The Consolation of Philosophy

Though she had ended her verse, yet the sweetness of it made me remain astonished, attentive, and desirous to hear her longer. Wherefore, after a while, I said: "O most effectual refreshment of wearied minds, how have I been comforted with thy weighty sentences and pleasing music! Insomuch that I begin to think myself not unable to encounter the assaults of Fortune. Wherefore, I am not now afraid, but rather earnestly desire to know those remedies, which before thou toldest me were too sharp." To which she answered: "I perceived as much as thou sayest, when I saw thee hearken to my speeches with so great silence and attention, and I expected this disposition of thy mind, or rather more truly caused it myself. For the remedies which remain are of that sort that they are bitter to the taste, but being inwardly received wax sweet. And whereas thou sayest that thou art desirous to hear; how much would this desire increase if thou knewest whither we go about to bring thee!" "Whither?" quoth I. "To true felicity," quoth she, "which thy mind also dreameth of, but thy sight is so dimmed with phantasies that thou canst not behold it as it is." Then I beseeched her to explicate without delay wherein true happiness consisteth. To which she answered: "I will willingly do so for thy sake, but first I will endeavour to declare in words and to give shape to that which is better known unto thee, that, having thoroughly understood it, by reflecting of the contrary thou mayest discover the type of perfect blessedness.

He that a fruitful field will sow,

Doth first the ground from bushes free,

All fern and briars likewise mow,

That he his harvest great may see.

Honey seems sweeter to our taste,

If cloyed with noisome food it be.

Stars clearer shine when Notus' blast

Hath ceased the rainy storms to breed.

When Lucifer hath night defaced,

The day's bright horses then succeed.

So thou, whom seeming goods do feed,

First shake off yokes which so thee press

That Truth may then thy mind possess."

Then, for a while looking steadfastly upon the ground, and, as it were, retiring herself to the most secret seat of her soul, she began in this manner: "All men's thoughts, which are turmoiled with manifold cares, take indeed divers courses, but yet endeavour to attain the same end of happiness, which is that good which, being once obtained, nothing can be further desired. Which is the chiefest of all goods, and containeth in itself whatsoever is good, and if it wanted anything it could not be the chiefest, because there would something remain besides it which might be wished for. Wherefore, it is manifest that blessedness is an estate replenished with all that is good. This, as we said, all men endeavour to obtain by divers ways. For there is naturally ingrafted in men's minds an earnest desire of that which is truly good; but deceitful error withdraweth it to that which falsely seemeth such. So that some, esteeming it their greatest good to want nothing, labour by all means to abound with riches; others, deeming that to be good which is most deserving of honour, hunt after preferments, to be respected by their fellow-citizens. Others think it the greatest felicity to have great power and authority, and these will either reign themselves or at least procure to be great with princes. But they who think fame better than all these, make all speed possible to spread their names far and near, by achieving some worthy enterprise either in war or peace. Many measure good by joy and mirth, and their chiefest care is how they may abound with pleasure. Some interchange the ends and means of these things one with the other, wanting now riches for the sake of power and pleasure, now power for the sake of wealth and fame. At these and such other do men's actions and desires aim, as nobility and popularity, which make men esteemed; wife and children, which bring pleasure and delight. But friendship, that most sacred thing, is rather to be attributed to virtue than to fortune. Other things for the most part are desired either for power or pleasure. And it is an easy matter to reduce all corporal goods to the former heads. For strength and greatness give ability; beauty and swiftness, fame; and health yieldeth pleasure. By all which we manifestly seek for nothing else but happiness. For that which every man seeketh most after, is by him esteemed his greatest good. Which is all one with happiness. Wherefore he esteemeth that estate happy which he preferreth before all other.

And thus thou hast in a manner seen the form of human felicity—riches, honour, power, glory, pleasure. Which Epicurus only considering, consequently took pleasure for his chiefest good, because all the rest seemed to delight the mind. But I return to the careful thoughts of men, whose minds, though obscured, yet seek after the greatest good, but like a drunken man know not the way home. For seem they to err who endeavour to want nothing? But nothing can cause happiness so much as the plentiful possession of all that is good, needing the help of none, but is sufficient of itself. Or do they err who take that which is best to be likewise most worthy of respect? No. For it is no vile or contemptible thing which almost all men labour to obtain. Or is not power to be esteemed good? Why, then, is that to be accounted feeble and of no force, which manifestly surpasses all other things? Or is fame to be contemned? But it cannot be ignored that the most excellent is also most famous. For to what purpose should I say that happiness is not sad or melancholy, or subject to grief and trouble, when even in smallest matters we desire that which we delight to have and enjoy? And these be the things which men desire to obtain, and to this end procure riches, dignities, kingdoms, glory, and pleasures, because by them they think to have sufficiency, respect, power, fame, delight, and joy. Wherefore, that is good which men seek after by divers desires, in which the force of nature is easily descried, since though there be many and different opinions, yet they agree in choosing for their end that which is good.

How the first reins of all things guided are

By powerful Nature as the chiefest cause,

And how she keeps, with a foreseeing care,

The spacious world in order by her laws,

And to sure knots which nothing can untie,

By her strong hand all earthly motions draws—

To show all this we purpose now to try

Our pliant string, our musick's thrilling sound.

Although the Libyan lions often lie

Gentle and tame in splendid fetters bound,¹

And fearing their incensed master's wrath,

With patient looks endure each blow and wound,

Yet if their jaws they once in blood do bathe,

They, gaining courage,² with fierce noise awake

The force which Nature in them seated hath,

And from their necks the broken chains do shake;

Then he that tamed them first doth feel their rage,

And torn in pieces doth their fury slake.

The bird shut up in an unpleasing cage,

Which on the lofty trees did lately sing,

Though men, her want of freedom to assuage,

Should unto her with careful labour bring

The sweetest meats which they can best devise,

Yet when within her prison fluttering

The pleasing shadows of the groves she spies,

Her hated food she scatters with her feet,

In yearning spirit to the woods she flies,

The woods' delights do tune her accents sweet.

When some strong hand doth tender plant constrain

With his debased top the ground to meet,

If it let go, the crooked twig again

Up toward Heaven itself it straight doth raise.

Phoebus doth fall into the western main,

Yet doth he back return by secret ways,

And to the earth doth guide his chariot's race.

Each thing a certain course and laws obeys,

Striving to turn back to his proper place;

Nor any settled order can be found,

But that which doth within itself embrace

The births and ends of all things in a round.

You also, O earthly creatures, though slightly and as it were in a dream acknowledge your beginning, and though not perspicuously yet in some sort behold that true end of happiness, so that the intention of nature leadeth you to the true good, and manifold error withdraweth you from it. For consider whether those things, by which men think to obtain happiness, can bring them to their desired end. For if either money, or honour, or any of the rest be of that quality that they want nothing which is good, we will also confess that they are able to make men happy. But if they neither be able to perform that they promise, and want many things which are good, are they not manifestly discovered to have a false appearance of happiness? First then, I ask thee thyself, who not long since didst abound with wealth; in that plenty of riches, was thy mind never troubled with any injuries?" "I cannot remember," quoth I, "that ever my mind was so free from trouble but that something or other still vexed me." "Was it not because thou either wantedst something which thou wouldst have had, or else hadst something which thou wouldst have wanted?" "It is true," quoth I. "Then thou desiredst the presence of that, and the absence of this?" "I confess I did," quoth I. "And doth not a man want that," quoth she, "which he desireth?" "He doth," quoth I. "But he that wanteth anything is not altogether sufficient of himself?" "He is not," quoth I. "So that thou feltest this insufficiency, even the height of thy wealth?" "Why not?" quoth I. "Then riches cannot make a man wanting nothing nor sufficient of himself, and this was that they seemed to promise. But this is most of all to be considered, that money hath nothing of itself which can keep it from being taken from them which possess it, against their will." "I grant it," quoth I. "Why shouldst thou not grant it, since that every day those which are more potent take it from others perforce? For from whence proceed so many complaints in law, but that money gotten either by violence or deceit is sought to be recovered by that means?" "It is so indeed," quoth I. "So that every man needeth some other help to defend his money?" "Who denies that?" quoth I. "But he should not need that help, unless he had money which he might lose?" "There is no doubt of that," quoth I. "Now then the matter is fallen out quite contrary; for riches, which are thought to suffice of themselves, rather make men stand in need of other helps. And after what manner do riches expel penury? For are not rich men hungry? Are they not thirsty? Or doth much money make the owners senseless of cold in winter? But thou wilt say, wealthy men have wherewithal to satisfy their hunger, slake their thirst, and defend themselves from cold. But in this sort, though want may be somewhat relieved by wealth, yet it cannot altogether be taken away. For if ever gaping and craving it be satiated by riches, there must needs always remain something to be satiated. I omit, that to nature very little, to covetousness nothing is sufficient. Wherefore if riches can neither remove wants, and cause some themselves, why imagine you that they can cause sufficiency?

Although the rich man from his mines of gold

Dig treasure which his mind can never fill,

And lofty neck with precious pearls enfold,

And his fat fields with many oxen till,

Yet biting cares will never leave his head,

Nor will his wealth attend him being dead.

But dignities make him honourable and reverend on whom they light. Have offices that force to plant virtues and expel vices in the minds of those who have them? But they are not wont to banish, but rather to make wickedness splendid. So that we many times complain because most wicked men obtain them. Whereupon Catullus called Nonius a scab or impostume though he sat in his chair of estate.¹ Seest thou what great ignominy dignities heap upon evil men? For their unworthiness would less appear if they were never advanced to any honours. Could so many dangers ever make thee think to bear office with Decoratus,² having discovered him to be a very varlet and spy? For we cannot for their honours account them worthy of respect whom we judge unworthy of the honours themselves. But if thou seest any man endued with wisdom, canst thou esteem him unworthy of that respect or wisdom which he hath? No, truly. For virtue hath a proper dignity of her own, which she presently endueth her possessors withal. Which since popular preferments cannot do, it is manifest that they have not the beauty which is proper to true dignity.

In which we are farther to consider that, if to be contemned of many make men abject, dignities make the wicked to be despised the more by laying them open to the view of the world. But the dignities go not scot-free, for wicked men do as much for them, defiling them with their own infection. And that thou mayst plainly see that true respect cannot be gotten by these painted dignities, let one that hath been often Consul go among barbarous nations; will that honour make those barbarous people respect him? And yet, if this were natural to dignities, they would never forsake their function in any nation whatsoever; as fire, wheresoever it be, always remaineth hot. But because not their own nature, but the deceitful opinion of men attributeth that to them, they forthwith come to nothing, being brought to them who esteem them not to be dignities.

And this for foreign nations. But do they always last among them where they had their beginning? The Praetorship, a great dignity in time past, is now an idle name, and an heavy burden of the Senate's fortune. If heretofore one had care of the people's provision, he was accounted a great man; now what is more abject than that office? For as we said before, that which hath no proper dignity belonging unto it sometime receiveth and sometime loseth his value at the users' discretion. Wherefore if dignities cannot make us respected, if they be easily defiled with the infection of the wicked, if their worth decays by change of times, if diversities of nations make them contemptible, what beauty have they in themselves, or can they afford to others, worth the desiring?

Though fierce and lustful Nero did adorn

Himself with purple robes, which pearls did grace,

He did but gain a general hate and scorn.

Yet wickedly he officers most base

Over the reverend Senators did place.

Who would esteem of fading honours then

Which may be given thus by the wickedest men?

But can kingdoms and the familiarity of kings make a man mighty? Why not, when their felicity lasteth always? But both former and present times are full of examples that many kings have changed their happiness with misery. O excellent power, which is not sufficient to uphold itself! And if this strength of kingdoms be the author of blessedness, doth it not diminish happiness and bring misery, when it is in any way defective? But though some empires extend themselves far, there will still remain many nations out of their dominions. Now, where the power endeth which maketh them happy, there entereth the contrary which maketh them miserable, so that all kings must needs have less happiness than misery. That Tyrant, knowing by experience the dangers of his estate, signified the fears incident to a kingdom, by the hanging of a drawn sword over a man's head.¹ What power is this, then, which cannot expel nor avoid biting cares and pricking fears? They would willingly have lived securely, but could not, and yet they brag of their power. Thinkest thou him mighty whom thou seest desire that which he cannot do? Thinkest thou him mighty who dareth not go without his guard; who feareth others more than they fear him; who cannot seem mighty, except his servants please? For what should I speak of kings' followers, since I show that kingdoms themselves are so full of weakness? Whom the power of kings often standing, but many times falling, doth overthrow. Nero compelled Seneca, his familiar friend and master, to make choice of his own death.² Antoninus called Papinianus, who had been long a gallant courtier, to be cut in pieces with his soldiers' swords.³ Yet they would both have renounced their power, yea Seneca endeavoured to deliver up his riches also to Nero, and to give himself to a contemplative life. But their very greatness drawing them to their destruction, neither of them could compass that which they desired. Wherefore what power is this that the possessors fear, which when thou wilt have, thou art not secure, and when thou wilt leave, thou canst not avoid? Are we the better for those friends which love us not for our virtue but for our prosperity? But whom prosperity maketh our friend, adversity will make our enemy. And what plague is able to hurt us more than a familiar enemy?

Who would be powerful, must

His own affections check,

Nor let foul reins of lust

Subdue his conquered neck.

For though the Indian land

Should tremble at thy beck,

And though thy dread command

Far Thule's isle obey,

Unless thou canst withstand

And boldly drive away

Black care and wretched moan,

Thy might is small or none.

As for glory, how deceitful it is oftentimes, and dishonest! For which cause the tragical poet deservedly exclaimeth: "O glory, glory, thou hast raised to honour and dignity myriads of worthless mortals!"¹ For many have often been much spoken of through the false opinions of the common people. Than which what can be imagined more vile? For those who are falsely commended must needs blush at their own praises. Which glory though it be gotten by deserts, yet what adds it to a wise man's conscience who measureth his own good, not by popular rumours, but by his own certain knowledge? And if it seemeth a fair thing to have dilated our fame, consequently we must judge it a foul thing not to have it extended. But since, as I showed a little before, there must needs be many nations to which the fame of one man cannot arrive, it cometh to pass that he whom thou esteemeth glorious, in the greater part of the world seemeth to have no glory at all. And here now I think popular glory not worth the speaking of, which neither proceedeth from judgment, nor ever hath any firmness. Likewise, who seeth not what a vain and idle thing it is to be called noble? Which insofar as it concerneth fame, is not our own. For nobility seemeth to be a certain praise proceeding from our parents' deserts. But if praising causeth fame, they must necessarily be famous who are praised. Wherefore the fame of others, if thou hast none of thine own, maketh not thee renowned. But if there be anything good in nobility, I judge it only to be this, that it imposeth a necessity upon those which are noble, not to suffer their nobility to degenerate from the virtue of their ancestors.