfied with this understanding—that God, the creator of the universe, also arranges everything and directs it towards good; and while He strives to keep all that He has created in His own image, He removes all evil from His realm through the chains of necessity. As a result, if you consider the guiding providence, you will find that the evils thought to be so prevalent on earth are not actually present.

'But I see thou hast long been burdened with the weight of the subject, and fatigued with the prolixity of the argument, and now lookest for some refreshment of sweet poesy. Listen, then, and may the draught so restore thee that thou wilt bend thy mind more resolutely to what remains.'

But I can see that you’ve been carrying the weight of this topic for a while and are tired of the lengthy discussion. Now you’re looking for a refreshing break with some lovely poetry. So listen, and may this drink revive you enough to focus more intently on what’s left to cover.

FOOTNOTES:

[N] Parmenides. Boethius seems to forget for the moment that Philosophy is speaking.

[N] Parmenides. Boethius seems to momentarily forget that Philosophy is at work.

SONG VI.
The Universal Aim.

Would you with a clear mind Check out the laws that God designed,
Lift your steady gaze upwards To the starry sky;
See in the rightful bond of love All the constellations shift. Fiery sun, in full swing,
Never obstructs cold Phoebe's sphere; When the Bear, up in the sky,
Drives his horses' swift journey,
Though he sees the starry train Sinking in the western sea,
He doesn't complain or desire In the flood to put out his fires.

In proper order, as ordered,
Every morning and evening follow; Vesper brings the darkness of night,
Lucifer, the morning star.
Love, in alternating dues,
Still the cycle renews,
And conflicting strife is driven From the starry sky above. So, in amazing friendship,
Fighting parties agree;
Hot and cold, moist and dry,
Set aside their ancient quarrel; The flickering flame rises high,
Earth always leans downward.

During the gentle hours of springtime this year Fills the air with the scent of flowers; Summer colors the golden grain;
Then, when fall comes again,
The orchards shine with ripened fruit; Winter brings rain and snow.
Thus the seasons' steady flow,
Tempered in the right order,
Nurtures and gives life
Everything that lives and breathes on Earth. Then, soon, life's little day will pass, Everything it gives, it also takes away.

But One sits and holds the reins, He who created everything and keeps it all going; King, Lord, and Source, Most holy Judge, most fearsome Law; Now urges forward and now holds back,
Keeps every indecisive person on the right path.
Otherwise, when the power was restricted The spinning spheres demanded In their orbits to spin,
This world's order would break down,
And the harmonious whole would all In a terrible ruin fall.

But through this connected frame Pursues a common goal; All things aim towards what is good,
Many paths, but only one destination. Nothing lasts, unless it changes. Backward in its path, and longs To flow back to that Source again From where its existence was first taken.

VII.

'Dost thou, then, see the consequence of all that we have said?'

'Do you see the consequence of everything we've discussed?'

'Nay; what consequence?'

'No; what consequence?'

'That absolutely every fortune is good fortune.'

'That every fortune is good fortune.'

'And how can that be?' said I.

'And how can that be?' I asked.

'Attend,' said she. 'Since every fortune, welcome and unwelcome alike, has for its object the reward or trial of the good, and the punishing or amending of the bad, every fortune must be good, since it is either just or useful.'

"Listen," she said. "Since every fortune, whether welcome or unwelcome, aims to reward the good or test them, and to punish or improve the bad, every fortune must be good, as it is either fair or beneficial."

'The reasoning is exceeding true,' said I, 'the conclusion, so long as I reflect upon the providence and fate of which thou hast taught me, based on a strong foundation. Yet, with thy leave, we will count it among those which just now thou didst set down as paradoxical.'

"The reasoning is completely valid," I said, "the conclusion, as long as I think about the providence and fate you’ve explained to me, is built on a solid foundation. However, if you don’t mind, let’s consider it one of those that you just listed as paradoxical."

'And why so?' said she.

"And why's that?" she asked.

'Because ordinary speech is apt to assert, and that frequently, that some men's fortune is bad.'

'Because everyday conversation tends to claim, and often, that some men have bad luck.'

'Shall we, then, for awhile approach more nearly to the language of the vulgar, that we may not seem to have departed too far from the usages of men?'

'Shall we, then, for a while, use language that’s more common so we don’t seem like we’ve strayed too far from how people actually speak?'

'At thy good pleasure,' said I.

'At your good pleasure,' I said.

'That which advantageth thou callest good, dost thou not?'

'What benefits you, you call good, don't you?'

'Certainly.'

'For sure.'

'And that which either tries or amends advantageth?'

'And what either tests or improves helps?'

'Granted.'

"Granted."

'Is good, then?'

'Is it good, then?'

'Of course.'

"Of course."

'Well, this is their case who have attained virtue and wage war with adversity, or turn from vice and lay hold on the path of virtue.'

'Well, this is their case for those who have achieved virtue and battle against hardship, or who turn away from wrongdoing and choose the path of virtue.'

'I cannot deny it.'

"I can't deny it."

'What of the good fortune which is given as reward of the good—do the vulgar adjudge it bad?'

'What about the good fortune that comes as a reward for being good—do the common people think it's bad?'

'Anything but that; they deem it to be the best, as indeed it is.'

'Anything but that; they think it's the best, and it really is.'

'What, then, of that which remains, which, though it is harsh, puts the restraint of just punishment on the bad—does popular opinion deem it good?'

'What about what’s left, which, even though it’s tough, puts the restraint of fair punishment on the wrongdoers—does society consider that a good thing?'

'Nay; of all that can be imagined, it is accounted the most miserable.'

'No; of all that can be imagined, it is considered the most miserable.'

'Observe, then, if, in following popular opinion, we have not ended in a conclusion quite paradoxical.'

"Take a look and see if, by following popular opinion, we've arrived at a conclusion that's pretty contradictory."

'How so?' said I.

'How so?' I said.

'Why, it results from our admissions that of all who have attained, or are advancing in, or are aiming at virtue, the fortune is in every case good, while for those who remain in their wickedness fortune is always utterly bad.'

'Well, it comes from our observations that of everyone who has achieved, is progressing in, or is striving for virtue, luck is always on their side, while for those who stay in their wrongdoing, luck is consistently terrible.'

'It is true,' said I; 'yet no one dare acknowledge it.'

"It's true," I said; "but no one dares to admit it."

'Wherefore,' said she, 'the wise man ought not to take it ill, if ever he is involved in one of fortune's conflicts, any more than it becomes a brave soldier to be offended when at any time the trumpet sounds for battle. The time of trial is the express opportunity for the one to win glory, for the other to perfect his wisdom. Hence, indeed, virtue gets its name, because, relying on its own efficacy, it yieldeth not to adversity. And ye who have taken your stand on virtue's steep ascent, it is not for you to be dissolved in delights or enfeebled by pleasure; ye close in conflict—yea, in conflict most sharp—with all fortune's vicissitudes, lest ye suffer foul fortune to overwhelm or fair fortune to corrupt you. Hold the mean with all your strength. Whatever falls short of this, or goes beyond, is fraught with scorn of happiness, and misses the reward of toil. It rests with you to make your fortune what you will. Verily, every harsh-seeming fortune, unless it either disciplines or amends, is punishment.'

"Therefore," she said, "a wise person shouldn't take offense if they find themselves caught up in one of life's challenges, just like a brave soldier shouldn't be upset when the trumpet sounds for battle. Trials are the perfect chance for one to earn glory and for the other to hone their wisdom. That's why virtue is named as such; because it relies on its own strength and doesn't yield to hardship. And you who have committed yourselves to the uphill climb of virtue, it’s not right for you to get lost in pleasures or weakened by enjoyment; you are in a fierce battle—yes, a very sharp battle—with all of life's ups and downs, so that you aren't overwhelmed by bad luck or corrupted by good fortune. Stay balanced with all your might. Anything less or more than this is full of contempt for true happiness and misses the reward of your hard work. It's up to you to shape your fortune as you wish. Truly, every seemingly harsh situation, unless it teaches or improves, is punishment."

SONG VII.
The Hero's Path.

For ten years, a tiring war went on,
When Ilium's smoking ruins paid For marriage tarnished and trust broken,
And great Atrides' anger calmed.

But when heaven's wrath demanded a life,
And confusing winds challenged his path, The king postponed his duties as a father,
And killed his child with a priest's knife.

When illuminated by the glowing light of the cave His dear comrades Odysseus saw In the massive Cyclops' terrifying mouth
Overwhelmed, he cried at the heartbreaking scene.

But quickly blinded and crazed with pain—
In deep sorrow and frustration—
For the wicked pleasure of that awful feast Grim Polyphemus paid again.

His efforts for Alcides pay off A name known for its greatness everywhere;
He tamed the Centaur's arrogant pride,
And from the lion took his skin.

He expertly shot down the foul birds; The golden fruit he stole was pointless. The dragon's watch, with a triple chain. From the depths of hell, he pulled Cerberus.

He fed them with the flesh of their fierce lord. The wild horses; Hydra won
With fire. Beneath his own waves in shame.
Maimed Achelous hid his head.

Cacus was killed for his crimes; On Libya's sands, Antæus threw; The shoulders that supported the world
The great boar's drool did leave a mark.

Last effort of all—his strength upheld The heavenly sphere, nor did he bow Below this hard work, the end of his efforts,
The reward of heaven's great glory achieved.

Courageous hearts, keep going! Look, lead towards the heavens. These bright examples! From the struggle
Don't turn your backs and run away in fear; With Earth's conflict behind us, the stars are your reward!

BOOK V.
FREE WILL AND GOD'S FOREKNOWLEDGE.

SUMMARY.

CH. I. Boethius asks if there is really any such thing as chance. Philosophy answers, in conformity with Aristotle's definition (Phys., II. iv.), that chance is merely relative to human purpose, and that what seems fortuitous really depends on a more subtle form of causation.—CH. II. Has man, then, any freedom, if the reign of law is thus absolute? Freedom of choice, replies Philosophy, is a necessary attribute of reason. Man has a measure of freedom, though a less perfect freedom than divine natures.—CH. III. But how can man's freedom be reconciled with God's absolute foreknowledge? If God's foreknowledge be certain, it seems to exclude the possibility of man's free will. But if man has no freedom of choice, it follows that rewards and punishments are unjust as well as useless; that merit and demerit are mere names; that God is the cause of men's wickednesses; that prayer is meaningless.—CH. IV. The explanation is that man's reasoning faculties are not adequate to the apprehension of the ways of God's foreknowledge. If we could know, as He knows, all that is most perplexing in this problem would be made plain. For knowledge depends not on the nature of the thing known, but on the faculty of the knower.—CH. V. Now, where our senses conflict with our reason, we defer the judgment of the lower faculty to the judgment of the higher. Our present perplexity arises from our viewing God's foreknowledge from the standpoint of human reason. We must try and rise to the higher standpoint of God's immediate intuition.—CH. VI. To understand this higher form of cognition, we must consider God's nature. God is eternal. Eternity is more than mere everlasting duration. Accordingly, His knowledge surveys past and future in the timelessness of an eternal present. His foreseeing is seeing. Yet this foreseeing does not in itself impose necessity, any more than our seeing things happen makes their happening necessary. We may, however, if we please, distinguish two necessities—one absolute, the other conditional on knowledge. In this conditional sense alone do the things which God foresees necessarily come to pass. But this kind of necessity affects not the nature of things. It leaves the reality of free will unimpaired, and the evils feared do not ensue. Our responsibility is great, since all that we do is done in the sight of all-seeing Providence.

CH. I. Boethius questions whether chance really exists. Philosophy responds, in line with Aristotle's definition (Phys., II. iv.), that chance is just relative to human intention, and what seems random actually depends on a more complex form of causation.—CH. II. So, does man have any freedom if the rule of law is this absolute? Philosophy replies that the freedom to choose is a necessary part of reason. Man has some freedom, although it's not as perfect as that of divine beings.—CH. III. But how can man's freedom coexist with God's complete foreknowledge? If God's foreknowledge is certain, it seems to rule out the possibility of man's free will. But if man has no freedom of choice, it would mean that rewards and punishments are both unfair and pointless; that merit and demerit are just labels; that God is the source of human wrongdoings; and that prayer is pointless.—CH. IV. The answer is that human reasoning isn't equipped to fully grasp the ways of God's foreknowledge. If we could know, as He does, everything that’s puzzling in this issue would become clear. Knowledge depends not on the nature of the thing known, but on the capability of the knower.—CH. V. When our senses contradict our reason, we should prioritize the judgment of the higher faculty over the lower. Our current confusion stems from viewing God's foreknowledge through the lens of human reason. We must try to elevate our perspective to God's immediate insight.—CH. VI. To understand this higher form of knowledge, we need to consider God's nature. God is eternal. Eternity is more than just endless duration. Therefore, His knowledge encompasses past and future in the timelessness of the eternal present. His foreseeing is seeing. However, this foreseeing does not create necessity, any more than our observing events unfold makes those events necessary. We can, if we choose, distinguish between two types of necessity— one absolute, the other conditional on knowledge. In this conditional sense alone do the things God foresees necessarily happen. But this type of necessity doesn’t change the nature of things. It keeps the reality of free will intact, and the feared evils do not occur. Our responsibility is significant, as all we do is under the gaze of all-seeing Providence.

BOOK V.

I.

She ceased, and was about to pass on in her discourse to the exposition of other matters, when I break in and say: 'Excellent is thine exhortation, and such as well beseemeth thy high authority; but I am even now experiencing one of the many difficulties which, as thou saidst but now, beset the question of providence. I want to know whether thou deemest that there is any such thing as chance at all, and, if so, what it is.'

She stopped, and was about to move on in her conversation to discuss other topics when I interrupted and said: 'Your encouragement is excellent and truly fits your high position; however, I am currently facing one of the many challenges that, as you just mentioned, surround the issue of providence. I want to know if you believe that chance actually exists, and if it does, what it is.'

Then she made answer: 'I am anxious to fulfil my promise completely, and open to thee a way of return to thy native land. As for these matters, though very useful to know, they are yet a little removed from the path of our design, and I fear lest digressions should fatigue thee, and thou shouldst find thyself unequal to completing the direct journey to our goal.'

Then she replied, "I really want to keep my promise and help you find your way back to your home. While this information is helpful to know, it's a bit off the main path we need to follow, and I worry that getting sidetracked will tire you out and make it hard for you to finish the journey to our goal."

'Have no fear for that,' said I. 'It is rest to me to learn, where learning brings delight so exquisite, especially when thy argument has been built up on all sides with undoubted conviction, and no place is left for uncertainty in what follows.'

"Don't worry about that," I said. "It brings me joy to learn, especially when the knowledge comes from a strong argument that's backed up from all angles, leaving no room for doubt in what follows."

She made answer: 'I will accede to thy request;' and forthwith she thus began: 'If chance be defined as a result produced by random movement without any link of causal connection, I roundly affirm that there is no such thing as chance at all, and consider the word to be altogether without meaning, except as a symbol of the thing designated. What place can be left for random action, when God constraineth all things to order? For "ex nihilo nihil" is sound doctrine which none of the ancients gainsaid, although they used it of material substance, not of the efficient principle; this they laid down as a kind of basis for all their reasonings concerning nature. Now, if a thing arise without causes, it will appear to have arisen from nothing. But if this cannot be, neither is it possible for there to be chance in accordance with the definition just given.'

She replied, "I will agree to your request," and immediately she continued: "If chance is defined as something that happens randomly without any causal connection, I firmly assert that there is no such thing as chance at all, and I see the word as completely meaningless, except as a sign for the thing it represents. What room is there for random action when God organizes everything? For 'out of nothing, nothing comes' is a valid principle that none of the ancients disputed, even though they applied it to physical matter, not to the efficient cause; they established this as a kind of foundation for all their reasoning about nature. Now, if something comes into existence without causes, it will seem to have come from nothing. But if that can't be true, then it's also impossible for there to be chance as defined earlier."

'Well,' said I, 'is there, then, nothing which can properly be called chance or accident, or is there something to which these names are appropriate, though its nature is dark to the vulgar?'

'Well,' I said, 'is there really nothing that can be called chance or accident, or is there something that fits those names, even if it's not understood by most people?'

'Our good Aristotle,' says she, 'has defined it concisely in his "Physics," and closely in accordance with the truth.'

'Our good Aristotle,' she says, 'has defined it clearly in his "Physics," and accurately according to the truth.'

'How, pray?' said I.

"How, please?" I asked.

'Thus,' says she: 'Whenever something is done for the sake of a particular end, and for certain reasons some other result than that designed ensues, this is called chance; for instance, if a man is digging the earth for tillage, and finds a mass of buried gold. Now, such a find is regarded as accidental; yet it is not "ex nihilo," for it has its proper causes, the unforeseen and unexpected concurrence of which has brought the chance about. For had not the cultivator been digging, had not the man who hid the money buried it in that precise spot, the gold would not have been found. These, then, are the reasons why the find is a chance one, in that it results from causes which met together and concurred, not from any intention on the part of the discoverer. Since neither he who buried the gold nor he who worked in the field intended that the money should be found, but, as I said, it happened by coincidence that one dug where the other buried the treasure. We may, then, define chance as being an unexpected result flowing from a concurrence of causes where the several factors had some definite end. But the meeting and concurrence of these causes arises from that inevitable chain of order which, flowing from the fountain-head of Providence, disposes all things in their due time and place.'

'So,' she says, 'whenever something is done for a specific purpose, and for some reason a different result occurs than what was intended, that's called chance. For example, if someone is digging the ground for farming and ends up finding a stash of buried gold. This discovery is seen as accidental; however, it's not out of nothing, since there are actual causes behind it—the unforeseen and unexpected circumstances that led to this chance event. If the farmer hadn’t been digging, and if the person who hid the money hadn’t buried it in that exact spot, the gold wouldn’t have been found. These are the reasons why the find is considered a chance occurrence: it results from causes that came together without any intention from the finder. Neither the person who buried the gold nor the farmer intended for the money to be found; it just so happened that one dug where the other hid the treasure. Therefore, we can define chance as an unexpected outcome resulting from a combination of causes that had their own specific goals. But the meeting and interaction of these causes happen due to the inevitable order that comes from the source of Providence, which arranges everything in its proper time and place.'

SONG I.
Chance.

In the rough Persian highlands,
Where the experts of archery The ability to fake an escape, and, running away, Throw their darts and hit the enemy; There are the Tigris and Euphrates At one source__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ their waters mix,
Soon to separate, and straightforward Each has its own path to follow.
When their waters come together again In a channel that's deep and wide,
All the debris comes together
That is carried by the tide:
Ships and tree trunks, uprooted In the river's wild journey,
Meet, as in the midst of the swirling waters. Their random course may guide them. But the shelving of the channel And the power of flowing water Guides every move and decides
The path of each fragment. So, wherever the flow of chance Seems most free to flow,
Chance herself is controlled and fitted with a bridle, And the law understands.

FOOTNOTES:

[O] This is not, of course, literally true, though the Tigris and Euphrates rise in the same mountain district.

[O] This isn't literally true, of course, even though the Tigris and Euphrates rivers originate in the same mountain area.

II.

'I am following needfully,' said I, 'and I agree that it is as thou sayest. But in this series of linked causes is there any freedom left to our will, or does the chain of fate bind also the very motions of our souls?'

"I am following this out of necessity," I said, "and I agree with what you're saying. But in this series of connected causes, is there any freedom left for our will, or does the chain of fate also restrict the movements of our souls?"

'There is freedom,' said she; 'nor, indeed, can any creature be rational, unless he be endowed with free will. For that which hath the natural use of reason has the faculty of discriminative judgment, and of itself distinguishes what is to be shunned or desired. Now, everyone seeks what he judges desirable, and avoids what he thinks should be shunned. Wherefore, beings endowed with reason possess also the faculty of free choice and refusal. But I suppose this faculty not equal alike in all. The higher Divine essences possess a clear-sighted judgment, an uncorrupt will, and an effective power of accomplishing their wishes. Human souls must needs be comparatively free while they abide in the contemplation of the Divine mind, less free when they pass into bodily form, and still less, again, when they are enwrapped in earthly members. But when they are given over to vices, and fall from the possession of their proper reason, then indeed their condition is utter slavery. For when they let their gaze fall from the light of highest truth to the lower world where darkness reigns, soon ignorance blinds their vision; they are disturbed by baneful affections, by yielding and assenting to which they help to promote the slavery in which they are involved, and are in a manner led captive by reason of their very liberty. Yet He who seeth all things from eternity beholdeth these things with the eyes of His providence, and assigneth to each what is predestined for it by its merits:

"There is freedom," she said; "and no creature can truly be rational unless it has free will. Those who naturally use reason have the ability to judge and can distinguish what should be avoided and what should be desired. Everyone seeks what they think is desirable and avoids what they believe should be shunned. Thus, rational beings also have the capacity for free choice and refusal. However, I believe this ability isn't the same in everyone. The higher Divine entities have clear judgment, an uncorrupted will, and the power to achieve their desires. Human souls are relatively free while they contemplate the Divine mind, less free when they take on a physical form, and even less so when they become wrapped in earthly bodies. But when they give in to vices and lose their grasp on true reason, they are truly enslaved. When they let their focus drift from the light of ultimate truth to the darker world below, ignorance soon blinds them; they become troubled by harmful emotions, and by yielding to these, they contribute to the slavery they find themselves in, in a sense being captured by their very freedom. Yet He who sees all things from eternity observes these situations with the insight of His providence and assigns to each what is destined for it based on its merits."

'"All things surveying, all things overhearing."'

'"Everything being observed, everything being heard."'

SONG II.
The True Sun.

Homer with a sweet voice Phoebus' glorious light has sung,
Singing his praises; Yet his weak rays Ocean's depths may not brighten,
Nor the earth's deep darkness enlighten.

But the power of Him, who is skilled This amazing universe to create,
Is not limited this way; Not Earth's solid crust,
Nor night's darkest canopy,
Baffle His all-seeing eye.

Everything that exists, has existed, and will exist,
In one glance's view, He Limitless describes; And, save Him, no eyes All the world surveyed—no, none!
Call him, then, truly the Sun.

III.

Then said I: 'But now I am once more perplexed by a problem yet more difficult.'

Then I said, "But now I'm once again confused by an even tougher problem."

'And what is that?' said she; 'yet, in truth, I can guess what it is that troubles you.'

'And what is that?' she asked; 'still, honestly, I can guess what's bothering you.'

'It seems,' said I, 'too much of a paradox and a contradiction that God should know all things, and yet there should be free will. For if God foresees everything, and can in no wise be deceived, that which providence foresees to be about to happen must necessarily come to pass. Wherefore, if from eternity He foreknows not only what men will do, but also their designs and purposes, there can be no freedom of the will, seeing that nothing can be done, nor can any sort of purpose be entertained, save such as a Divine providence, incapable of being deceived, has perceived beforehand. For if the issues can be turned aside to some other end than that foreseen by providence, there will not then be any sure foreknowledge of the future, but uncertain conjecture instead, and to think this of God I deem impiety.

"It seems," I said, "like too much of a paradox and a contradiction that God should know everything, yet there should be free will. If God sees everything in advance and can't be fooled, then whatever providence anticipates is bound to happen. Therefore, if He has known for eternity not just what people will do but also their thoughts and intentions, there can be no freedom of the will, since nothing can happen or any intention be formed that Divine providence hasn’t already seen. If the issues can be redirected to a different outcome than what providence expected, then that undermines certainty about the future and turns it into uncertain guessing, and to think this of God seems disrespectful to me."

'Moreover, I do not approve the reasoning by which some think to solve this puzzle. For they say that it is not because God has foreseen the coming of an event that therefore it is sure to come to pass, but, conversely, because something is about to come to pass, it cannot be hidden from Divine providence; and accordingly the necessity passes to the opposite side, and it is not that what is foreseen must necessarily come to pass, but that what is about to come to pass must necessarily be foreseen. But this is just as if the matter in debate were, which is cause and which effect—whether foreknowledge of the future cause of the necessity, or the necessity of the future of the foreknowledge. But we need not be at the pains of demonstrating that, whatsoever be the order of the causal sequence, the occurrence of things foreseen is necessary, even though the foreknowledge of future events does not in itself impose upon them the necessity of their occurrence. For example, if a man be seated, the supposition of his being seated is necessarily true; and, conversely, if the supposition of his being seated is true, because he is really seated, he must necessarily be sitting. So, in either case, there is some necessity involved—in this latter case, the necessity of the fact; in the former, of the truth of the statement. But in both cases the sitter is not therefore seated because the opinion is true, but rather the opinion is true because antecedently he was sitting as a matter of fact. Thus, though the cause of the truth of the opinion comes from the other side,[P] yet there is a necessity on both sides alike. We can obviously reason similarly in the case of providence and the future. Even if future events are foreseen because they are about to happen, and do not come to pass because they are foreseen, still, all the same, there is a necessity, both that they should be foreseen by God as about to come to pass, and that when they are foreseen they should happen, and this is sufficient for the destruction of free will. However, it is preposterous to speak of the occurrence of events in time as the cause of eternal foreknowledge. And yet if we believe that God foresees future events because they are about to come to pass, what is it but to think that the occurrence of events is the cause of His supreme providence? Further, just as when I know that anything is, that thing necessarily is, so when I know that anything will be, it will necessarily be. It follows, then, that things foreknown come to pass inevitably.

Moreover, I do not agree with the reasoning some use to solve this puzzle. They argue that it isn’t because God has foreseen an event that it is guaranteed to happen; rather, it's that because something is going to happen, it cannot escape Divine providence. Therefore, the necessity shifts to the opposite side: it’s not that what is foreseen must happen, but that what is about to happen must be foreseen. This is like debating which is the cause and which is the effect—whether it is the foreknowledge of the future that creates the necessity, or the necessity of the future that creates the foreknowledge. We don't need to prove that, regardless of the order of causation, the occurrence of foreseen things is necessary, even though God's foreknowledge of future events does not, by itself, impose the necessity of their occurrence. For example, if a man is seated, the idea of him being seated is necessarily true; conversely, if the idea of him being seated is true, because he is actually seated, he must necessarily be sitting. In both cases, there is some necessity involved—in the latter case, the necessity of the fact; in the former, the necessity of the statement being true. But in both situations, the person is not seated because the statement is true; instead, the statement is true because he was actually seated beforehand. Thus, while the truth of the statement comes from the other side, there is a necessity on both sides. We can reason similarly regarding providence and the future. Even if future events are foreseen because they are going to happen, and do not happen because they are foreseen, there is still a necessity that they should be foreseen by God as about to occur, and that when foreseen, they should happen. This is enough to negate free will. However, it’s absurd to claim that the occurrence of events in time is the cause of eternal foreknowledge. Yet, if we believe that God foresees future events because they are about to happen, isn’t that suggesting that the occurrence of events is the cause of His supreme providence? Furthermore, just as when I know that something exists, that thing necessarily exists, so when I know that something will happen, it will necessarily happen. Therefore, it follows that things that are foreknown inevitably come to pass.

'Lastly, to think of a thing as being in any way other than what it is, is not only not knowledge, but it is false opinion widely different from the truth of knowledge. Consequently, if anything is about to be, and yet its occurrence is not certain and necessary, how can anyone foreknow that it will occur? For just as knowledge itself is free from all admixture of falsity, so any conception drawn from knowledge cannot be other than as it is conceived. For this, indeed, is the cause why knowledge is free from falsehood, because of necessity each thing must correspond exactly with the knowledge which grasps its nature. In what way, then, are we to suppose that God foreknows these uncertainties as about to come to pass? For if He thinks of events which possibly may not happen at all as inevitably destined to come to pass, He is deceived; and this it is not only impious to believe, but even so much as to express in words. If, on the other hand, He sees them in the future as they are in such a sense as to know that they may equally come to pass or not, what sort of foreknowledge is this which comprehends nothing certain nor fixed? What better is this than the absurd vaticination of Teiresias?

Lastly, to think of something as being anything other than what it is, is not just a lack of knowledge; it’s a false opinion that is very different from the truth of knowledge. So, if something is about to happen but its occurrence isn't certain or necessary, how can anyone know in advance that it will happen? Just as true knowledge is free from any mix of falsehood, any idea derived from knowledge must align with its conception. This is why knowledge is free from falsehood; each thing must exactly match the knowledge that understands its nature. So, how can we think that God foreknows these uncertainties as likely to happen? If He considers events that may not happen at all as definitely destined to occur, He is mistaken; and not only is it wrong to believe such a thing, but it’s even blasphemous to say it out loud. On the other hand, if He perceives these future events as they truly are, knowing they could happen or not, what kind of foreknowledge is this that contains nothing certain or fixed? How is this better than the ridiculous predictions of Teiresias?

'"Whatever I say
"Either will happen—or it won’t."

In that case, too, in what would Divine providence surpass human opinion if it holds for uncertain things the occurrence of which is uncertain, even as men do? But if at that perfectly sure Fountain-head of all things no shadow of uncertainty can possibly be found, then the occurrence of those things which He has surely foreknown as coming is certain. Wherefore there can be no freedom in human actions and designs; but the Divine mind, which foresees all things without possibility of mistake, ties and binds them down to one only issue. But this admission once made, what an upset of human affairs manifestly ensues! Vainly are rewards and punishments proposed for the good and bad, since no free and voluntary motion of the will has deserved either one or the other; nay, the punishment of the wicked and the reward of the righteous, which is now esteemed the perfection of justice, will seem the most flagrant injustice, since men are determined either way not by their own proper volition, but by the necessity of what must surely be. And therefore neither virtue nor vice is anything, but rather good and ill desert are confounded together without distinction. Moreover, seeing that the whole course of events is deduced from providence, and nothing is left free to human design, it comes to pass that our vices also are referred to the Author of all good—a thought than which none more abominable can possibly be conceived. Again, no ground is left for hope or prayer, since how can we hope for blessings, or pray for mercy, when every object of desire depends upon the links of an unalterable chain of causation? Gone, then, is the one means of intercourse between God and man—the communion of hope and prayer—if it be true that we ever earn the inestimable recompense of the Divine favour at the price of a due humility; for this is the one way whereby men seem able to hold communion with God, and are joined to that unapproachable light by the very act of supplication, even before they obtain their petitions. Then, since these things can scarcely be believed to have any efficacy, if the necessity of future events be admitted, what means will there be whereby we may be brought near and cleave to Him who is the supreme Head of all? Wherefore it needs must be that the human race, even as thou didst erstwhile declare in song, parted and dissevered from its Source, should fall to ruin.'

In that case, how can divine providence be better than human judgment if it also deals with uncertain outcomes, just like people do? But if at that perfectly reliable source of all things there's no hint of uncertainty, then what He has definitely known will happen is certain. Therefore, human actions and decisions can't truly be free; instead, the divine mind, which knows everything without error, constrains them to a single outcome. If we accept this, it clearly disrupts human affairs! It's useless to offer rewards and punishments for good and bad behavior, since no free choice of the will has earned either one; in fact, punishing the wicked and rewarding the righteous, which we now see as justice, will seem like the greatest injustice, since people are directed either way not by their own will, but by the necessity of what must happen. Thus, virtue and vice become meaningless, as good and bad are indistinguishable. Moreover, since everything happens according to providence, and nothing is left to human choice, it follows that our vices are also attributed to the source of all good—a concept more abhorrent than any other. Additionally, there’s no reason to hope or pray, since how can we hope for blessings or ask for mercy when everything we desire is tied to a fixed chain of causes? The only way to connect with God—through hope and prayer—is lost if we believe that we earn the priceless gift of divine favor through humility; for this is the sole means by which people seem able to connect with God and approach that unreachable light through their very act of petition, even before receiving what they ask for. Then, if it’s hard to believe these acts have any effect, given the necessity of future events, how can we draw near and connect with Him, the supreme head of all? Therefore, it must be that humanity, as you once sang, severed from its Source, will inevitably fall into ruin.

FOOTNOTES:

[P] I.e., the necessity of the truth of the statement from the fact.

[P] That is, the need for the statement to be true based on the fact.

SONG III.
Truth's Paradoxes.

Why does a strange mismatch occur
The balanced harmony of the plan? Has God decided between truth and truth? There might be ongoing warfare that lasts, Those truths, each clearly stated,
Are we trying to reconcile for nothing?

Or is the disagreement not actually, Is truth always self-consistent? But, wrapped in flesh, held, The blinded mind of humanity can never
Discern—her candle glows so faintly—
The delicate link that connects everything?

Ah! Then why does man's restless mind burn? Truth's hidden paths to reveal? Does he already know what he's looking for? Why work hard to find it if he already knows? Yet, maybe if he doesn't know, Why blindly look for something he doesn't even know?[Q]

Who sighs for something good that he doesn't know? Who can an unknown destination aim for? How to find? How even when hopefully found Hail that unfamiliar figure he never recognized? Or is it that a person's deepest soul Did you ever understand each part and grasp the whole?

Now, though clouded by earthly desires,
Not everyone forgot her past visions; Even though the different parts are lost,
To the one she is strongly attached to; Wherever someone seeks to discover the truth Is neither seen nor unheard.

For he doesn't fully understand,
He is not lacking in knowledge either; But, clinging to what remains,
He fumbles in the dim light,
And by the part that still remains
He bravely fights to win everything back.

FOOTNOTES:

[Q] Compare Plato, 'Meno,' 80; Jowett, vol. ii., pp. 39, 40.

IV.

Then said she: 'This debate about providence is an old one, and is vigorously discussed by Cicero in his "Divination"; thou also hast long and earnestly pondered the problem, yet no one has had diligence and perseverance enough to find a solution. And the reason of this obscurity is that the movement of human reasoning cannot cope with the simplicity of the Divine foreknowledge; for if a conception of its nature could in any wise be framed, no shadow of uncertainty would remain. With a view of making this at last clear and plain, I will begin by considering the arguments by which thou art swayed. First, I inquire into the reasons why thou art dissatisfied with the solution proposed, which is to the effect that, seeing the fact of foreknowledge is not thought the cause of the necessity of future events, foreknowledge is not to be deemed any hindrance to the freedom of the will. Now, surely the sole ground on which thou arguest the necessity of the future is that things which are foreknown cannot fail to come to pass. But if, as thou wert ready to acknowledge just now, the fact of foreknowledge imposes no necessity on things future, what reason is there for supposing the results of voluntary action constrained to a fixed issue? Suppose, for the sake of argument, and to see what follows, we assume that there is no foreknowledge. Are willed actions, then, tied down to any necessity in this case?'

Then she said, "This debate about providence is an old one and is thoroughly discussed by Cicero in his 'Divination'; you have also thought long and hard about the issue, yet no one has had the diligence and perseverance to find a solution. The reason for this confusion is that human reasoning can't keep up with the simplicity of Divine foreknowledge; if we could ever truly understand its nature, there would be no uncertainty left. To make this clear once and for all, I will start by looking at the arguments that influence you. First, I want to understand why you're unhappy with the proposed solution, which suggests that since foreknowledge isn't considered the cause of future events' necessity, it doesn't interfere with free will. Now, the only reason you argue for the necessity of the future is that things that are foreknown cannot fail to happen. But if, as you were just ready to admit, the fact of foreknowledge doesn't impose necessity on future events, why assume that the outcomes of voluntary actions are bound to a fixed result? Let's suppose, just for the sake of argument, that there is no foreknowledge. Are willed actions then subject to any kind of necessity in this situation?"

'Certainly not.'

'Absolutely not.'

'Let us assume foreknowledge again, but without its involving any actual necessity; the freedom of the will, I imagine, will remain in complete integrity. But thou wilt say that, even although the foreknowledge is not the necessity of the future event's occurrence, yet it is a sign that it will necessarily happen. Granted; but in this case it is plain that, even if there had been no foreknowledge, the issues would have been inevitably certain. For a sign only indicates something which is, does not bring to pass that of which it is the sign. We require to show beforehand that all things, without exception, happen of necessity in order that a preconception may be a sign of this necessity. Otherwise, if there is no such universal necessity, neither can any preconception be a sign of a necessity which exists not. Manifestly, too, a proof established on firm grounds of reason must be drawn not from signs and loose general arguments, but from suitable and necessary causes. But how can it be that things foreseen should ever fail to come to pass? Why, this is to suppose us to believe that the events which providence foresees to be coming were not about to happen, instead of our supposing that, although they should come to pass, yet there was no necessity involved in their own nature compelling their occurrence. Take an illustration that will help to convey my meaning. There are many things which we see taking place before our eyes—the movements of charioteers, for instance, in guiding and turning their cars, and so on. Now, is any one of these movements compelled by any necessity?'

Let's assume we can predict the future, but this doesn’t mean there’s any actual necessity behind it; I believe free will would still be fully intact. But you might argue that even if predicting the future doesn’t make something necessary, it does suggest that it will inevitably happen. Fair enough; but in this case, it's clear that even without that prediction, the outcomes would still be certain. A sign merely points to something that is already happening, it doesn’t cause what it indicates. We need to demonstrate that everything, without exception, happens necessarily for a prediction to be a sign of that necessity. If there isn’t such a universal necessity, then no prediction can signify a necessity that doesn’t exist. Clearly, any solid proof based on sound reasoning should come not from signs and vague generalizations, but from appropriate and necessary causes. But how could events that are foreseen ever fail to occur? This would imply that we believe those events, which fate anticipates, were never meant to happen, instead of thinking that while they will indeed happen, there’s no inherent necessity forcing their occurrence. Let me give you an example to clarify my point. There are many things we witness happening before us—the actions of charioteers, for instance, as they direct and maneuver their vehicles, and so on. Now, is any of these actions forced by any necessity?

'No; certainly not. There would be no efficacy in skill if all motions took place perforce.'

'No; definitely not. There would be no effectiveness in skill if all actions happened by force.'

'Then, things which in taking place are free from any necessity as to their being in the present must also, before they take place, be about to happen without necessity. Wherefore there are things which will come to pass, the occurrence of which is perfectly free from necessity. At all events, I imagine that no one will deny that things now taking place were about to come to pass before they were actually happening. Such things, however much foreknown, are in their occurrence free. For even as knowledge of things present imports no necessity into things that are taking place, so foreknowledge of the future imports none into things that are about to come. But this, thou wilt say, is the very point in dispute—whether any foreknowing is possible of things whose occurrence is not necessary. For here there seems to thee a contradiction, and, if they are foreseen, their necessity follows; whereas if there is no necessity, they can by no means be foreknown; and thou thinkest that nothing can be grasped as known unless it is certain, but if things whose occurrence is uncertain are foreknown as certain, this is the very mist of opinion, not the truth of knowledge. For to think of things otherwise than as they are, thou believest to be incompatible with the soundness of knowledge.

Then, events that happen freely without needing to be in the present must also, before they occur, be on the verge of happening without need. Therefore, there are things that will happen, and their occurrence is completely free from obligation. I believe no one can argue that things happening now were destined to occur before they actually happened. Such events, no matter how much we know about them in advance, are in their occurrence free. Just as knowing about current events doesn’t impose a necessity on what’s happening, knowing about the future doesn’t impose any necessity on what’s about to happen. But you might argue that this is the very issue at hand—whether it’s possible to know about things whose occurrence isn’t necessary. Here, it seems to you that there’s a contradiction; if they are predicted, necessity follows; whereas if there’s no necessity, they can’t possibly be known in advance. You think that nothing can be known unless it is certain, but if uncertain events are known as certain, then this is just a misunderstanding, not true knowledge. You believe that thinking of things differently than they are goes against the validity of knowledge.

'Now, the cause of the mistake is this—that men think that all knowledge is cognized purely by the nature and efficacy of the thing known. Whereas the case is the very reverse: all that is known is grasped not conformably to its own efficacy, but rather conformably to the faculty of the knower. An example will make this clear: the roundness of a body is recognised in one way by sight, in another by touch. Sight looks upon it from a distance as a whole by a simultaneous reflection of rays; touch grasps the roundness piecemeal, by contact and attachment to the surface, and by actual movement round the periphery itself. Man himself, likewise, is viewed in one way by Sense, in another by Imagination, in another way, again, by Thought, in another by pure Intelligence. Sense judges figure clothed in material substance, Imagination figure alone without matter. Thought transcends this again, and by its contemplation of universals considers the type itself which is contained in the individual. The eye of Intelligence is yet more exalted; for overpassing the sphere of the universal, it will behold absolute form itself by the pure force of the mind's vision. Wherein the main point to be considered is this: the higher faculty of comprehension embraces the lower, while the lower cannot rise to the higher. For Sense has no efficacy beyond matter, nor can Imagination behold universal ideas, nor Thought embrace pure form; but Intelligence, looking down, as it were, from its higher standpoint in its intuition of form, discriminates also the several elements which underlie it; but it comprehends them in the same way as it comprehends that form itself, which could be cognized by no other than itself. For it cognizes the universal of Thought, the figure of Imagination, and the matter of Sense, without employing Thought, Imagination, or Sense, but surveying all things, so to speak, under the aspect of pure form by a single flash of intuition. Thought also, in considering the universal, embraces images and sense-impressions without resorting to Imagination or Sense. For it is Thought which has thus defined the universal from its conceptual point of view: "Man is a two-legged animal endowed with reason." This is indeed a universal notion, yet no one is ignorant that the thing is imaginable and presentable to Sense, because Thought considers it not by Imagination or Sense, but by means of rational conception. Imagination, too, though its faculty of viewing and forming representations is founded upon the senses, nevertheless surveys sense-impressions without calling in Sense, not in the way of Sense-perception, but of Imagination. See'st thou, then, how all things in cognizing use rather their own faculty than the faculty of the things which they cognize? Nor is this strange; for since every judgment is the act of the judge, it is necessary that each should accomplish its task by its own, not by another's power.'

Now, the reason for the mistake is this: people believe that all knowledge comes from the nature and effectiveness of what is known. However, the reality is quite the opposite: everything we know is understood not according to its own effectiveness, but rather according to the ability of the person knowing it. An example will clarify this: we perceive the roundness of an object in one way with our eyes and in another way with our sense of touch. Our sight sees it from a distance as a whole through a simultaneous reflection of light; touch feels the roundness piece by piece, through contact with the surface, and by actually moving around its perimeter. People themselves can be understood in different ways: one way through Sense, another through Imagination, yet another through Thought, and again through pure Intelligence. Sense judges based on physical form, while Imagination considers form without matter. Thought goes further, contemplating universals and considering the essence that exists within the individual. The eye of Intelligence is even more advanced; it transcends the realm of the universal and directly perceives absolute form through the pure power of the mind's vision. The main point to consider is that the higher level of understanding includes the lower levels, while the lower levels cannot access the higher ones. Sense cannot go beyond physical matter, nor can Imagination grasp universal ideas, nor can Thought capture pure form; but Intelligence, looking down from its higher perspective in its understanding of form, also differentiates the various components that underlie it and understands them in the same way it comprehends the form itself, which can only be understood by itself. Intelligence recognizes the universal of Thought, the images of Imagination, and the matter of Sense without needing to use Thought, Imagination, or Sense, but instead views everything, so to speak, under the aspect of pure form in a single intuitive moment. Thought, too, when considering the universal, encompasses images and sensory experiences without invoking Imagination or Sense. It is Thought that defines the universal from its conceptual viewpoint: "Man is a two-legged animal endowed with reason." This is a universal concept, yet everyone knows the thing is imaginable and can be perceived by Sense, because Thought considers it without relying on Imagination or Sense, but through rational conception. Imagination, although its ability to visualize and form representations is based on the senses, still examines sensory experiences without using Sense—not through Sense perception, but through Imagination. Do you see how, in understanding, all things utilize their own abilities rather than the abilities of what they are understanding? This isn't surprising; since every judgment is an act of the judge, it’s essential that each accomplishes its tasks using its own power, not someone else’s.

SONG IV.
A Psychological Fallacy.[R]

From the Porch's dark depths
Here comes a wise doctrine, That resembles a living mind To a digital page;
Since all knowledge comes from Sense,
Carved by Experience.

'As,' they say, 'the pen leaves its marks
Curiously tracks On the smooth, pristine white Of the paper's front,
So do external things impress
Images in consciousness.

But if truly the mind So all passive lies; If no living power inside It powers itself; If it just reflects again,
Like a glass, false and vain things—

Where the amazing ability That perceives and knows, In a well-organized plan Does the world dispose;
Understands each complete aspect that Sense offers,
Or breaks into elements?

So splits and recombines,
And in a changing way Now it descends low, and now To the height it rises; Last in inward quick review Carefully separates the false from the true?

Of these abundant powers Fitter cause, I think,
If Mind's self were like marks imprinted By the outside view.
Yet the body through the senses Stirs the soul's wisdom.

When light flashes in the eye,
Or sound hits the ear,
Mind stimulated to proper action Makes the message clear; And the silly external signs
With the hidden forms combined.

FOOTNOTES:

[R] A criticism of the doctrine of the mind as a blank sheet of paper on which experience writes, as held by the Stoics in anticipation of Locke. See Zeller, 'Stoics, Epicureans, and Sceptics,' Reichel's translation, p. 76.

[R] A critique of the idea that the mind is like a blank slate that experience fills in, which the Stoics believed before Locke. See Zeller, 'Stoics, Epicureans, and Sceptics,' Reichel's translation, p. 76.

V.

'Now, although in the case of bodies endowed with sentiency the qualities of external objects affect the sense-organs, and the activity of mind is preceded by a bodily affection which calls forth the mind's action upon itself, and stimulates the forms till that moment lying inactive within, yet, I say, if in these bodies endowed with sentiency the mind is not inscribed by mere passive affection, but of its own efficacy discriminates the impressions furnished to the body, how much more do intelligences free from all bodily affections employ in their discrimination their own mental activities instead of conforming to external objects? So on these principles various modes of cognition belong to distinct and different substances. For to creatures void of motive power—shell-fish and other such creatures which cling to rocks and grow there—belongs Sense alone, void of all other modes of gaining knowledge; to beasts endowed with movement, in whom some capacity of seeking and shunning seems to have arisen, Imagination also. Thought pertains only to the human race, as Intelligence to Divinity alone; hence it follows that that form of knowledge exceeds the rest which of its own nature cognizes not only its proper object, but the objects of the other forms of knowledge also. But what if Sense and Imagination were to gainsay Thought, and declare that universal which Thought deems itself to behold to be nothing? For the object of Sense and Imagination cannot be universal; so that either the judgment of Reason is true and there is no sense-object, or, since they know full well that many objects are presented to Sense and Imagination, the conception of Reason, which looks on that which is perceived by Sense and particular as if it were a something "universal," is empty of content. Suppose, further, that Reason maintains in reply that it does indeed contemplate the object of both Sense and Imagination under the form of universality, while Sense and Imagination cannot aspire to the knowledge of the universal, since their cognizance cannot go beyond bodily figures, and that in the cognition of reality we ought rather to trust the stronger and more perfect faculty of judgment. In a dispute of this sort, should not we, in whom is planted the faculty of reasoning as well as of imagining and perceiving, espouse the cause of Reason?

Now, even though sentient beings have their sense organs affected by external objects, leading to mental activity that is triggered by physical sensations, and activates mental potentials that had previously been dormant, I argue that if in these sentient bodies the mind is not shaped solely by passive experiences, but actively distinguishes the impressions received by the body, then how much more do beings free from physical influences use their own mental processes to discern rather than simply react to external objects? Based on this, different ways of knowing belong to distinct substances. For beings without motivation, like shellfish and similar creatures that cling to rocks, sense alone is present, lacking all other ways of gaining knowledge. For mobile animals, who seem to have some ability to seek and avoid, there is also imagination. Thought belongs exclusively to humans, and intelligence is reserved for divinity; thus, it follows that the form of knowledge that can not only grasp its own object but also the objects of other forms of knowledge is greater. But what if sense and imagination were to contradict thought, claiming that what thought considers universal is actually nothing? Since the objects of sense and imagination cannot be universal, either reason's judgment is correct and there's no sense-object, or because they clearly perceive many objects through sense and imagination, the conception of reason—viewing what sense perceives as if it were something "universal"—is devoid of substance. Furthermore, if reason argues back that it indeed perceives the objects of both sense and imagination in a universal way, while sense and imagination cannot grasp the universal since their understanding is limited to physical forms, we should rely more on the stronger and more refined faculty of judgment when considering reality. In such a dispute, shouldn't we, who possess the ability to reason as well as to imagine and perceive, support the cause of reason?

'In like manner is it that human reason thinks that Divine Intelligence cannot see the future except after the fashion in which its own knowledge is obtained. For thy contention is, if events do not appear to involve certain and necessary issues, they cannot be foreseen as certainly about to come to pass. There is, then, no foreknowledge of such events; or, if we can ever bring ourselves to believe that there is, there can be nothing which does not happen of necessity. If, however, we could have some part in the judgment of the Divine mind, even as we participate in Reason, we should think it perfectly just that human Reason should submit itself to the Divine mind, no less than we judged that Imagination and Sense ought to yield to Reason. Wherefore let us soar, if we can, to the heights of that Supreme Intelligence; for there Reason will see what in itself it cannot look upon; and that is in what way things whose occurrence is not certain may yet be seen in a sure and definite foreknowledge; and that this foreknowledge is not conjecture, but rather knowledge in its supreme simplicity, free of all limits and restrictions.'

In the same way, human reason thinks that Divine Intelligence can’t see the future except in the way it gains its own understanding. Your argument is that if events don’t seem to involve certain and necessary outcomes, they can’t be clearly predicted to happen. Therefore, there’s no foreknowledge of such events; or, if we ever convince ourselves that there is, nothing can happen that isn’t necessary. However, if we could play a role in judging the Divine mind, just as we engage with Reason, we would think it completely fair for human Reason to submit itself to the Divine mind, just as we believe that Imagination and Sense should yield to Reason. Thus, let us try to elevate ourselves to the heights of that Supreme Intelligence; there, Reason will understand what it cannot perceive on its own; that is, how things that are uncertain can be seen with absolute and definite foreknowledge; and that this foreknowledge is not mere speculation, but instead a knowledge that exists in its purest form, free of all limits and restrictions.

SONG V.
The Upward Look.

In what different forms and styles do the creatures, both big and small, Across the bustling surface of the earth, glide, rush, walk, or crawl! Some with long bodies drag along the ground, and as they move, Trail along, dragging a twisting belly in the dust, creating a winding groove; Some, with light wings, quickly soar upward as the winds part, And smoothly glide through the vast expanses of heaven in free motion; The solid surface of the earth presses down as I move forward with steady strides, Walking through the green meadows, hiding in the forest grove.
Their variety is amazing! Yet everyone keeps their heads down. Numbs the soul and dulls the senses, even though they take different shapes.
A man stands alone, upright and ambitious, lifting his forehead to the sky,
And standing tall, the earth seems to look down on its own lowliness. If you’re not completely obsessed with earthly things, listen to this parable: You who gaze at the sky, raising your face high: Lift your soul upward too; perhaps so it doesn’t tarnish its heavenly value,
And your eyes look up, while your mind stays focused on the ground!

VI.

'Since, then, as we lately proved, everything that is known is cognized not in accordance with its own nature, but in accordance with the nature of the faculty that comprehends it, let us now contemplate, as far as lawful, the character of the Divine essence, that we may be able to understand also the nature of its knowledge.

'Since, as we recently proved, everything that is known is understood not based on its own nature, but according to the nature of the ability that grasps it, let us now consider, as far as permissible, the nature of the Divine essence, so that we can also understand the nature of its knowledge.'

'God is eternal; in this judgment all rational beings agree. Let us, then, consider what eternity is. For this word carries with it a revelation alike of the Divine nature and of the Divine knowledge. Now, eternity is the possession of endless life whole and perfect at a single moment. What this is becomes more clear and manifest from a comparison with things temporal. For whatever lives in time is a present proceeding from the past to the future, and there is nothing set in time which can embrace the whole space of its life together. To-morrow's state it grasps not yet, while it has already lost yesterday's; nay, even in the life of to-day ye live no longer than one brief transitory moment. Whatever, therefore, is subject to the condition of time, although, as Aristotle deemed of the world, it never have either beginning or end, and its life be stretched to the whole extent of time's infinity, it yet is not such as rightly to be thought eternal. For it does not include and embrace the whole space of infinite life at once, but has no present hold on things to come, not yet accomplished. Accordingly, that which includes and possesses the whole fulness of unending life at once, from which nothing future is absent, from which nothing past has escaped, this is rightly called eternal; this must of necessity be ever present to itself in full self-possession, and hold the infinity of movable time in an abiding present. Wherefore they deem not rightly who imagine that on Plato's principles the created world is made co-eternal with the Creator, because they are told that he believed the world to have had no beginning in time,[S] and to be destined never to come to an end. For it is one thing for existence to be endlessly prolonged, which was what Plato ascribed to the world, another for the whole of an endless life to be embraced in the present, which is manifestly a property peculiar to the Divine mind. Nor need God appear earlier in mere duration of time to created things, but only prior in the unique simplicity of His nature. For the infinite progression of things in time copies this immediate existence in the present of the changeless life, and when it cannot succeed in equalling it, declines from movelessness into motion, and falls away from the simplicity of a perpetual present to the infinite duration of the future and the past; and since it cannot possess the whole fulness of its life together, for the very reason that in a manner it never ceases to be, it seems, up to a certain point, to rival that which it cannot complete and express by attaching itself indifferently to any present moment of time, however swift and brief; and since this bears some resemblance to that ever-abiding present, it bestows on everything to which it is assigned the semblance of existence. But since it cannot abide, it hurries along the infinite path of time, and the result has been that it continues by ceaseless movement the life the completeness of which it could not embrace while it stood still. So, if we are minded to give things their right names, we shall follow Plato in saying that God indeed is eternal, but the world everlasting.

'God is eternal; all rational beings agree on this. Let’s consider what eternity means. This word reveals both the nature of the Divine and the Divine knowledge. Eternity is the possession of endless life, whole and perfect at a single moment. This becomes clearer when compared to things bound by time. Everything that exists in time is a present moment that moves from the past to the future, and nothing in time can capture the entirety of its life all at once. Tomorrow’s state is not yet grasped, while yesterday’s is already lost; even in today’s life, you live only one brief, fleeting moment. Therefore, whatever is bound by time, even if, as Aristotle believed about the world, it has no beginning or end, and its life is stretched across the infinite expanse of time, it is not truly eternal. It doesn't encompass the whole range of infinite life at once, nor does it fully embrace what is to come, which remains unfulfilled. Thus, what includes and possesses the entirety of unending life in the present, where nothing future is absent and nothing past has slipped away, is rightly called eternal; it must always be fully present to itself and hold the infinite movement of time in a constant present. Those who believe, based on Plato's principles, that the created world is co-eternal with the Creator are mistaken, as they suggest that he thought the world had no beginning in time and would never end. It is one thing for existence to be endlessly extended, as Plato believed about the world, and quite another for the entirety of an endless life to exist in the present, a quality unique to the Divine mind. God does not need to appear earlier than created things in mere duration of time but rather needs to be prior in the unique simplicity of His nature. The infinite progression of things in time reflects this immediate existence of unchanging life in the present, and when it fails to match it, it shifts from stillness to movement and loses the simplicity of a perpetual present, getting caught up in the infinite duration of the future and the past; because it cannot contain the totality of its life at once, it seems, up to a certain point, to rival that which it cannot achieve, attaching itself to any moment in time, however fleeting; since this resembles that everlasting present, it gives everything it connects with an illusion of existence. But since it cannot remain still, it rushes along the infinite path of time, resulting in a ceaseless movement that sustains a life it could not fully grasp while at rest. So, if we want to use the correct terms, we can follow Plato in saying that God is indeed eternal, but the world is everlasting.'

'Since, then, every mode of judgment comprehends its objects conformably to its own nature, and since God abides for ever in an eternal present, His knowledge, also transcending all movement of time, dwells in the simplicity of its own changeless present, and, embracing the whole infinite sweep of the past and of the future, contemplates all that falls within its simple cognition as if it were now taking place. And therefore, if thou wilt carefully consider that immediate presentment whereby it discriminates all things, thou wilt more rightly deem it not foreknowledge as of something future, but knowledge of a moment that never passes. For this cause the name chosen to describe it is not prevision, but providence, because, since utterly removed in nature from things mean and trivial, its outlook embraces all things as from some lofty height. Why, then, dost thou insist that the things which are surveyed by the Divine eye are involved in necessity, whereas clearly men impose no necessity on things which they see? Does the act of vision add any necessity to the things which thou seest before thy eyes?'

'Because every way of judging includes its objects according to its own nature, and because God exists forever in an eternal present, His knowledge, which goes beyond all movement through time, exists in the simplicity of its unchanging present. It encompasses the entire infinite scope of the past and future, viewing everything within its straightforward understanding as if it's happening right now. Therefore, if you consider that immediate awareness through which it distinguishes all things, you will realize that it’s better described not as foreknowledge of something to come, but as knowledge of a moment that never fades. For this reason, the term used to describe it isn’t prevision, but providence, because it is completely detached from ordinary and trivial matters, overlooking all things from a high vantage point. So why do you insist that things perceived by the Divine eye are bound by necessity, while clearly people impose no necessity on what they see? Does the act of seeing add any necessity to the things you observe in front of you?'

'Assuredly not.'

'Definitely not.'

'And yet, if we may without unfitness compare God's present and man's, just as ye see certain things in this your temporary present, so does He see all things in His eternal present. Wherefore this Divine anticipation changes not the natures and properties of things, and it beholds things present before it, just as they will hereafter come to pass in time. Nor does it confound things in its judgment, but in the one mental view distinguishes alike what will come necessarily and what without necessity. For even as ye, when at one and the same time ye see a man walking on the earth and the sun rising in the sky, distinguish between the two, though one glance embraces both, and judge the former voluntary, the latter necessary action: so also the Divine vision in its universal range of view does in no wise confuse the characters of the things which are present to its regard, though future in respect of time. Whence it follows that when it perceives that something will come into existence, and yet is perfectly aware that this is unbound by any necessity, its apprehension is not opinion, but rather knowledge based on truth. And if to this thou sayest that what God sees to be about to come to pass cannot fail to come to pass, and that what cannot fail to come to pass happens of necessity, and wilt tie me down to this word necessity, I will acknowledge that thou affirmest a most solid truth, but one which scarcely anyone can approach to who has not made the Divine his special study. For my answer would be that the same future event is necessary from the standpoint of Divine knowledge, but when considered in its own nature it seems absolutely free and unfettered. So, then, there are two necessities—one simple, as that men are necessarily mortal; the other conditioned, as that, if you know that someone is walking, he must necessarily be walking. For that which is known cannot indeed be otherwise than as it is known to be, and yet this fact by no means carries with it that other simple necessity. For the former necessity is not imposed by the thing's own proper nature, but by the addition of a condition. No necessity compels one who is voluntarily walking to go forward, although it is necessary for him to go forward at the moment of walking. In the same way, then, if Providence sees anything as present, that must necessarily be, though it is bound by no necessity of nature. Now, God views as present those coming events which happen of free will. These, accordingly, from the standpoint of the Divine vision are made necessary conditionally on the Divine cognizance; viewed, however, in themselves, they desist not from the absolute freedom naturally theirs. Accordingly, without doubt, all things will come to pass which God foreknows as about to happen, but of these certain proceed of free will; and though these happen, yet by the fact of their existence they do not lose their proper nature, in virtue of which before they happened it was really possible that they might not have come to pass.

And yet, if we can fairly compare God's view with man's, just as you see certain things in your temporary present, He sees everything in His eternal present. This Divine foresight doesn’t change the nature and properties of things; it perceives things as they are before they happen in time. It doesn’t mix up things in its judgment but, in a single mental view, distinguishes what will necessarily happen from what will happen without necessity. Just as you, when you see a man walking on the ground and the sun rising in the sky at the same time, can tell the difference between the two—judging the man’s action as voluntary and the sun's rising as necessary—so too does the Divine vision clearly distinguish the nature of things that are present to it, even though they may be future in terms of time. Thus, when it perceives that something will come into being and knows that it isn't bound by necessity, this understanding is not just an opinion, but real knowledge rooted in truth. And if you say that what God sees as about to happen must happen, and that whatever must happen does so of necessity, and you insist on this word necessity, I will agree that you state a solid truth. However, it's a truth that few can grasp unless they have made the Divine their special study. My response would be that the same future event seems necessary from the perspective of Divine knowledge, while in its own nature, it appears completely free and unconstrained. So, there are two types of necessity—one simple, like the necessity of human mortality; the other conditioned, such as knowing that if someone is walking, he must be walking. For what is known cannot be anything other than what it is known to be, but this doesn’t imply that the other simple necessity is true. The first necessity doesn’t come from the nature of the thing itself but from an added condition. No necessity forces someone who is voluntarily walking to move forward, though it is necessary for him to move forward while he is walking. Similarly, if Providence sees something as present, it must necessarily be, although it isn’t bound by any necessity of nature. God views as present those future events that happen of free will. From the perspective of Divine vision, these events are made necessary conditionally based on Divine knowledge; however, when viewed in themselves, they remain absolutely free as they inherently are. Therefore, undoubtedly, all things will occur that God foreknows are about to take place, but some of these arise from free will; and even though these things happen, they do not lose their inherent nature, which means that before they happened, it was indeed possible for them not to have occurred.

'What difference, then, does the denial of necessity make, since, through their being conditioned by Divine knowledge, they come to pass as if they were in all respects under the compulsion of necessity? This difference, surely, which we saw in the case of the instances I formerly took, the sun's rising and the man's walking; which at the moment of their occurrence could not but be taking place, and yet one of them before it took place was necessarily obliged to be, while the other was not so at all. So likewise the things which to God are present without doubt exist, but some of them come from the necessity of things, others from the power of the agent. Quite rightly, then, have we said that these things are necessary if viewed from the standpoint of the Divine knowledge; but if they are considered in themselves, they are free from the bonds of necessity, even as everything which is accessible to sense, regarded from the standpoint of Thought, is universal, but viewed in its own nature particular. "But," thou wilt say, "if it is in my power to change my purpose, I shall make void providence, since I shall perchance change something which comes within its foreknowledge." My answer is: Thou canst indeed turn aside thy purpose; but since the truth of providence is ever at hand to see that thou canst, and whether thou dost, and whither thou turnest thyself, thou canst not avoid the Divine foreknowledge, even as thou canst not escape the sight of a present spectator, although of thy free will thou turn thyself to various actions. Wilt thou, then, say: "Shall the Divine knowledge be changed at my discretion, so that, when I will this or that, providence changes its knowledge correspondingly?"

What difference does it make if necessity is denied, when events occur as if they are completely bound by necessity due to Divine knowledge? The difference, which we discussed earlier through examples like the sun rising and a person walking, is that at the time they happen, one must happen while the other doesn't have to. Similarly, things that are clearly present to God exist, but some arise from the necessity of things, while others come from the agent’s choice. Thus, it's accurate to say these things are necessary from the perspective of Divine knowledge; however, when considered on their own, they are free from necessity. Just as everything perceived through the senses is universal when viewed through thought, but is specific in its own nature. "But," you might argue, "if I can choose to change my mind, it will negate providence since I might change something that falls within its foreknowledge." My response is: You can choose to change your mind, but since the truth of providence always observes your ability to do so and whether you will, you cannot escape Divine foreknowledge, just as you can't evade the gaze of someone witnessing your actions, even if you voluntarily engage in different behaviors. So, will you then say: "Will Divine knowledge change based on my choices, so that when I decide this or that, providence adjusts its knowledge accordingly?"

'Surely not.'

'Definitely not.'

'True, for the Divine vision anticipates all that is coming, and transforms and reduces it to the form of its own present knowledge, and varies not, as thou deemest, in its foreknowledge, alternating to this or that, but in a single flash it forestalls and includes thy mutations without altering. And this ever-present comprehension and survey of all things God has received, not from the issue of future events, but from the simplicity of His own nature. Hereby also is resolved the objection which a little while ago gave thee offence—that our doings in the future were spoken of as if supplying the cause of God's knowledge. For this faculty of knowledge, embracing all things in its immediate cognizance, has itself fixed the bounds of all things, yet itself owes nothing to what comes after.

'It's true, because the Divine vision knows everything that's going to happen and condenses it into its current understanding. It doesn’t change based on foreknowledge, flipping between this or that; instead, in a single moment, it anticipates and encompasses your changes without changing itself. This constant awareness and comprehensive view of all things comes from God's own nature, not from the unfolding of future events. This also addresses the concern that upset you earlier—that our future actions were seen as the reason for God's knowledge. This ability to know, which grasps everything immediately, has set the limits of all things, yet it doesn't rely on what happens later.'

'And all this being so, the freedom of man's will stands unshaken, and laws are not unrighteous, since their rewards and punishments are held forth to wills unbound by any necessity. God, who foreknoweth all things, still looks down from above, and the ever-present eternity of His vision concurs with the future character of all our acts, and dispenseth to the good rewards, to the bad punishments. Our hopes and prayers also are not fixed on God in vain, and when they are rightly directed cannot fail of effect. Therefore, withstand vice, practise virtue, lift up your souls to right hopes, offer humble prayers to Heaven. Great is the necessity of righteousness laid upon you if ye will not hide it from yourselves, seeing that all your actions are done before the eyes of a Judge who seeth all things.'

And with all this being true, the freedom of human will remains intact, and laws are not unjust, since their rewards and punishments are offered to wills that are not constrained by any necessity. God, who knows everything in advance, still gazes down from above, and the eternal presence of His vision aligns with the future nature of all our actions, granting rewards to the good and punishments to the bad. Our hopes and prayers are not directed at God in vain, and when they are properly aimed, they cannot fail to have an effect. So, resist wrongdoing, practice virtue, uplift your souls with right hopes, and offer humble prayers to Heaven. There is a great obligation of righteousness placed upon you if you do not ignore it, seeing that all your actions are carried out in the sight of a Judge who sees everything.

FOOTNOTES:

[S] Plato expressly states the opposite in the 'Timæus' (28B), though possibly there the account of the beginning of the world in time is to be understood figuratively, not literally. See Jowett, vol. iii., pp. 448, 449 (3rd edit.).

[S] Plato clearly states the opposite in the 'Timæus' (28B), although it’s possible that the description of the world's beginning in time should be interpreted metaphorically rather than literally. See Jowett, vol. iii., pp. 448, 449 (3rd edit.).

EPILOGUE.

Within a short time of writing 'The Consolation of Philosophy,' Boethius died by a cruel death. As to the manner of his death there is some uncertainty. According to one account, he was cut down by the swords of the soldiers before the very judgment-seat of Theodoric; according to another, a cord was first fastened round his forehead, and tightened till 'his eyes started'; he was then killed with a club.

Within a short time of writing 'The Consolation of Philosophy,' Boethius died a brutal death. There is some uncertainty about how he died. According to one account, soldiers struck him down right in front of Theodoric's judgment seat; according to another, a cord was first tied around his forehead and tightened until 'his eyes bulged'; he was then bludgeoned to death.

Elliot Stock, Paternoster Row, London

REFERENCES TO QUOTATIONS IN THE TEXT.

Bk. I., ch. iv., p. 17, l. 6: 'Iliad,' I. 363.
- ch. iv., p. 18, l. 7: Plato, 'Republic,' V. 473, D; Jowett, vol. iii., pp. 170, 171 (3rd edit.).
- ch. iv., p. 22, l. 6: Plato, 'Republic,' I. 347, C; Jowett, III., p. 25.
- ch. v., p. 30, l. 19: 'Iliad,' II., 204, 205.
Bk. II., ch. ii., p. 50, l. 21: 'Iliad.' XXIV. 527, 528.
- ch. vii., p. 78, l. 25: Cicero, 'De Republicâ,' VI. 20, in the 'Somnium Scipionis.'
Bk. III., ch. iv., p. 106, l. 10: Catullus, LII., 2.
- ch. vi., p. 114, l. 4: Euripides, 'Andromache,' 319, 320.
- ch. ix., p. 129, l. 3: Plato, 'Timæus,' 27, C; Jowett, vol. iii., p. 448.
- ch. xii., p. 157, l. 14: Quoted Plato, 'Sophistes,' 244, E; Jowett, vol. iv., p. 374.
- ch. xii., p. 157, l. 22: Plato, 'Timæus,' 29, B; Jowett, vol. iii., p. 449.
Bk. IV., ch. vi., p. 206, l. 17: Lucan, 'Pharsalia,' I. 126.
- ch. vi., p. 210, l. 23: 'Iliad,' XII. 176.
Bk. V., ch. i., p. 227, l. 16: Aristotle, 'Physics,' II. v. 5.
- ch. iii., p. 238, l. 20: Horace, 'Satires,' II. v. 59.
- ch. iv., p. 243, l. 3: Cicero, 'De Divinatione,' II. 7, 8.
- ch. vi., p. 258, l. 8: Aristotle, 'De Cælo,' II. 1.

Download ePUB

If you like this ebook, consider a donation!

THE CONSOLATION OF PHILOSOPHY OF BOETHIUS.

Translated into English Prose and Verse

by

H.R. JAMES, M.A.,CH. CH. OXFORD.

PREFACE.

PROEM.

INDEX

OF

VERSE INTERLUDES.

BOOK I. THE SORROWS OF BOETHIUS.

BOOK I.

SONG I. Boethius' Complaint.

I.

SONG II. His Despondency.

II.

SONG III. The Mists dispelled.

III.

SONG IV. Nothing can subdue Virtue.

IV.

SONG V. Boethius' Prayer.

V.

SONG VI. All Things have their Needful Order.

VI.

SONG VII. The Perturbations of Passion.

BOOK II. THE VANITY OF FORTUNE'S GIFTS

BOOK II.

I.

SONG I. Fortune's Malice.

II.

SONG II. Man's Covetousness.

III.

SONG III. All passes.

IV.

SONG IV. The Golden Mean.

V.

SONG V. The Former Age.

VI.

SONG VI. Neros' Infamy.

VII.

SONG VII. Glory may not last.

VIII.

SONG VIII. Love is Lord of all.

BOOK III. TRUE HAPPINESS AND FALSE.

BOOK III.

I.

SONG I. The Thorns of Error.

II.

SONG II. The Bent of Nature.

III.

SONG III. The Insatiableness of Avarice.

IV.

SONG IV. Disgrace of Honours conferred by a Tyrant.

V.

SONG V. Self-mastery.

VI.

SONG VI. True Nobility.

VII.

SONG VII. Pleasure's Sting.

VIII.

SONG VIII. Human Folly.

IX.

SONG IX.[I] Invocation.

X.

SONG X. The True Light.

XI.

SONG XI. Reminiscence.[J]

XII.

SONG XII. Orpheus and Eurydice.

BOOK IV. GOOD AND ILL FORTUNE.

BOOK IV.

I.

SONG I. The Soul's Flight.

II.

SONG II. The Bondage of Passion.

III.

SONG III. Circe's Cup.

IV.

SONG IV. The Unreasonableness of Hatred.

V.

SONG V. Wonder and Ignorance.

H.R. JAMES, M.A.,
CH. CH. OXFORD.

BOOK I.
THE SORROWS OF BOETHIUS.

SONG I.
Boethius' Complaint.

SONG II.
His Despondency.

SONG III.
The Mists dispelled.

SONG IV.
Nothing can subdue Virtue.

SONG V.
Boethius' Prayer.

SONG VI.
All Things have their Needful Order.

SONG VII.
The Perturbations of Passion.

BOOK II.
THE VANITY OF FORTUNE'S GIFTS

SONG I.
Fortune's Malice.

SONG II.
Man's Covetousness.

SONG III.
All passes.

SONG IV.
The Golden Mean.

SONG V.
The Former Age.

SONG VI.
Neros' Infamy.

SONG VII.
Glory may not last.

SONG VIII.
Love is Lord of all.

BOOK III.
TRUE HAPPINESS AND FALSE.

SONG I.
The Thorns of Error.

SONG II.
The Bent of Nature.

SONG III.
The Insatiableness of Avarice.

SONG IV.
Disgrace of Honours conferred by a Tyrant.

SONG V.
Self-mastery.

SONG VI.
True Nobility.

SONG VII.
Pleasure's Sting.

SONG VIII.
Human Folly.

SONG IX.[I]
Invocation.

SONG X.
The True Light.

SONG XI.
Reminiscence.[J]

SONG XII.
Orpheus and Eurydice.

BOOK IV.
GOOD AND ILL FORTUNE.

SONG I.
The Soul's Flight.

SONG II.
The Bondage of Passion.

SONG III.
Circe's Cup.

SONG IV.
The Unreasonableness of Hatred.

SONG V.
Wonder and Ignorance.

SONG VI.
The Universal Aim.

SONG VII.
The Hero's Path.

BOOK V.
FREE WILL AND GOD'S FOREKNOWLEDGE.

SONG I.
Chance.

SONG II.
The True Sun.

SONG III.
Truth's Paradoxes.

SONG IV.
A Psychological Fallacy.[R]

SONG V.
The Upward Look.