CASSELL’S NATIONAL LIBRARY.

BY
BEN JOHNSON.

CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited:
LONDON, PARIS & MELBOURNE.
1892.

Ben Jonson's “Discoveries” are, as he mentions in the few Latin words at the beginning, “A wood—Sylva—of things and thoughts, in Greek ‘ὕλη’” [which primarily means material but is also specifically associated with kinds of wood, and to a wood], “because of the multitude and variety of the material it contains. Just as we often refer to the vast mix of growing trees as a wood, the ancients called their collections of small works on various topics Sylvæ—Timber Trees.”

In this little book, we have some of the best ideas from one of the most powerful thinkers who ever contributed to the richness of English literature. The songs included are part of what Ben Jonson referred to as his “Underwoods.”

Ben Jonson came from a family in the north, specifically from the Annan area that also produced Thomas Carlyle. His father faced financial ruin due to religious persecution during Mary’s reign, became a preacher during Elizabeth’s reign, and passed away a month before the poet was born in 1573. This means Ben Jonson was about nine years younger than Shakespeare and outlived him by about twenty-one years, dying in August 1637. Next to Shakespeare, Ben Jonson was, in his own unique way, the most significant figure in the history of English drama. After being left in financial straits, his mother remarried. Her second husband worked as a bricklayer or a small builder, and they lived for a while near Charing Cross on Hartshorn Lane. Ben Jonson attended the parish school of St. Martin’s until he was noticed by William Camden, the historian. At that time, Camden was the second master at Westminster School. He helped young Ben gain entry into his school, where he laid strong foundations for the scholarship that the poet later expanded through private study, eventually matching his learning with his wit.

Ben Jonson started off in life with nothing. He briefly worked in his stepfather's business. He signed up to fight in the wars in the Low Countries. After returning home, he joined the theater. By the end of Queen Elizabeth’s reign, he had written three or four plays, showcasing a youthful passion for correcting injustices alongside a strong sense of the poet's mission, which gave his work lasting power. He looked down on those who wasted their lives. He challenged the pretentious poets and the over-the-top courtiers, who cared more about hairstyles and pretentious gestures than anything meaningful:—

"That these empty pleasures where their desires drain
Such strength of mind and spirit that could elevate
Their existence to forever,
Might be redirected toward meaningful pursuits;
And instead of putting on a forced smile,
An exaggerated pose, or pretentious words,
They should explore the genuine nature of a true heart,
An inner beauty of generosity, wisdom,
And essence that could align them truly
With God’s grand ideals, which they have the ability to achieve."

Ben Jonson was at his creative peak during the early years of James I's reign. His Volpone, The Silent Woman, and The Alchemist first came out alongside some of Shakespeare's greatest works between 1605 and 1610. Later in James's reign, he focused on creating masques for the Court and grew disillusioned with the public stage. When Charles I became king, Jonson's health had deteriorated due to a stroke. He briefly returned to the stage out of necessity but found his closest supporters among the best young poets of the time. They regarded him as their mentor and father figure, believing their best work was validated by his praise. They cherished the honor of being called “My son” by the old poet, feeling it marked them as part of Jonson's legacy.

H.M.

About things and opinions, it could be said that they are like the substance drawn from multiple materials and the variety contained within them. Just as we usually refer to the countless trees growing indistinguishably as a forest, the ancients also called their books, in which various and diverse works were carelessly assembled, forests. Timber-trees.

Fortuna.—Bad luck never defeated a man that good luck didn't deceive. I've advised my friends to never fully trust her seemingly kind side, even if she appears to be on friendly terms with them; instead, they should keep everything she gives them ready to be taken back without hassle. They should always maintain a distance between her and themselves. A person who has never faced hardship doesn't truly know their own strength. Life prepares good people with challenges, but nothing truly bad can happen to a good person. Opposites don't mix. However, what's experienced by one person can happen to anyone. Ultimately, it's up to each individual how they perceive and respond to it.

Case.—Transformation into extremes is quite common and simple. For example, when a beggar suddenly becomes rich, he often turns into a spendthrift; in an effort to hide his previous poverty, he indulges in excess and extravagance.

Advice.—No one is so foolish that they can't give decent advice to someone else sometimes; and no one is so wise that they won't make mistakes if they only follow their own advice. But very few people are truly wise from their own counsel or knowledgeable from their own teaching. Because someone who is only taught by themselves [12] had a fool for a teacher.

Fama.—A reputation that’s damaged in the eyes of the world is better restored by someone else’s apology than by its own; because few people can effectively heal their own wounds. Besides, a man who is once hated finds both his good and bad actions weigh heavily on him. It’s hard for him to recover.

Negotiation.—In significant matters, it's challenging to satisfy everyone. And often, we miss the chance to handle a situation effectively and thoroughly because we rush too much. Passion can act like a rebellious spirit, stirring up conflict against reason.

Love of Country.—It's essential for everyone to love their country: anyone who claims otherwise might be pleased with their own words, but their heart isn't in it.

Ingenia.—You’ll find it easier to break those who are hardened by evil than to straighten them out; they’re like crooked and dry poles, completely unbendable.

Applausus.—We are much more eager to praise what we hear than what we see, because we envy the present and admire the past; believing we learn from the former and are burdened by the latter.

Opinion.—Opinion is a trivial, superficial, and flawed concept; it resides in our imagination but never reaches our understanding where it could gain the nuance of reason. We struggle with it more than with truth. There is much more that restrains us than that which truly weighs on us. A bad fact is one thing, but bad luck is another; yet both often influence us in the same way due to our thinking mistakes.

Imposture.—Many men don't even believe what they try to persuade others of; they do even less of the things they try to push onto others; but most of all, they don’t truly know what they confidently brag about. They only mark the sign of the cross on their front doors and indulge their desires in private.

Jactura vitæ.—How much time does a person waste in the coldest ways throughout life! By giving compliments, making social calls, collecting and sharing gossip, attending parties and shows, and indulging in a bit of romance in the shadows.

Hypocrite.—The Puritan hypocrite is a heretic, who, due to his own perception, believes he has noticed some errors in the Church's few doctrines, has thrown himself off balance mentally: as a result, driven by a sacred madness, he fights frantically against the authorities, thinking he is offering obedience to God. [14]

Mutua auxilia.—Learning needs rest: authority provides it. Authority needs advice: learning offers it. There is such a partnership between the prince and those he favors that they can support his power as he supports their knowledge. It is a significant aspect of his generosity and favor; from whom does he receive guidance more willingly, or discuss the arts more enthusiastically, than from those whom his own kindness and benefits have empowered and trusted?

Cognit. univers.—To be able to advise others, a person must have a broad knowledge base within themselves, encompassing all of nature—that is, the fundamental principles and foundational ideas: these are the sources of all reasoning and creativity. But most importantly, you need to understand human nature: this holds a variety of elements and ideas, which your skills and wisdom must organize and apply to the situation at hand. After all, we don’t always see every letter in individual words, nor do we consider every aspect in specific discussions. It’s rare that a person will use every argument available in a given situation.

Advisor. Integrity, Wisdom.—The two main qualities that earn a person respect in advice are their reputation for honesty and their reputation for wisdom: the influence of these two will sway decisions when the same advice given by others who are less qualified has little impact.

Vita recta.—Wisdom without honesty is just manipulation and deceit. That’s why you need to establish a reputation for honesty first, which can only come from living a good life. A good life is a key point.

Obsequentia.—Humanitas.—Solicitudo.—Next, aim for a good life by inspiring love in the people we advise. This means downplaying our own abilities and avoiding any hint of arrogance, giving credit for their success entirely to their guidance, like an ambassador serving his master or a subject serving his ruler. We should approach everything with kindness and compassion, only showing care and concern. And we shouldn’t give advice on a whim or suddenly, but rather thoughtfully and after careful consideration. (Dat nox consilium. [17a]) Because many foolish things can come from wise people if they rush or speak off the cuff. Therefore, the advisor should be cautious, especially with those they don’t know well, to avoid showing any hint of rashness, foolishness, or self-interest, which would be obvious to newcomers and experienced individuals.

Modesty.—Boldness.—And to the prince, or his superior, to act with modesty and respect. Yet without flattery or dominance. Not with arrogance or orders; but as if the prince already possessed the qualities he should have, especially in matters of state. In other areas, they will more easily allow themselves to be taught or corrected: they will not willingly argue, but will listen, like Alexander did when he heard the musician's reply: May it not be, O king, that you know this better than I do. [17b]

Clarity.—Elegance.—A person should express themselves according to the nature of the topic they are discussing, so that their audience can appreciate their expertise with some enjoyment; and present good and beautiful content in a way that those who appreciate elegance are not disappointed; bringing the arts out from their rough and neglected places, where they were hidden and overrun with thorns, into a clear, open, and inviting light, where they can catch the eye and draw people in.

Natura non effæta.—I can't believe that Nature is so worn out and diminished that she can't produce anything worthwhile compared to her past. She's always the same, true to herself; and when she gathers her strength, she's even more capable. People and their knowledge may fade, but Nature doesn’t.

Don't trust the ancients too much.—I know that nothing contributes more to knowledge than examining the writings of the ancients and not solely relying on their authority or taking everything they say at face value, as long as the vices of judgment and condemnation—like envy, bitterness, haste, arrogance, and rude mocking—are kept at bay. For alongside all the insights of the ancients, we have our own experiences, which if we choose to use and apply, give us better tools to make judgments. It's true they opened the doors and paved the way for us, but they should be seen as guides, not masters: Not our masters, but our leaders. [19a] Truth is accessible to everyone; it doesn't belong to any one person. Truth is open to all; it is not yet claimed. Much of it, even still left for the future. [19b]

Dissentire licet, sed cum ratione.—If I disagree with some people, whose intelligence, hard work, dedication, and judgment I respect and admire, I hope I won't be accused of being ungrateful or reckless. I am grateful to those who have taught me, and I always will be; however, I don't believe that their efforts and research were meant to hold back future generations from discovering and contributing their own insights.

Don’t believe me, believe the truth.—If I’m wrong, please forgive me: No art is both invented and perfected at the same time. [19c] I don't want to be on the same level as those who came before me; I want my reasoning to be compared with theirs, and for trust to be placed in either of us based on what can be proven. I’m not the creator or supporter of any particular group. I don’t want anyone to be devoted to me; instead, if I have something valid, defend it as the Truth’s, not mine, unless it serves the common good. It doesn't benefit me to have anyone defend or support me, to brag about, or take my side. Stand for the truth, and that’s enough.

Scientiæ liberales.—Arts that value the mind have always been seen as more noble than those that focus on physical tasks, even though we really can't do without them, like farming, spinning, weaving, building, etc., which are essential to survive even a single day. But those tasks are done by everyone's hands; the other arts require only the brain and are the works of the most generous and elevated minds and spirits, who cannot rest or settle down. The mind of man is constantly nourished by work: Opere pascitur.

Non vulgi sunt.—There’s a deeper reason, and the true power of a liberal education is more mysterious than what can be understood by ordinary minds. Not everyone can grasp it. I admit there are people who assign value to things based on their personal preferences, but knowledge isn’t something everyone can master. It’s just as insulting to be praised in the wrong setting and by the wrong person as it is to be wronged when possessing a noble spirit.

Honest ambition.—If different people pursue fame or honor through various means, and both are honorable, neither should be criticized; but those who seek immortality are not only deserving of love but also of praise.

Bad husband.—He has a lovely wife, a good fortune, and a welcoming family to return to; yet he would rather get drunk with the innkeeper and the musicians in some town than go home.

Affliction is a good teacher.—Hard times sometimes make a wicked person pray; good times never do.

Deploratis facilis descensus Averni.—To hell with everything.—Many could reach heaven with half the effort they put into going to hell if they would just apply their hard work in the right direction; but “To hell with everything!” said the guy who drowned in the millpond, with his last four words stuck in his throat.

Ægidius cursu superat.—A person with a disability on the path can outpace a pedestrian or a wayward messenger.

Prodigo nummi nauci.—Bags of money mean nothing to a wasteful person, just like cherry pits do to some kids, and they're just as easily tossed aside.

Munda et sordida.—The more a woman is concerned about her appearance, the more likely she is to neglect her home.

Debitum deploratum.—There’s not much to salvage from this spilled water: it’s a hopeless debt.

Latro sesquipedalis.—The thief [22] who wanted to pull off one last robbery before he was hanged.

And just like the German lord, when he was taken from Newgate and put into the cart, arranged to have his coat of arms displayed at his last moment: he was said to have been arrested and charged with treason, with no witnesses against him; however, the judges treated him very politely, talked with him, and even offered him the option of the rack; but he confessed, etc.

Calumniæ fructus.—I am grateful to calumny for trying so hard to slander me. It will make me be more careful about myself and pay closer attention to my actions.

Impertinens.—A tedious person is someone you'd jump off a steeple to avoid, or run down a steep hill to get away from; you'd give up food, sleep, and everything else just to steer clear of him. He's just a total nuisance; someone who doesn't touch on anything meaningful in his conversations. He opened the door to a nice room but shut it again right away. I brought up garlic, and he responded with asparagus; I asked about marriage, and he talked about hanging, as if they were both tied to the same fate.

Bellum scribentium.—What a spectacle it is to see writers hooked together by their ears over ceremonies, syllables, punctuation, colons, commas, hyphens, and so on, battling as if for their lives and their sanctuaries; and upset that no one is scared by their ruckus and loud braying under their skins.

There is a chance of finding wealth without having to dig in these quarries. But with a better mind and spirit than luck, I'm skilled. [23]

“Lazy soil drains you; but hard work itself is enjoyable.” [24a]

Difference between the learned and the superficial.—Smart individuals embarked on various quests to discover truth and acquire valuable knowledge; they had different tools for the exploration of the arts. Now there are certain superficial learners who focus on the fringes and surface of education, possessing hardly any substantial literature to their credit. They might have a bit of academic flair or a touch of sophistication, but that's about it.

Impostorum fucus.—Imposture is a deceptive thing, but it’s never worse than when it pretends to be the best, and it’s revealed faster to the simplest among us. Truth and goodness are straightforward and clear; however, imposture is always ashamed of being exposed.

Icunculorum motio.—A puppet show has to be performed in the dark; because once you pull back the curtain, et sordet gesticulatio. [24b]

Principes et administri.—There's a big difference in how some leaders understand things, just like there's a difference in the quality of their advisors. Some will embellish their rulers with gold, pearls, and all the true symbols of royalty; others will adorn them with feathers, bells, and ribbons, and as a result, they're considered more suitable servants. But it’s always good people who can navigate tough times; if the individuals are bad, the times will reflect that. The end must be awaited in every person; the animal is most ready for change. [25a]

Scitum Hispanicum.—It's a common saying among Spaniards, Artes inter hæredes non dividi. [25b] Still, they have inherited their fathers’ deceit, and they take pride in it. A narrow-minded person revels in any honorable pursuit; but to take pride in a lie, especially one they have created themselves, is shameless. Folly often goes too far; but Impudence has no limits.

Non nova res livor.—Envy is nothing new, nor did it just appear in our time. It has existed in the past, and it will continue to exist in the future. As long as there are people capable of feeling it, quorum odium virtute relictâ placet, it will always be present. It’s a cruel kind of envy to try to take away the virtues of those whom you cannot match, and out of your inability, you foolishly despair of imitating. Is it my fault that I know things that others only learned from me? Or that I am the source of many ideas that you would never have thought of if I hadn’t taught them? You’ve found a silly way to deal with this; instead of trying to achieve what you cannot, you seek to destroy or ruin those who excel by speaking ill of them, as if you’ve trained both your intellect and character to slander, and only then emerged as the best at creating the worst lies.

Nil gratius protervo lib.—Honestly, nothing is more popular or in demand right now than a sarcastic article or mocking poems; it fits the times and attitudes we experience to see the worst writings and pursuits thrive just as the best are starting to be ignored. Bad arts take off where good ones stop.

Words are cheap.—Today's Feast.—There was a time when people would learn and appreciate good things, not envy those who possessed them. Back then, knowledge was valued; now, education only makes people look bad. Being called a poet has become an insult, as if it were a derogatory nickname: but the educators have devalued learning—complaining and flashy rhymers, whose work the masses eagerly consume because they are attracted to the vulgarity and arrogance of such minds. Nowadays, a writer won't get readers unless he mocks and deceives. This is what people crave; it's the trend of the times; fashionable people can’t sleep otherwise. A writer has to lie, and the polite reader is satisfied listening to the most admirable works being twisted, clear actions being obscured, and the most innocent lives being slandered: and in this freedom to deceive, a landscape so rich in falsehoods, how can there be a shortage of material for laughter? Thus, the widespread infection arises; for how can those who haven’t been dissuaded by the viciousness of slanders avoid being tainted by such writing?

Sed seculi morbus.—Nothing draws in a greedy reader like an unexpected topic. And what could be more unexpected than seeing a person with a good reputation made ridiculous or hated by deceit? But this is the sickness of our time; it’s no surprise that as the world ages, it starts to weaken: old age itself is a kind of sickness. It's been a long time since this troubled world started to lose its grip and speak nonsense: I wish it had just stayed delusional! But now its delusion has turned into madness and become a total frenzy.

Alastoris malitia.—This Alastor, who has left nothing unexamined or untouched by his shameless and outrageous lies in his feverish writings (since he was shivering the whole time), what has he done more than a bothersome, lowly dog? He barked and made a commotion from a distance; had a few fools to spit in his mouth and feed him a stale bone? But these barkers are more enemies of my reputation than of me.

Mali Choragi fuere.—It’s a skill to know how to dress up a lie nicely, to give it an appealing exterior; so that even if the truth looks ugly and repulsive, the attractive presentation might captivate the audience. Some people will embrace any deceitful charm, no matter how cheap or flashy it is, as long as it’s in nice clothes. But in doing so, they couldn't be more perfectly designed to undermine their own credibility and dismantle their deceit.

Rumor has it.—That an elephant, in 1630, arrived here as an ambassador from the Great Mogul, who could both read and write, and received daily twelve loaves of bread, twenty quarts of Canary wine, along with nuts and almonds provided by the citizens' wives. That he had a Spanish boy as his interpreter, and his main mission was to discuss or plan with Archy, the chief court jester, about stealing Windsor Castle and carrying it away on his back if possible.

The language of the wise, rather than that of the talkative.—A wise tongue shouldn't be reckless and aimless; it should be guided, as if held back by reins, from the heart and deep within the chest. It was wisely stated by that philosopher that we have a wall or barrier of teeth in our mouths to keep our words in check; that our speech’s impulsiveness should not only be slowed down by the protection of our heart but also defended by certain forces found in the mouth itself and around the lips. Yet, you will see some people overflowing with words, lacking any flavor or substance, who, while speaking, frequently admit they don't really know what they are saying.

Of the two (if I had to choose) I'd prefer straightforward wisdom over pretentious, showy eloquence. Because what feels more chaotic and insane than a bunch of fancy and impressive words strung together, with no real meaning or knowledge behind them?

Optanda.—Thersites Homeri.—Those who can’t stop talking will never be quiet. Instead of keeping to themselves, they’ll even pay people to listen to them. And when they’re listened to, not truly heard, they often come across like a quack who, after boasting about his cures, realizes that nobody wants to try them or believe him. He’s just like Homer’s Thersites.

Άμετροεπης, ακριτόμυθος; speaking without judgment or restraint.

“Talkative rather than eloquent,
Enough speaking, but lacking in wisdom.[31a]
The treasure of language
is the greatest among humans.
It is frugal,
but richness increases
as it uses measured words. [31b]
The greatest treasure for a person is language, and immense
Grace, which measures everything carefully with words.”

Homer's Ulysses.—Demacatus Plutarch.—In Homer, Ulysses is portrayed as a thoughtful man who takes his time before speaking; and Pindar praises Epaminondas as someone who, despite his vast knowledge, spoke very little. Demacatus, when he was silent for a long time on the bench and said nothing, was asked whether it was due to foolishness or a lack of words. He replied, “A fool could never keep quiet.” [31c] Because excessive talking is always a sign of foolishness.

“While the unlearned remains silent, he can be considered wise;
For he conceals the troubles of the mind by being silent.” [32a]

Nor should we disregard the wise words of Zeno the philosopher; when he was invited to a feast in Athens, where ambassadors from a great prince were being entertained, he was the only one who didn’t say anything at the table. One of the ambassadors politely asked him, “What should we report back to our master the prince if he asks about you?” Zeno replied, “Just that you found an old man in Athens who knew how to be silent while drinking.” It was almost miraculous to see an old man being quiet, since talking is usually a common trait of old age; but being silent while drinking makes it truly remarkable.

Witty saying.—It was cleverly said about someone who was considered a serious and respectable man as long as he kept quiet, “This man could have been a state advisor until he spoke; but once he did, he wasn't even the local constable.” Εχεμυθια. [32b] Pytag. how commendable! γλωσσης προ των αλλων κρατει, θεοις επομενος. Control your tongue, above all else, by the example of the gods. [33a] Use your finger to keep your lips in check. [33b]

Acutius cernuntur vitia quam virtutes.—Almost everyone notices the faults in a speaker more clearly and sharply than the strengths. Many find it easier to criticize foolish speech than to appreciate the wise words you say quietly. The witty comic poet said that a fool’s treasure is always in his words; [33c] and this is even more evident in a certain nation, where one person, after inheriting a cursed old farm, decided to sell it; [33d] and to attract buyers, he boasted about its supposed benefits. “Nothing ever prospered here,” he claimed. “No owner ever died peacefully in bed; some were hanged, some drowned themselves; some were exiled, some starved; the trees were all scorched; the pigs died of measles, the cattle of a plague, the sheep rotted; those that survived were ragged, bare, and as bald as your hand; nothing ever thrived here, not even a duckling or a goose.” Hospitium fuerat calamitatis. [34a] Was this man really trying to sell it?

Vulgi expectatio.—The expectations of the common people are more captivated by novelty than by quality; we see this in fencers, performers, poets, and preachers, in anyone where fame promises something new. Even if it's terrible and lacking in value, they flock to it and are easily deceived. This shows that the only reason the best individuals lose their reputation with the public is that their ideas have outlasted the people's tastes. They've become too much of a good thing, or they've overstayed their welcome.

Claritas patriæ.—The father's big reputation often doesn’t support the son but instead burdens him; they are too close together. The shadow stunts growth: so much so that we often see the grandchild inherit before the second child does. The second child is left in the middle; the inheritance goes to the third.

Eloquentia.—Eloquence is a vast and varied thing, and it has never truly belonged to any one person entirely. Those who can attain even a bit of her grace are fortunate. However, some may consider themselves masters and absolute rulers of her, but I think they might be mistaken. Being eloquent in academic settings or forums is different from being effective at the bar or in the pulpit. There’s a distinction between debating and arguing; between practicing and engaging in real combat. It’s easy to formulate arguments in my study and refute them since I am arguing with myself, not an opponent. I can observe entire volumes being discussed by the shadowy scholars all around, but bring them into the real arena: let them face the light, and they change just like beings raised in darkness; they can’t withstand the sun or rain, nor can they thrive in the open air; they can barely recognize themselves after once having dominated among their audience. Honestly, I wouldn't choose a rhetorician to rule in a classroom any more than I would select a pilot to row in a pond.

Amor et odium.—Love that is naive and hatred have nearly the same outcomes: many foolish lovers want the same things for their friends as their enemies do. For example, they might wish a friend to be banished so they can join him in exile, or desire a great need so they can offer help, or even wish for an illness just to be by his side. They create a path to their goals through harm, as if it were more honorable to act than to simply avoid doing wrong instead of trying to do good through a negative action.

Injuria.—Injuries don’t erase kindness; they just make it less noticeable. When someone wrongs me after I’ve shown them kindness, they don’t remove that kindness, they just tarnish it. It's like how someone who writes their own verses over mine doesn’t erase the original letters, but simply covers them up.

Beneficia.—Nothing is a courtesy unless it’s intended for us, and that should be friendly and caring. We don’t owe any thanks to rivers for carrying our boats, or to winds for being favorable and filling our sails, or to food for nourishing us. These things do what they do by necessity. Horses carry us, trees give us shade, but they don’t know it. It’s true that some people might receive a courtesy and not realize it, but no one has ever received one from someone who didn’t know it. Many people have been cured of illnesses by chance, but those weren’t actual remedies. I’ve known someone who was helped with a fever by falling into water; another who was cured of an illness by being whipped. But no one would consider these to be medicines. It’s the mindset, not the event, that distinguishes a courtesy from a wrong. My opponent might offend the judge with their pride and rudeness, and I might win my case; but that doesn’t mean it was intended as a courtesy to me. I escaped pirates by getting shipwrecked; does that mean the wreck was a benefit? No; truly giving courtesies means mixing intentions for both one’s own benefit and for mine. Someone who gives courtesies solely for their own benefit is like a person who feeds their cattle just to sell them; they have their horse well-groomed for the market.

Valor rerum.—Many things are worth a lot more than their buying and selling prices. Life and health, which are priceless, come from our doctors; while learning and knowledge, the real cultivation of the mind, come from our teachers. However, the fees for one or the salary for the other never reflect the true value of what we gain, but just compensate their work.

Memory.—Memory, of all the mental abilities, is the most delicate and fragile; it’s the first of our faculties that age affects. Seneca, the father, the orator, admitted that he had an extraordinary memory, not just to take in but to retain. In my youth, I could repeat everything I had created, and I continued that way until I was past forty; since then, it has significantly declined. Yet I can still recite entire books I've read and poems from certain friends that I've chosen to remember. It used to be reliable; but now, shaken by age and laziness, which weakens even the strongest abilities, it can do some things but can’t promise much. With practice, it can improve and become useful. Anything I memorized when I was young and a boy comes to mind quickly and effortlessly; however, what I try to remember now, or have tried in recent years, it stores away more carelessly, often losing it, so that I retrieve my own (though I often ask for it) as if it were new and borrowed. I don't always find what I'm looking for right away; but while I’m focused on something else, what I was searching for will come to me, and what I sought with difficulty tends to show up when I’m not actively thinking about it. Now, in some people, I’ve found it works as wonderfully as nature, because whatever they read or write, they can say it back instantly as if they had just composed it in their minds. It’s even more impressive in those who write quickly, as their memories are usually the slowest; those who agonize over their writing, deliberating on every word, must eventually fix something in their minds and make it their own, even if it’s through their own frustration.

Comit. suffragia.—Votes in Parliament are counted, not evaluated; and it can't be any different in those public bodies where nothing is as unequal as the idea of equality; because there, no matter how unusual people's ideas or intelligence may be, their influence is always equal and the same.

Stare à partibus.—Some actions, no matter how beautiful and generous, are often clouded by petty and mean misunderstandings, whether from envy or bad intentions, which judge others based on their own flaws. It's as if the times have become entirely biased or spiteful; if someone is a friend, everything about them seems fine, and even their faults are seen as virtues. But if they are an enemy or from a different side, nothing they do is considered good or acceptable; we disregard our own judgments just to satisfy our emotions.

God in creation.—You can read a person’s character in their face; God can be seen in His creations; not in the way a philosopher, the creature of glory, perceives Him, but in the way the divine, the servant of humility, does. Yet even he needs to be cautious about being too inquisitive. Speaking about God’s truth based only on personal thoughts can be risky, as He is best understood through our recognition of our own limitations. There are aspects of Him that He has revealed or commanded, and it’s not just acceptable but essential for us to understand these; our ignorance of them was the primary cause of our wrongdoing.

Veritas proprium hominis.—Truth is what truly belongs to humanity, and it’s the only immortal thing we've been given to use during our short lives. No good Christian or person of any kind, if they’re being honest, can overlook it; no politician or patriot should either. Without truth, all human actions become trickery, malice, or whatever else you want to call it, rather than wisdom. Homer says he hates more than anything else the person who says one thing with their mouth while keeping something else hidden in their heart. This strong statement is rooted in divine reason; a lying tongue is a filthy pit and spreads poison with its words. Furthermore, nothing deceitful lasts; it will soon show a different face than it had before. [41] As Euripides says, “No lie ever grows old.”

Nullum vitium sine patrocinio.—It's strange that there’s no vice without its support, and when we have no other excuse, we say we love it and can’t let it go. As if that makes it any less of a fault. We believe we can't change because we think we can’t, and we love it because we defend it. We’d rather make excuses for it than be rid of it. Claiming we can't is a pretense; the real reason is that we won't. How many have I known who wouldn’t want to hide their vices? They live like they're on the opposite side of the world from others in the same city, never seeing the sunrise or sunset for years, watching like they're observing a corpse by torchlight; they wouldn’t sin in the usual way, believing that’s too ordinary; they’d rather do it differently or in a strange way, just for the infamy. They were eager to live in reverse, and in the end, they only wanted the vices, not the bad habits. It was impossible to change these people; they were set and hardened in their wrongdoing. They might say they want to stop, but don’t believe them; they might think they want to, but they could be lying about it. They occasionally get annoyed with their foolishness; however, they quickly reconcile with it again. They’ll admit they’re probably not happy with their way of living; who isn’t? But when they can assure me they feel more than just annoyed and actually hate it, then I might listen to them and maybe believe them. But nowadays, many love and hate their wrongdoings at the same time.

On True Wit.—I often hear people say that some men aren't witty because they're not witty all the time; nothing is more foolish than that. Just because an eye or a nose is a great feature on a face, does that mean we should only have eyes or noses? I believe the eyebrows, forehead, cheeks, chin, lips, and any other part are just as necessary and natural. But nowadays, nothing natural is considered good; straightforward language seems to lack wit, while something twisted and tortured is seen as more refined. Fabric must be embroidered to be valuable; it's as if no face can be beautiful unless it's powdered or painted! We believe there's no beauty unless we contort our own language! Nothing is stylish until it's deformed; and this is what it means to write like a gentleman. Everything must be affected and ridiculous, just like our fashionable men's clothing, accessories, and nightwear, so meticulously arranged that you'd think they sleep like ladies.

Censura de poetis.—Nothing in our time, I've noticed, is more ridiculous than the ongoing opinions about poetry and poets; we'll hear things praised and celebrated as the best writings that someone wouldn't even bother to wrap any good medicine in; they wouldn’t even use them to light their cigarette. And those people almost regarded as miraculous, who are so bad that if someone were to examine and correct them, they would turn everything they’ve done into one big mess. Their good is so mixed up with their bad that you have to drag one down along with the other. An ink-soaked sponge will handle it all:—

“—Punic committee book
Sponge.—” [44a]

And soon after,

“Non possunt . . . multæ . . .
. . . one correction is enough.”

Cestius—Cicero—Heath—Taylor—Spenser.—Yet their faults haven't harmed them; in fact, many have benefited from them, as they've been admired for nothing else. This misguided belief becomes stronger against the best individuals once it takes hold among the uninformed. Cestius, in his time, was favored over Cicero, as much as the ignorant dared to prefer. They learned about him by heart and often spoke of him; however, one cannot assume something is so foolish or crude that it won't find an admirer, or at least a reader or audience. The puppets are now seen despite the puppeteers; Heath’s epigrams and the Sculler’s poems receive their applause. There are always those who dare to prefer the worst speakers, the worst advocates, the worst poets; not because the better have stopped writing or speaking well, but because those who listen judge poorly; Non illi pejus dicunt, sed hi corruptius judicant. In fact, if we were to compare the water-rhymer’s works to Spenser’s, I have no doubt they would find more supporters; because most people favor common flaws, as there is a tendency among the masses to lose their judgment and appreciate what is bad.

Poetry, in today’s age, has proven to be a disappointing partner for those who have completely devoted themselves to her, or fully committed to her circle. Those who have only given her a passing nod and occasionally dropped by, she has done a lot for and helped along in their own careers (both in law and religion) more than they could have hoped or achieved on their own without her support. In this way, she mirrors the foolish generosity of the wealthy elite, who gather as much as they can from the sycophants or newcomers in their midst, but expect an old client or loyal employee to struggle or go unnoticed merely because of their position.

Indeed, the crowd praises writers just like they do fencers or wrestlers. If these athletes come in strong and use a lot of force, they’re seen as the bravest guys. But often, their own roughness leads to their downfall, and just a small hit from their opponent can neutralize all that wild energy. In these matters, the inexperienced are easily fooled; they judge solely based on size, believing that raw power is better than refinement and that chaos is more numerous than composition. This isn't just true for the common crowd, but for the more refined of our elite as well. Everyone is part of the crowd; they only differ in their clothing, not in their judgment or understanding.

De Shakspeare nostrat.—Augustus in Hat.—I remember the actors often mentioning it as a point of pride for Shakespeare that in his writing (whatever he wrote) he never crossed out a line. My response has been, “I wish he had crossed out a thousand,” which they considered a harsh comment. I wouldn’t have shared this with future generations if not for their ignorance in choosing that fact to celebrate their friend in an area where he was most flawed; and to justify my honesty, because I loved the man and honor his memory, not to the point of idolatry, as much as anyone. He was, indeed, sincere and had an open and free spirit, with a brilliant imagination, bold ideas, and gentle expressions, where his flow was so natural that sometimes it was necessary to hold him back. “Sufflaminandus erat,” [47a] as Augustus said about Haterius. His wit was within his own control; if only he had controlled it better, too. Many times he got into situations that led to laughter, like when he said in the character of Caesar, when someone spoke to him, “Caesar, you are wronging me.” He replied, “Caesar never wronged anyone without just cause;” and similar lines, which were absurd. But he balanced his faults with his strengths. There was always more to commend in him than to forgive.

Ingeniorum discrimina.—Not. 1.—I've noticed a lot of differences in intelligence; there are many variations, and it's somewhat of an art to understand them, to recognize what each nature and disposition can handle. Just like we should plow our land before planting, we need to consider these differences. There are just as many types of minds as there are bodies among us. The variety is astonishing, so we have to explore. Some people are suited to be clergy, some poets, some lawyers, some doctors; others are meant for farming and trades.

There’s no belief that can help if nature is lacking. Some people are boastful and proud; others are quiet and reserved; some are passionate and intense; others are apathetic and dull; one needs guidance, the other needs motivation.

Not. 2.—Some people are bold and forward; they take on every small task easily. I mean tasks that are close by, which they will share without hesitation or embarrassment. They don’t accomplish much, but they do it quickly. They are what they seem at first; they show up suddenly, like seeds scattered on the ground that sprout but don’t take root; they have green shoots but empty ears. They seem promising at first, but there is an ingenistitium; [49a] they remain stagnant at sixteen, and they never grow beyond that.

Not. 3.—You have others who only work for show and are always more focused on the appearance and surface of a piece than on its substance and foundation, because the foundation is hidden while the surface is visible.

Not. 4.—Others that are made up of nothing but rough and broken parts. Which fall through the thickets, and the high rocks. [49b] And if it were to flow smoothly, they intentionally disrupt it. They wouldn’t want it to run without bumps, as if that unevenness makes it sound stronger and more masculine. These people don’t err by accident, but knowingly and willingly; they’re like individuals who adopt a unique style for themselves; perhaps with some distinct flair in a ruffled cloak, or a fancy headband; or their beards specifically styled to attract attention and stand out. They want to be called out while they’re being observed. And this flaw, one that is respected among the rest, is willingly passed down to them to imitate, so that often the mistakes made by one are sought after by the others. This is the danger when vice sets a precedent.

Not. 5.—There are others who don’t have any structure at all; instead, they focus on rhythm and rhyme in what they write. It flows and glides, producing only sound. They are referred to as women’s poets, similar to how we have women’s tailors.

“They write a verse that's as smooth and soft as cream,
In which there’s no rushing water, nor even a trickle.”

You can test these ideas and see how deep they really are with your middle finger. They are either bowl deep or just puddle deep.

Not. 6.—Some people go through every book and examine all papers thoroughly, writing down whatever they come across without any real selection. Because of this, they end up criticizing something one week and praising it in another. This applies to all essayists, including their master Montaigne. In everything they write, they always admit what books they’ve recently read, showcasing their own foolishness as they present their thoughts unrefined and without proper consideration; not that the content required it, but because they believe they’re prepared and want to share their ideas.

Not. 7.—Some people, after gaining authority or, at the very least, a reputation from their writings, claim to have read extensively and boldly invent entire books and authors, lying with confidence. Because what never existed will not be easily discovered, not even by the most inquisitive.

Not. 8.—Some try to distract their readers from their own flaws by making clever claims against all reading and falsely promoting their own abilities. They think they can throw off suspicion about their sneaky thefts, but they are so obvious that one can find entire pages lifted from a single author. Their needs force them to read for immediate use, which can't be found in many books, resulting in them appearing even more foolish and obviously guilty than those who, unable to follow the trail, resort to disparaging the hard work of others.

Not. 9.—But those who are the most miserable are the stubborn ones who disregard all help and skills; they rely on their own abilities (which might be great), yet they mock all effort and appear to laugh at the terms without understanding the concepts behind them, thinking this will allow them to cleverly escape their ignorance. These individuals are often imitated by peers who are just as negligent, even though they cannot match them in capability; they express whatever comes to mind with a sort of forcefulness and reluctance, without considering the relevance to the person, place, or any other context. The more headstrong and obstinate they are, the more they are admired by the masses, due to their flawed sense of judgment, who believe that things lacking finesse are inherently stronger, as if breaking something is better than opening it, or tearing apart is gentler than loosening it.

Not. 10.—It’s inevitable that those who often try to do more than necessary might occasionally stumble upon something good and great; but that happens very rarely. And when it does, it doesn’t make up for all their bad. Their jokes and their statements—those they chase so eagerly—stand out more because everything else about them is lowly and vile; just like how lights are more visible in deep darkness than in a faint shadow. Because they say whatever comes to mind (no matter how inappropriate), they’re considered to have more to say, while the educated always choose their words carefully and maintain balance, reflecting back on their original intentions to create a cohesive and proportional whole. A true craftsman won’t shy away from Nature as if he fears her, nor will he stray from reality and the likeness of truth, but will communicate to his audience’s understanding. And even if his language differs slightly from common speech, it won’t completely reject humanity, unlike the Tamerlanes and Tamer-chains of the recent past, who only had exaggerated performances and loud shouting to impress the ignorant onlookers. He knows it’s his skill to present his work in a way that only other craftsmen can appreciate. In the meantime, he might be labeled barren, dull, thin, a poor writer, or whatever degrading term they can come up with by those who, lacking effort, judgment, knowledge, or even basic sense, are favored over him. He congratulates them and their luck. A future age, or more just people, will recognize the worth of his efforts, his wisdom in organizing his thoughts, his sharpness in arguing, the strength he brings to his readers, the sweetness with which he engages them; in his critiques, the sharpness he employs; in humor, the charm he possesses; how he influences people’s emotions; how he breaks through and captivates them, making their thoughts align with his writing. Then, in his delivery, one can see which words are appropriate, which are ornate, which are elevated, what translates beautifully, where metaphors are suitable, which are gentle and which are powerful, showcasing a strong composition; and how he has steered clear of weak, obscure, vulgar, lowly, inappropriate, or effeminate language; language that is not only praised by many, but is ironically commended (which is worse), especially for its flaws.

Ignorance of the soul.—I know of no affliction of the soul except ignorance, not ignorance of skills and knowledge, but ignorance of itself; yet this relates to those as a harmful curse, clouding a person's life, disrupting their reasoning, and muddling the truth, leaving a person to stumble around in the dark, just like someone who is blind. Those with great minds are often the most burdened by it; in fact, sometimes they would rather die than live without knowing the things they pursue. Consider, then, how detrimental this is, and how beneficial its opposite.

Science.—Knowledge is an activity of the soul and is complete without the senses, as it contains the seeds of all knowledge and virtue within itself; however, it relies on the senses for support. The soul operates through these organs: it is constantly active, quick, and perceptive; but it can also be flexible and misguided, sometimes getting caught up like a silkworm. Yet, its reason is a double-edged sword that cuts through confusion. In its search for understanding, it is often led astray by new distractions and can absorb errors just as easily as it does truths.

Otium Studiorum.—Leisure and relaxation benefit all types of study. The mind is like a bow; it’s more powerful when it’s not overworked. But what really matters is the state of a person’s spirit—knowing when to engage the mind and when to let it be. I’ve known someone who was intense on both ends, unable to take breaks from his studies or pick them up again. When he committed to writing, he would work through the night without a break, pushing himself so hard that he would eventually faint. And then when he stopped, he would indulge in all sorts of distractions, making it almost impossible to get him back to his books. But once he started again, he became stronger and more focused because of the break. His entire ability was refreshed; he would create what he wanted, but with such intensity that he couldn't control his study habits; he didn’t know how to manage his abilities or conserve them; he had an excessive drive against himself. He wasn't just a strong speaker and writer; he was excellent at it. However, his cleverness didn’t show; he thought of it as a flaw because hidden traps are more harmful. He never forced his language or strayed from normal speech unless absolutely necessary or beneficial; he believed that rhetorical devices should exist to assist, not just for decoration, and thought it was utterly foolish to twist or manipulate something that should be straightforward.

Styles. Virgil. Cicero. Sallust.—It’s no surprise that a person’s greatness shows up in their own unique way. Virgil’s talent didn’t carry over to prose, just as Cicero’s didn’t in poetry. Sallust’s speeches are appreciated for their storytelling, yet they remain among the most eloquent. Plato’s speech he delivered for Socrates isn’t worthy of either the supporter or the person being defended. Furthermore, within the same type of oratory and on the same topic, you can find someone who argues strongly but presents poorly; another who prepares well but doesn’t come across as effectively. This applies not only to minds but also to bodies. Some people can wrestle well, others run effectively, a third group excels at jumping or throwing weights, and some can lift or stop a cart—each has their own way of being strong. The same goes for other animals—some dogs are bred for hunting deer, some for wild boar, some are fox hounds, and some are otter hounds. Not all horses are fit for pulling carriages or riding; some are better suited for pulling carts and carrying loads.

On Famous Orators.—I have known many great speakers who could captivate their audiences with spontaneous words, but when they prepared or studied, they often fell short of expectations and didn't live up to their reputation. Their natural eloquence exceeded their knowledge, and what they expressed was often more impressive than what they actually understood. Their circumstances deserved more attention from them than their efforts showed. People with quick minds and sharper instincts tend to be more engaging in their original ideas than in what they simply present. I've even seen some who were forced to speak out of necessity completely outshine themselves; it was better for both them and their audience that they were caught off guard rather than rehearsed. At such moments, it wasn’t wise to challenge them, as their anger fueled their eloquence. Still, I couldn't help but admire these individuals for returning to their studies. They didn't abandon hard work (as many do) just because their impulsiveness paid off; diligence is a significant advantage, even to an average talent, especially when we seek to understand not just our own time but the past as well. In fact, the more we engage with others, the more we benefit, provided we choose our associates wisely.

Dominus Verulamius.—One person, even if they are excellent and the best, shouldn’t be the only one considered for imitation; no imitator ever truly reaches their original. Similarity always falls short of truth. However, during my time, there was a remarkable speaker who had a serious and impactful way of speaking; when he chose to bypass humor, his language was profoundly critical. No one spoke more clearly, more forcefully, or with more substance, lacking any triviality or idleness in what he said. Every part of his speech reflected his own unique qualities. His audience couldn’t cough or look away without missing something important. He commanded attention and could evoke strong emotions, both anger and admiration, from his listeners. No one had more control over their feelings than he did. The greatest fear among those who listened to him was that he would finish.

Scriptorum catalogus. [59a] Cicero is said to be the only wit that the people of Rome matched with their empire. Ingenium par imperio. We have had many great minds throughout different eras (just considering the previous seculum), like Sir Thomas More, the elder Wiat, Henry Earl of Surrey, Chaloner, Smith, Eliot, B. Gardiner, who were remarkable for their times; even more so because they initiated eloquence among us. Sir Nicolas Bacon was unique and almost solitary at the beginning of Queen Elizabeth's reign. Sir Philip Sidney and Mr. Hooker (in different subjects) became great masters of wit and language, showcasing all the vigor of invention and strength of judgment. The Earl of Essex, noble and distinguished; and Sir Walter Raleigh, who should not be underestimated for either judgment or style. Sir Henry Savile, serious and truly knowledgeable; Sir Edwin Sandys, excellent in both areas; Lord Egerton, the Chancellor, a serious and powerful orator, best when provoked; but it is his learned and capable (though unfortunate) successor who has matched or even surpassed what was achieved in our language compared to arrogant Greece or proud Rome. In summary, during his time and observation, all the wits who could elevate a language or aid in study were born. Now, things are declining, wits are diminishing, and eloquence is regressing; thus, he may be named and regarded as the standard and ακμη of our language.

De augmentis scientiarum.—Julius Cæsar.—Lord St. Alban.—I've always noticed that a wise patriot should prioritize the welfare of education in the midst of significant state matters. Schools are the foundations of the state, and nothing is more crucial for a politician than focusing on the enhancement of knowledge. Just look at Julius Cæsar, who, during the chaos of the civil war, wrote his books on Analogy and dedicated them to Tully. This inspired the late Lord St. Alban to name his work Novum Organum; although many superficial people, who can't see beyond the title, don't truly understand or appreciate it, the book addresses all flaws in learning and is a foundational text.

“Who extends the writer's time into a long age.” [62a]

My opinion of him was never influenced by his position or honors; I respect him for his intrinsic greatness. To me, he always seemed like one of the greatest men worthy of admiration in many ages, based on his achievements. During his tough times, I always hoped that God would give him strength because he was already great. I couldn't express sympathy for him, knowing that nothing could harm virtue; instead, hardships only reveal its true nature.

De corruptela morum.—The mind can't be one way while the wit is another. If the mind is calm, serious, and composed, the wit is too; if the mind is corrupted, then the wit is also damaged. Don’t we see that when the mind is weak, the body is sluggish? Just look at an effeminate person; their very walk gives them away. If someone is passionate, their movements reflect that; if they're angry, their actions become erratic and forceful. Therefore, we can conclude that wherever morals and customs are corrupted, language follows suit. It mirrors the chaos of society. The excess of feasting and fancy clothing highlights a sick society, while the frivolity of language indicates a troubled mind.

On worldly matters.—If we were to look at what our situations really are, not just what we label them, we’d realize we have more problems than what actually happens to us. How often does something called a disaster turn out to be the start and source of someone's happiness? And conversely, how often does something that happens to someone else with a lot of cheers and celebration only raise them a little higher before their downfall? It’s as if they are standing right on the edge where they could fall safely.

Vulgi mores.—Morbus comitialis.—The common people are often mean-spirited and always resentful towards their leaders, which means a prince has more challenges and issues with them than Hercules had with the bull or any other creature; they have more heads than can be managed with a single bridle. There weren’t as many types of animals in the ark as there are of base natures among the crowd, especially when it comes to their wrongdoing of judging their sovereign's actions. Then all decisions are evaluated as good or bad based on the results; and it turns out that the same actions are labeled by them at different times as diligence, vanity, majesty, or rage; when they should completely rely on his judgment, just as he should be independent of others' advice.

Princeps.—After God, nothing should be loved by man more than the prince; anyone who doesn’t love him wholeheartedly goes against nature. When he takes on the responsibility for the public good and common safety, I am truly miserable and less than human if I don’t respect and honor him, the one in whose care all things divine and human are entrusted. Just ask Nature why all living creatures take less pleasure in food and drink that sustains them compared to the pleasure of sex that depletes them, and she will tell you that the former caters to personal needs, while the latter serves a common good, which is procreation.

De eodem.—Orpheus’ Hymn.—He is the judge of life and death: when he finds no other reason for his mercy, he should show it to himself. All his punishments are meant to correct rather than to destroy. Why are prayers associated with Orpheus said to be the daughters of Jupiter? It’s to remind rulers that the pleas of the unfortunate should hold more importance for them than the laws themselves.

De opt. Rege Jacobo.—It was a significant addition to His Majesty’s well-deserved reputation that people could openly visit and show compassion for those whom his largest prisons had ever held or his laws had judged.

De Princ. adjunctis.—But truly, a wise ruler can't be conceived, unless he is also good.—Lycurgus.—Sylla.—Lysander.—Cyrus.—Wisdom is more characteristic of a prince than being knowledgeable or good. The knowledgeable person benefits others more than themselves; the good person benefits themselves more than others; but the prince leads others and also serves himself.

The wise Lycurgus only enforced laws that he followed himself. Sylla and Lysander, on the other hand, didn’t do this; one lived a very indulgent life while imposing strict frugality through laws, and the other allowed behaviors in others that he avoided himself. However, a prince’s wisdom is his greatest asset and protection. In his planning and discussions, he anticipates future events; in his fair judgment, he remembers the past and understands what should be done or avoided in the present. This is why the Persians claimed that Cyrus was raised by a dog, a creature known for its ability to seek out goodness, showing that wisdom can go hand in hand with strength, or it can fade away and be mistaken for recklessness.

On the Bad Students.—There are some people who seem to be born just to drain the poison from books: They have poison for food; indeed, for pleasure. [66a] And these are the ones who only appreciate the obscene and vile aspects in poets, which burdens the profession. But by whom? By those who are always on the lookout for it; and if they hadn’t had this hint, they value literature so unjustly that they think no education is worthwhile unless it brings in profit. This shows they would never have pursued their professions if not for the financial benefits. But if another kind of learning, when applied well, can teach a good life, shape manners, and persuade and lead people just as effectively as they threaten and compel, without any reward, does that make it the worst kind of study? I can’t believe that the pursuit of wisdom belongs only to philosophers, or that piety is the sole domain of the divine, or that political knowledge belongs exclusively to politicians; rather, the one who can imagine a commonwealth (the poet) can govern it with advice, strengthen it with laws, correct it with judgments, and enrich it with religion and morals—all in one. We don’t just expect from him a way with words or an exceptional talent for verse, but a deep understanding of all virtues and their opposites, along with the skill to make the former desirable and the latter detestable through his unique presentation. Philosophers arrogantly claim as their own the very things that the greatest generals and the wisest advisors wouldn’t dare to promise. For such people would rather do than just promise the best things.

Controvers. scriptores.—More Andabatarum qui clausis oculis pugnant.—Some religious debaters are like loudmouths in a bar who grab whatever's nearby, whether it's a candlestick or drinking mugs, and turn everything into a weapon. Often, they fight blindfolded and just hit the air. One is milking a goat while the other is holding a sieve. Their arguments flow like spilled drinks on a table, easily swept away by your finger. These debates (which require more effort than they yield in results) are unpleasant; most of the time, the truth gets lost in the chaos or is ignored altogether. And the outcome of their bickering is that they just end up spitting on each other and getting dirty. I don't like these religious sparrers.

Morbi.—The body has certain diseases that are more bearable than removed. Just as one might think that to cure leprosy, a person should bathe in the warm blood of a murdered child, in the Church, some errors might be hidden with less trouble than if they were exposed.

Jactantia intempestiva.—People who brag about their own achievements aren’t believed to be discussing them because they’ve actually accomplished them; rather, it seems like they’ve only done them so they can boast. What could have been seen as impressive, if someone else had mentioned it about them, becomes insignificant if they’re the ones talking about it. Because when people can’t erase the act, they’ll still be eager to take advantage of the boasting and downplay it.

Flattery.—I've noticed that being poor makes me do things I shouldn't; honest people should avoid that and find better ways to succeed. Even if someone is hungry, they shouldn't act like a parasite. In moments when I considered giving up my integrity for wealth, plenty of opportunities were available to get rich. But flattery is a great way to unlock the ears of those who have been lifted high by fortune; they lower their dignity and authority by comforting themselves with it. In truth, people wouldn’t fall for the traps of others’ flattery if they remembered how much more valuable the bitterness of honesty is, compared to all the sweet lies that come from deceitful voices, which are not praise but poison. Now, it’s reached such ridiculousness, or rather madness, that someone who flatters them mildly or sparingly is seen as an enemy. If their friend doesn’t approve of their bad behavior, even if they don’t outright challenge them, they are still considered an adversary. Even when they do everything wrong, they still expect praise. In fact, they will pay people to flatter them with gifts and meals, and to sell their judgments. They have friends who only show up for the food, just like my lord has his feasts and guests.

On Human Life.—I believe our entire life is like a play: where everyone, forgetting themselves, struggles to express someone else. In fact, we are so focused on imitating others that we often can’t return to our true selves when we need to; like children who mimic the faults of stutterers for so long that they end up becoming one themselves, making those habits a part of their nature, which is never forgotten.

De piis et probis.—Good people are like stars and planets in the ages they live in, shining a light on the times. God never left the world without them: like Abel, an example of innocence; Enoch, a symbol of purity; Noah, a testament to faith in God’s mercy; Abraham, a representation of faith; and others. Sensual people thought they were crazy for not joining in their madness. But those virtuous individuals, standing at the pinnacle of all virtues, looked down on the world and disregarded the chaos of fortune. For while most are players in the game, some must remain spectators.

Mores aulici.—I've found that pretending to be familiar among the powerful is a sign of their control over those with less power. Influential and popular people act like they're serving others to turn them into their subordinates. Just like a fisherman uses bait to catch trout, roach, dace, etc., so that those fish become his meal.

Impiorum querela.—Augusties.—Varus.—Tiberius.—Caligula's complaint reflected the wicked nature of his times when he claimed they weren't known for any significant public disaster, unlike the reign of Augustus marked by Varus's defeat and the legions, and Tiberius's reign remembered for the theater collapse at Fidenæ; while his own legacy was overshadowed by the prosperity of his reign. His other remark was more suited for a executioner than a king when he wished that the people of Rome had just one neck. Yet, he found out when he fell that they had many hands. A tyrant, no matter how great and powerful they may appear to cowards and sloths, is just one being, one creature.

Nobilium ingenia.—I have observed that among the nobility, some are so dedicated to serving the prince and the community that they seek no personal gain; these individuals should be honored and loved. There are others who feel no obligation at all, and they fall into two categories. The first includes those who prioritize their own comfort or, due to vice, nature, or self-interest, avoid responsibility and effort. Still, the prince can work with these individuals without much risk. The second group actively distances themselves with cunning and intention, as architects might say, with a calculated focus on benefiting themselves rather than the prince. The prince should be wary of these individuals and should not hesitate to consider them among his open enemies.

Principum. varia.—But the strongest foundation of all is the hereditary right of the Prince.—There is a significant difference between someone who ascends to power through the support of his peers and someone who gains it through the vote of the people. The first has a harder time maintaining his position because he has to deal with many who consider themselves his equals, and who elevated him for their own benefit and to oppress others. The latter has no criticisms aimed at him, as he was raised up by those seeking protection from oppression; their goal is both easier to achieve and more honorable. Additionally, with the support of the people, who are numerous, he has less to fear from the nobility, who are only a few. And don’t let the common saying (that he who builds on the people builds on the dirt) undermine my view: that only applies when an ambitious private individual, for some personal gain, relies on them against public justice and authority. In such cases, they will abandon him. However, when a prince governs them in a way that keeps them dependent on his leadership (for that is his skill), he will always make and keep them loyal.

Clementia.—Machiavelli.—A prince should show cruelty not directly, but through his ministers; that way, he can protect his own dignity and reputation by sacrificing others when he chooses, says the great political thinker, Machiavelli. But I believe that when he does this, he loses his humanity and becomes beastly, which is cruel. There is no virtue more fitting for a prince than mercy: and no greater honor than the power to save. In some cases, excessive punishments can bring more shame to a prince, just as too many deaths can discredit a doctor. The situation is secured through mercy; severity controls a few, but provokes many. [74a] Pruning trees makes their branches grow thicker, and eliminating certain enemies often increases their numbers. Therefore, it is most admirable for a prince to grant pardons, especially when many around him urge cruelty; to focus on how much he can save rather than how much he can destroy; to consider not what others’ weakness has torn down, but what his own strength can uphold. These are the true virtues of a prince; those who advise otherwise are merely agents of execution.

Clementia tutela optima.—The one who is cruel to his subjects (as St. Nicholas said [74b]) loses just as much by being cruel as he does by being kind: at that point, it's too late to be cruel, and any favors he gives will be seen as fear and necessity, which means he won’t get gratitude. Still, the advice to act cruelly remains. But when rulers listen to harsh advice, they become increasingly dependent on those who flatter them and carry out their orders; they reach a point where they can’t change direction even if they want to; they must continue to defend their cruelty with more cruelty, unable to break the pattern. They then become as bad as those who advised them, and ultimately, they will come to despise themselves more than their subjects do. In contrast, a merciful ruler is secure because of love, not fear. He doesn’t need messengers, spies, or informants to catch his loyal subjects. He fears no criticism or betrayal. His people say what they really think and discuss what they do behind closed doors. They have nothing to hide. He is protected by his own kindness.

Religio. Palladium Homeri.—Euripides.—The strength of an empire lies in its religion. What else is the Palladium (with Homer) that kept Troy from being destroyed for so long? Nothing else bonds the ruler to the people quite like it. A truly religious person must be merciful and just, and those are two powerful connections to humanity. Justice is the virtue that innocence takes joy in. Yet even that isn't without risk; it might sometimes choose to be alongside mercy. Misfortune can be seen as a crime, and in those cases, innocence is supported just as much as virtue. Moreover, virtue itself can sometimes be punished; based on the times, doing the right thing may even bring us condemnation disguised as praise. So, no one should complain about the actions of the prince, who is elevated far above them. If he does wrong, there will always be someone to reveal it. God exists at a level beyond him. But when the prince is good, Euripides says, “God is a guest in a human body.”

Tyranni.—Sejanus.—Some princes view nothing as sacred or profane except what challenges their authority. But a prince surrounded by such advisors is like the stone god Terminus, marking his own boundaries, or like a crowned lion from the fable. It's risky to cross someone like this; when they're angry, they don't know how to forgive. They don't care about expanding or maintaining their empire; rather than just killing individuals or subjects, they devastate entire regions, armies, and populations—men, women, innocent or guilty, sacred or profane—even those who've never seen the light. Everything falls under their power and permission. However, when princes neglect their responsibilities, they often end up attracting someone like Sejanus to their side, who eventually seeks to outmaneuver them, instilling a real fear of wiping them and their families out. No one hates a tyrant more than those who helped create him. And no one mourns his downfall more dramatically than those who conspired against him. The path that leads to destruction is the same one that leads to power when people claim freedom in governance. A good king is a servant of the public.

Illiteratus princeps.—A prince who can’t read is like a pilot without eyes. Everything he does is just feeling around in the dark. In ruling, it's great to not be forced into anything, but it’s truly miserable to not have guidance. And how can he seek guidance if he can’t read the best advisors (which are books) since they neither flatter us nor deceive us? You might say he can listen, but how can he be sure he’s hearing the truth or receiving the best advice instead of just the sweetest? They say princes only truly learn one skill, which is riding. The reason is that a noble horse doesn’t flatter. It can throw a prince just as easily as it can throw its groom. This shows that the best advisors for princes are vital for a good era. Even if the prince is eagerly inclined toward virtue, the best leaders still need sailors along with their sails, anchors, and other equipment.

Character principis.—Alexander magnus.—If people really understood what shiny chains, fake happiness, and empty power thrones and scepters represent, there wouldn't be so much conflict over obtaining or maintaining them. There would be more rulers than actual royals, because a prince should care for the people. He should nurture, not harm them; take from them what’s beneficial, not their very essence, and should care for them as if they are part of himself. Alexander the Great used to say, “He despised the gardener who pulled his plants up by the roots.” A person might drain an animal until it bleeds; churn milk until it becomes butter, but if you grab its nose too hard, it will bleed. A bad prince is one who plucks his subjects’ feathers in a way they can never grow back, making his treasury a place where he collects the spoils of those he leads. No, he should keep what is his, not covet what is theirs; he should want to be known as just rather than powerful. He shouldn't strive for the ruthless titles that come from slaughtering humans, nor seek conflict during peace or peace during conflict, but rather keep his word, even to an enemy. He should show compassion toward his subjects and be willing to protect them. Be careful about punishing in various situations, but be quick and harsh when dealing with serious crimes. Don’t break laws or ignore orders that weaken legal authority. Appoint magistrates, whether civil or religious, based on merit and thorough investigation, not favoritism or bribes. Don’t sell honors or give them out hastily; award them with careful consideration and for merit; if mistakes are made, acknowledge and correct them. Because rulers can easily be misled, and what sort of wisdom can prevail in an environment where numerous courtly tricks are employed? Above all, a prince must remember that when the final day of judgment comes, which no ruler can escape, he will be held accountable for those he has entrusted, as well as for himself, which he must prepare for. And if the priests lack piety, the judges lack fairness, or the magistrates are found to be corrupt, what justice or faith can anyone expect? These are the two qualities that make kings resemble God, acting as the sword of Delphi, both to deliver sacrifices and punish wrongdoers.

On Graciousness.—When a virtuous person rises, it brings joy to their friends, sadness to their enemies, and pride to their descendants. Indeed, their honors contribute significantly to the honor of the era; by this means, they serve as an example to those who are active, a motivation to the lazy, and a punishment to the envious.

Riches.—Heirs by full share. The person who is the sole heir to many wealthy individuals, having inherited not only from their father and uncle but also from various relatives through inheritance, must be wealthier than their father or grandfather; similarly, those who inherit ex asse all the vices of their ancestors, and through their own careful management improve upon the old and continually acquire new, must be wealthier in vice as well, possessing a greater amount of wrongdoing or resources devoted to it.

Fures publici.—The biggest thieves in a state are often the officials of the crown; they face little consequence, act as predators in the pond, and feast on whoever they choose. The traps were never set for the hawk or buzzard that harmed us, but for the innocent birds; they make for good meals:—

“Give permission to the crows, but the criticism bothers the doves.” [81a]
“A net is not set for the hawk, nor for the kite.” [81b]

Lewis XI.—But they’re not always safe, especially when they encounter wise leaders. They can strip away all the bluster and arrogance in their demeanor, and like skilled listeners, they can challenge someone’s worth. They just need to remember Lewis XI., who told a Clerk of the Exchequer, who had become Lord Treasurer and depicted himself sitting on Fortune’s wheel, that he might want to secure it with a strong nail, or else it might spin him back to where he started. And indeed, it did.

On Good and Evil.—On Innocence.—A good person will steer clear of any sin. The mere stain is painful, prompting them to choose their path in life just as they would on a journey. The wicked person travels through everything with confidence; they are prepared for it. The more they sin, the more brazenly and shamelessly, like it’s in style. Their modesty, like an old jacket, becomes less cared for the more it’s worn. It’s still good enough for the dirt and the paths they take. An innocent person doesn’t need grand words; their innocence speaks for itself. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have escaped so many times from the dangers where people’s malice has chased me. It’s true I’ve faced accusations from lords, the king, and powerful figures, but it turns out my accusers hadn’t fully thought through their charges and were, as a result, forced to resort to fabrications when they couldn’t find real crimes—these turned out to be slander or, having begun so boldly, they were too late in looking for excuses for their rashness, which weren’t given to them. They ought to think about how likely their accusations were to stand when those who plotted them were afraid to be the ones making them. They weren’t satisfied with just inventing charges against me; they also tried to twist the misunderstandings of the ignorant against my profession. Though I could have dismissed their hired foolishness as petty complaints from a group of loudmouths gossiping about others' misfortunes, I couldn’t leave myself undefended. I have ears that are untrained to hear lies or to endure false statements about me that I could easily prove untrue about them. They accused me of writing poetry, when I could point out that many of them couldn’t even read it, making their opinions laughable. They even attempted to use my own writings against me, but only in parts (a brilliant move of malice), as if any text couldn't seem dangerous and offensive if removed from its context. Or as if isolated statements couldn’t be subject to slander that would appear innocent in their entirety. Finally, they criticized my poverty: I admit she is my constant companion; she’s moderate in her needs, straightforward in her ways, economical, hardworking, and a good advisor who keeps me from cruelty, arrogance, and other frivolities that wealth fosters. But if they were to look past all the great and monstrous evils, they would never find these in poor households. Those are the product of wealthy tyrants and powerful hunters, while no important work or anything worthy of praise or remembrance has ever emerged from anything but humble beginnings. It was ancient poverty that built societies, established cities, innovated the arts, created fair laws, armed people against vice, rewarded them with their own virtues, and upheld the honor and state of nations until they betrayed themselves for riches.

Amor nummi.—Money never truly makes a person rich, but rather their mind does. Someone who can align themselves with the law of Nature is free from the feeling and fear of poverty. Oh! But the goal is to blind people with our wealth and showiness! How miserable it is to flaunt all our riches outwardly while being broke inside; to focus only on the small, disgusting, and petty things of the world instead of the great, noble, and valuable ones! We serve our greed, and instead of appreciating the good things the earth offers us, we dig for the harmful secrets hidden away. God provided us with what He knew would benefit us and placed it right in front of us, but He buried the harmful things deep. Yet we only seek the things that could lead us to ruin and bring them out when God and Nature have buried them. We desire unnecessary things, when it would be more dignified for us to disregard the necessary ones. What does Nature need with silver dishes, countless waiters, fancy servers, or perfumed napkins? She only needs food, and hunger knows no ambition. Can we consider any wealth sufficient if it leads a person to be imprisoned, humiliated, or poisoned? Oh! If a person could control their cravings and consider how many resources—how many kitchens, cooks, fields, orchards, ponds, parks, coops, and storages—they could forgo; what luxury fabrics, embroideries, and laces they could live without; and remember how short and uncertain life is, they would be better off seeking happiness rather than living as the emperor of these pleasures and dictating trends. Yet we make ourselves slaves to our pleasures, serving fame and ambition, both of which are equal forms of slavery. Have I not seen the splendor of an entire kingdom and what a foreign king could bring here? To make himself the center of attention—displayed for all to see—and then vanish within a day? And should something that failed to meet expectations for even a few hours occupy our entire lives, when it seemed just as unnecessary to the owners as it did to me as a spectator? The showiness was on display, not truly owned; while it boasted, it faded away. It's degrading and foolish to base our happiness on these desires. Suppose we lacked them all. Hunger begets hunger.

On the Soft and Effeminate.—There's nothing brave or solid to be expected from those who are always well-groomed and scented, and who daily carry the fragrance of their tailor; those who obsess over fixing minor flaws in their appearance, like removing blemishes from their necks, or whitening their hands at night, fussing over their beards, or shrinking their waists with hoops, while their minds are left to wander aimlessly; being overly meticulous isn't manly. Not from those who joke about their external flaws but conceal their deeper wounds—pride, lust, envy, and bad temper—with all the artifice and authority they can muster. These individuals are at risk, for while they believe they can cover their ignorance with boldness and their image with clothes and outward adornments, they only grant themselves permission to deceive. If we choose to see with our understanding rather than our senses, we can recognize virtue and beauty (even when cloaked in rags) in their true form; and we can also see vice and ugliness much more clearly when they're draped in the glitter of wealth or illuminated by the false lights of honor and power. Yet this is what captures the attention of the world and drives it mad—clothing and titles, the traps for fools.

On Stupidity.—What trivial things we marvel at, like kids who value every little thing and prefer treats over their parents! What’s the difference between us and them, except that we’re more expensive fools, show-offs at a higher cost? They get excited about shells, whistles, and toy horses; we’re satisfied with statues, marble columns, paintings, and gilded ceilings, which are often just flimsy plaster and maybe dirt. Yet we enjoy the deception and are happy to fool ourselves. It’s not just in our walls and ceilings, but everything we call happiness is just decoration and gold, all for the sake of money. What a flimsy concept of honor that is! And how much true reputation has declined since money started to matter! Yet the vast crowd, the masses, who disagree on almost everything, all come together in this one thing—to love money. They crave it, they cling to it, they worship it, even though having it comes with more stress and turmoil than getting it.

De sibi molestis.—Some people, no matter what losses they face, only make them seem bigger, and if they haven’t lost anything, they see everything that’s not gained as a loss. Can there be anyone more miserable than those who are constantly burdened by their own suffering and other people’s envy? A person should focus on other things—like not craving, not fearing, and not regretting—so that they can build a foundation that no storm can shake; to be secure in their own opinions and find satisfaction in themselves, even if it upsets others; for the worst reputation earned from doing the right thing should make us happy. If you would only be just for the sake of reputation, then you should be just even if it brings you shame; someone who wants their virtue recognized isn’t serving virtue but rather seeking glory.

Periculosa melancholia.—It's a dangerous situation when people's minds linger on their passions, and their issues drain their strength; that when excessive desire and greed for vice have left the body unfit or useless, it still finds joy in seeing it in others; and due to the inability to participate, it settles for being a spectator. It derives pleasure from the sins of others, like dining, drinking, and partying, etc. In fact, when it can't engage in any of these, it feels frustrated by its own limitations that prevent it from sharing in the pleasures of humanity, and often ends up suffering from a sadness because it can't be wicked enough.

Avoiding False Appearances.—I feel glad when I see someone steer clear of the shame of a vice; but it’s even better to avoid the vice itself. Until that happens, he’s like an apprentice who, not wanting to be caught by his master coming out of Black Lucy’s, sneaks back inside; to whom his master shouts, “The more you run that way to hide, the more you are stuck in that place.” The same goes for those who hang out at a tavern all day to avoid being seen at night. I’ve known lawyers, clergy—yes, even notable ones—who subscribe to this kind of thinking.

Decipimur specie.—We tend to hold a greater respect for things that are distant or unfamiliar to us than for things that are much better but closer and within our reach. People, and almost all kinds of beings, earn their reputation through distance. Rivers, the farther they flow from their source, become wider and larger. When our origins are known, we feel less confident; among strangers, we rely on luck. However, a person can be just as renowned in their own country or a small village as they are in the entire world. It is virtue that brings glory; that will make someone feel at home anywhere. It is the only thing that can truly integrate them. A local, if they are corrupt, deserves to be treated like a stranger and excluded from the community as an outsider.

Dejectio Aulic.—A downcast expression and shabby clothes often lead to disdain, but that’s mostly from superficial people; courtiers usually. If you show up in a new outfit, you’ll immediately rise above them. Nothing is more fleeting than pride; it only lasts as long as their clothes. Once those wear out, you couldn’t wish for anything more miserable or downhearted.

Poetry, and painting.—Plutarch. Poetry and painting are similar arts that focus on imitation. Plutarch said it well: poetry is a speaking picture, and painting is a silent poem. Both of them create, imagine, and design many things, shaping everything they create for the benefit and service of Nature. However, of the two, the pen is more noble than the brush; the pen communicates to the intellect, while the brush appeals to the senses. They both aim for pleasure and benefit, but they should avoid any low pleasures that might lead them astray from their purpose. In their pursuit to enrich people's minds, they must not compromise their morals. They are both innate craftspeople, not simply trained. Nature holds more power over them than study.

On Painting.—Anyone who doesn’t love painting is harming truth and all the wisdom of poetry. Painting is a divine creation, the most ancient and closest to Nature. It is a silent art form that remains consistent; yet, when created by a skilled artisan, it can deeply touch the heart, sometimes surpassing the power of words and eloquence. It has various qualities, just like its creators. Some excel in precision, others in reasoning, some in ease, and others in natural beauty and grace. Some exhibit diligence and charm, but they lack grandeur. They can depict human forms with all the grace, sweetness, and elegance, but lack authority. They can only capture smooth faces; they can’t convey roughness or seriousness. Others aim for accuracy so much that they become more enamored with likeness than with beauty. Zeuxis and Parrhasius are said to be contemporaries; the former discovered the principles of light and shadow in painting, while the latter more subtly explored line.

On Style.—Pliny.—In painting, light is just as important as shadow; similarly, in writing, both grandeur and simplicity are needed. But be careful not to let simplicity go too far, as Pliny commented on Regulus’s writings. You would think they were written, not by an adult, but by a child. Many, due to their own inappropriate sensitivities, avoid the right and suitable words—like occupy, nature, and so on; thus, the obsessive pursuit by some to make everything equally good has become more of a flaw than a quality.

De progres. picturæ. [93] Picture took its inspiration from poetry, and from geometry it drew its rules, compass, lines, proportions, and overall symmetry. Parrhasius was the first to gain fame by introducing symmetry to painting; he added subtlety to the face, elegance to the hair, and emotional lines to the expression, and by the consensus of all artists, he earned respect in the outer details. Eupompus added richness through numbers and other refinements. From optics, it derived the principles that determine how objects at a distance appear smaller, and how positioning above or below the eye can create illusions. It also incorporated shadows, depth, light, and highlights. From moral philosophy, it captured the soul, the expressions of senses, emotions, and traits, painting representations of angry, proud, fickle, ambitious, brave, noble, just, merciful, compassionate, humble, dejected, and base characters; they made all highlights bright, all shadows dark, all elevations pronounced, and all forms distinct. Notice where he criticizes their depictions of Chimeras [94] (inappropriately referred to as grotesque by the masses), saying that those who were truly meant to study and emulate Nature only created monstrous distortions of it, something Horace mockingly noted. [95] The art of sculpture originated with molding clay or pottery. This is the source of statuary, sculpture, engraving, and painting; cutting in brass and marble all fall under this category. Socrates taught Parrhasius and Clito (two renowned sculptors) how to convey emotions through expressions in their art. Polygnotus and Aglaophon were earlier artists. Following them was Zeuxis, who became a foundational figure for all painters; then came Parrhasius. They were contemporaries, living around the time of Philip, the father of Alexander the Great. In this later period, six famous painters thrived in Italy, excelling and competing with the ancients—Raphael of Urbino, Michelangelo Buonarotti, Titian, Antonio Allegri da Correggio, Sebastiano del Piombo, Giulio Romano, and Andrea del Sarto.

Parasiti ad mensam.—These are the flatterers who butter up my influential lord, praising everything he does or says, whether it's true or false; they create stories to please him; they craft compliments for his ears, and if their flattery isn’t accepted, they quickly change their tune, flip their narrative, deny what they previously said, and admit to things they once rejected; they adapt their conversations to suit the people and situations. What they grab and consume at one gathering, they share at another; they become suspected by the master and disliked by the servants, all while meddling in issues of the household that are none of their concern. They rave about my lord’s wine and his favorite dishes; they keep an eye on the cook and the steward; as long as they’re in my lord’s good graces, they advocate for a pension for themselves, but at the slightest sign of my lord’s displeasure or change in taste, they are quick to tear them apart.

How much better it is to be silent, or at least to speak less! It's not just about saying good things, but also saying them at the right time. If someone asks a question, it’s fine to repeat it before answering, just to make sure you understand it and avoid any confusion; it’s less embarrassing to listen imperfectly than to speak imperfectly. Ears can be excused, but understanding cannot. When faced with things unknown, it’s wise not to give an opinion, as pretending to know too much can damage your credibility if you say the wrong thing. Also, don't try to win your patron's favor by getting involved in family disputes or prying into their private matters, their interests, or affections. Such people are despicable, buzzing around the house all day, picking up dirt like magpies or swallows, and bringing it back to their nests (the lord’s ears), often spreading lies they’ve made up based on what they claim to have seen and heard.

Servants of the ego.—These are known as tools of grace and power among influential people, but they are really just signs of their weakness and inability. Truly capable leaders can make these observations themselves. An honorable person wouldn’t pry into who’s dining together, what someone else is playing, who another loves, who someone is strolling with, the conversations they have, or who is spending the night together. It’s lowly and servile individuals who occupy themselves with such matters. How many times have I seen, justly, these family critics taken down a notch by some honest farmer with a good whack! Those who engage in such gossip are usually the worst of humanity, either slandering others or defaming all. However, I truly don't know which is worse—those who criticize everyone or those who praise everyone. There is as much vice in praise as there is in criticism.

It recently pleased you, my lord, to ask for my thoughts on the education of your sons, particularly regarding their academic progress. Although I initially responded with only a few ideas, which reflected my willingness more than provided a solid solution to the issue, I have since given it more thought. I've gathered my insights and memories, which I hope will clarify my thoughts for your lordship's inquiry. I admit, my lord, what I will offer may seem trivial and minor, being written for children. However, education has its early stages just like living beings do. We see that even the strongest people started from infancy, and the wisest had to spend time learning their letters and sounds. Therefore, it's crucial to pay close attention to their beginnings, understanding and assessing their natures; some children are naturally inclined toward certain subjects, yet they are all ready to explore various topics gradually and with variety. Change serves as a refreshing element in education, introducing knowledge through the enjoyment of learning. That's why school is often referred to as a play or game, and letters are best taught to students in that spirit. They shouldn't be frightened or discouraged as they start but rather motivated through practice and competition. A young person shouldn’t be made to dislike studying before even having the chance to appreciate it, nor should they experience the unpleasantness before knowing the sweetness; they should be invited, encouraged, persuaded, and praised—even when they don’t deserve it. For this reason, I recommend sending them to an excellent public school, which I believe is the best option. I worry that your lordship may resist this, preferring to keep them close to home, fearing that their behavior might be negatively influenced elsewhere. However, they are at greater risk at home, among bad servants (assuming they are safe with their schoolmaster), than among a thousand unruly boys. How unfortunate it is that we often damage our own children’s behavior by being overly lenient! Raising them at home is like raising them in a shadow, while in a school, they benefit from the brightness and warmth of the sun. There, they become familiar with different experiences and people. When they enter society, they won't find anything new or unexpected. They've formed friendships and support networks that may last a lifetime. They hear what is expected of others as well as themselves, receiving both praise and correction; all of which they use to enrich their own knowledge and skills. Eloquence would suffer if we only conversed with individuals, speaking only between one person and another. That's why I disapprove of private education. I would send them where their efforts are continually encouraged by praise, and that enthusiasm is fueled by competition. It’s beneficial to stimulate the mind; although ambition can be a flaw, it frequently leads to great virtues. Give me a young person whose ambition is stirred by praise, who seeks glory and feels disappointment when shamed; such a person must be nurtured with ambition, motivated by honor, corrected when wrong, and never suspected of laziness. Even if they enjoy play, it shows a spirited nature, as long as there is a balance in their leisure activities. I would want them free from punishment or threats, as those are both unseemly and demeaning.

On Style, and the Best Way to Write.—To write well, a person needs three essential things: to read the best authors, observe the best speakers, and practice their own writing style a lot. In terms of style, they should think about what they want to say and how to say it. They must first reflect and develop their ideas, then select their words and weigh both carefully. It's important to arrange both the ideas and the words in a way that makes the composition attractive, and to do this diligently and often. No matter how slow the writing feels at first, as long as it is well thought out and accurate, one should aim for the best and not be satisfied with the first thoughts that come to mind. We must evaluate what we create and organize what we approve of. Frequently revisiting what we have previously written helps with continuity and improves coherence; it reignites creative energy, which can fade during the writing process, giving it new strength, just like athletes who jump further when they take a longer run-up, or javelin throwers who pull their arms back to enhance their throw. However, if the writing is flowing well, I don’t discourage exploring that direction, provided we’re not misled by the momentum. Everything we create initially pleases us in our thoughts, or else we wouldn’t write it down. But the safest approach is to return to our judgment and reconsider those things that might be too easy to seem credible. The best writers did the same at the beginning; they required themselves to be careful and diligent; they didn’t act impulsively. They first learned to write well, and then it became easier through practice. Little by little, their ideas became more abundant; their words aligned, their structure fell into place; everything, like a well-run household, organized itself. Ultimately, the point is, quick writing doesn’t equal good writing; instead, good writing leads to easier writing. Yet, when we feel confident in our ability, it’s wise to hold back sometimes, like how a rider might pull gently on the reins, not stopping the horse but energizing it. Likewise, a writer’s talent should constantly strive to grow and expand, just as shorter individuals raise themselves on their toes and often manage to reach the same height, if not surpass it. Additionally, while seasoned writers should work independently and rely on their own skills, beginners should study the best writers. Understanding the works of others sharpens the mind and memory more than reflecting on one’s own ideas. Those who familiarize themselves with great authors will frequently find traces of their influences in their own thoughts, even if they aren’t always aware of it, able to express something similar to theirs, which holds greater authority than their own. In fact, sometimes citing another author effectively is a reward of one’s efforts. Even if a person is more inclined or suited to a particular style of writing, they should still practice all styles. Just like with musical instruments, style requires harmony and agreement among its parts.

Teaching Methods.—I undertake this effort to teach others so that they won't always need to be taught, and I want to put my principles into practice because rules are generally less effective and valuable than hands-on experience. My goal is more to guide those who come after me than to criticize those who have made mistakes in the past, and I think this will be more beneficial. People are generally more eager to listen to advice than to criticism. Among different opinions on an art, many of which contradict each other, it can be challenging to choose. Therefore, even if a person can't come up with new ideas after so many have been introduced, they can still help future generations judge the old ideas correctly. However, arts and teachings are useless unless nature is supportive and helpful. So, these lessons aren't meant for those with dull sensibilities, just as farming guidelines won't help poor soil. No teachings will benefit a fool, just like beauty won't help a blind person or music a deaf one. Just as we should ensure our writing isn't dry or lacking substance, we should also ensure it isn't convoluted or overly extravagant in descriptions; both are flaws. However, what's worse is what comes from a lack of substance rather than excess. The remedy for barrenness is simple, but no amount of work will help what lacks growth. I'll appreciate some things in a young writer, but if he continues those habits, I can't help but dislike him for it. There’s a time for everything to mature, and even a farmer knows not to prune a young plant too soon, as it fears the tool and can't handle the scar. Similarly, I wouldn't tell a novice writer about all their mistakes right away, as it might discourage and dishearten them, eventually leading to despair. Nothing is more harmful than making someone so fearful of mistakes that they become paralyzed. Therefore, youth should be taught early and with the best materials, because we remember what we learn first, just as the first scent of a jar lingers and the first dye a wool receives sets its color. Thus, a teacher should adjust their methods and work within the student's weaknesses. If you pour too much water into a bottle at once, it barely absorbs any; but with a funnel and gradually, you can fill many without wasting much. To match their ability, they will absorb and be full. Additionally, it’s wise to introduce young people first to the best authors—those that are straightforward and clear. [106a] For example, Livy before Sallust, Sidney before Donne; and be cautious about introducing them to Gower or Chaucer too early, as they might fall too much in love with the past without understanding its depth, leaving their language rough and lacking. Once their judgment is strong and secure, they can explore both the old and the new, but also be careful that their new knowledge and enjoyment do not spoil them as much as the dryness and harshness of the old if they don’t choose wisely. Spenser, in his admiration for the ancients, created no true language; however, I would recommend him for his content, similar to how Virgil studied Ennius. Quintilian advises reading Homer and Virgil as the best way to educate youth and strengthen adults. This is because the mind is elevated by the grandeur and sublimity of such verses, gaining inspiration from the greatness of the content and being enriched with the finest ideas. Tragic and lyrical poetry, as well as comedy at its best, are also beneficial if the moral character of the reader is secure. In Greek poets, as well as in Plautus, we see better structure and arrangement of poems compared to Terence; the latter believed that the charm and virtue of their narratives lay solely in inserting quotes, much like how our modern writers force in jokes.

Fals. querel. fugiend. Platonis peregrinatio in Italiam.—We shouldn't disguise our laziness by claiming that things are too hard. It’s a misguided complaint against Nature that she only assists a select few in understanding, when most people could grasp things if they just put in the effort; just like birds fly and horses run, which they would only fail to do because of their own sluggishness, turning into her oddities rather than her offspring. I admit, Nature is more tolerant of hard work in children than in adults; they don’t feel the pain or judge the effort involved; they don’t measure what they’ve accomplished. It’s more our thoughts and reflections that wear us out than the actual exhaustion. Plato wasn’t satisfied with the knowledge he could gain in Athens, so he traveled to Italy to learn from Pythagoras. Still feeling undereducated, he went to Egypt to learn from the priests and their secrets. He worked hard, and so must we. We can learn many things at once, like musicians who train their memory, voice, fingers, and sometimes their whole bodies all at the same time. Likewise, a preacher uses all of his skills simultaneously when coming up with topics, selecting words, and managing his gestures, expressions, pronunciation, and movements. If we can combine this variety in our expression, why should pursuing different subjects at different times not be enjoyable, since variety can refresh and rejuvenate us? When someone gets tired of writing, they can switch to reading; and vice versa. In doing a variety of things, we always feel somewhat renewed when starting something new; change revitalizes us, just like our stomachs are revived by different foods. However, some will argue that this variety causes confusion and leads us to forget everything or only remember the most recent thing. Then why not convince farmers that they shouldn’t cultivate land, amend it with marl, lime, and compost; plant hop-gardens, prune trees, manage beehives, raise sheep, and care for all their livestock at the same time? It's actually easier to juggle multiple tasks and keep going than to focus on just one task for a long time.

Præcept. element.—It's not going through these lessons that harms us, but getting stuck on them. Falling into extreme anxiety and pointless debates like those of grammarians can completely break a mind, being a source of endless misery and futility, to be elementarii senes. However, letters are, in a way, the foundation of words, and they return to an author like the pawns of language: but talking and eloquence are not the same. Speaking and speaking well are two different things. A fool can talk, but a wise person speaks; and from observation, knowledge, and experience, many writers confuse their readers and listeners with nonsense. Their writings need clarity. I appreciate pure and neat language, yet it should be plain and customary. A barbaric phrase has often turned me against good sense, and unclear writing has tested my patience beyond limits. The reason a poet is said to require knowledge in all areas is so he won't be ignorant, especially about the topics he will cover. Indeed, when it’s possible to attain such knowledge, it would be lazy and lowly to give up; for frequent imitation of anything quickly becomes a habit. If someone were to pursue everything that could be said about a topic, their work would never end.

De orationis dignitate.  ’Εγκυκλοπαιδεία.—Metaphora.  Speech is the only way for humans to showcase their superiority of mind over other creatures. It serves as the tool for society; that's why Mercury, the god of language, is referred to as deorum hominumque interpres. [110a]  In every form of speech, words and meaning are like the body and the soul. Meaning is the life and soul of language, without which words are lifeless. Meaning comes from experience, an understanding of human life and actions, or the liberal arts, which the Greeks called ’Εγκυκλοπαιδείαν.  Words belong to the people, but we need to choose them carefully; for verborum delectus origo est eloquentiæ. [111a]  We should pick words based on who we are speaking for or the topics we are discussing. Some words come from the military, others from politics, some from trades, some from farming, some from preaching, and some from law, etc. Their elegance and appropriateness show when we use them correctly and draw out their true strength and meaning through translation or metaphor. However, in this translation, we must only fulfill necessity (nam temerè nihil transfertur à prudenti) [111b]  or utility, which is a form of necessity: when we absolutely need a word to express a thought, that’s necessity; or when we don’t have a suitable word, that’s utility; as when we avoid loss and prevent any awkwardness while enhancing the grace and appropriateness that aids meaning. Far-fetched metaphors can make understanding difficult, and those that are overly affected lose their charm. Or when someone chooses metaphors from an inappropriate source, like if an advisor were to draw a metaphor from a gambling house, or a tavern, or if a justice of the peace took his comparisons from math, or if a theologian sourced from a brothel, or if a man from Northamptonshire, Warwickshire, or the Midlands constantly used shipping analogies with his local neighbors, mentioning the main-sheet and bowline. Metaphors can often become distorted, like when someone said, Castratam morte Africani rempublicam; and another, Stercus curiæ Glauciam, and Canâ nive conspuit Alpes.  All new attempts in this area are risky and somewhat challenging until they become familiar through usage. A person doesn’t create a new word without some risk and little reward; if it happens to be accepted, the praise is modest, but if rejected, the ridicule is certain. Yet we must take the risk; for things that are initially tough and rough can become smooth and gentle with time. It is a noble mistake to make by following great leaders.

Custom.—Clarity, Beauty.—Authority.—Virgil.—Lucretius.—Chaucerism.—Wordplay.—Custom is the most reliable guide for language, just like the official mark gives value to money. But we shouldn't overdo it with new words, creating them every day, nor should we pull words from the farthest past; the main quality of a style is clarity, and nothing is worse than needing an interpreter. Words from ancient times can add a sense of majesty to our writing, and they can be enjoyable too; they carry the weight of years and gain a kind of charm from their age, almost like something new. But the best mix is the freshness of current language and the richness of the past. What was the old language, which some people romanticize, but just old custom? Yet when I say custom, I don’t mean the common one; that would be a guideline just as harmful to language as living like everyone else is to life. I refer to the speech custom that comes from the agreement of the educated, just as the lifestyle custom is based on the consensus of the good. Virgil loved the past, yet how rarely did he use words like aquai and pictai! Lucretius is rough and raw in this regard; he seeks out those words, just as some of us look for Chaucerisms, which would be better removed. Some words are picked out for flair and color, as we gather flowers to decorate homes or make wreaths; but they are best when they blend into our style, just like in a meadow, where the plain grass is pleasing, but the variety of flowers enhances the beauty. However, we shouldn't play around too much with them, like in wordplay, nor use overly pompous or awkward-sounding words! Quæ per salebras, altaque saxa cadunt. [114a] It's true that every sound will find some admirers, as even the most bitter sweets can please some tastes. Our writing should be more carefully crafted at the start and end than in the middle, and especially more refined at the end than at the beginning; for the flow carries us through the middle. And this is achieved more by habit than by strict diligence. We must express ourselves clearly and fully, not excessively. There’s a difference between being generous and being wasteful. Just as it's an important skill to expand and let loose when necessary, it’s equally praiseworthy to pull in and condense when the topic demands it. Both have their place. A good person always gains from their efforts, even when they're absent; indeed, even after their death, through their example and memory. The same goes for good writers: a concise and clear style is one from which you cannot remove a single element without causing a noticeable loss.

De Stylo.—Tracitus.—The Laconic.—Suetonius.—Seneca and Fabianus.—The brief style conveys a lot in just a few words; the concise style doesn't fully convey enough and leaves some things to be inferred; the abrupt style has many breaks and seems to drop off instead of concluding. The appropriate and harmonious arrangement of parts in a sentence has the strength and effectiveness of knitting and connection, much like well-cut stones that can stand tall for a great height without mortar.

Periods.—Obscurity casts shadows.—Exaggeration.—Periods are appealing when they aren’t too long; they have their strength, much like a spear or a javelin. Just as we must ensure our words and ideas are clear, if obscurity arises from the listener’s or reader’s lack of understanding, I’m not responsible for that, just as I’m not responsible for them not paying attention; I can’t provide them with ears or a mind. However, a person cannot express something so poorly that nothing around it helps illustrate its meaning, if the writer understands what they’re saying; clarity benefits from order, while confusion harms it. (Straightness brings light; crookedness and digression obscure. [116a]) Thus, we should aim to speak in the most straightforward manner, maintaining our flow without jumping around; for something too brief may just as easily be forgotten as something too lengthy may be disregarded. Anything that loses elegance and clarity transforms into a riddle; the obscurity is noted, but not the worth. That gets lost and is overlooked, like the pearl in the fable. Our style should be like a strand of silk, easy to follow by the right thread, not tangled and complicated; otherwise, it all becomes a knot, a mess. Some words can elevate a style just as others can diminish it. Exaggeration and excess amplify; it may go beyond belief, but never beyond moderation. It was absurd when Cestius remarked about Alexander:

“Fremit ocean, as if it resents that you leave the land.” [117a]

But luckily from Virgil:

“Beliefs cast aside
Cyclades.” [117b]

He doesn’t say it was this way, but it seemed to be so. Although it’s somewhat unbelievable, that’s excused before it’s even said. But there are exaggerations that fit one language and can’t accept another. Like Eos esse P. R. exercitus, qui cælum possint perrumpere, [118a] who would say the same in our language, but only a madman? So, we have to consider in every language what is commonly used and accepted. Quintilian warns us that in any translation, metaphor, or allegory, we shouldn’t stray from what we started with; if we draw our metaphor from the sea and waves, we shouldn’t end in flames and ashes: that’s a really bad inconsistency. Also, we shouldn’t stretch our allegory too long, so we don’t become unclear or fall into pretentiousness, which is childish. But why do people deviate from the right and natural ways of speaking at all? Sometimes it’s out of necessity when we’re forced or think it’s more appropriate to speak in vague terms, or indirectly, which if stated plainly might offend listeners. Or to avoid anything inappropriate, or sometimes just for fun and variety, like travelers who stray from the main road, tempted either by the convenience of a path, or the charm or freshness of the fields. And all this is called εσχηματισμενη or figured language.

Oratio imago animi.—Language reveals a person most clearly: Speak, so I can see you. It comes from the deepest parts of us and reflects the true essence of our mind. No mirror captures a person’s appearance as accurately as their speech. In fact, it can be compared to a person; just as we examine someone’s features and physique, we should examine the words in language—their richness, suitability, structure, and harmony.

Structure and stature, lofty, humble, diminutive.—Some people are tall and big, just like some language is elevated and grand. The words are carefully selected, their sound rich, the composition complete, the conclusions abundant, and expressed in a serious, robust, and powerful manner. Others are small and diminutive; similarly, their speech is modest and low, the words lacking and flat, the sentences and phrases thin and weak, without coherence or rhythm.

Mediocris plana et placida.—The middle ground is just right. There, the language is straightforward and appealing; it flows smoothly, without any awkwardness: everything is well-structured, composed, elegant, and precise.

Vicious language, vast—bulging—enormous—affected—debased.—The vicious language is expansive and gaping, swollen and irregular: when it tries to be elevated, filled with grandeur and sharpness; while when it aims low, it is demeaning and crawls, full of swamps and holes. And based on their subject, these styles shift and lose their identities: for what is high and noble, discussing excellent topics, becomes vast and cumbersome when speaking of trivial and inferior matters; similarly, what is balanced and suitable for a simple subject appears most lacking and humble when addressing a lofty theme. Wouldn’t it be amusing to see a high-ranking official in a flat cap, with his baggy pants, and a hobbyhorse cloak, his gloves tucked under his belt, alongside that tailor in a velvet gown trimmed with fur? There is a certain range in these matters, through which we discern the differences.

Figure.—The next aspect after stature is the figure and style of language—that is, whether it is rounded and straight, consisting of short and concise sentences, numerous and well-crafted; or square and solid, meaning it has equal and strong elements that are consistent and balanced throughout.

Skin and Coat. Composition.—The third is the skin and coat, which relies on the smooth, seamless connection and blending of words; when it is smooth, gentle, and pleasing, like a surface where you can run your finger without any bumps, and where your nail can't find a seam; not harsh, rough, wrinkled, open, or cracked: following this, the flesh, blood, and bones are considered.

Carnosa—adipata—redundans.—We refer to it as a fleshy style when there's a lot of circumlocution and excessive wording; when it becomes overly bloated and heavy: arvina orationis, filled with fat and grease. It has vitality and substance when the words fit well and are suitable, their sound pleasant, and the phrasing neat and refined—oratio uncta, et benè pasta. But when there's an excess, both the vitality and substance are flawed and lacking:—Redundat sanguine, quia multo plus dicit, quam necesse est. Juice in language is somewhat less than blood; for if the words are appropriate and meaningful, and the sense is gentle, there is juice; but where that is absent, the language is thin, weak, poor, starving, barely covering the bone, and resembles stones in a sack.

Thin, slean, rough.—Bony, and nervous.—Some people, to avoid being repetitive, end up doing that; and while they try to keep things civil, they end up losing their kindness. There are also some styles that may not have less blood, but have less flesh and fat. These are bony and sinewy; They have bones, and nerves.

Notes from Lord St. Albans on learning.—Dictator.—Aristotle.—It was observed by the late Lord St. Albans that the first issue with learning is focusing too much on words; the second is getting caught up in trivial matters; and the third problem is deception, or the appearance of truth: falsehood supported by gullibility. All these are the distractions of learning, and allowing them to take root in us is either lazy or foolish. Nothing is more absurd than making an author a dictator, like Aristotle has been in schools. The harm done to knowledge by this is immeasurable; for many things deserve only a temporary belief and a suspension of our own judgment, not a complete surrender or a constant captivity. Let's give due respect to Aristotle and others, but if we can discover more truth and relevance than they did, why should we be resented? While we strive to add knowledge, we should be careful not to diminish or distort it; we can enhance it, but not inflate it. By discrediting falsehood, the value of truth increases. We must not wander around, like troubled individuals craving praise, but calmly work to separate opinions, identify errors, revive ancient ideas, and question past times; avoid aligning with the present or following any aggressive advocates, mix no dubious matters with the straightforwardness of truth, but gently turn the soil around the root of the issue, and steer clear of pointless conflicts, blind belief, or foolish naivety, seeking the harmony and connection of truth; only stoop to what is absolutely necessary and what is convenient. Then carefully observe where the style has declined, where it flourished with choice language, smooth and clear sentence structure, pleasing cadence, varying illustrations using figures of speech, weight of content, value of the subject matter, sound reasoning, creativity, and depth of judgment. This is monte potiri, to conquer the hill; for no perfect discovery can be made on flat ground.

On the Best Writer.—Cicero.—Now that I've shared this knowledge with you, let me guide you a bit further in how to use it and help you become a skilled writer through practice. The ideas in our minds are like pictures, and our words are the interpreters of those images. The way God has arranged his creations is not only magnificent and glorious but also speaks volumes: the person who can understand the true nature of things and express that understanding accurately is the best writer or speaker. Cicero said a lot when he stated, No one can speak correctly, unless they understand wisely. [124a] The shame of poor speaking would be minor if only the tongue were embarrassed, but just like a badly engraved image of a king on a seal is more a mark of dishonor for the prince than for the wax or the signet, disordered speech is more an injury to the true nature of things than to the lips that speak it. One cannot be considered mentally organized if their words clash; nor can their reasoning be sound if their sentences are illogical; nor can their speech be clear and perfect if their expression breaks into fragments and uncertainties. Wouldn't it be a disgrace for a powerful prince to have the dignity of his mission undermined by a careless ambassador? Isn't it just as insulting for an excellent idea and capability to be tarnished by the negligence of a lazy tongue? Careless speech not only undermines the speaker's reputation but also taints the perception of their reasoning and judgment; it undermines the strength and consistency of the content itself. If this is true for words, which can slip by unnoticed and where one well-placed phrase can excuse many flaws and inconsistencies, how can we consider someone wise if their writing is thin and shallow? How can you expect cleverness from someone whose thoughts and reflections, even when carefully considered, lack any vitality or sharpness in their writing?

On the Art of Letter Writing.—Invention.—When writing, you need to consider both creativity and structure. For creativity, which comes from your subject matter, there are no rules that provide more certainty or better guidance than what you can deduce from the unique situations of people's lives and professions. However, sometimes people take a kind gesture for granted: Like saying, “I couldn’t feel satisfied until I expressed my thoughts and sent my praise to you,” or, “My only purpose is to show my love for you and to remind you of my willingness to assist you in any way,” or “Sir, do you have the time to remember the loyalty you’ve received from your servant and, when you next have the chance, make him happy with some instructions from you?” or something similar, which begs for meaning and struggles to express the heavy burden of emptiness. Once you’ve developed your ideas, and your message has substance rather than just form or mere pleasantries, but actually conveys something significant, you should then organize it and break down the components, which involves two considerations. One is understanding the individuals you’re addressing; the other is ensuring your sentences flow coherently. Think about what your readers are likely to pay attention to most, what they will find the most appealing, and what will leave them with a satisfying memory and a positive impression of everything conveyed in your message. For the flow of sentences, make sure that each part connects and leads logically to the next, and that they are anticipated before they are expressed. That covers creativity and structure.

Modus.—1.  Brevitas.—Now for style: it consists of four key aspects that define your writing. The first is brevity; your letters should not be long essays or discussions, except when addressing academics. Even among them, it's important to be concise. Therefore, you should focus on the clearest parts of your understanding and use the most impactful words you can think of, so you can easily communicate your ideas to someone else and clarify their meaning thoroughly and distinctly, ensuring the reader won't need to revisit your letter. While respect is an important factor, if you're writing to someone whose background and understanding you know well, you can take bolder risks in your arguments. However, when writing to a superior, you must consider three additional factors: first, your relationship with them; second, their ability to understand your letters; third, their time to read them. Based on your relationship, you should adjust your length and tone—shorter and more familiar when you have their favor, or longer and more humble if not. As for their capacity, you can be more insightful and sophisticated if they can grasp those ideas. Regarding their time, be especially concise since they likely have more responsibilities. But with those of higher status, don’t create confusing puzzles with too few words, nor should you fill your writing with unnecessary fluff that makes it feel excessive. Brevity in content is achieved by cutting out unnecessary flattery, introductions, exaggerations, and digressions; in structure, by skipping conjunctions like not only, but also; both, and, therefore, and similar filler words that don't contribute much to a serious letter, just making sentences longer, like how a short trip can drag on with pointless stops.

Quintilian.—But, as Quintilian says, sometimes there's such a brevity in the details that it makes the whole story longer: “As I reached the stairs, I grabbed a pair of oars, they pushed off, I rowed quickly, I arrived at the court gate, I paid my fare, went up to see my lord, and I was let in.” All of this really means, “I went to the court and spoke with my lord.” This is a flaw in some Latin writers I've read in the past hundred years, and maybe Seneca might be guilty of it; I’m not saying he is.

2.  Clarity.—The next key feature of letter writing is clarity, which is often messed up by trying too hard to be witty or by showing off some obscure jargon. Using too few words can obscure meaning just as much as using too many; just as too much light can hurt the eyes, so can too little. A lengthy court document can confuse understanding just as much as a brief note can; therefore, don’t let your letters read like English laws, and this can be avoided. These pitfalls can be overcome by thoroughly thinking through your business and clearly expressing your thoughts, which is greatly aided by saying them out loud and allowing them to be evaluated by both your own senses and the judgment of others; this is why many good scholars speak awkwardly, similar to a wealthy person who can’t readily offer specific items from their shop due to lack of clarity. As a result, shallow but talkative people often engage listeners more effectively than wise individuals. However, writing allows for quicker corrections since everything is subject to the final review of the eyes. First, think it through, then write it down, then review it, and finally revise it, which increases your chances of doing well. Under this quality, simplicity also comes into play, meaning you shouldn’t fuss over the order of answering a letter as if you were responding to questions. Address the first point first, and the second one second, etc. but aim to maintain a method that has a careful yet easygoing style, similar to how women dress with a careful kind of casualness; although with some men, you shouldn’t joke or play tricks. Nevertheless, even the delivery of the most important topics can carry a grace that pleases the reader’s imagination. There should be a variety of terms, but not an excess; for instance, when discussing abundance, you can use words like choice, plenty, copiousness, or variety, as long as they don’t have such different meanings that they risk causing misunderstanding. Avoid using trendy terms like accommodation, complement, spirit, etc., as fancy jargon, but rather use them properly in context, just like everyone else.

3. Vigor—Next comes life and energy, which serve as the strength and backbone of your writing through clever phrases, comparisons, and ideas; references from well-known history or other common sources, such as those found in the Courtier and the second book of Cicero's De Oratore.

4. Discretio.—The last point is about knowing what suits you, the person you’re writing to, and the topic at hand. This quality is essential to wrap everything up, as it encompasses all aspects. It should come from a mature judgment, which, as someone wisely said, is acquired through four means: God, nature, hard work, and conversation. Attend to the first well, and the others will follow.

De Poetica.—We’ve talked enough about oratory, so let’s turn our attention to poetry. Poetry, in its origins, had many flaws, and now it has even more due to the fickleness and inconsistency of people’s opinions. In reality, it's the most powerful form of eloquence and has the highest character. Unfortunately, it has faced many discredits and slurs as a result of people's efforts to twist or slander it; their tactic is to diminish its credibility by lowering the status of those who practice it, making society wary of its freedom. The times have become so sensitive about its reputation that they label all writings as accusations.

That is the state word, the term used in court (placentia college), which some refer to as Parasites place, the Inn of Ignorance.

D. Hieronymus.—While I don't mention any specific individuals but poke fun at foolishness, why should anyone admit or betray their own shortcomings? Why doesn't the saying from St. Jerome come to mind, Ubi generalis est de vitiis disputatio, ibi nullius esse personæ injuriam? [133a] Is it such an unforgivable offense for poets to criticize vices in general, yet no wrongdoing for those who, by their specific actions, admit they have committed them? Have we really come to a point where we cannot—

“Auriculas teneras mordaci rodere vero.” [133b]

The remedies have always been more truthful, than hope. [133c]—Women.—If men can't write freely or speak the truth unless it doesn’t offend, then why do doctors use sharp medicines or corrosives? Isn’t it equally acceptable to treat the mind the same way we treat the body? You might say some vices are so horrible that it’s better for them to be acted out than discussed. But those who are offended when no names or labels are attached seem to be affected like women, who react strongly to anything bad said about their gender, as if the insult were aimed at them personally; conversely, when they hear praise for good women, they assume it applies to all. If I see something that affects me, should I immediately expose myself? No, if I’m smart, I’ll hide it; if I’m decent, I’ll steer clear of it, so I don’t highlight something on my face that was noted without being labeled. A man on the path to improvement will either honestly confess or wisely hide his issue. The wise and virtuous will never think anything written applies to them personally; instead, they’ll be glad that good people are warned not to act that way, and that bad people decide to change. Anyone who feels offended has no reason to be upset with the writer, but with themselves; they underscore what pertains to them by claiming something meant for all, as no fault can truly belong to one person, except for those who willfully and desperately accept it. I know well who I displease—those raised in a time of declining virtue, committed to their own vices; who have given up or tarnished their good names; who are hungry and ambitious for infamy, wrapped in all sorts of ugliness, enslaved by ignorance and malice, with a hidden and concealed evil, and who willingly accompany all wrongdoing.

Poet.—A poet is what the Greeks refer to as κατ εξοχην, ο ποιητής, a creator or a storyteller; their craft is one of imitation or invention, capturing the essence of human life through appropriate measure, rhythm, and harmony, as Aristotle notes. This comes from the word ποιειν, which means to create or pretend. Therefore, a poet is not just someone who writes in verse, but someone who invents and shapes a narrative, crafting stories that feel true. The narrative and imagination are essentially the form and spirit of any poetic work or poem.

Poema.—A poem isn't just any piece or creation by the poet, whether it's long or short; sometimes, even a single line can create a complete poem. Just like when Æneas displays and dedicates Abas's armor with this inscription:—

And calls it a poem or carmen. Such are those in Martial:—

And—

Horatius.—Lucretius.—That's what Horace's odes were called, Carmina, his lyric songs. And Lucretius outlines an entire book in his sixth:—

Epic.—Drama.—Lyrics.—Elegy.—Epigram.—In ancient times, all oracles were referred to as Carmina; any statement expressed, no matter how long or short, was termed an Epic, Dramatic, Lyric, Elegiac, or Epigrammatic poem.

Poetry.—Queen of the Arts.—Poet's Differences.—Grammar.—Logic.—Rhetoric.—Ethics.—A poem, as I mentioned before, is the creation of the poet; it's the result of his effort and study. Poetry is his skill or craft of creation; it's the very fiction itself, the reason or essence of the work. These three aspects— the finished piece, the act of creating, and the creator— correlate to the poem, the poetry, and the poet. Poetry is the habit or the art; in fact, it’s the queen of the arts, originating from heaven, inherited from the Hebrews, and highly valued by the Greeks, passed down to the Latins and all civilized nations. The study of it (if we believe Aristotle) provides humanity with a certain guideline and model for living well and happily, preparing us for all social responsibilities. If we trust Cicero, it nurtures and guides our youth, delights us in old age, enhances our success, comforts us during hardship, entertains us at home, keeps us company when we travel, accompanies us through our activities and leisure, sharing our periods of rest and recreation; to the extent that the wisest and most knowledgeable consider it the supreme guide to manners and closely related to virtue. While they regard philosophy as a strict and serious form of poetry, they conversely describe poetry as a sweet and gentle philosophy that leads and guides us to action with enchanting delight and incredible sweetness. But before we explore the types of poems and their specific differences, or pay homage to the art itself like a beloved, I want to guide you to understand who our poet is or should be in terms of nature, practice, imitation, study, and bring him through the disciplines of grammar, logic, rhetoric, and ethics, adding elements from each that are unique to him and deserving of your attention.

1. Ingenium.—Seneca.—Plato.—Aristotle.—Helicon.—Pegasus.—Parnassus.—Ovid.—First, we need our poet or creator (since our language gracefully lends him that title from the Greek) to have a natural talent for wit. While other arts rely on theories and guidelines, a poet must instinctively share the wealth of his thoughts. As Seneca said, Sometimes it is delightful to go a bit mad like Anacreon; referring to the ecstatic state of poetry. And as Plato stated, It’s pointless to knock at the poetical door if you are not truly composed. And Aristotle asserted, No great talent was ever without a touch of madness. Nothing significant, and above others in speech, can occur unless the mind is stirred. From here, it ascends, almost by a divine prompting, when it disregards common and familiar ideas. It expresses thoughts that transcend ordinary speech. Then it rises and takes flight with its rider, to heights that were once uncertain to reach. This is what poets meant by their Helicon, Pegasus, or Parnassus; and this is the reason Ovid boasted,

Lipsius.—Petron. in. Fragm.—And Lipsius claims, Scio, poetam neminem præstantem fuisse, sine parte quadam uberiore divinæ auræ. And that’s why there are so few great poets emerging among us (I’m not talking about mediocre ones). Every small town produces a mayor or two bailiffs each year, but Solus rex, aut poeta, non quotannis nascitur. To achieve this level of natural talent in our poet, we need consistent practice of those skills.

2. Exercise.—Virgil.—Scaliger.—Valerius Maximus.—Euripides.—Alcestis.—If his creativity doesn’t suddenly reach the greatness of the ancients, he shouldn’t get discouraged or angry too quickly. He should take a break from studying, but then return to it after some reflection; try again with effort. If it still doesn't work out, don’t give up yet, don’t scratch the walls in frustration, don’t hit the poor desk, but take everything back to the workshop and refine it again; reshape it. There’s no law forcing you to be a poet against your will or within the first few weeks; if it takes a year or two, that’s fine. Ordinary poets produce verses, whatever they may be, ex tempore; but none of it is worth a day’s life. A rhymer and a poet are not the same thing. It’s said of the incomparable Virgil that he produced his verses like a bear, then polished them. Scaliger the elder noted that he created many verses in the morning, which he trimmed down by evening. Valerius Maximus recorded something memorable yet humble about Euripides, the tragic poet, in his response to Alcestis, another poet. When Alcestis was told that Euripides had produced only three verses in three days with great difficulty, boasting that he could easily write a hundred in that time, Euripides replied, “That may be true, but here’s the difference: your verses won’t last those three days, mine will last forever.” Which was a clear way of saying he couldn’t write a verse. I’ve encountered many who made noise and buzzed. They had their sound and nothing more. Indeed, things written with effort deserve to be read that way and will endure their time.

3. Imitatio.—Horatius.—Virgil.—Statius.—Homer.—Horat.—Archil.—Alcæus, &c.—The third requirement for our poet or creator is imitation, the ability to take the wealth or essence of another poet and make it his own. He should choose one outstanding figure above the others and follow him until he becomes like him, or so similar that the copy could be mistaken for the original. Not like a creature that simply swallows everything raw and unprocessed, but one that consumes with interest, digests, divides, and transforms everything into nourishment. Not to imitate blindly, as Horace said, and catch at faults while claiming to seek virtue, but to extract from the best and finest elements, like a bee, and turn it all into honey, creating a unified flavor; make our imitation enjoyable; observe how the greatest writers have imitated and follow their lead. Look at how Virgil and Statius imitated Homer; how Horace followed Archilochus; how Alcæus and other lyric poets did the same; and likewise for the rest.

4. Reading.—Parnassus.—Helicon.—Arscoron.—M. T. Cicero.—Simylus.—Stob.—Horace.—Aristotle.—But what we especially need from him is a thorough dedication to study and a wide range of reading, which make a well-rounded person. This not only allows him to understand the history or main ideas of a poem and discuss them, but also to master the content and style, showing he knows how to use, arrange, or fit either elegantly when necessary. He shouldn't think he can suddenly become a poet just by imagining he's been to Parnassus or by merely washing his lips, as they say, in Helicon. There’s much more that goes into becoming one; natural talent, practice, imitation, and study must all combine to perfect these qualities. And although these factors play a big role in shaping a creator, it's Art alone that can lead him to perfection and keep him there, as if placed by her hand. Tully asserts that if an excellent nature is accompanied by learning and discipline, something noble and unique will remain. As Simylus says in Stobæus, Ουτε φύσις ίκανη yινεται τεχνης ατερ, ουτε παν τέχνη μη φυσιν κεκτημένη, without art nature can never be perfect; and without nature, art cannot exist. But our poet must be careful not to rely solely on learning from himself; anyone seeking to do that admits to having a fool as a mentor. He must read widely, but always from the best and most selective sources; those who can teach him anything must always be regarded as his masters and respected. Among them, Horace and Aristotle, who taught him, rightly deserve to be held in the highest regard. Aristotle was the first accurate critic and the truest judge—indeed, the greatest philosopher the world has ever known—because he identified the flaws in all types of knowledge and crafted one art from the many strengths found in various individuals. He taught us both how to judge others correctly and what we should specifically imitate in ourselves. But all this is useless without a natural wit and a particularly poetic nature. For no one, upon learning or reading this, will immediately write better; rather, as one is naturally inclined, one will become a better writer. He needs civil prudence and eloquence, and that fully—not just bits and pieces in sentences or fragments when addressing matters or leading discussions, as if he just stepped out of a rhetorician's booth, or only partially informed by the workings of the State, which is typically the school of men.

School of Men.—Lysippus.—Apelles.—Nævius.—The poet is the closest neighbor to the orator, expressing all his virtues; although he is more bound to rhythm, he is equal to him in style and superior in strengths. And among them, comedy is the nearest, because in moving people’s minds and stirring emotions (where oratory shines and proves its greatness), it excels the most. What figure of a body could Lysippus ever carve with his chisel, or Apelles paint with his brush, that compares to how comedy captures so many and diverse feelings of the mind? There, the audience sees some rejoicing with joy, others brooding in sadness, enraged with anger, crazed with love, boiling with greed, ruined by excess, tortured by anticipation, consumed by fear; no disturbance in everyday life but the orator finds an example of it in the performance. And as for the elegance of language, just read this inscription on the grave of a comic poet:

L. Ælius Stilo.—Plautus.—M. Varro.—Or that modest testimony given by Lucius Ælius Stilo regarding Plautus, who stated, “If the Muses had wanted to speak in Latin, they would have spoken in Plautus' style.” And that famous judgment by the highly knowledgeable M. Varro about him, who declared him the master of literature and elegance in the Roman language.

Sophocles.—I don’t agree that a poet's freedom should be restricted by the strict rules set by grammarians or philosophers. Before those rules were established, there were many amazing poets who naturally followed them, and none was more accomplished than Sophocles, who lived shortly before Aristotle.

Demosthenes.—Pericles.—Alcibiades.—Which of the Greeks would ever dare to give advice to Demosthenes? Or to Pericles, whom people called Heavenly because he seemed to speak with the power of thunder and lightning? Or to Alcibiades, who relied more on his natural instincts than on the training of an artist?

Aristotle.—Whatever nature inspired in those who were most fortunate, or what long practice taught those who were most diligent, Aristotle transformed into an art through his wisdom and knowledge. He grasped the underlying causes of things, and while others relied on chance or tradition, he used reason. He not only discovered how to avoid mistakes but also identified the quickest path to do so.

Euripides.—Aristophanes.—Aristophanes cleverly criticized many things in Euripides, not for show, but out of honesty. For Euripides is sometimes at fault, even though he is right most of the time. However, when judgment is at its peak, it isn’t always perfect if it lacks reason.

Cens. Scal. in Lil. Germ.—Horace.—Only poets have the ability to judge other poets, and not just any poets, but the best ones. Nemo infeliciùs de poetis judicavit, quàm qui de poetis scripsit. [148a] Some might argue that critics are like handymen who usually create more problems than they solve. Just look at their issues and those of grammarians. It's true that many individuals are worse off because of interference, and the numerous doctors have harmed many healthy patients with their misguided treatments. However, the role of a true critic or censor is not to toss around letters carelessly or condemn innocent syllables, but to piece together the words and improve them; to judge the author and their work sincerely, which reflects real and complete knowledge. Such was Horace, a writer of great civility, and (if anyone among the pagans can be) the finest teacher of both virtue and wisdom; a remarkable and fair judge based on cause and reason, not just because he thought so, but because he understood so through experience.

Cato, the grammarian, a supporter of Lucilius. [149a]

Quintilian of the same belief, but dismissed. [149b]

Horace, defending his judgment of Chœrillus against Joseph Scaliger. [149c] And of Laberius against Julius. [149d]

But mainly, his view on Plautus [149e] defended against many who are offended and say it's a harsh criticism of the originator of all cleverness and wit. They wish it hadn't come from such a great master and critic in the art, whose servants understood Plautus better than anyone who dares to support the intellectual community today. They couldn't have been unaware of the views of the times he lived in, when poetry and the Latin language were flourishing, especially since he was a man so engaged and familiar with the opinions of the great thinkers who discussed these matters daily among themselves. Moreover, he was a man so esteemed and favored by the Emperor that Augustus often referred to him as his witty little man (because of his small stature), and, if we can believe historical accounts, had intended to make him a secretary of state and invited him to the palace, which he modestly declined.

Terence.—Menander. Horace held Terence’s comedies in such high regard that he credited him as the sole master of comedic art among the Latins, placing him alongside Menander.

Now, let's examine what can be said for both sides, to support Horace's opinion for future generations and not entirely criticize Plautus.

The parts of a comedy and tragedy.—The elements of a comedy are the same as those of a tragedy, and their endings are somewhat similar, as both entertain and educate; the comedians are referred to as διδάσκαλοι, just like the tragedians in Greek culture.

Aristotle.—Plato.—Homer.—Not every instance of laughter is the goal of comedy; it often seeks to amuse the audience or to mock them. As Aristotle accurately points out, laughter in comedy can be a flaw, a kind of moral failing that tarnishes part of a person's nature without being an illness. Just like a grimace without pain produces laughter, or an ugly mask, or a crude jester dressed as a lady and mimicking her behavior; we find such portrayals distasteful and contemptible, which led ancient philosophers to believe that laughter was inappropriate for a wise person. This also prompted Plato to regard Homer as irreverent for occasionally showing the gods laughing. Moreover, it has been said of Aristotle that appearing ridiculous is a sign of dishonesty and foolishness.

The wit of the old comedy.—What’s off or twisted in an author’s words or ideas, or in people's language or actions, often stirs up petty feelings and usually leads to laughter. It's obvious that all rude and inappropriate comments, jokes directed at good people, harm done to individuals, and twisted or unexpected remarks in old comedy made people laugh, especially when they imitated dishonesty, and when crudity replaced true wit, which anyone who understands the nature of laughter would definitely recognize.

Aristophanes.—Plautus.—In this, Aristophanes offers a wealth of material, having surpassed Plautus and anyone else in this genre, and uniquely capturing all the various ways to express what’s ridiculous. In short, just as vinegar isn’t considered good until the wine goes bad, true and natural jokes rarely make the crowd laugh. They don’t appreciate anything that’s sensible or appropriate. The more it strays from logic or reality, the better they like it.

Socrates.—Theatrical wit.—What could have made them laugh more than seeing Socrates, the perfect example of a good life, honesty, and virtue, being hoisted up with a pulley to play the philosopher in a basket? Measuring how far a flea could jump geometrically, using a precise scale, and entertaining the crowd from that contraption. This was theatrical wit, genuine stage humor, meant for mockery and laughter; whereas, if it had involved fairness, truth, clarity, and honesty, something that a wise or educated person would appreciate— it would be immediately dismissed! This is harsh but useful: this teaches and informs us. Why should we, being of noble birth, need to know anything beyond a horse race or a hunting match, the daily activities with citizens, and such inherent mysteries?

The cart.—This is really jumping from the stage to the cart again, turning all cleverness back into the original dung-cart.

What the measure of a fable is.—The fable or plot of a poem defined.—The epic fable, differing from the dramatic.—To answer this question, we first need to agree on the definition of a fable. The fable is defined as the imitation of one complete and perfect action, where all the parts are so connected that nothing in its structure can be changed or removed without disturbing the whole, which has a proportional size in its components. For example, if someone wants to build a house, they would first select a spot for it, defining it within certain boundaries; similarly, in constructing a poem, the action intended by the poet corresponds to the location in a building, and that action has its own size, scope, and proportion. Just as a palace requires different dimensions than a private house, an epic poem demands a larger scale than other poems, since what is location in one is action in the other; the difference is a matter of space. Thus, from this definition, we conclude that a fable is the imitation of one complete and entire action, just as one complete and entire space is necessary for a building. By perfect, we mean that nothing is lacking, just as space is essential for the building that is being constructed, and action is crucial for the fable being created. It may be perfect not for a palace or a king's residence, which needs a larger foundation, but suitable for the structure the poet intends to create; therefore, while the extent of the action might be insufficient for an epic fable, it could still be perfect and whole for a dramatic one.

What we understand by whole.—We call something whole and perfect if it has a beginning, a middle, and an end. So, the space of any building can be whole and complete for that purpose, even if it's too small for a palace. Similarly, a tragedy or a comedy can have a suitable and complete action that wouldn’t work for an epic poem in terms of size. A lion is a perfect creature in its own right, even though it's smaller than a buffalo or a rhinoceros. They differ only in species; each is entirely its own kind, and both have their parts, as well as a whole. Therefore, just like in any body, there is a necessary proportional grandeur in every action that is the subject of a worthwhile work, neither too large nor too small. What happens to our eyes when we look at a body, happens to our memory when we contemplate an action. I think of a monstrous giant like Tityus, whose body covered nine acres; my eyes linger on every part, but I can never grasp the whole at once. In a fable, if the action is too grand, we can't fully comprehend the entire thing in our imagination. On the other hand, if it's too small, it provides no pleasure; it doesn't hold our gaze; we see it briefly, and then it disappears. If we were to look at an ant, the individual parts are hard to see, and the whole is almost negligible. The same goes for action, which is the object of memory, just as a body is for sight. Something too vast overwhelms the eyes and stretches the memory, while something too small hardly registers at all.

What are the limits of a fable.—In every action, it is essential for the poet to understand his limits, determining how far he can go with appropriate balance and necessary proportion; that is, until good fortune turns bad or bad fortune turns good. Just as a body without proportion cannot be aesthetically pleasing, neither can an action in comedy or tragedy thrive without proper limits: and among all limits, the one that is considered best for the nature of the subject is the one that is the largest, until it can expand no further; thus, it is important for the action in tragedy or comedy to develop until it’s necessary to reach a conclusion. In this, two things should be considered: first, it should not exceed the scope of one day; second, there should be room for digression and artistry. The episodes and digressions in a fable are like household items and furnishings in a home. Therefore, the measure and extent of a dramatic fable should be carefully defined.

What by one and whole.—Now that it should be one and whole. One can be understood in two ways; either as it stands separate and alone, or as something made up of many parts that come together to form a whole. It cannot truly be one if it exists solitary, by itself—no one who has engaged with literature would claim that, especially considering the need for a proper size and equal proportion of the parts individually. Neither of these can exist if the action is singular and separate, not composed of parts that, when combined in a suitable and balanced way, lead to the same result; this misconception has misled many since ancient times, and continues to mislead even more today.

Hercules.—Theseus.—Achilles.—Ulysses.—Homer and Virgil.—Æneas.—Venus.—There are so many from the past who believed that the actions of one person, like Hercules, Theseus, Achilles, Ulysses, and other heroes, could be considered as one singular narrative; this idea is both misguided and incorrect. A single person can accomplish many different things that don’t necessarily align with the same purpose: a notion recognized by not only the greatest tragic poets but also by the finest epic poets, Homer and Virgil. Although epic poetry is usually broader and more expansive than tragedy, Virgil, in writing about Æneas, leaves out a lot of details. He doesn't explain how he was born, raised, how he fought Achilles, or how Venus rescued him from battle; instead, he focuses solely on how he arrived in Italy across twelve books. The rest of his journey, including his struggles at sea and the fall of Troy, are included not as the main story but as side stories. Similarly, Homer omitted many aspects of Ulysses’ journey, only addressing what directly contributed to a singular purpose.

Theseus.—Hercules.—Juvenal.—Codrus.—Sophocles.—Ajax.—Ulysses.—In contrast to this, and foolishly, some poets, criticized by the philosopher, gathered the stories of Theseus and combined all the labors of Hercules into one work. Similarly, the one mentioned by Juvenal at the beginning, “hoarse Codrus,” recited an unfinished collection he called his Theseide, which caused great frustration for both his audience and himself; among these were many parts that had no connection or relationship to each other, so far removed from being one story, one fable. Just like how a house, made of different materials, becomes a single structure and residence, an action made up of various parts can form one tale, whether epic or dramatic. For instance, in a tragedy, look at Sophocles’ Ajax: Ajax, stripped of Achilles’ armor, which he expected from the support of the Greeks, feels disdain; and, unable to contain his anger over the insult, he rages and goes mad. In that state, he does many irrational things and ultimately attacks the Greek flock, killing a large ram intended for Ulysses. Once he regains his senses, he feels ashamed of his mockery and takes his own life; the Greek leaders, however, deny him a proper burial. These events align and connect not as they actually occurred, but as they appear to have happened, creating a complete, coherent, and definitive action.

The conclusion about the whole, and the parts.—Which are episodes.—Ajax and Hector.—Homer.—The whole consists of parts, and without all the parts, it isn't the whole; to make it complete requires not only the parts but also that those parts are valid. A part of the whole was valid; if you remove it, you either alter the whole or it ceases to be the whole. If it's a part that, whether present or absent, doesn't affect the whole, it cannot be considered a part of the whole; these are the episodes, which will be discussed later. For now, here's one example: the duel between Ajax and Hector, as it is detailed in Homer, has no relevance to this Ajax of Sophocles.

You only appreciate poems that stumble along like a brewer’s cart over the stones.

Camden! most revered leader, to whom I owe
All that I am in the arts, all that I know—
How insignificant that is! to whom my country owes
The great fame and name with which she is known!
The age sees nothing more serious,
More elevated, more sacred, that it desires more than you.
What name, what skill, what faith do you have in things!
What insight in exploring the most ancient sources!
What impact, and what authority in your words!
Men can hardly question that, but you can teach.
Pardon the truth, and let your humility,
Which conquers all, be once defeated by you.
Many of your people could do this better than I;
But for their talents, accept my devotion.

Here lies, for the grief of her parents,
Mary, their youthful daughter;
Yet, all of heaven’s blessings, being heaven’s gift,
Make the father feel less regret.
After six months, she left this world,
Safeguarding her innocence;
Her soul, belonging to the queen of heaven, whose name she carries,
Finds comfort in her mother’s tears,
And has joined the group of virgins in heaven;
While this earthly separation remains,
This grave holds her physical body;
So gently cover it, kind earth!

Bye, you child of my right hand and joy;
My sin was having too much hope for you, beloved boy;
You were lent to me for seven years, and now I must repay,
Required by your fate, on this destined day.
Oh! if only I could lose all as a father, now! For why,
Should a man mourn the situation he should envy?
To have so quickly escaped the world's and flesh's rage,
And, if nothing else, at least age!
Rest in gentle peace, and when asked, say here lies
Ben Jonson's best piece of poetry;
For your sake, from now on, all his vows will be such,
That whatever he loves may never be loved too much.

How I love you, Beaumont, and your muse,
You treat me with such reverence!
How I worry that I’m not worthy
Of even the slightest kind thought your pen offers!
You make me happy and then take it away;
By giving me so much, you end up taking more!
What fate is mine, that leaves me so empty?
What skill do you have, that so misleads your friend?
Even when you praise me the most,
I find myself envious of your writing.

The ports of death are sins; of life, good deeds:
Through which our actions guide us to our rewards.
How stubbornly blind is he, then, who would wander,
And has the ability to find his path!
This world is the realm of death, the next is life:
And here it should be one of our main struggles,
To confront death, so that people might consider us beyond it:
For good people only see death, while the wicked experience it.

Tonight, dear sir, both my humble home and I
would truly love your company;
Not that we think we deserve such a guest,
But that your presence will elevate our feast,
Along with those who’ll join us; their grace may make it
Something that would otherwise not warrant much respect.
It's the warm acceptance that creates
A perfect gathering, not just the food.
Still, you'll have something to whet your appetite,
An olive, capers, or some bitter greens
To go along with the mutton; with a small hen,
If we can find one, full of eggs, and then,
Lemons and wine for sauce: a rabbit
Shouldn’t be impossible for our budget;
And although birds are rare now, there are clerks,
The sky isn't falling, we could still have larks.
I’ll tell you more, and stretch the truth, so you’ll come:
Of partridge, pheasant, woodcock, some of which may
Still be around; and godwit if we can;
Knot, rail, and ruff, too. However, my man
Will read us a piece of Virgil, Tacitus,
Livy, or something of greater interest,
Of which we’ll share our thoughts while we eat;
And I won’t recite any verses in return:
If anything new comes up that I don’t know,
It will be the dessert, not my paper, that shows it.
There will definitely be some cheese and fruit;
But what excites my muse and me the most
Is a fine cup of rich canary wine,
Which belongs to the Mermaid now, but will be mine:
If Horace or Anacreon had tasted it,
Their lives, just like their lines, would’ve lasted till now.
Tobacco, nectar, or the Thespian spring,
Are all just Luther’s beer compared to this I sing.
We will enjoy this freely, but in moderation,
And we won’t have any Pooly or Parrot with us;
Nor will our cups make us feel guilty;
But when we part, we will be just like when
We innocently met. No simple word
That’s spoken at our joyful table,
Will make us sad the next morning; or frighten
The freedom we’ll enjoy tonight.

Cry with me, all of you who read
this little story;
And know for whom you shed a tear,
Death itself is sorry.
It was a child who flourished
in grace and beauty,
As if heaven and nature strove
over who owned this being.
He barely reached thirteen years
when fate turned cruel;
Yet he had shone like a jewel on stage
through three filled zodiacs;
And performed, as we now mourn,
like old men so dutifully;
For, truly, the Fates thought he was one
who acted so genuinely.
So, by mistake, they agreed to his fate,
without realizing;
But looking back now, alas, too late!
They have regretted;
And have tried to give him new life,
in baths to revive him;
But being far too good for this world,
heaven vows to keep him.

Would you like to hear what a person can say
in just a few words? Reader, hold on.
Under this stone lies
as much beauty as could die
which in life held more virtue
than is found in the living.
If she had any faults at all,
let them stay buried in this vault.
One name was Elizabeth,
the other should rest with death.
It's better to tell where she died
than to say she lived at all. Farewell.

Below this black hearse
lies the focus of all poetry,
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother:
Death! before you take another,
smart, beautiful, and kind as she,
time will aim a shot at you.

To stir up no jealousy, Shakespeare, with your name,
Am I this generous toward your work and fame;
While I admit your writings are so remarkable,
That neither man nor muse can praise them enough.
It’s true, and everyone agrees. But these
Are not the ways I intended to praise you;
For foolish ignorance may land on these words,
Which, when it sounds best, merely echoes back;
Or blind affection, which never truly advances
The truth, but stumbles and pushes everything by chance;
Or sneaky malice might pretend to offer praise,
And think to ruin where it seemed to uplift.
These are like some infamous pimp or whore
Praising a respectable woman; what could hurt her more?
But you are beyond their reach, and, indeed,
Above the bad fortune of them, or their need.
So, I will begin: Soul of the age!
The applause! the delight! and wonder of our stage!
My Shakespeare, rise! I won’t place you beside
Chaucer or Spenser, nor ask Beaumont to lie
A little further away to make space for you:
You are a monument without a tomb,
And remain alive as long as your book is alive
And we have minds to read, and praise to give.
That I don’t mix you in this way, my mind excuses,
I mean with great but mismatched Muses;
For if I thought my judgment were of age,
I would surely place you with your peers,
And tell how far you outshine our Lily,
Or playful Kyd, or Marlow’s mighty lines.
And although you had little Latin and even less Greek,
To honor you, I will not search
For names: but I’ll call forth thundering Aeschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to join us,
Pacuvius, Accius, and the one from Cordoba who’s dead,
To live again, to hear your steps on stage,
And shake the ground; or, when you were in socks,
Leave you alone for comparison
With all the arrogant Greece, or proud Rome
That sent forth, or since have arisen from their ashes.
Rejoice, my Britain, you have one to show,
To whom all of Europe’s scenes owe their respect.
He was not just of an age, but for all time!
And all the Muses were still in their prime,
When he came forth like Apollo to warm
Our ears, or like Mercury to charm!
Nature herself took pride in his designs,
And loved to wear the dress of his lines!
Which were so richly spun, and woven so perfectly,
That since then, she has offered no other wit.
The lively Greek, sharp Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now don’t please;
But are outdated and abandoned,
As if they were not part of nature’s family.
Yet I must not give nature all the credit; your art,
My gentle Shakespeare, deserves part of the praise.
For although the poet’s material is nature,
His heart gives it shape: and, he
Who aims to write a lively line must work hard,
(Such as yours are) and strike the second heat
On the Muse’s anvil; turn the same,
And get involved with it, if he hopes to create;
Or for the laurel, he may earn scorn;
For a great poet is made, as much as born.
And such were you! Look how the father’s face
Lives in his children; even so the essence
Of Shakespeare’s mind and manners shines brightly
In his well-crafted and true-filled lines;
In each of which he seems to shake a lance,
As if to challenge the eyes of ignorance.
Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it would be
To see you still appear in our waters,
And make those flights along the banks of Thames,
That so captivated Eliza, and our James!
But wait, I see you in the sky
Elevated and made a constellation there!
Shine bright, you star of poets, and with fury,
Or influence, chastise, or lift the weary stage,
Which, since your departure, has mourned like night,
And despairs of day, but for your volume’s light.

Beverage to me only with your eyes,
And I’ll toast with mine;
Or just leave a kiss in the cup,
And I won’t look for wine.
The thirst that comes from the soul
asks for a drink from the divine:
But if I could sip Jove’s nectar,
I wouldn’t trade it for yours.

I sent you a floral wreath late at night,
Not so much to honor you,
As to offer a hope that it
Would not wither away.
But you only breathed on it,
And sent it back to me:
Since then it grows and its fragrance, I swear,
Comes not from itself, but from you.

Check it out the chariot of Love here,
      Where my lady rides!
   Each one pulling it is a swan or a dove,
      And Love steers the carriage well.
   As she moves, all hearts pay their respects
         To her beauty;
   And those in love wish that they could
         Just see such a
   Sight, and that they could run by her side,
Through swords, through seas, wherever she would ride.

Just look into her eyes, they light up
      Everything that Love includes!
   Just look at her hair, it shines
      Like Love's star when it rises!
   Just notice, her forehead is smoother
         Than words that comfort her!
   And from her arched brows, such a grace
         Shines through her face,
   As if it alone embodies
All the benefits, all the goodness, from nature's struggles.

Have you ever seen a bright lily grow
      Before it’s been touched by rough hands?
   Have you noticed the snow falling
      Before the ground was dirty?
   Have you felt the fur of a beaver?
         Or ever the down of a swan?
   Or have you smelled the bud of a briar?
         Or the nard in a fire?
   Or have you tasted honey from a bee?
Oh so white! Oh so soft! Oh so sweet is she!

Men, if you love us, stop acting like fools or tyrants with your friends, so that we keep singing our own false praises for your benefit. We have our own intelligence and creativity too, and if it comes to it, let's sing about you instead.

Nor do we doubt that we can,
   If we take the time to look closely,
Find something good in someone;
   So going through all your effort,
      We will, in the end, create
      One good enough for a song’s sake.

And just like a clever artist does,
   In any interesting piece you see,
They enjoy the process of creating
   More than the final product—so will we.
      And having satisfied our craft, we’ll try
      To create something new, and display it next to it.

To the Lasting Memory and Friendship of that Noble Pair, Sir Lucius Cary and Sir Henry Morison.

Bold child of Saguntum, clear
Your arrival in that great year,
When the amazing Hannibal celebrated
His victory by destroying your immortal town.
You, looking around then,
Before you were fully out,
Smart kid, quickly went back,
And made your mother’s womb your
resting place.
How perfect a circle did you leave humanity
Of profound knowledge, if only we could find the center!

Did wiser nature pull you back,
From the horror of that sack,
Where shame, faith, honor, and respect for right,
Lay trampled? The acts of death and night,
Urged, rushed forth, and
Thrown
Upon the terrified world;
Sword, fire, and famine, with cruel rage met,
And all aimed at complete destruction;
As if they could foresee life’s miseries,
No doubt all babies would come back like you.

For what is life if it's measured by the space
      Instead of by the action?
Or a masked man, if judged by his appearance,
      Rather than his deeds?
   Here’s someone who outlived his peers,
   And lived for eighty years;
   He annoyed time and occupied the whole state;
      Disturbed both enemies and friends;
      But always to no purpose:
   What did this troublemaker achieve except to die late?
How well could he have done at twenty!
For three of his eighty years, he did no good.

He started off strong, through good qualities,
Got up, and prospered with honest skills;
He gained friends, reputation, and honors,
And saw his noble name recognized among others:
But tired of that rise,
He lowered himself in everyone’s view
To cheap flattery, acts of conflict,
And sank in that dead sea of life,
So deep that he almost drowned in death’s waters,
Except that his title kept him afloat.

Alas! But Morison died young:
He never fell,—you fall, my tongue.
He stood as a soldier until the very end,
A true patriot, and a great friend;
But most of all, a good son.
He completed all his duties
So thoroughly, completely, and perfectly,
In weight, measure, number, and sound,
As if, though his age might seem incomplete,
His life was the essence of humanity.

Go now and share the days filled with fears,
      And turn them into years;
Show off your pile of sorrows on stage,
      To make you seem wise with age;
   Repeat a crowd of tales,
   To prove you’ve been around,
Not just alive: because life reveals her true deeds
   By what was achieved and done
   In time, and how it was brought
To light: her measures are, how well
Each syllable matched, and was shaped, how beautifully;
These create the verses of life, and that’s her essence!

It’s not about growing like a tree,
In bulk, that makes people better;
Or standing for three hundred years like an oak,
Just to end up as a dry, bald log;
A lily that blooms for a day,
Is way more beautiful in May,
Even though it might fall and die that night;
It was the plant and flower of light.
In smaller portions, we can see true beauty;
And in shorter spans, life can be perfect.

Call, noble Lucius, then for wine,
And let your face shine with joy:
Accept this garland, place it on your head
And believe, no, know, your Morison’s not dead
He jumped into the next life,
Filled with holy passion
To witness that bright, eternal day;
Of which we priests and poets speak,
Such truths, as we hope for joyful people:
And there he lives with memory and Ben.

Jonson, who sang this about him before he rested,
         Himself to rest,
Or experienced some of that complete joy he intended
         To have expressed,
      In this bright constellation!
      Where it would be a break in friendship,
   If his Lucius were not here to stay,
      To separate these two-
      Lights, the Dioscouri;
   And keep the one half from his Harry,
But fate changes the plan
While in heaven, this light on earth must shine.

And shine as you are exalted;
Two names for friendship, but one star:
The union of hearts, and not by chance
Made, or bound by contract, or rented to enhance
Short-term gains.
No empty pleasures rang,
With rhymes, or wild parties at your gatherings,
Or drunken revelries, or fake protests:
But a simple love of greatness and goodness,
That connects brave minds and character more than blood.

This made you first understand why
   You liked something, and then, later, applied
That liking; and approached each other
Until one became a part of the other:
      Each defined by his goal,
      A reflection of his friend.
   You lived to earn the grand last names,
   And titles, by which everyone made claims
To the virtue; nothing was truly perfect,
Except as a Cary or a Morison.

And the strong example had such an impact,
         As those who
Saw the good and didn’t dare to practice it were glad
         That such a
      Law
      Was still available to humanity;
      Where they could read and discover
   That friendship wasn’t written just in words;
      But with the heart, not a pen,
      Of two young men,
   Whose stories were documented;
Who, before the first hair blossomed on their chins,
Had planted these seeds and reaped the rewards.

And must I sing? What topic should I pick!
Or whose famous name in the poets’ realm should I use,
To give my creative spirit more encouragement?

Hercules? Unfortunately, his bones still ache
From his past earthly labors to gain more
Of his dull divinity would be a sin. I'll ask

Phœbus. No, keep your cart still. Envious day
Won’t know that I’ve made you stop,
And worn out your fiery team, to set my song.

Nor will I ask you, lord of the vine,
To lift my spirits with your magical wine,
In the green circle of your ivy twine.

Pallas, I don't call on you either, woman of mankind,
Who scared the poor smith at your birth.
He acted as the midwife for your father with his axe.

Go, cramped dull Mars, bright Venus, when he
snorts,
Or with your tribade trine create new games;
Neither you nor your looseness match my creation.

Let the kid, your son, do his usual thing,
Rehash the same old story with some flashy show;
All I want is his absence in my poetry.

Hermes, the trickster, won't hang out with us,
Even if he would snatch his sisters’ Pegasus,
And rummage through him; or sell his petasus.

Nor all the ladies of the Thespian lake,
Though they were crushed into one form, could make
A beauty of that merit, that should take

My inspiration isn't bought; no, I unleash
My own genuine passion: now my thoughts take flight,
And now I sing a verse for those who truly listen.

Not knowing vice at all, and maintaining a true state,
is virtue, not fate:
Next to that virtue is knowing vice well,
and driving out her black spite.
To achieve this (since no heart is completely secure,
or safe, but she’ll find
some way to get in) we must set up a guard
of thoughts to watch and protect
the eyes and ears, the gateways to the mind,
so no strange or unkind
influence can enter, but our heart, our spy,
gives us knowledge instantly
to our alert reason, the king of our emotions:
who, in examining,
will quickly detect the betrayal, and address
the root cause of it.
This is the safest policy we have,
to make our senses our servants.
But this true path is not embraced by many:
by many! hardly by any.
For either our emotions rebel,
or the guard,
that should alert the heart, is asleep:
or some strong thought holds
back the intelligence, falsely claiming
they’re baseless fears
that the loyal conscience so complains about.
Thus, through these subtle tricks,
various passions invade the mind,
and blind our reason:
of this usurping rank, some have considered love
the greatest: as likely to incite
the most frequent turmoil, horror, and unrest,
in our inflamed hearts:
but this arises from the fog of error,
which we thus exaggerate.
What they call love here is blind desire,
armed with bow, arrows, and fire;
inconstant, like the sea from which it’s born,
rough and swelling, like a storm;
those who sail with it ride on a wave of fear,
and churn as if they were
in a constant tempest. Now, true love
shows none of these effects;
that is an essence far more gentle, fine,
pure, perfect, indeed divine;
it’s a golden chain let down from heaven,
whose links are bright and smooth;
that falls like sleep on lovers, and binds
the softest and sweetest minds
in equal ties: this bears no brands, nor arrows,
to wound different hearts,
but, in calm and god-like unity,
preserves community.
O, who is he that, in this peace, enjoys
the elixir of all joys?
A form fresher than the bower of Eden,
and lasting as its flowers;
richer than Time and, as Time’s virtue, rare;
sober as the deepest care;
a fixed thought, an eye not taught to glance;
who, blessed with such high chance,
would, at the suggestion of a deep desire,
throw himself from the spire
of all his happiness? But wait: I hear
some foolish person drawing near,
who claims we dream, and swears there’s no such thing,
as this chaste love we sing.
Peace, Luxury! you’re like one of those
who, being at sea, think,
because they move, the land does too:
No, Vice, we let you know
though your wild thoughts with sparrow wings fly,
turtles can die chastely;
and yet (to express ourselves more clearly)
we do not include here
those spirits who are only continent,
because lust’s means are spent;
or those who doubt the common voice of fame,
and for their place and name,
cannot sin so safely: their chastity
is pure necessity;
nor do we mean those whom vows and conscience
have filled with abstinence:
though we acknowledge those who can so abstain,
achieve a most blessed gain;
he who, for the love of goodness, hates evil,
is more worthy of a crown still
than he who refrains just to avoid sin’s penalty:
his heart still sins, though he fears.
But we propose a person like our Dove,
adorned with a Phoenix’s love;
a beauty of such clear and sparkling light,
would turn night into day,
and change the darkest sorrows into bright joys:
whose fragrant breath destroys
all bitterness and makes the air
as sweet as she is fair.
A body so harmoniously composed,
as if nature revealed
all her best symmetry in that one form!
O, who could be false to such a divine creature?
especially when he knows
how only she grants
the wealthy treasure of her love to him;
making his fortunes thrive
in the full flood of her admired perfection?
What savage, brutish affection,
would not worry about offending a lady
of this exceptional beauty?
Much more a noble, generous mind,
inclined to virtuous moods,
that knows the weight of guilt: he will avoid
thoughts of such a nature,
and remind himself constantly with this saying,
“Man may sin securely, but never safely.”

Even though beauty is the mark of admiration,
   And yours, of whom I sing, is such
   That the world couldn’t praise it enough,
Still, it’s your character that I highlight now.

A virtue, like allay, so gone
Throughout your form, as though that move,
And draw, and conquer all men’s love,
This subjects you to the love of one,

Where you still succeed: because
It’s about yourself, and that you exercise
The highest freedom, to not choose
Against either faith or the laws of honor.

But who could expect less from you,
In whom Love comes back to life?
By whom he is returned to people;
And kept, nurtured, and raised right?

His crumbling temples you've restored,
The dried-up garlands removed;
His altars saved from the decay
That jealousy wanted, and nature dreaded;

And on them burns such a pure flame,
   With so much loyalty involved,
   As Love, to honor such greatness,
Has turned himself into your name.

And you are that person: the god
To whom all lovers are meant,
Who would discover their true matches;
Among this loyal group, I am one;

Who, as a gift at your altar,
Have sung this song, and now ask
For just one spark of your divine fire
To shine upon a love of mine;

Which, if it doesn’t spark but only
Shows a little bit, and just for a short time,
Still let me admire in you
What I, in her, am pained to miss.

[11] “So live with yourself that you aren’t aware of how poorly your mind is set up.”

Self-taught

[14] “A Puritan is a hypocritical heretic who, believing he has spotted some mistakes in certain church beliefs, has thrown his mind off balance. Fueled by a passionate zeal, he fights fiercely against civil authority, thinking that he is actually obeying God.”

Night gives advice.

[17b] Plutarch in Life of Alexander. “Please, King, don’t think you know this better than I do.”

[19a] “They weren't our lords, but our leaders.”

[19b]  “A lot of it is also left for those who come after us.”

[19c] "No piece of art is found all at once and completely."

[22]  With a big belly.  Here comes de Schortenhien.

[23] “In everything, I have more intelligence and bravery than luck.”

[24a] “The fertile soil gets worn out; but hard work is still helpful.”

“And the gestures are bad.”

[25a] “You should expect an end from every person, who is an animal quick to change.”

[25b] Arts are not passed down to heirs.

[31a] “Talkative but not very articulate; plenty of words, but not much insight.”—Sallust.

[31b] Repeated in the following Latin. “The greatest treasure is in that man's words, and he deserves great gratitude who conveys everything in just a few phrases.”—Hesiod.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ See Zeuxidis pict. Serm. ad Megabizum.—Plutarch.

[32a] “When an uneducated person is quiet, they can be seen as wise because their silence hides the issues in their thinking.”

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__  Quietness.

[33a] “Keep quiet above all else, following the example of the gods.”—See Apuleius.

[33b] “Press the lip down with your finger.”—Juvenal.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Plautus.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Trinummus, Act 2, Scene 4.

[34a] “It was a place of disaster.” —Mart. lib. 1, ep. 85.

[41] [“All things that are false quickly fall away, like flowers that drop, and nothing falsely pretended can last long.” —Cicero.]

[44a]  Let a Punic sponge be included with the book.—Mart. 1. iv. epig. 10.

[47a] He needed to be held back.

A wit-stand.

[49b] Martial. lib. xi. epig. 91. That tumble over the rough paths and steep rocks.

[59a]  Sir Thomas More.  Sir Thomas Wyatt.  Henry, Earl of Surrey.  Sir Thomas Chaloner.  Sir Thomas Smith.  Sir Thomas Eliot.  Bishop Gardiner.  Sir Nicholas Bacon, L.K.  Sir Philip Sidney.  Master Richard Hooker.  Robert, Earl of Essex.  Sir Walter Raleigh.  Sir Henry Savile.  Sir Edwin Sandys.  Sir Thomas Egerton, L.C.  Sir Francis Bacon, L.C.

[62a]  “This will ensure a lasting legacy for the well-known writer.”—Horat. On the Art of Poetry.

[66a]  They have poison in their food, even in their delicacies.

[74a] It's not a small skill in a leader, where kindness and firmness—have more power for the common good.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__  i.e., Machiavelli.

[81a] “Criticism lets the bad ones off the hook and annoys the good ones.”—Juvenal.

[81b] “He doesn’t cast his net for the hawk or the kite.” —Plautus.

[93] Parrhasius. Eupompus. Socrates. Parrhasius. Clito. Polygnotus. Aglaophon. Zeuxis. Parrhasius. Raphael from Urbino. Michelangelo Buonarotti. Titian. Antony Correggio. Sebastiano of Venice. Giulio Romano. Andrea Sartorio.

[94] Plin. book 35, chapters 2, 5, 6, and 7. Vitruv. book 8 and 7.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Horace in “The Art of Poetry.”

[106a] Livy, Sallust, Sidney, Donne, Gower, Chaucer, Spenser, Virgil, Ennius, Homer, Quintilian, Plautus, Terence.

[110a] The interpreter of gods and people.

[111a] Julius Caesar. For words, see Hor. “De Art. Poet.;” Quintil. 1. 8, “Ludov. Vives,” pp. 6 and 7.

[111b] A wise person says nothing thoughtlessly.

[114a]  That jolt when they hit the rough spots and the rocks.

[116a] Being straightforward brings clarity, while being indirect and long-winded creates confusion.

[117a] The ocean shakes as if it's upset that you left the land.

[117b] You might think that the uprooted Cyclades were drifting in.

[118a] Those armies of the people of Rome that could break through the heavens.—Cæsar. Comment. circa fin.

[124a]  No one can speak correctly unless they understand wisely.

[133a] “When the talk about faults is broad, no one gets hurt.”

[133b] “Bite into those sweet little ears with harsh reality.”—Per Sat. 1.

[133c] “The desire for a solution is always more genuine than the expectation.” —Livius.

[136a] “Aeneas dedicates these weapons about the victorious Greeks.”—Virg. Æn. lib. 3.

[136b] “You buy everything, Castor; the day will come when you’ll sell everything.”—Martial, lib. 8, epig. 19.

[136c] “Cinna wants to appear poor, and actually is poor.”

[136d] “Which is clear in every debut song.”

[139a] “There’s a divine spark inside us, and when it’s ignited, we feel warmth; that spirit comes from the heavens.”

[146a]  “If it were okay for immortals to cry for mortals, the Muses would cry for the poet Nævius; since he has been taken to the realm of the dead, they have forgotten how to speak Latin in Rome.”

[148a] “No one has evaluated poets more poorly than the one who wrote about them.”—Senec. de Brev. Vit, cap. 13, et epist. 88.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Heins, de Sat. 265.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Page 267.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__  Page 270. 271.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__  Pg. 273, et seq.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__  Page in common 153, and following.

[160a] “And the jolt they get as they tumble over the bumpy, uneven road and high rocks.” —Martial, lib. xi. epig. 91.