¶ Those five questions, which Mark tully Cicero, disputed in his Manor of Tusculanum: Written afterwards by him, in as many books, to his friend, and familiar Brutus, in the Latin tongue. And now, out of the same translated, & englished, by john Dolman, Studente and fellow of the Inner Temple. 1561.  
¶ Imprinted at London in Fleetstreet near to S. Dunston's church by Thomas Marsh.   

❧ TO THE RIGHT reverend father in God, john Bishop of Sarum: john Dolman, his daily orator, wisheth continuance of health, with increase of honour.  
RIght honourable: when as, partly, by the counsel of them that might command me, and partly, by mine own consent, I left the university: and began to apply myself to the study of the common laws of this realm: I felt myself chiefly hindered therein, with the intermeddling of those studies, the which, not without great delight, I had afore time used. The which, because I was loath to continue, to the defrauding of the expectation of those, with whom to trifle it had been impiety: I minded, to take my farewell of some such part of philosophy, as, both might be most profitable to the quiet leading of my life, to whatsoever trade I should give myself: and also should be so pleasant, that it might even cloy me with delight. Which my desire to satisfy, when I sought many books: yet found I none more meet, than this. Which whiles I red, I must needs confess, that I was never more delighted with any work, except it were the sacred volume of the holy Scriptures. Wherefore, when I had perused it over, and found such profit, and pleasure therein, as it were not possible to find the like in any Ethnic writer: I wished all men the like delight, as the reading of it brought unto me. And because I could not mysdoubt, but the learned had already tried into th'intent, that the unlearned also, might have some fruition thereof: and, that our country, might at length flow with the works of philosophy: I endeavoured myself, although not eloquently, yet plainly, to translate the same into our english tongue.  
And considering, that there was none more meet, to have the protection of so grave and learned a work, them your honour: remembering also, that the first attempt, of the same part of philosophy, translated by master Grimoald, passed forth under the protection, of one of that honourable vocation, to the which also, it hath pleased god, after sundry troubles, to call you: I thought it my duty, in respect of many benefits, by your lordship on me bestowed, to dedicate unto you this my simple travail. Thinking that nothing could be unwelcome to your honour, that savoured Tully. Whom I am not ignorant, how much you were wont to esteem. Wherefore, I hope, that, lykeas, your lordship was wont to be delighted with the Roman tully: even so, this english Tully (although not adorned, with like eloquence by the translator, yet varying nothing in sense) you will not disdain. Knowing, that this simple scholars gift, containeth the signifying, of as hearty good will towards your honour: as those greater presents to, which crave requiting. Thus, loath to trouble your lordship any longer, with a vain number of words (because many words oft cause many trips) I commend unto your lordship, the favourable judgement of this my simple travail: to be perused, at such time, as it shall seem best, both for your leisure and pleasure. Written from the inner temple the xiiii of july.   

The preface to the Reader:  
IF thankfulness, for so simple desert, may cause the to requite him, with any part of the like gentleness, who took upon him this travail (such as it is) only for thy commodity, gentle reader: then stay a while, from the reading of Tully, and hearken favourably to this little communication, that I crave at thy hands. I mind only, to excuse myself briefeli unto thee, and so, to dismiss the. The matters, which I think, colourably may, and will be objected unto me, are these. first, the lack of years, and eloquence, to attempt the translation of so weighty a book: as, the very sages of the university, have let lie still, even from the time that it was first written, unto this day. Then, the profaning of the secrets of Philosophy, which are esteemed only of the learned, and neglected of the multitude. And therefore, unmeet, to be made comen for every man. First, as for mine own unableness for years, I answer, by Plato and this mine author: that I know nothing, but that, which my soul now settled in my body, recounteth, as things learned before. And the soul, shall never have the body more apt, to whatsoever thing it listeth to dispose him, then in his youth: which is, in manner, the greenness of the same.  
Since therefore, the body, which hath no knowledge, but by reason of the soul, is in youth most apt and able to execute the inventions of the same: what cause is there, why the wit, being one of the principal parts of the soul, should not chiefly in this nimbleness of the body, utter her force and virtue? Then, as for lack of eloquence. First, this (I think) they will all grant. That, it is not possible for any man, to express the writings of Tully, in English, so eloquently: as he hath uttered the same in latin. Then, for mine own translation: forasmuch as it must of necessity, be either more simple then, the style of Tully, or else more foolish, and full of crooked terms (for Tully's mean none can attain) I had rather to be partner of the favour, due to simplicity, and plainness: then, with foolish and far fet words, to make my translation seem more dark to the unlearned, & more foolish to the wise. By which my plainness, without counterfeit eloquence, if I have gotten no other commodity: yet, thus much I am sure of, that I have thereby escaped, the just reproof, that they deserve, which think, to cloak their ignorance, with inkhorn terms. For, unless it were in such things, as the Lodgicians term names of art, for the which, we have no proper english words: I have used none but the plain and accustomed terms. Now: as touching the second objection, which containeth the unprofitable disclosing of the miseries of lady philosophy (as master Grymoalde termeth her) I think, that sufficiently satisfied, if they consider, that besides the rascal multitude, and the learned sages, there is a mean sort of men: which although they be not learned, yet, by the quickness of their wits, can conceive all such points of art, as nature could give. To those, I say, there is nothing in this book to dark. Especially, inasmuch as, the reading of one book, will open an other. And thus, in my opinion, I am discharged of unprofitable revealing of the secrets of philosophy. inasmuch as, both, I hope, it shall do much good to this sort of men, afore mentioned: and also, I am sure, it can be nothing hurtful to the learned. But shall much more inflame, all liberal wits, with the desire of knowledge: when they shall see, so worthy matters, contained in one little book, of that, which we term philosophy or learning. Besides these, there are yet other faults, as the misprinting of many words, and the ill printing of some greek words, in latin letters, & of the verses also, otherwise than they should be red. But the blame thereof I utterly refuse. Inasmuch as, every man knoweth, that it doth nothing pertain unto me. Nevertheless, as for the first, which containeth the misprintinge of words, thou shalt find them, all corrected, in the end of the book. So that if thou list to read it, without desire of fault finding: thou mayst first, amend all those faults, with thy pen, in the margeant of thy book, which in the end of the book be corrected. And so have the sense perfect. And as for the two last, they were caused by necessity.  
The one for lack of a Greek letter, and tother, for want of a smaller letter, to print the verses in a less roam And for other faults, that may be found in my verses, I trust they will pardon me, who may marvel, how, so suddenly I am become a versifier. But, I beseech thee, (gentle reader) to place each man's fault by himself: that I may be forced to father no other man's faults, than mine own.  
Which, as I know to be more, than I would they were: so I shall desire the to weigh them with gentleness.  
Knowing, that if such, as have greater knowledge, to set forth things more exactly, should hear my plainness not overmuch discommended: they then, should be much more provoked, with hope of the marvelous fame, that their doings should deserve if they listed, to employ some pains, in attempting the like. Of the which, as I know there is a great number (in both the universities inespetially) so I would wish, that either, they ceasing any longer, to envy knowledge to our english tongue, would stain the same, with better: or else, that they would not disdain, to ford their favourable words, to such, as express their good will in the same: although not so well as it might be, yet as their eloquence will permit them. And thus much, to the learned reader, whom I make the judge of my work, though I permit the reading of it, to all other. But now, thou unlearned reader: forasmuch as, whatsoever I did, I did it for the desire, I had to profit thee: it shall be thy part, of the worst to think the best. For, had it not been for thy commodity, I could well enough have suppressed mine ignorance with silence: and so, by concealing that little which I know: although not blazed my simple skill: yet, well have avoided, the necessity of excuse, in such things as I deserve reprehension. But so much I tendered thy profit, that, I had rather to say somewhat (although not so perfectly, as some other might) then, for lack of my little labour, to let so worthy as book, lie unknown unto the. Thus, whiles I study to profit thee, I am fain to submit my doings, to the judgement, of every curious carper. Wherefore, inasmuch as, I have brought thee (who towards these things, wast no otherwise then blind) by my travail, to the sight hereof: and caused thee, to be rid from blindness (which is so loathsome a thing, that it is almost grown into a proverb, that a blind man, would be glad to see his nighest fellow hanged, because the he should see (than truly, though I crave no praise at thy hands (because it is a token of ignorance, to be praised of the ignorant) yet, I may be bold, to desire so much of thee, as Apelles commanded the foolish shoemaker, to perform. Who, when as he beheld the picture of a man, drawn by Apelles, so lively, that the senses of man would have doubted, whether it were a picture, or a living creature: not contented, with the sight of it, which was more meet for a prince to behold then him: began, to find fault with his show. Apelles, knowing that he was a shoemaker, took it in good part: & with the pencil, amended the fault. But the shoemaker by likelihood, sum what proud, that he was able, to find fault with Apelles works: came again the second day. And, began to dispraise the proportion of his face.  
Wherewithal, Apelles being much moved, stepped forth, and said. No farther than thy shoe, souter. Showing thereby, that no man ought to talk farther, than his skill will bear him.  
Megabizes, esteemed Alexander as a prince, whiles he, stood in his school, and said nothing. But, when he began to talk of things which he knew not: he said unto him, that even his little children, would laugh him to scorn. Wherefore, shortly to make an end, and to send the to Tullye.  
Do thou, neither praise, nor dispraise, farther than thy cunning will bear the For, they are both alike faults. But rightly weigh, and remember the words of Tully, to whom, I now send thee, to enjoy such pleasure, as at the first, whiles I myself red him, I friendly wished unto thee.   

THE FIRST BOOK of the report of those Questions which Mark tully Cicero disputed in his manor of Tusculanum: treating whether death be evil yea or no.  
BEING OF LATE wholly (or else for the most part) ridden of my causes of Plea, and parliament matters (dear friend Brute) I referred myself (chief by your council) to those studies: which concealed in my mind, suspended for a season, and for a long space discontinued I have now revived. And forasmuch as the right trade and order of all those arts which pertain to the framing of a perfect life, is contained in the study of wisdom, which is named philosophy: I thought good to indite the same in the Latin tongue: not for that I thought it could not be so well understood, either in the Greek, or by the teachers of the same language: but because my judgement hath been ever such, that our countrymen have either invented and found out things, more wisely than the Greeks: or at the least that such as they had taken of them they had made far more perfect: especially if the things were such, as they esteemed worthy their travail and pains. For in manners, orders of living, and maintaining of household: We truly behave ourselves both far better than they, and also more liberal.  
And as for the comen wealth, our forefathers have governed it, with much more politic orders and laws.  
What should I say of warfare? in the which our countrymen passed truly in manhood, but much more in policy.  
But as for the gifts of Nature, and such things as they might attain unto without learning: neither the Greeks, neither yet any other nation, may well be compared with them. For, what so great gravity? what so notable constancy? stoutness of stomach, honesty? or trust, what so passing virtue in all kind of points, hath been found in any nation? that it may for the same be compared with our ancestors? In learning and all kinds of profound knowledge.  
Greece passed us. Howebe it truly it was a light work to excel us in those things, in the which we did not contend with them.  
For where as the Greeks have had amongs them the most ancient poets that ever were counted learned (for Homer and Hesiodus lived afore the building of Rome: and Archilocus in the time of Romulus) we knew not Poetrye till of late years.  
For four hundred and ten years after the building of Rome, Livius set forth an interlude.  
Caius Claudius, the son of Cecus, and Marcus Tuditanus being Consuls: the year next afore the birth of Ennius, which was more ancient than Plautus or Nevius. Of late years therefore poets were of our countrymen both known & received. Albeit we find in those histories, which were written in the first foundation of our city, that at that time, they were wont in banquets to sing certain songs, made of the noble prows of valiant men. But that such men were never in any estimation, we may well gather by the oration of Cato, in the which he objected it as a rebuke to Marcus Nobilior, that he had taken with him poets into his province. For he had led into Aetolia the poet Ennius: as we all well know. The less therefore that poets were esteemed, the less men coveted their knowledge: and yet those few that gave themselves thereto, were nothing inferior to the renown of the Greeks. Likewise, if it had been counted a quality praiseworthy (in Fabius a moo●● noble Prince) to paint: should not we have had in our city, as excellent in that science (think you) as ever was Policletus or Parrhasius?  
Honour breedeth arts, and all men are provoked to study by fame: & always those things are neglected, which no man sets by. The Greeks thought there was great cunning and knowledge in singing: as well to the instruments, as alone: & for that cause Epaminundas (in my judgement) the prince of Grece) is reported to have been cunning in singing to the instruments: and Themistocles a few years before, for that in a certain banquet he refused the harp, was counted the worse learned. Therefore in Greece Musicians flourished: and every man learned their art: neither could any be counted well learned being ignorant of the same.  
geometry was in great estimation amongs them. For the which cause there was nothing with them more famous, than the mathematicals. But we have comprised the art of Geometry in the knowledge of measures & reasons of the same. But contrariwise, a perfect orator we have quickly poolished: whom at the first we had not learned, but only meet to plead: but now nevertheless well learned. For we understand that Galba, Africanus, & Lelius were profound men: and he who far passed them in age, namely Cato, very studious: after him Lepidus, Car●o, and both the Gracchi: but afterward so many and so notable men, even to this our time, that herein, either not much, or else nothing at all, we yielded to the Greeks. Philosophy hath been neglected unto this our age: and hath been hitherto void of the light of the latin tongue: which now must be opened, and revived of us to th'intent, that if in our business, we have somewhat profited our country, we may also do the like by some means in this our time of leisure: wherein also we ought to take the more pains, because there are certain Latin books written now a days very unadvisedly: set forth by men honest enough, but not sufficiently learned.  
Truly it may well be, that some man may invent well, and nevertheless, that which he hath invented, can not pronounce eloquently: but that any man should set abroad his own inventions, which he can neither well dispose neither handsomely pen, the reading of the which should nothing at all delight the hearer: it is the point of such a one, as abuseth both leisure and learning. Therefore, their own books they read with such, as they them selves are: neither doth any man handle them, except such, as would have the self same liberty in writing granted them. Wherefore, if we brought any help by our labours, to the praise of Orators, we will much more diligently open the fountains of philosophy: out of the which nevertheless, those our works of Rhetoric did flow. But as Arystotle, a man of wonderful wit, and profound knowledge, moved with the great fame and report of Isocrates the Rhetorician, began both to plead, and also to teach young men: and so to join knowledge with eloquence: even so it likes me, neither to lay apart mine old study of pleading, and yet nevertheless, to be occupied in this more noble & plentiful art. For I have ever judged that to be perfect Philosophy, which could reason of weighty matters, as well with great knowledge as also with perfect eloquence In the which kind of exercise I have so earnestly laboured myself, that now I durst keep schools after the manner of the Greeks. As of late after your departure, in my manor of Tusculanum, being accompanied with many of my familiar friends, I assayed what I could do in that manner of reasoning. For as afore I declamed causes, so this is my declaiming in mine old age. I willed any man to propose whatsoever he listed to hear debated: and thereof I disputed either sitting or walking. Therefore my disputations in schools holden five days together, I have indited in as many books. The order thereof was this. That when he who would hear any matter discussed, had showed his own opinion of the same, than I should hold the contrary. For this is (as you know right well) the ancient way, first used by Socrates, to dispute against all men's opinions. For so he thought, that whatsoever was most true in any matter, might soon be bolted out. But to the intent you may more plainly perceive our reasons, I will write them as if the matter were doing, not telling, therefore now take you the beginning in this manner.  ¶ The hearer. 
¶ Death seemeth to me to be a great evil.  Marcus. 
To them do you mean which are dead, or else that must die?  Hea. 
To them both.  Mar. 
It is miserable then, if it be evil.  Hea. 
Yea truly.  Mar. 
Then all they which are already dead, and all such as must die, are miserable.  Hea. 
So I think.  Mar. 
There is no man then which is not miserable  Hea. 
None truly.  Mar. 
And truly if you will in all points firmly hold this opinion, all men which are borne, or shallbe borne, are not only wretched but also for ever wretched. For if you did only call them wretches which must die, than should you except none of them which now live: for we must all die: but nevertheless, the end of our misery should be in death: but forasmuch as such as are dead also are wretched, we are borne to continual misery. For it must needs be that they are wretched, which an hundred years past are dead: or rather all they, which at any time heretofore were borne.  Hea. 
So I think certainly.  Mar. 
Tell me (I pray you) do these things fear you? the three headed Cerberus in hell? the noise of Cocytus? the rowing over Acheron? Tantalus nigh starved for thirst, touching the brims of the water with his chin? or this else? that Sysyphus turns the tumbling stone, and veils not of a iota. Perchance also the rigorous judges, Minos, and Radamanthus, afore the which, neither Lucius Crassus, ne yet Marcus Antonius shall defend you, neither (because afore Greek judges your cause shall be pleaded) Demosthenes can do you any service: you yourself, must in a wonderful assembly plead your own cause. These things perchance you fear, and therefore think death to be the greatest evil that may be.  Hea. 
Think you that I am so mad that I would believe these tales?  Mar. 
Why? do you not credit them?  Hea. 
No truly.  Mar. 
You tell an ill tale for yourself.  Hea. 
Why so?  Mar. 
Because he had need to be eloquent that should assay to disprove these things.  Hea. 
Who could not lightly be eloquent in such a cause? or what business is it, to confute these monsters of poets and Painters?  Marcus. 
Yet nevertheless, you shall read the books of philosophers, very full of reasons, against the said tales.  Hearer. 
Folyshelye enough I assure you. For who would be so mad, as to be moved with them?  Marcus. 
Well, if there be none wretched in hell, neither be there any in hell.  Hearer. 
So I think.  Marcus. 
Where then are those whom you call wretches? or what place do they inhabit? for if they be they must needs be in some certain place.  Hea. 
I truly think they be no where.  Mar. 
Then you think that they are not at all.  Hea. 
Even so, and yet nevertheless, that they be wretches, because they be not.  Marcus. 
I had rather that you said it for fear of Cerberus, then that you should have brought such an unwittye reason.  Hearer. 
Why so?  Mar. 
Whom you say not to be, he you say afterwards is: where is your wit? when you say that they are wretched, than you say that they which are not are.  Hea. 
I am not so blunt witted, that I would so say.  Mar. 
What say you then.  Hea. 
For example, I say that Marcus Crassus is wretched, for that he was caused by death to leave so great riches, that Cneius Pompey also is wretched, whom death deprived of so great glory and honour: to conclude, I say that all those are wretches, which lack the fruition of this pleasant light.  Mar. 
You come to the same point, for they must needs be, if they be wretches. But you even now did deny, that those are which be dead: if they be not therefore, they can be nothing: and by that means neither can they be wretches.  Hea. 
Perchance I have not told you all that I think: for not to be when you have been, I think is the greatest misery that may be.  Mar. 
Nay by that reason what can be more wretched than not to have been at all? and so those which are not yet borne, because they be not, are miserable: and we ourselves, if after our death we shall be miserable, were miserable also afore we were borne. But I sureli for my part, am not remembered, that I was a wretch afore I was borne. If your remembrance be any surer, I would fain know if you remember any such thing of yourself.  Hea. 
You board with me, as though I should say, that those are wretches which are unborn, and not those which be dead.  Mar. 
You grant therefore that they be.  Hea. 
Nay because they be not as they have been, therefore I say they be wretched.  Mar. 
perceive you not that you speak contraries? for what may be so contrary, as to say, that he which is not, not only is, but also is a wretch: Do you, going out at the gate called Capena, when you see the tombs of both the Calatines, the Scipions, the servilians, and the Metellans, think that they be wretched?  Hea. 
Because you urge me so much with the word, I will no more say that they be wretches, but only wretches, for that very cause, because they be not  Mar. 
Then you say not Marcus Crassus is a wretch. But only Marcus Crassus' wretch.  Hea. 
Even so.  Mar. 
As though whatsoever you do so pronounce must not either be or not be. A●e you nothing skilful in Logic?  
amongs the very principles of that art, this is taught. That every proposition (for so it seems good to me, to interpret the Greek word, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 I will use hereafter a more meet term, if I chance to hap on any) is either true or false. Wherefore, when you say Marcus Crassus' wretch, either you say this in effect, Marcus Crassus is a wretch, that men may judge whether it be true or false, or else you say nothing at all.  Hea. 
Well now I grant you, that they are not wretches which are dead, because you forced me to grant, that such as were not could not be wretches. But what say you to this? We which live, forasmuch as we must needs die, are not we wretches? For what pleasure may we take in our life time, when day and night we must always think, that we shall by and by die.  Marcus. 
Understand you then, by this your grant, of how much misery you have relieved mankind?  Hearer. 
How so?  Mar. 
Because, if death were miserable to such as are dead, than we should have a continual and everlasting misery. But now I see the end of our race: to the which when we have once run, there is nothing more that we ought to fear. But you (as far as I can perceive) follow the opinion of Epicharmus the Sicilian, a man quick witted, and not wholly void of learning.  Hearer. 
What was his opinion? for I know it not.  Marcus. 
I will show you if (I can) in Latin: for you know, that I do no more use to speak Greek in my Latin talk, than Latin in my Greek.  Hea. 
You do well in that. But I pray you, what was the opinion of Epicharmus?  Mar. 
I would not die: but to be dead, I would not much pass.  Hea. 
Now I remember the Greek very well. And inasmuch as you have constrained me to grant, that such as are dead, are not wretched: bring to pass also (if you can) that to die I may think no misery.  Hea. 
Surely that is but a small matter. But I am about things of more weight.  Hea. 
How is this but a small matter? or what are those more weighty matters that you intend to bring to pass?  Mar. 
Because, if after death, there is no evil, neither truly is death itself evil: the next time to the which, is the time after death, in the which you grant there is no evil. So to die truly is no evil, because it is but a leading and an entrance to that which is no evil.  Hea. 
I pray you, let these things be more plainly opened. For these dark reasons, make me sooner to confess the thing that you desire, then to agree to it. But I pray you, what are those greater things which you mind to do?  Mar. 
To teach (if I can) that death is not only no evil, but also a good thing.  Hea. 
I do not necessarily require so much: but I greatly desire to hear it. For albeit you bring not to pass, that which you mind, yet you shall surely persuade me, that death is no evil. But I will not trouble you in your talk, I had rather hear you speak alone.  Mar. 
What if I shall ask you any thing? will you not answer me?  Hea. 
Then I might be counted very stately. But except you had need, I would rather you should not also.  Mar. 
I am contented to follow your mind therein. And those things which you willed me to show, as well as I can, I will declare. Nevertheless I would not, you should take my words, as the Oracles of the god Apollo. Or to think that whatsoever I shall speak is sure and certain: but as the sayings of some simple man, following that which is probable by conjecture. For farther than likelihood I can not go. It is enough for them, to tell certain and sure things, which say that such things may be known: and also profess themselves to be wise.  Hea. 
Keep you what order you please: I am ready to hear you.  Mar. 
Death itself, which every man seems so well to know, we must first see what it is. For some think that it is the deparparting of the soul from the body.  
There be other some, which think there is no departure, but that the body and soul do die together. But of them, which think that the soul doth depart, some say that he is strayght-wayes scattered: other think that he remaineth long: some for ever. But what the soul is, or where, or from whence, there is great dissension. Some think the heart to be the soul: of the which, some men are called faint hearted, mad hearted, and joined with hearts in friendship. And the wise Nasica, who was twice Consul, was called a little heart: and A stout hearted man Catus Aelius the sixth.  
Empedocles thinketh the soul to be a certain blood about the heart. Other some, take a certain part of the brain to be the soul. Other like none of these opinions: but place the soul, partly in the heart, and partly in the brain.  
And again, the soul some men think to be the life: as our countrymen call it. For we commonly say, to labour for life: to end his life: and to be long lived. But to Zeno the Stoic, the soul seems to be fire. And these opinions which we have recited, of the heart, brain, life, and fire, are commonly reported. But every private man hath other inventions: As many ancient Philosophers afore time, and of late, Arist●xenus a musician, and a Philosopher likewise, said that it was a certain consonaunce of the body, like as we see in certain songs and instruments a certain pleasant consent and agreement, even so that in the nature and shape of the whole body, there were divers motions stirred: as in songs sounds and noises.  
He left not his art: and yet he said somewhat: which very thing was afore opened, and declared by Plato.  
Xenocrates denied, that the soul had any shape or body: saying that it was a thing consisting only of members: the power of that which (as Pythagoras had afore time declared (is of no small force, in the constitution of man's body. His master Plato divided the soul in to three parts. The chief of the which (namely reason) he placed in the head as in a fort: from which he separated the two other parts: namely anger & desire: which he placed in divers roams. Anger in the breast, and desire under those places which are about the heart. But Dicearchus, in his books which he writeth of the reasoning of learned men kept at Corinthe, in the first brings in many speakers: in the other two he bringeth in a certain old man of Phthios, (whom he calleth Pherecrates, & says that he came of Deucalion (reasoning that the soul is nothing. And that it is but a vain name, neither thinketh he, that there is either mind or soul, in man or beast, otherwise then a certain motion, by the which we both do and suffer, spread in all living creatures alike. Neither will he that it should be any other thing, than the body so shaped, that by the force of Nature, it may have life and sense.  
Aristotle who far passed all the rest in wit and diligence, (always excepting Plato) after he had treated of those four kind of principles, out of the which all things take their beginning: thought that there was a certain fift nature, of the which the soul & mind did consist. For to think, to foresee, to learn, to teach, to invent, and divers such other properties, as to remember, to love, to hate, to desire, to fear, to be vexed, to be merry: these and such like, he thought were in none of these four kind of causes. Therefore he addeth to them the fift kind, without any proper name, and calleth the soul & mind, by a new name 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, which signifieth a certain continual and everlasting motion. Except perchance a few, which I remember not: these are the opinions of all the philosophers, touching the soul. For as for Democrytus, a worthy man, but yet compounding the soul of the changeable meeting of certain light, round and indivisible bodies, we will now overpass. For there is nothing which a company of Butterflies will not lightly make with him. Of all these opinions which is most true, let some god judge: but which is most likely to be true, there is great doubt. Whether will you therefore, that we try out the truest of them? or else that we return to our purpose?  Hea. 
I would very fain hear both: if it might be. But it were very hard to confound them together. Wherefore, if without the searching of these opinions, we may be delivered from the fear of death, I pray you do that which we have in hand: if not, do that now, and this at some other time.  Mar. 
That which I perceive you would rather have done, that also I think, is more commodious.  
For which soever of those opinions be true, I shall lightly persuade you by reason, that death is not evil but rather good. For if the heart, blood, or brain be the soul, truly, because either of them is a body, it shall die with the rest of the body. If it beaer, it shall be dispersed: if it be fire it shall be quenched: if it be Aristoxenus' musical consent, it shallbe dissolved. What shall I say of Dicearchus? who sayeth that the soul is nothing at all. By all these opinions there can nothing after death pertain to any man. For even with our life our sense is lost: and he that feeleth nothing, need not to pass, what chance betides him. Yet the opinions of that other Philosophers, put us in good hope (if that delight you) that our souls may after this life pass into the heavens, as a place appointed for them.  Hea. 
Truly it delighteth me greatly. And assuredly, that it so is, I will always persuade myself.  Mar. 
What need you in this case, to require my labour? am I able in eloquence to excel Plato? read diligently that book, which he wrote of the soul: so shall you lack nothing, concerning the knowledge of this question.  Hea. 
I have done so truly, yea and that very often. But (I know not how) while I read him, I am fully persuaded. But after I have laid aside the book, & begin to think with myself, of the immortality of our souls, all my persuasion suddenly slips away.  Mar. 
Well sir, grant you that the souls abide after death? or else say you that they die with the rest of the body?  Hea. 
I grant that they remain.  Mar. 
What if they remain?  Hea. 
I grant they be blessed.  Mar. 
What if they die?  Hea. 
Then they be not wretched, because they be not. For that being thereunto costrayned by you I have already granted.  Mar. 
How then? or for what cause? do you say that death is evil? which either shall make us happy, our souls remaining, or else not wretched our sense being paste.  Hea. 
Show therefore first (unless it be to painful for you) that our souls remain after this life. But if you can not prove that (for it is very hard) you shall show, that there is no harm in death. For I fear much least it be a grief (I do not mean to lack sense) but that I must lack sense.  Mar. 
To prove this matter which you desire, we may use as good authors as may be: which in all causes both aught and also is wont to be of great importance: and first we may confirm it by all antiquity: which, the nigher it was to the beginning of the world, and progeny of the gods, so much the better (peradventure) did see those things, which were true. For amongs those ancient fathers, (whom Ennius calleth Cascos) this one thing was comen: that there is in death feeling: and that a man by departing of his life, is not so utterly extinguished, that he should altogether perish. And this may you gather, both by many other things, but chief, by the law of the bishops, and ceremonies of burials: which they being most witty men, would neither, with so great care have observed, neither yet being irreverently or unhonestly used, would so sharply have punished: except this had been fast fixed in their minds, that death is no destruction utterly marring and blemishing all things, but only a certain departure and change of life: the which to worthy men, & women, is wont to be a guide into heaven: and vicious and il disposed persons, did cause to tarry on the ground: and nevertheless to remain stil. By this opinion also, and by the judgement of our countrymen. Romulus in heavens with gods doth pass his time.  
As Ennius the Poet, agreeing to comen fame, hath written. And from thence flying to us, and so to the West ocean, Hercules is counted so great, and so mighty a god. For this cause Bacchus, the son of Semele, is so much reported. And in like manner famous were the ii sons of Tindareus, who not only in field were helpers of victory to the Romans, but also messengers of the same. Also Ino, the daughter of Cadmus, is she not of the Greeks by the name of Leucothea, and of our countrymen by the name of Matuta worshipped? What? the whole heaven (to th'intent I make no longer discourse) is it not replenished with mankind? for if I should assay to search ancient monuments, and put in writing, such things as be in old Greek books: then should you well perceive, that such, as we count to be the greatest gods, have departed out of the earth, into those places of heaven. But ignorant men that knew not natural philosophy, which of late came into use, persuaded themselves so much, as they could gather by natural reason. The order and causes of things they knew not.  
They were often moved by visions (and those chiefly in the night) to think, that such as were dead, did live again. Wherefore, like as we see it a very strong argument to believe that there are gods: because there is no nation so cruel, neither yet any man so beastly: in whose mind there is not fixed some opinion of God. (Many nevertheless have conceived divers foolish fancies of the gods) but yet they grant all that there is a divine power and nature. Neither yet, doth the communication or agreement of men, cause this consent, the opinion is confirmed by no decrees, by no laws: but in every thing, the argement of all nations is taken for the law of nature: So likewise, in asmuch as all nations, have worshipped their benefactors as gods after their death (although some more foolish than other it is evident, that nature hath engrafted in the hearts of all men, a natural opinion without persuasion, that our souls are immortal, and remain after this life.  
But who is there, that would not bewail the death of his friend? when he thinks, that he is deprived the commodities of this life. Take away his fancy, and you shall take away all mourning. For no man mourneth, but for his discommodity. For we sorrow, and are vexed, and all our woeful lamentation, and sad mourning, riseth hereof, that him whom so entirely we loved, we suppose to lack the commodities of this life, and that to feel. And these things we imagine, only by the conducting of nature, without either reason or learning. And hereof we will talk hereafter. But the greatest argument, by the which we may gather, that nature itself, doth privily think of the immortality of our souls, is that most wise men, take greatest care for things to come after their death.  
Some one sets trees, which may profit in an other age (as Statius sayeth in his books entitled Synephebi to what other end? but for that he knew, that the time to come did also pertain unto him? for the same cause, divers diligent husbandmen graff trees, whose increase they shall never see. And likewise, many noble men make laws, orders, and customs, the observations of the which, they shall never behold. What? the begetting of children? the spreading of fame? the adoptions of children? the diligent observing of testaments? the very monuments, & Epitaphs of graves? what other thing do they signify? then that, we have all a respect to the time to come? Besides this. There is no doubt, but the trial of nature, ought to be taken of the best nature. But what men's nature is better than theirs, which think themselves borne, to help, save, and comfort men? Hercules is departed from hence to the gods. To them he should never have gone, unless whiles he was amongs men, he had prepared himself a way thither. But these are old matters: and now also sanctified by religion. What shall we think, of so many, and so notable men, in this our comen wealth, which willingly took their death, for their countries sake? Did they (think you) suppose? that their memory should be extended no longer than the term of their life?  
truly, no man at any time was so mad, as without hope of immortality, to offer himself to death for his country. For otherwise, it had been lawful for Themistocles: to have lived in ease, it had been lawful for Epaminundas: It had been also (that we inquire no farther of old and foreign matters) lawful for me. But (I know not how) there sticketh in men's minds, a certain guess of life to come: yea, and that doth most commonly happen, in the most stout and hearty courages, and in them appears most lightly. Which hope taken away, who is there so mad, that would continually live in labour and danger? and hitherto we have spoken of princes. But do we not see the like of poets? will not they be remembered after their death? Upon what cause then, was this written? 
Behold ye citizens here the shape of Ennius' image old.  
Who hath described your father's facts & eke their gests hath told.   
Lo, he requireth the report of fame, and renown at their hands, whose forefathers he had caused by his writing to be famous. And the same Ennius, writeth in another place thus. 
Let no man me bemoan, nor wail me when I die.  
For why? alive my good report in mouths of men shall fly.   
But what doubt we of poets? yea, such as live by handcraftes, desire after death to be remembered. For what other cause did Phydias, grave his shape in the tergat of Minerva? where it was not lawful for him to write? What? the Philosophers themselves, do they not in those books which they writ of the despising of glory, imprint their own names? Certes, if the consent of all men be the voice of nature, & all men in all places do agree, that there is some thing, that doth pertain to them which are departed out of this life: we also must needs think the same. And since we know, the they whose mind passeth either in wit or virtue (because their wit is best) do see most clearly the power of nature. It is most likely, forasmuch as every good man taketh care for his posterity, that he supposeth that there is some thing, the sense and feeling of the which, he shall have after death. But as we know by nature that there be gods: But what they be, we gather by wit and reason: so we think because of the consent and agreement of all nations, that our souls do remain after death. But in what place they be, or what manner things they are, we must gather by reason. The ignorance of the which, hath feigned and invented hell and such terroures, as you seemed somewhat afore not without just cause to despise. For our bodies being laid in the ground, and covered with earth (whereof also such as are buried are said to be earthed) they thought the rest of our life should be led under the ground. Which opinion hath been the cause of great errors: Which have been augmented and increased by poets. For the thick company of the Theatre, in the which there are many women and children, is much moved hearing so terrible a verse as this. 
I here am come from hell, by ways full high and steep.  
By dens ybuylte with stones, by caves full dark and deep.  
Where loathly darkness dwells, where crawling furies creep.   
Yea and that error was of such force, (which now I trust is nigh extinguished) that whereas they saw, men's bodies burn afore: yet nevertheless, they would feign them doing such things in hell, as without bodies, could neither be done in deed, neither yet imagined. For they could not well conceive, how the soul might live without the body: and for that cause, they imagined that they lived under some certain shape and figure. Upon this occasion, Homer wrote his book which he entitled 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. Hereof sprung that Necromancy, which my friend Appius was wont to use. For this cause also, was the lake that standeth not far from mi house, called the lake of hell. 
Whence souls are stireed up, in dark and grisly shapes.  
Which when hell gates are opened once, out at the doors escapes.   
Yet nevertheless, these shapes and shadows they feign to speak. Which can not be without the tongue jaws, sides, and lights. For they conceived very little in their minds: but referred all to their bodily eyes. But it is a great point of wit, for a man to revoke his mind, from the judgement of his outward senses, and to withdraw the consent of his thoughts, from things that have been allowed by custom.  
And I believe truly, that there have been many other, which in all ages have reasoned of the immortality of the souls. But of those which have left any writings behind them, Pherecides, a Sirian taught first, that the souls of men were everlasting. A man surely of great antiquity. For he lived in the time of my kinsman Tullus Hostilius. This opinion, his scholar Pythagoras did chiefly confirm, who when he came into italy, in the reign of Tarqvinius the proud, amazed all great Greece, with his estimation, learning, and authority. Yea, and many years after the name of the Pythagoreans was so highly esteemed, that in comparison of them, no other Philosophers seemed to be learned. But let us return to those ancient Philosophers. commonly they would give no reason of any thing, that they spoke unless it were same such thing, as they should declare by numbers or descriptions. It is said that Plato, to th'intent that he might know the Pythagoreans, came into italy: and there was acquainted both with many other, but chiefly with Archytas and Timeus, of whom he learned all the opinion of Pythagoras: and that at the first, he not only thought as Pythagoras did, as concerning the eternity of the soul, but also confirmed the same with reason. Which (unless you be otherwise minded) let us overpass, and leave of all this reasoning of the immortality of the souls.  Herald 
What will you now leave me, wh● you have brought me into so great expectation? I had rather to err with Plato (whom I know how much you esteem, and I wonder at the more, because of your praise) then to think well with other.  Mar. 
worthily spoken. For I myself assuredly, would not be aggrieved to err with him. And is there any doubt, but that as he hath handled all other things very learnedly and profoundly, so he hath done this also? although this hath least need of cunning handling. For the Mathematicians do well prove it saying, that the earth, which is placed in the midst of the world, in comparison of the whole heaven, hath but the proportion of a small point, which they call a centre. And such is the nature of those four bodies, of the which all things take their beginning, that they have equally divided motions. So that all earthly and watery bodies, do naturally fall down into the earth and sea, and all other, namely fiery and airy, like as the first ii because of the heaviness of their weight do tend to the midst place of the world, so these by right lines fly upwards into the heavenly region: either because they themselves naturally do move upwards, or else, because they being light bodies, are by force driven from the other which are gross and heavy. Which sayings, forasmuch as they are certain, it must needs follow, that our souls, when they are departed from our bodies, if they be of fyerye or airy nature, must of necessity ascend into the higher regions. But if the soul be some number (which was spoken more wittily then plainly) or if it be that fift principle, (as well the name as the nature of the which, no man can understand) undoubtedly, either of them are so pure and perfect things, that at their departure they can not abide on the ground. And truly some one of these is the soul. For so quick a spirit lieth not drenched in the heart, brain, or blood, as Empedocles saith. But as for Dicearchus with his school fellow Aristorenus, (learned men both) we will now overpass: of the which, the one seems never to have felt any grief, who thinks that he hath no soul, and the other is so delighted with his notes and tunes, that he assayeth to allude them to these earnest matters. But a harmony is made of the diversity of tunes, the sundry setting of the which, may make many sweet harmonies: but the conformity of a man's limbs, and the whole shape of his body, without a soul what harmony it may make, I can by no means understand. But he be learned, may in this matter geus place to his master Aristotle, and he himself practise singing. For it is wisely counseled of the Greeks in a certain proverb in this sort. 
In what Art each man skilful is and most profoundly seen.  
The same always to exercise, it doth him best beseem.   
But that foolish opinion, of the falling together of certain indivisible, light, and round bodies, let us utterly root out: which nevertheless Democritus imagineth to be whole and breathing, that is to say of an airy nature. So the soul (which if it be of any of those four bodies, whereof all things are made, doth undoubtedly consist of fire, which opinion Panetius also liketh best) must needs fly to the higher regions: For those ii elements, namely fire and aer, have no falling, but go always upwards. So it comes to pass, that whether they are scattered far from the earth, or else do abide and always keep their own nature, by all these reasons it must necessarily follow, that our souls ascend unto heaven dividing this gross & compound aer, which is next to the earth. For our soul is more hot, or rather more fiery, than this aer, which I termed whilom gross and compound. And that hereby we may well perceive: because our dumpish earthly bodies do aware hot, with the heat of our minds. Furthermore, it must needs be, the the soul must lightly pass through this aer (which I do often term gross) because there is nothing more swift than it, neither any such quickness, as may by anne means be compared with the quickens of the same. Which if he remain unwasted, and like to his former being he must needs so move, that he, shall pierce and cut all this lower aer, in the which, clouds, winds, and showers, are gathered. Which is both moist and cloudy with the exhalrations of the earth. Which region after it hath once passed, and attained to a nature like to itself, being there stayed amids the light aer, and temperate heat of the son, he resteth upon the fire, and there maketh an end of ascending any higher. For when it hath gotten heat and lightness congruent to his nature, then as a thing equally poised, it moaneth neither upwards nor downwards. And there at the last is his natural seat, when it hath once pierced to things in nature like to itself. In the which without the want or lack of any thing, it shallbe nourished, and sustained with such food as the stars themselves are fed and nourished withal. And whereas here, the pricks of the flesh are wont commonly to inflame us, to all ill motions, as we are so much the more kindled by them, as we envy those, that have the same things that we desire to have: then truly we shall be happy, when our bodies being once dissolved, we shall be rid from all yil desires and emulations. And that, which we now do when we are void of ear (I mean the giving of ourselves, to the consideration and weighing of some thing pertaining to knowledge) that shall we then do with much more liberty, and settle ourselves wholly, to the contemplation and viewing of nature: both because naturally there is graffed in our minds, an insatiable desire to know the troth and also because the place itself, to the which we shall come, because it will show unto us, a more easy knowledge of those things which we desire to know, must needs increase in us the desire and love of knowledge, the beauty of the which place, hath in this filthy earth, stirred up, that ancient and heavenly philosophy as Theophrastus sayeth) kindled first with the desire of knowledge. But that heavenly pleasure they chiefly shall enjoy, which although when they dwelt in this low earth, they had their senses cloaked with the clouds of error, yet in mind did still r new the memory of that heavenly place, from whence they first came, for if they here think themselves great travailers, which have seen the crickes of the sea Eurinus and those straights, by the which the ship passed which was called Argo. 
Because in her some chosen men of Greece.  
To Colchos sailed to win the golden Fleece.  
Or those which have seen the great  
ocean seas, and eke that place where  
The surging waves with suryous force Europe and Africa part.   
What sight may we think that shall be? when we shall behold the whole earth, the situation, form, and description of the same, the places inhabited, and such again, as either because of parching heat, or fresing cold, do lack inhabitants. For now truly, see not so much as those things which we see with our bodily eyes, neither is there any sense in our body. But (as not only the natural Philosophers, but also the Physicians do say, who have seen the same opened and disclosed) certain ways and holes there be, bound from the inner vault of our mind, to our eyes, ears, and nostrils. And for this cause sometime it happeneth, that we are so blinded, either with some sad thought, or vehement disease, that our eyes and ears being both hole and open, yet we can neither hear nor see. So that we may well perceive, that it is our mind, that seeth and heareth, and not those parts, which are but the casementes of the same. Without the which, nevertheless, the mind itself can perceive nothing, unless it be earnestly bend thereon. Besides all this, what a thing is it, that the mind only, can contain things of most divers nature? as colours, tastes, feelynges, smells and sounds? which by the .v. senses only, the mind could never discern, were it not that all things coming to it by them: it only is judge of all. And then truly, these things shall be more plain and clearly seen, when as the soul is come to his own natural liberty. For now in deed, although nature hath very suttely wrought certain passages from the soul to the body: yet nevertheless, the same are compassed, and in manner stopped up with certain gross and earthly bodies. But when there shall be nothing, but the soul itself, than there shall be no let, but that it may well discern and judge, what each manner of thing is. I could here describe (if my matter so required) how many, and how sundry delectable sights the soul shall have, in those heavenly regions. The which, sometimes when I do remember, I can not but wonder at the vanity of certain Philosophers, which have the secret knowledge of natural philosophy in great admyratian: and therefore thank and praise with all their hearts, the inventor and finder of the same, and worship him as God: saying, that by this his benefit, they are delivered of right heavy masters: that is to wit, continual terror, and daily and nightly fear. For what so doting a fool is there, that would fear those things, which you, if you had not the knowledge of natural philosophy, would have feared. 
The Temples low of Acheron, with paleness all bespread.  
And dens full deep of doleful death with darkness all beset.   
Is it not a shame, for Philosophers to boast, that now they fear not these things, but know them to be false? May not a man think them quick witted, which would have credited these things, had not learning persuaded them to the contrary? But they have gotten knowledge enough, which have persuaded themselves, that at the time of their death they should wholly perish? which if we grant to be true, (for I will not at this time much contend with them) what have they therein either to be glad or proud of? neither yet can I see any cause, why the opinion of Pythagoras & Plato, should not be true. For were it so, that Piato brought no reason (see in what estimation I have that man) his very authority should move me. But he hath confirmed his opinion with so many proofs, that it appeareth, that both he was willing to persuade and also hath persuaded. But there be many against him, which think our souls condemned to death: neither is there any other cause, why they will not believe the eternity ●f the same, then because they can not well imagine or think, what manner thing the soul should be without the body. As though they could understand, what manner thing it is, whiles it is in the body: what shape it hath, what quantity, or what place. But if it were possible, that they might see all the inward parts enclosed in man's body, which now are separate from our sight: whether they should see the soul, or whether it is of such subtle nature, that they could by no means discern it, that let them weigh, which deny, that they can imagine any soul without the body. they must first see, what manner thing they will think him to be, whiles he is in the body. For to me assuredly (divers times, when I ponder with myself the nature of the soul) it seems a far darker and deeper consideration, to think, what and how the soul could be in the body, as in a strange habitation: than what it shall be, when it shall departed from thence, and fly into the open heavens, as to his proper and appointed place. For if it be not possible for us to comprehend in our minds such things as we never saw then, neither god himself, neither yet our soul that came from God, what it shallbe, when it is departed from our bodies, can we well imagine. Dicearchus and Aristoxenus (for that it was a deep and a weighty matter, to consider what the soul might be) said that there was no soul at all. And surely, it is the chiefest point of wit, with the soul to know the soul: and that is the wise meaning of that sage precept of Apollo, which willeth us to know ourselves. For I can not think that it should bid us to know our limbs, stature, or shape. For we are not bodies: neither, when I speak to you, do I talk to your body. Therefore when he sayeth know thyself, he sayeth as much in effect, as know thyself. For thy body is but the vassal, and dungeon of thy mind. Whatsoever thy soul doth, that is thine own deed. And unless it had been thought an heavenly thing, to know the soul: that precept had never been taken to have been of such excellency, as to have been imputed to God. But, if he know not, what manner thing his soul is, how shall he know, that he himself either liveth, or moveth? And hereupon, is grounded that reason of Plato, which is declared by Socrates, in the book called Phedrus, and rehearsed of me, in my syrt book of a comen wealth That which always moveth, is everlasting. But, aswell that which moveth other things, as also that which is moved by other, when it ceaseth to move, ceaseth also to live. Only that therefore, which moves itself (because it can never forsake itself) can not but move. It also, is a fountain and beginning of motion, to other things which are moved. Now of a principle there can be no beginning. For of a principle all things are made, and it takes his beginning of no other, (for it were no principle, if it took beginning of any other thing.) Then if it hath no beginning, neither hath it any ending. For a principle being once extinct, can neither itself at any time be revived, neither yet create, or make any other thing, whereas all things take their beginning of a principle. So we see, that the beginning of all motions, proceedeth of that which is moved of itself. But that, can neither have beginning, nor ending (not though the sky should fall, & all things stand at a stay) neither yet any outward force, by the which it should be moved. Wherefore, inasmuch it appeareth, that that is everlasting, which moveth itself: and no man will deny that our souls are of that sort, (for whatsoever is moved by any outward motion, and not of itself, is without life) it must needs follow, that since it is the only property and nature of the soul (amongs so many sundry things) to be moved of itself: it neither at any time heretofore had beginning, nor at any time hereafter shall have ending. Let all the rascal Philosophers lay their heads together, (for so it seemeth good unto me to term them, which serve from Plato, and Socrates, and from their sect) they shall neither at any time express any thing so eloquently, neither yet be able to perceive how suttelye this self same reason is concluded. The soul therefore, perceiveth that he himself doth move: wherewithal it feels also, that it is of his own power, and not of any foreign force: & that it can by no means chaunc● that he should forsake himself. Where by it is concluded, the he is everlasting. Now let me hear, what you can say against this.  Hea. 
I truly can not suffer myself, so much as to imagine any thing contrary unto it: I do so much Ravour your opinion herein.  Mar. 
How think you then, of those things which are in the soul? which, if I could by any means conceive, how they might have beginning, I could well imagine how they might perish also. For blood, choler, phlegm, bones, sinews, veins & all the frame of our body, I could well imagine how, and whereof it is made. The soul itself, if it had no greater thing in it, then, that it is causer of our life, I could lightly be persuaded, that a man might as well live by the power of nature, as a vine, or any other tree. Also if it had no stranger properties then to desire some things & to abstain from other, I could think that that were as well common to beasts as to it. But first it hath an infinite remembrance of a wonderful number of things, amongs the which, Plato reckoneth the recording of our former life. For in that book, which is entitled Memnon, Socrates demandeth certain questions of a child, as concerning the measures of a four square: to the which he answereth as any child might, but yet nevertheless, the questions are so easy, that he answereth him so, as if he had learned geometry.  
Whereby Socrates concludeth, that to learn, is nothing else, then to remember. This place also he handleth more at large, in that talk, which he had that self same day, that he departed out of this life. For he saith that when a rude and ignorant man, doth answer well to one that questioneth wisely with him, than he doth playnely● show, that he doth not then learn those things but remembreth them, as things which he had almost forgotten. He sayeth also, that we could by no means, from our childhood have the general grounds of so many things placed in our minds, unless our soul afore it entered into our body, had lived in the knowledge of the same. And whereas the body is nothing, as Plato in all his works doth reason (for he takes that as nothing, which hath had beginning and shall have ending, and that only to be which shall continue for ever) the soul could not come to the knowledge of these things, whiles he was enclosed in the body, but brought them thither with him. Neither yet doth it clearly perceive the same at the first, when it suddenly cometh into the body, as into a troubled mansion, but after that it hath revoked and reposed itself, it recounteth such things as it knew before. So to learn is no other thing, then to remeber. But I do wonder at our remembrance after an other sort. For what is it, whereby we do remember? or from whence hath our nature that force or power? I do not here ask how notable the memory of Simonides was, either of Theodectes, or else of Cyneas, the ambassador which came from Pyrrhus to the Senate, or of Carneades, or of Scepsius Metrodorus, or else of our countreiman Hortensius. I speak of the memories of the comen sort of men. And of those inespeciallye, which spend the most part of their life in study: whose memory how great it is, it is hard to think. They remember so many and sundry things. But to what end belongeth this my talk? To consider what this power of remembrance, & from whence it is. It comes not surely, from the heart, blood, or brain, neither yet from Democritus moats. I know not whether the soul be fire or aer, neither am I ashamed to confess, that I am ignorant in that which I know not, but this I may boldly affirm (as well as any man may, in so dark a matter as this is) that whether the soul be fire or aer, it is undoubtedly an heavenly thing. For, is there any man that would think, that so wonderful a power of memory, could be made either of the earth, or else of this dark & cloudy aer? For although you do not see, what our remembrance is, yet what manner thing it is, you may well perceive. Or, if that you can not do, yet you may well understand how great a thing it is. Shall we then think, that there is any capacity, or void place in the soul, into the which as into a vessel, all those things which we do remember are powered? That truly were very foolish. For, what bottom might there be, of such a vessel? or, what might be the shape, of such a soul? or what so great wideness might there be in the soul? What? should we think, that our soul is imprinted, as it were wax, and that our remembrance is the oversight of those things, which stick imprinted in our hearts? But what prints may there be of words? either what sufficient marks of things? or what so huge a space may there be in the soul, in the which all those things which we remember, might be printed? Furthermore, what think you of that part of our mind, which syndeth out such things, as were never known before and is therefore called invention, can that be made of this earthly, frail, and compound nature think you?  
What think you of him, which first of all, gave every thing his proper name (which Pythagoras counted a part of great wisdom) or of him which first gathered men together, to one society, & fellowship of life? what think you of him also, who first comprised the tunes of our voice (which somed to be in manner infinite) in a few notes? Or of him, who first marked the motions, progressions, & stations of the .7. planets? How judge you also of them, who first found out corn, clothing, houses, orders for man's life, & defence against wild beasts? by whom, after that we were tamed, and brought from wildness, besides our necessities, we have invented things for pleasure. For there is invented, a temperate variety of the divers nature of sundry tunes, to delight our ears, and also our eyes took great pleasure, in marking, as well those stars, which are fastened in certain places of the firmament, as also the other, which are called (although they be not so in deed) wanderers: the conversions and motions of the which, whose soul did first perceive, he did plainly teach, that his soul was like to him, which had first made those things in heaven. For, when Archymedes made the motions of the Moon, the Son, and the other five planets, in the artificial Sphere, he did as much as God (whom Plato bringeth in in his book entitled Tymcus, making the world) when he made the turning of one Sphere, to rule several motions, differing both in slowenes and swyftenes. Which, if in the motion of the whole world it can not be done, without the hand of god, neither could Archymedes in his material Sphere, have imitated the same, with out an heavenly wit. Neither yet can I see, how these accustomed things with the which we are daily acquainted, can be done without an heavenly power. As that a Poet should write a grave and full verse, without some heavenly influence, or that a man should be eloquent with pleasant words, and weighty sentences, without some greater invention, than the wit of man. But philosophy, the mother of all arts, what other thing is it, than (as Plato sayeth) the gift and (as I think) the invention of the gods? She first taught us the worship of them, and secondarily, to use right towards all men, and then afterwards modesty, & stoutness of stomach. She drove away all darkness from the soul, whiles it is in the prison of the body, that it might see all things, as well high and low, as far and near. And sure lie, this seems to me, to be a heavenly thing, which doth so many and so wonderful things. For what is the remembrance of words and deeds? what is invention? assuredly such things they are, as a man can not imagine greater, in god himself. For I do not think, that the gods are delighted with the food which the poets call Ambrosia, or with the heavenly drink, which they call Nectari: neither can I think, that they have young boys waiting at their tables: neither do I believe Homer, which writeth, that  was taken up into heaven to be cupbearer to jupiter. It is no sufficient cause, why he should do Laomedon so much injury. Homer feigned it, and applied the qualities of men to the gods. I had rather that he had derived the properties of the gods unto us: namely to be wise, to invent, and to remember. The soul now, which (as I say) is a heavenly thing, as Euripides feareth not to say is god himself. And truly, if god be either aer or fire, he is the soul of man. For as the heavenly nature is void both of earthly substance, and also waterish moisture, so in likewise, is the soul of man compounded of none of them both: But if it be a certain fift nature (as Aristotle first invented) assuredly, as well the gods, as our souls, do consist of the same substance. Which opinion we following, have thus expressed, in our books which we entitled of consolation. there can be found no original nor beginning of our souls in the earth: sith in them nothing is mixed or compound, nothing made or framed of earth, nothing moist or a●rye, ne yet of fiery nature: for in these four natures there is nothing, that hath the power to remember, invent, or imagine, that can either bear in memory things passed, foresee such as are to come, or rightly weigh such as are present. Which properties & gifts, as they are heavenly, so no man can imagine how they may come to man but from God. Whereby it seemeth that the nature of the soul, is other than these four: & separated from these accustomed & comen natures.  
So whatsoever it is, that can discerns by the senses, can judge by discretion, or can will, or not will, that must needs be of an heavenly force and power, and for that self same cause everlasting. For god himself (whom we can not conceive, but by the force of our understanding) we can imagine to be no other thing, than a lose and free soul, separate from all mortal concretion, seeing and moving all things, itself being moved of nothing, and of this self same force and nature is the mind of man. Where then, or what is thy soul? canst thou tell me where, or what manner thing it is? But if I have not so many helps to the knowledge of my soul as I would wish to have, wilt thou therefore let me, to use those things, which I have to the understanding of my soul? the soul is not able in this body to see himself. No more is the eye which although he seeth all other things, yet (that which is one of the least) can not discern his own shape. But admit that the soul can not consider himself: howbeit perhaps he may. His operations, as quickness of invention, sure remembrance, continuance and swiftness of motion, it doth well enough perceive. And these be great, yea heavenly, yea everlasting things. But of what shape it is, or where it resteth we ought not to inquire. As when we see the form and beauty of the heavens, furthermore such quickness of motion, as we can scarce conceive, also the continual courses of day? and night, the four changes of the year, convenient both for the ripening of fruits, and also for the temperate disposition of our bodies. Besides this, when we see the son, the causer and worker of all increase, and the moon whose increase and decrease of light, doth in steed of Calendar, describe unto us the changes of every day, when we behold the other five planets, which most constantly continue one set course (under that Circle which is divided into xii equal parts) with unequal motions, and the faces of the skies, by night on all sides set with stars, and the globe of the earth (saved from the sea, and fixed in the midst of the whole world) in some places habitable, and well tilled, of the which one part (which we inhabit) is placed under the North star, where The blousteringe Northern blasts congeal the frozen snow.  
And the other far in the south, which the Greeks call 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 whereas the other parts be not inhabited, either because they are frozen with cold, or parched with heat. But here where we dwell at appointed seasons. 
The Sun doth shine, the trees doth burgeon green.  
The merry Uynes, with clusters are bespread.  
The binding trees with fruit a joy to seen.  
The corn doth spring, & things that erst were dead.  
As now revived their old shape of do cast.  
The fountains flow, and grass wax green a new  
When Summer's heat hath changed the Winters hue.   
Furthermore when we see the multitude of beasts ordained partly for our food partly for the tillage of our ground, partly to carry us, & partly to cloth us, & man amongs all these things a beholder of the heavens & gods, & a worshipper of the same: & furthermore, all things as well in land as in sea, provided for the profit of mankind: these & other innumerable works of god, as oft as we do behold, must we not needs acknowledge that if these things were at any time made, there must be some worker & maker of them? Or else if they have been for ever, from the beginning (as Arystotle thinks) that at the least there is some ruler & governor of so great a work. So likewise although thou canst not see the soul of man, no more than thou canst god himself, yet nevertheless, as thou dost acknowledge god by his works so likewise seeing the infinite remembrance of things, the quickens of invention, the swiftness of motion in the same, & finally all the beauty of virtue, y● must needs confess the divine & heavenly power of the same. In what place is it then? I think truly in the head. And why I so think, I can bring many reasons.  
But that we will refer to an other time. And now dispute where the soul is. In thee he is assuredly. What nature hath it? a nature properly belonging to itself, as I think. But admit that it had the nature either of fire or aer. For that is nothing to our purpose. This only consider, that as you know God, although his place and shape you know not, so likewise, you ought to conceive your soul, although you know neither his mansion place, nor form. And truly, as concerning the soul, we can not doubt (unless we will confess ourselves wholly ignorant in natural philosophy,) but that there is no motion in the same, no composition, no concretion, no copulation, nor coagmentation. Which if it be so, assuredly it can never be separated, departed, dissevered, or sundered: and for that cause, neither can it die. For death is the departing, separating, and losing of those parts, which before death were conjoined. With this reason, and such like, Socrates being moved, did neither desire any patron to plead for him, when the judges gave him doom of death, neither yet became he an humble suitor to them, for the lengthening of his life. But uttered always a stout stubbornness, proceeding not of pride, but of a haughty courage. Yea, and the very last day of his life, he reasoned much of this self same question: and a few days afore, when he might easily have been conveyed out of prison, he would not: and finally at the time of his death, holding in his hand the cup that should poison him, spoke in such sort, that he seemed not to be compelled to die, but with a fervent, desire to climb up to heaven. For thus he thought, and so he taught, that there were ii ways and courses of our souls, when they depart out of our bodies. For such as had defiled them selves with sin, and had given themselves over to lust, and pleasure wherewith they being blinded, had stained the nobility of their souls, with wallowing in vice, or otherwise fraudulently governing the comen wealth, such he thought went by a path separated from the counsel of the gods, but such, as had kept themselves pure and holy, and were least defiled with the filth of they● bodies, but had always called themselves from the filthy lusts of the same, and whiles they lived in their bodies, ●ad imitated the life of the gods, such he thought had, an easy return to the place, from whence they first came. And for that cause he saith, that a● the swans (which not without cause are dedicated to Apollo, but because they seem to have of him the gift of natural prophecy) foreseeing what pleasure is in death, do die singing with great delight: so ought all good and learned men to do. Neither truly could any man doubt hereof, but that as oft as we muse much of the nature of our foul, we are in such case as they are wont to be, who when they have a long space beheld the son are made in manner blind with the brightness thereof. And so likewise the eyes of our mind beholding itself, do often ware dim: and by that means we lose the diligence of contemplation of the same. So the judgement of our opinions, doubting, wavering, staggering, & pondering many doubts, is driven as a wavering ship in the main sea. But these examples are counted state, & come from the Grecians. But Cato our countryman, so departed out of this life, as one that was glad, that he had gotten just occasion to die. For that god that ruleth within us, forbiddeth us to depart hence without his leave. But when soever he shall give us a just cause (as he did to Socrates, now of late to Cato, & often heretofore to many other) then truly, every wise man will gladly departed from this darkness into that light. Neither yet ought he to break the bands of his prison (for that the laws of god do forbid) but to departed from thence when he is delivered & called by God, as an officer or other lawful power. For all the life of wise men (as he in like wise sayeth) is the practice of death. For what other thing do we, when we call our mind from pleasure, that is the body, from the cares of wealth & richesse, which is the minister & hand maid of the body, to conclude when we separate ourselves from all stir in the comen wealth, and from all other business, what do we then (I say) but call our soul to itself: compelling it to return to itself, and to withdraw itself, as much as may be, from the conjunction of the body: and to separate the soul from the body, is nothing else then to die. Wherefore let us practise this, to sever ourselves from our bodies, that is as much to say, let us accustom ourselves to die. For that, both whiles we live here in the earth, shall be like to that heavenly life, and also, when we being loosed from the bands of our body, shall wend towards the heavens, so much the less flow shall we find our course thither wards. For they which have always lived in the fetters and gives of their body, yea when they are loosed go some what more slowly: as those which many years have been laden with irons. For truly this life is but death: which I could lament more at large, if I listed.  Hea. 
You have done that sufficiently in your book which you entitled of comfort. Which when I read, I desire nothing more than to leave this body. But now whiles I hear this, much more.  Mar. 
Your time will come, and that shortly, whether you draw back from it, or hasten towards it (for swift winged time flies a pace) but so much it lacks, that death is an evil (as you whilom thought) that I fear me there is scarce any other thing, to be accounted good that may happen to man. Since it shall either make us gods ourselves, or else place us with the gods.  Hea. 
Yet nevertheless, there be some that think not so.  Mar. 
But or ever I have finished my talk, I will prove unto you, that there is no reason, why death ought to seem an evil thing.  Hea. 
How can it seem an evil thing unto me, now I know thus much?  Mar. 
How can it ask you? there are great companies of Philosophers against this opinion: and those truly not only epicures (whom nevertheless I do not despise, but I know not how, each learned man sets at nought) But also mine own dearlig Dicearchus, hath sharply written against this immortality of our souls. For he wrote three books, which are called the books of Les●os, because the same disputation was kept at Mitylena, in the which he assays to prove, that our souls are mortal. And the Sto●kes do but lend us the using of the life of our souls for a space, to make us as long lived as daws. For they say that our souls shall abide a great space, but not 〈◊〉. Will you therefore hear me prove, that if it be so, yet death is not to be counted an evil.  Hea. 
That do as you think good, but no man shall remove me from my opinion, as concerning the immortality of our souls.  Mar. 
I commend you therefore, howbeit, I would not have you to be to rash in allowing opinions.  
For we are lightly moved, with a witty reason, and stagger & change our opinion, yea though the matters be somewhat play●e. Yet nevertheless, in these there is some darkness. But if any such thing should happen, we ought to be armed with witty conclusions.  Hea. 
Well spoken: but I doubt not but I will foresee, that no such thing shall chance.  Mar. 
Is there any cause then, why we should not overpass our friends the stoics? them I mean, which say that our souls abide for a while after that they are departed out of our bodies, but not ever. Who, inasmuch as they do grant that, which seemeth to be hardest in all this matter, namely, that the soul may abide being from the body, ●●●ruayle much, that they will deny that, which is not only easy to be believed, but also that being granted which they do grant, do●● 〈◊〉 in manner of necessity: namely that when they have abiden a great while, they can not die.  Hea●. 
You reprehend them worthily: for it is even so as you say.  Mar. 
Should we then believe Panetius, who in this point dysseu●eth from his master Plato? For him, whom in all other points he calleth divine, most wise, most holy, to conclude, the Homer of all philosophers, his this only opinion of the immortality of the souls, he doth not allow.  
For he sayeth (that which no man denieth) that whatsoever hath had beginning, shall a●●● have ending. And that our souls had beginning, which he declares by they●● that are daily borne, 〈◊〉 whom there doth appear, as well greenness o●●●yt, as of years. He bringeth also this other reason: that whatsoever may feel grief, may be sick: and ●●at soever may be sick shall dy●iour sou●●s (quod ●e) do feel grief wherefore they shall also die. These things may lightly be refu●ed. For hereby it seemeth, that he was ignorant, that when we talk of the eternity of the soul, we do therein comprise the mind which is always void of any troublous motion, or affection, and do not talk of those parts, in the which, sorrow, anger, and lusts are. Which, he against whom I now reason, thinks to be sundered and severed from the mind. For the likelynes of nature, doth more appear in beasts, which have no reason: but the outward guess of the soul of man, doth much consist in the shape of his body. For it is much material, in what sorts of bodies the souls be placed. For there be many things in the body, that quicken the mind, and many things which dull the same. Aristotle says, that all witty men be of melancholy complexion, by the which reason it grieveth me not at all to acknowledge myself to be blunt witted. He reckons up many things to prove the same: & (as if it were certain) shows the reason of it. Then, if there be a great force of those things that are in the body, as concerning the disposition of the mind, there is no necessity, why the works of the soul should be alike in every body. But I let this pass. I would to god Panetius might be here present. He lived in the time of Africanus. I would fain know of him, to whom of his kinsmen Africanus brothers cozen was like: who being favoured much like his father, yet in his life did so much refemble every unthrift, that he was commonly counted the worst that might be. Also to whom was the nephew of Publius Crasius (a right wise and eloquent man) like? and so likewise of divers other notable men's children, and other their kinsfolks, which I need not here to remember.  
But whereof do I now entreat? have I forgotten, that this is my purpose, after I had spoken sufficiently of the eternity of our souls, to show also, that if they did die, there could be no evil in death.  Hearer. 
I remembered it well enough: but whiles you talked of the eternity of the soul, I suffered you with a good will to stay in the same.  Marcus. 
I perceive that your mind is on high things, and that you will even climb into heaven.  Hear. 
I hope so. But admit (as these men will have it) that our souls remain not after death, than I perceive, that we have lost the hope of immortal life in heaven.  Mar. 
What harm (I pray you) doth that opinion bring? admit that our soul shall die as our body? is there then any grief, or any sense at all, in our body? no man sayeth so: albeit Epicurus layeth it to Democritus charge. But his scholars deny it. Then if there be no feeling in the body after death, neither doth there remain any sense in the soul. For it is in no place. Where then is the evil? But perchance they will say, that the departing of the body from the soul, is not without grief. Admit that there be some, how little is it? howbeit I think there is none at all.  
For it happens commonly without any sense, yea, and some times with pleasure, yea and it is but light, what so ever it be. For it is done in a minute of tyme. But this it is that gryeveth us, or rather vexeth us, the departing from all those things, which we count commodities in our life. But I fear me that they may be more truly called evils. What should I here bewail the life of man? although I well may, and that upon justs and good occasion.  
But what need I, inasmuch as I do entreat, whether after death we shall be wretches, to make our life in bewailing to seem more miserable? we have done that sufficiently, in that book, in the which (as much as we might) we have comforted ourselves. Death therefore, delivereth us from evils, and not from goods, if we speak the truth. And that truly, is so largely reasoned of Egesyas the Cyreman, that he was forbidden of the king Ptolomeus to teach the same in schools: for that many after his doctrine, did willingly kill themselves. There is an Epigram of Callimachus, upon Cleombrotus the Ambrocian: whom he says, after that he had perused Plato's book of the immortality of the souls, forth with without any other apparent cause, cast himself headelonges down from a wall. But the matter of the book of Egesias (of whom I spoke even now) is such. He feigneth that a certain poor man, departed out of this life, for want of necessary sustenance, is revoked again to life, by his friends: whom he answering, reciteth all the discommodities of man's I could do so in likewise: Howe beit I would not do it in such sort as he did: who counteth it good for no man to live in this world. I know not what it were for other: but I am sure that death had been best for me. Who being now deprived of all comfort and worship, both at home and abroad, if I had afore time been extinct by death: I had assuredly thereby been delivered from much care, which since hath chanced me, and not from any joy or pleasure. Admit therefore, that there be some one man who hath no adversity, who hath in no part felt the cruel stroke of fortune. As the honourable Metellus with his four sons, and Priamus with fifty, of the which xvii were borne of his lawful wife, in both of them fortune had the like stroke. But to the one she showed herself more favourable. For Metellus, many sons and daughters, nephews and nieces, accompanied to his grave. But Priamus, being afore despoiled of so great a stock, seeing his children bathed in their own blood, and last of all he him self flying to the aul●are for refuge, his enemies hand did slay. If death had taken him while his kingdom stood. 
Whiles that his corpse was safe beset with fierce Barbarian rout.  
And whiles his palace stood ygraved with gold both in and out.   
How think you, had he departed from the pleasure which might afterwards beside him, or else from the adversity which afterwards befell him? at that time you would have judged it had been from pleasure. But assuredly it had been far better for him, if death had than taken him. For than we should never have heard this woeful lamenting. 
The palace erst of Priam's stout, I saw the fire waste.  
And eke beheld when bloody sword amids his body past.  
When altars of the heavenly gods with blood were all to dashed.   
Neither those things, nor any of like sort could have chanced unto him, if he had died before. For now at this present, he is past the feeling of all miseries. It chanced somewhat better to my friend Pompeius, when he came grievously sycee to Naples. For the men of Naples had garlands on their heads, and the citizens of Puteolos did all welcome him home.  
A ●olyshe toy of the Grecians, but yet it, ●●●●ye as it happened. But if he had died at that present, had he departed from prosperity, (think you) or from adversity? from adversity undoubtedly. For than he had not waged war with his son in law, he had not been fain to fly to arms being unprovided, he had not left his house nor fled italy, and finally his army being lost, he had not needed as a naked man to fall into the hands of his servants: his poor children, all his substance and wealth, had never been enjoyed of the hands of his enemies. So he, which if he had died before, had departed in marvelous prosperity, by the little lengthening of his life, into what misery ●ell he?  
Lo, all such miseries are prevented by death, although they do not caunce yet because they may chance.  
But men think that no such thing can happen unto them, every man hopes for the good luck of Metellus: as though either there ought to be more lucky men then unlucky, or there were any certainty in the life of man, or else it were the part of a wise man, rather to hope, than fear. But let us grant, that men lose many commodities by death. Then will they say that such as be dead, do lack the commodities of this life, and therefore are miserable. For so they must needs reason. But I pray you, can he which is not, lack any thing? this word lacking is a sorrowful term. For there is included in it, that he once had it, and now he hath it not, but wants it, lacks it, and misses it. I think, that is the discommodity of him that wants any thing. As blindness is the discommodity of him which lacketh his eyes: & barrenness of her, which lacketh children.  
But there is none of them that is departed, that lacks not only not the c●modities of this life, no not so much as this life itself. I speak of such as are dead, which now we suppose not to be at all. But we which live here, if we lack bornes or wings, is there any of us which would miss them: ●rulye no man. why so? Because although we have not such things, the which are neither necessary for our use, neither yet meet for us of nature, yet we do not lack them although we have them not. This reason ought to be urged, that being first grau●●ed, which they must needs confess, if they say that our souls be moral, that is, that there is such destruction in deathe●that there can not be, so much as any ly●le suspicion, of any sense after death.  
That therefore being stablished & fixed, this must be discussed: what it is to lack: that there may be no doubt in the word. To lack therefore, signifieth the want of that, which you would have. For there is a wishing for those things which we lack: unless it be as we take this word in an other signification? For we say we lack a thing, in an other sense also. As when we have not a thing, and we perceive the lack of it, howbeit we may well abide the want thereof. But none of these ways can we term any lack in death. For we can not be sorry for any thing that we lack. That is said, to lack a good thing, which is of itself evil. But a man being alive doth not lack a good thing, unless he feel the miss of it. But of a live man, one may say, to lack a kingdom. Howbeit not so properly, of such a one, as you who never was king. But well of Tarqvinius, who was banished out of his realm. But in a dead man we can conceive no such thing. For to lack is properly said of him which feels the lack. But there is no feeling in a dead man. No more therefore is there any lack in him. But what need we in this point to play the philosophers, since we see that as touching this we need it not. How often, have not only our captains, but also hole armies run to sure & undoubted death? Which if it were a thing to be feared, Lucius Brutus, to th'intent to keep out the tyrant, whom he had afore banished out of his realm, would not willingly have sho●ved himself upon his enemy's pike. Lucius Decius the father, fighting with the Latins, his son with the Tuscans, his nephew with Pyrrhus, would never so willingly have put themselves in manifest danger, of death: Spain should not then have seen the ii Scipions s●aine, both in one battle, when they stoutly stood in defence of their country: nor the town of Cannas Paulus Aemilius, Ue●●sia Marcellus, the latins Albinus, nor the Lucans Gracchus. Is there any of these, counted at this day miserable? No truly not after their happy life. For no man can be a wretch, his sense being once paste.  Hearer. 
But it is a hateful thing, to be without sense.  Mar. 
A hateful thing in deed, if we did feel the lack of it. But inasmuch as it is evident, that nothing can be in it, which is not, what can there be hateful in it, which neither doth lack, neither feel any thing? Howbeit we have talked of this to oft. But I do it because that herein consisteth all the fear, that we conceive of death. For when we see, that our souls and bodies being spent and all our parts being brought to final destruction, that which was a living creature, is now become nothing: we must needs perceive also, that betwixt a thing that never was, and king Agamemnon, there is no difference. And in like sort, that Camillus dead long since, doth now no more force for the civil war, which is kept at this present, than I took thought for the taking of Rome, at such time as he lived. Why should Camillus then be sorry, if he had known in his life time, that .350. years after him, such things should hap? or I, if I should imagine, that ten thousand years hence, some strange nation should raze our city. Yet such is the love, that we own to our country, that we take thought for it, for the good will we bear it, and not for any harm, that we being buried, may have by the destruction of it. Wherefore, death can not so fear a man (which because of thincertainty of our life, doth continually hang over our heads, & also because of the shortness of our age can never be far of) but that he ought continually to have more respect to the comen wealth, than to his life. And that he ought also to think, that those which shall come after him, whose commodities or discommodities he shall never feel, do in like wise pertain unto him. therefore, even those that judge our soul to be mortal, may attempt things, whose remembrance shall long endure, not for any desire of glory, which they shall never feel, but for the good will they bore to virtue, whom glory of necessity doth follow, albeit you look not for it. But the nature of all things is such, y● as our birth, is the original cause and beginning of all those things which we have, so in likewise our death is the end of the same: the pain of which, as it did nothing pertain unto us, afore our life, so neither shall it after our death. Wherefore, what evil can there be in death? which pertaineth neither to such as live, neither yet to those that are dead. For such as are dead are not at all, and such as are alive it can not come to. Wherefore they which will speak truly of the nature of death, do term it a sleep: as though a man should pass the course of his life, for the space of .90. years, and then, sleep out the rest. I think assuredly, that a swine would not cou●yte to sleep so long. But Endim●on (if we give any credit to tales) a great while since, slept in Latmos, which is a hill of Caria. He is not as yet awaked, as I think. Think you that he careth what pains the Moon taketh? of whom the tale goeth, that he was there brought a sleep, to the intent, that she might kiss him as he slept. What care should he take that feels not? So here you have s●epe the image of our death, which you do daily put upon you: and do you doubt whether there be any feeling in death, since in the image and picture of the same, there is none at all? Leave of then this old wives tale, that it is a wretched thing to die afore thy tyme. What time I beseech you? the time that nature hath appoyneted? But she hath lente us our life to usury as it were, appointing no certain day when we shall repay the same. What cause hast thou then to complain, if she require it of thee when she life? For thou hadst it under such condition. The same men, think it a heavy case for one to die being but a boy, but if he die being an enfante, in his cradle, they think that then he hath no cause of complaint.  
Yet nevertheless, of him did nature more sooner require that which she had lent. O whiles he was a boy (say they) he had not smatched the sweetness of life. But he was in likelihood to attain to great worship, which even at the time of his death he began to come to. But I marvel much since that in all other things it is counted better to attain to to some what then nothing at all, why then it should be otherwise in our life. Howbeit Callimachus said very well, that Priamus had wept far oftener than ever did Troilus. But now, they praise much their chance, which die in their age: and why so? Because (as I think) if they might live longer, their life could be no pleasanter, than it hath been. But assuredly, there is nothing that a man may take more pleasure of, then of wisdom, the which (if we grant that it taketh away other commodities) Yet that assuredly old age doth bring. But what is this long age? or what is the long time of a man? Do we not see, that age hath overtaken them, which were even now but boys & stripelinges, when they least thought of it? But yet because we can live no longer, we call it long. And so every things life, according to the end that nature hath appointed it, may well be termed either long or short. For about the river Hypanis, which runneth through a part of Europa, into the sea Pontus. Arystotle sayeth, that there are bred certain beasts, which live but one day. Of them then, she that liveth viii hours is counted aged. But she that liveth till the son set, is as one even spent with age: and so much more if it be the longest day in the year Compare our age with immortalyry, and we shall be found to live in manner as short a space, as those foolish beasts. Let us then set aside all this trifelinge (for how may. I better term it) and let us frame ourselves to a perfect life, despising all vanity, and trading ourselves in virtue. For now we are even puffed up with wanton thoughts, so that if death overtake us afore such time as we have obtained the promises of the soothsayers, we seem there by to have been mocked, and defrauded of many notable commodities. And, if at the time of our death, we hang in desires and wishes (lord how we are vexed and tormented, whereas that journey (o god) how pleasant ought it to be unto us? which being once paste, there shall be no care nor trouble left? O how much Theramenes doth delight me? what a stout courage seemeth he to have? For albeit I weep, as oft as I read the story of him, yet nevertheless, it rejoiceth me to see, how stoutly he died like a noble man. Who dying in the prison, after he had there drunk up the poison (which the thirty tyrants had sent him) with such an earnest desire, as if he had thirsted after it, he cast that was left with such a force out of the cup, that it sounded on the floore● which sound he hearing, smiled and said. I begin this to Critias, who was one of his deadliest enemies. For the Grecians in their banquets were wont, to drink to some man, namely to him that should pledge them. So it pleased that noble man to jest at the time of his death, when he had that within him which should be his bane. And he truly prophesied death to him that sent him the poison, which shortly after ensued. Who would commend such security in death, if he thought death to be an evil thing? Into the same prison, and the same kind of death, came a few years after Socrates, condemned so unjustly of his judges, as Theramenes of the tyrants.  
Let us hear thee, what manner of words Plato says he spoke to the judges, when he was condemned to death. I am in good hope (my lords) quoth he, that I am happy, for that I am thus put to death. For one of these two must needs follow, that either this death will take away all sense from me, or else, if my soul do continue, it shall departed into an other place of rest. Wherefore, if my sense shall be ertyncte, and my death resemble sleep, which often without any trouble of dreams, doth bring a man most quiet rest, (O Lord) what pleasure shall death be to me? or what day should I prefer afore such a night? the which without variance or change, shall keep a continual estate and stay for ever. And so, who should be more happy than I? But if those things be true which are written, namely that death is a departure into those regions, which all they inhabit, that are departed out of this life, then do I account my chance far better, for that, after that I have escaped the hands of you, which sit here in place and name of judges, I shall then come to them which are the true judges, Minos, Rhadaman thus, Aecus, and Triptolemus, & shall there have the company and communication of them which have lived uprightly in the faith and fear of god. This ought to seem a sweet pilgrimage. But to talk with those worthy men, Orpheus, Museus, Homer, Hesiodus, or such other learned sages, lord how much I do esteem. Assuredly, if it might be, I would often die, inespecially, if I thought I should find those things which I now speak of. What pleasure shall it be to me, when I shall comen with Palamedes, or Aiar, which were of unrighteous judges wrongfully put to death? I should there see the wit of the chief prince, which led the power of Grece to Troy walls, and in likewise the wisdom of Ulysses, and Sisyph●s, neither yet should I for the search of such things as I here am, so there also wrongfully be put to death. And ye O just judges, which have heretofore quitted me, fear ye not death. For no harm can happen to a good man, neither in this life nor after. For the gods above, will not cease always to have him and his in their protection. For this self same death, comes not to me by chance, but by the just judgement and appointment of god. And for that cause I am not angry with my accusers, but only for that they thought, that thereby they did hurt me, whereas I do esteem nothing more than it. But now it is time (quoth he) that I depart hence to die, and you to live. Of the which two which is the better, the immortal gods know, & no mortal man as I think. Now truly, I had far rather to have so stout a stomach, and well disposed mind, than all their worship & wealth, that gave sentence of his life & death.  
Albeit, that which he sayeth, that no man but only the gods know, yet he himself doth know, that is to wit, which is better of life or death. For he had uttered it in his former words.  
But he keepeth his old wont even to the death: which was, to affirm no certainty of any thing. But let us stand stiffly herein, that nothing can be evil which nature hath provided for all men: and therewithal consider, that if death be an evil, it is a continual and everlasting evil. For it seemeth, that death is the end of every wretched and careful life. Now if death itself be miserable, what end can there be of misery? But what do I here rehearse Socrates, and Theramenes, men of notable constantye and wisdom? since a certain Lacedaemonian, a man of no report or fame, did so much despise death, that when he being condemned, and led to his death, did smile and laugh. And one of his accusers, seeing it, said unto him: dost then mock and despise the laws of Lycurgus? No (quoth he) but I give him right hearty thanks, that he appointed me such a fine, as I may pay without any change or loan of money. A man assuredly worthy, of the name of the right famous country of Sparta. whose stout courage doth well declare (as me seemeth) that he was unryghtfullye put to death.  
Such men had our city more than any man may number. But what should I here reckon up our captains or nobles of our city, that have so done since Cato writeth, that whole armies of men, have merely gone into those places, from whence they thought they should never return. So were the Lacedæmonians, slain at Thermopilas, amongs the which on Symonydes' tomb these Verses were written. 
Thou stranger that hereby dost pass say here thou sawest us lie.  
Whiles we defend our country laws, or else desire to die.   
¶ What sayeth the stout captain Leonidas? go to: be you of ●●oute courage o●ye lacedæmonians (quoth he) for this night perhaps we shall sup with God. This was a stout nation as long as they had Lycurgus laws in reputation? For on a time, when a Persian, one of their enemies, boasting of his emperors' power, said to one of them, that the company of their darts & arrows should darken the son, so that they should not see it, why then quoth the other, we shall fight in the shade.  
I have hitherto talked of men. But what think you of a woman of Lacedaemon? Who when she understood that her son was slain in the field, I bore him (quoth she) to that end, that he should be such a one, as should not styeke to die, in the defence of his country. God continue you in such stoutness, O ye Lacedæmonians: see of what force good laws are, in the ordering of a comen wealth. Is not Theodorus the Cireman, a notable Philosopher, worthy to be wondered at (think you?) whom when Lysimachus the king threatened, that he would hang him, you might have spoken that (quoth he) to have feared your nice courtiers.  
But as for Theodorus, he little passeth whether he rot above ground or under. By whose saying, I am put in mind, to speak somewhat at this present of burial. Which shall be nothing hard, presupposing those things to be true, which we have afore spoken of not feeling. And of this, what Socrates thought, it appeareth in that book in the which his death is described: of the which we have made mention afore. For after that he had reasoned of the immortality of the soul, and now his death drew on, being demanded of Crito, how he would be buried, he looking towards them that stood about him, spoke these words. My friends (quoth he) I have spent much labour in vain. For I have not persuaded my friend Crito, that I shall depart hence, and leave nothing behind me, that is mine own. But truly Crito, if ever thou canst come by me, or ever get me, bury me as thou list. But I know right well, that when I am hence departed, none of you all will follow me. wisely spoken. For he did both permit his friend, to satisfy his mind, and yet nevertheless showed, that he little passed of any such thing. Diogenes more rechelessely, yet wittily enough, but with small civility, as a doggyshe philosopher, willed them to cast his body abroad, without burial. And when his friends asked him, whether he would then have his body devoured of birds and beasts?. No not so sayeth he. For I pray you set a staff nigh to me, that I may drive them away. And when they asked him how he could do so, inasmuch as he should have no sense after death? What hurt shall I have then (quoth he) of the biting of beasts, and pecking of birds, when I feel it not? But Anaxagoras spoke wisely, who when he was likely to die at Lampsacus, and his friends demanded of him, whether if he should chance to die there: he would be carried to Clazomena, to his own country, it needeth not (quoth he) for from every place, there is like distance of way to heaven and hell. Wherefore as concerning burial, we must know this, that it pertaineth to the body only, whether the soul die or live. And in the body it is plain, that after the soul is once departed, there remaineth no sense. But see how full the world is of error. It is written, that Achilles drew Hector's dead body at a carts tail. I think he thought that he felt the grating of his limbs. And therefore he brags of it, as if there by he were revenged. But Hector's mother lamenteth it as a most cruel fact with these words. 
I saw, I saw, that grieved me most to see.  
The corpse of Hector through high town drawn lie.   
¶ What Hector I pray you? or who was then Hector? it was better said of Actius under the person of Achilles. 
The Carcase cold to Priam I did give.  
But Hector's soul above in heavens doth live.   
¶ Thou drewest not then Hector, but the body that once was Hector's.  
But now here starts up one out of the ground, which will not suffer his mother to sleep in rest. 
O mother I the call which sleepest void of fear:  
And tak'st no pity on my grief, thy son come bury here.   
¶ Such pitiful verses as these, when they are lamentably rehearsed in the Theatre, and moon all the company to sadness: is it not an easy thing, for them that are present, to judge them to be wretched which are so unburied? they be afraid to have their limbs torn, and yet they fear not to have them burnt. And therefore one laments Priamus in this wise. 
Alas the ashes of the King, with bones to powder bet,  
I saw in heaps of gored blood, imbrued and bewet.   
¶ I see not, what occasion he hath to be sorry for any such thing. This therefore we must firmly maintain, that nothing is to be cared for after death. Although some vain men do rage against their enemies being dead.  
And in such sort Enni●s bringeth in Thyestes, cursing his brother Atreus: first desiring that he might perish by shipwreck. That was hard surely. For such death can not be without great pain. But that, that followeth is to to vain. 
I would that he himself were stuck upon some rock.  
His bowels out, his bloudbulcke all to broke,  
And piked stones on which he thus doth lie  
With gored blood in red hue he may die.   
And such other like. Assuredly the stones themselves could be no more void of sense, than his dead body hanging upon them, to whom he wisheth this torment. Which although it were crueli if he could feel it, yet now is t● none effect, because he can have no sense thereof. In like manner vain is that which followeth. 
Let him have no grave where he his corpse may shroud.  
Ne where his wearied ghost may take his last abode.   
Do you see in what error this fellow is. He thinketh that the grave is the harbour and rest of the body. truly there was a great fault in Pelops, that he taught his son no better, how much he ought to esteem burial. But what should I here reckon up the opinions of every several man, since we may see the manifest errors of many nations, as concerning burial. The Egyptians spice the dead bodies, and keep them in their houses. The Persians sear their bodies in wax, and then spice them, that they may abide as long as may be. There is a custom amongs the wise men of Chaldee, not to engrave the dead bodies, afore such time, as they be torn of beasts. In Hyrcania, they keep comen dogs, such as be noble men, hounds, and the comen people rascal curs, every man according to his ability, that eat them when they be dead, and that do they count the best burial. Chrysippus, hath written many sundry fashions as concerning the same matter: as he is a man very diligent, in the reading of histories. But some of them be so cruel, and so much against nature, that my pen abhors to indite them. Wherefore as concerning burial, we ought not much to force it: neither yet our friends to neglect it: so that always we keep this opinion, that the bodies of the dead, care for nothing. But what men ought to do, for customs and good names sake, that our friends that overlyve us must see to: so that they know, that it nothing pertaineth to such as are dead. But then truly, death is most welcome unto us, when our life being well nigh at the wane, can comfort itself with his own praises. For no man hath lived to small a while, which whiles he lived, did live virtuously. I myself have many just occasions of death, which I would to god, I might have pu● in execution. For there is nothing that I did desire more. For I wanted nothing. I had plenty of worship, so that ever after, I did look for war and battle with fortune. Wherefore, if reason will not move us, to despise death, yet let our life forepast do it: when we think we have deserved sufficient praise and glory. For although our sense be paste, when we are once dead, yet nevertheless we do not want the due reward of glory and fame, for those things, which we have done in our lives. For although glory of itself hath no cause, why it should be desired, yet nevertheless, it always followeth virtue, as the shade of the same But as for the wrong judgement of the comen people, as I count it a commendable thing to have their good will, so I think, no man can be the happier for attaining the same. Yet can I not think, that Lycurgus or Solon shall at any time want the glorious report that they deserved, for making ci●ile laws: or that the memory of the warlike prows of Themistocles, and Epaminundas shall at any time be forgotten. For, the sea shall sooner overwhelm that I itself of Salamine, them it shall drench the remembrance, of the Salamine triumph. And the town of Leuctra in Boeotia, shall sooner be razed, than the remembrance of the field there fought, forgotten. So neither time can dusk the praise of Curius, Fabritius, Calatinus, the two Scipions, the two africans, Maximus, Marcellus, Paulus, Cato, Lelius, and diverse other: whose due praise, who so ever measureth, not by y● vain judgement of the comen sort, but by the sure meaterodde of wisdom, he undoubtedly would, (if necessity so drive him) with a stout stomach go unto the death: in the which there is either the chiefest joy that may be, or at the least wise no evil. Yea and such a man will gladly die in his chief prosperity. For unto a wise man a huge heap of goods can not be so pleasant, as the departure from the same shallbe joyful. To this intent may we apply the saying of a certain wise man of Lacedaemon who, (when one Diagoras, a noble man of the city of Rhodes) had both been himself conqueror at the game pus, and also the self same day had seen both his sons conquerors at the same) came to the old man, & said. die now O Diagoras: for thou shalt not be taken up quick into heaven.  
It was counted a great thing in those days, among the Grecians, to see three men of one house win the games in the mount Olympus: & for that cause, he willed him having gotten such prosperity, to abide no longer in his life, subject to the casualty of fortune. But now I think, I have sufficiently answered you, with these few words, since that it is plain, that such as are dead are in no misery. But I have tarried somewhat the more, in talking of it, because that that is one of the greatest comforts in all our lamentations & mournings. For we ought not to much to require other men's sorrow as concerning ourselves, lest we may seem to favour ourselves more than it becometh us. And that suspicion vexeth us most, when we think that our friends, whom we have lost, are in such misery as the common people think & that not without pain. This foolish opinion I mind utterly to root out, & therefore perhaps was somewhat longer, than otherwise I would.  Hea. 
what? do you complain of being to long? I assure you it seemed not so to me. For the first part of your talk made me not to die. But the last made me even to c●●et death. So that by all your reasoning, I am fully persuaded to count death no evil.  Mar. 
Do you then look for a conclusion after the manner of the Rhetoricians, or else shall we here break of?  Hea. 
No not so. For I long to hear you in the art, which you always set forth, or rather (if we will say the truth) it sets forth you. And therefore I pray you let us hear the conclusion.  Mar. 
divers men are wont to allege in the schools, the judgements of the gods themselves, as concerning death. And those not of their own heads, but confirmed with the authority of Herodotus, and other more. First they tell of Cleobs & Biton, the sons of Argia, the priest. The history is comen. when she should have been carried in a waggon to a certain solemn sacrifice a good space from the town, & the horses were tired, the ii young mē●hich I named even now, putting of their garments, anointed their bodies with oil, & came to the wagon, and drew it. The priest, when by this sort she being drawn of her sons, was come to the place of sacrifice, prayed the goddess, that in reward of their godly reverence, she would give to her two sons the greatest reward that god might give to man. Her prayer being finished, the young men after they had dined, lay down to sleep, and in the morning were found dead. The like is reported of Trophonius, and Agamedes. Who after they had built to Apollo a temple at Delphos, desired of him as great a reward as any man might have. To whom Apollo answered, that they should have their request, three days thence. now as soon as the third day came, they say, that they were both found dead. So they say, that god (yea and that god to whom all the rest of the gods yield in prophecy) showed hereby, that death was the best thing that any man might wish. There is also an history of Silenus, who being taken prisoner of king Midas, paid this ransom. He taught the king, that the best thing that might chance to a man, was never to be borne: the next to die as soon as might be. The which sentence Euripides hath expressed in verses in his tragedy entitled Cresphon. 
It well behoves us to lament the birth of every man  
If we the dangers of this life and present perils scan.  
But when triumphant death hath rid him once from those.  
Then ought his friends no more to wail but merry to rejoice.   
There is the like, in the book of consolation, of Crantor. For he saith that one Psichomantius, meeting with one Elisius, who much lamented the death of his child, gave him three such verses written in a table. 
O mortal men with ignorance how much be you deceived?  
For this man's son rejoices now this mortal life bereaved  
Thou eke were well if so thy life the fatal wights had weaved.   
With these and such like authorities, they confirm this cause to be adjudged by the immortal gods. Alcidamus an ancient orator, a man of great fame wrote in commendation of death: who lacked the weighty reasons of philosophy, but had plenty of words enough But the notable deaths, which men suffer for their country, seem to the rhetoricians, not only glorious, but also blessed. They rehearse Erictheus, whose daughters suffered voluntary death, to save the life of their citizens. And Codrus, who willingly entered in the mids of his enemies in the armour of a comen soldier, to th'intent that he might not be known to be king. Because there was an oracle given, that if the king were slain, them should the Athenienses have the victory. Neither do they overpass Menecheus, who having the like oracle given, bestowed his blood for his country. Iphigenia also, was willing to be slain at Aulide, that by her blood, her countrymen might more easily shed the the blood of their enemies. Then they come nigher. They remember Harmodius, and Aristogiton, Leonidas also the Lacedaemonian, & Epaminundas the Theban. They know not our countrymen, whom it would ask great time to reckon, there be so many, to whom we know that glorious death was alway welcome. Which inasmuch as it is so, I must needs wish, that either men would hereafter desire death, or at the least wise, cease to fear it. For if at the last day of our life, our souls die not, but only change their place, what ought we more to wish? But if death do utterly destroy us, what can be better, then in the rage of great storms, sweetly to slumber? and after that a man hath nodded out of this life, to sleep everlastingly. Which if it be so, then ought we rather to allow the words of Ennius, them Solan, for Ennius said. 
Let no man me bemoan, ne moist my grave with tears.  But the other. 
Let not my death want tears, all ye my friends do weep.  
And ye that erst alive me loved with tears my funeral keep.   
But we, if so be it happen, that by the commandment of god we must departed out of this life, let us do it merely thanking him for it. And let us think, that thereby we are loosed from prison and eased of the irons, with the which we were clogged, either to departed into perpetual mansion house appointed for us, or else to be void of the sense of all grief. And afore such time, that we shall be called of god, let us think that day which is so terrible to other, to be a blessed and a happy day to us. Because it is appointed, either of the gods immortal, or else of nature, the first framer and maker of all things. For we were not first made by hap, or chance, but by a certain heavenly power, which will provide for us, and not create any of us, to the end, that when we had passed the misery of this life, we should fall into the everlasting darkness of death. But let us rather think, that death is a safe haven, and bay for us, to the which I pray god we may come, with speedy wind and say●e. But although for a while we may be kept of by a contrary tempest, yet nevertheless, we must needs come to it at length. And can that, which must needs come to all men, be misery to any one? Thus you have now my conclusion, so that you can not justly complain of any thing.  Hea. 
You say well, and truly this conclusion hath strengthened me more, than I was before.  Mar. 
I am glad of it. But now let us see somewhat to our own ease. And this next day, and so long, as we shall abide in this my manor, we will talk of those things chiefly, which pertain to the ease of grief of the mind, fear and desire, which is the most profit of all philosophy.  
☞ Thus endeth the first book.   

THE SECOND BOOK treating of the second question which Mark tully Cicero disputed in his manor of Tusculanum, concerning pain and forment, how far it is the duty of a wise man to suffer the same.  
NEoptolemus, in Ennius sayeth, that he must of necessity practise philosophy. But yet nevertheless, but in few things: for universally it likes him not. And I truly (O Brutus) must needs use philosophy (for wherein may I better employ my time of leisure?) But I can not limit it to a few things only, as he doth. For it is very hard, that a man should be any thing skilful in philosophy, without the knowledge of most things, or all. For a man can not choose a few things, but out of a great number: and it is not possible, that he which hath gotten a little knowledge, should not with earnest desire study, to know the rest. But nevertheless, in a busy life, and (as Neoptolemus then was) much troubled with war, both a little is profitable, and turns to much use: (But yet not such as may be gathered of all philosophy) and yet such nevertheless, as we may thereby be eased, of desire, care, and fear. As by that disputation, which we kept last in our manor of Tusculanum, we seem to have wrought a great despite of death which is of no little force to ease our mind of fear. For who soever feareth that, which by no means may be avoided, he surely, can not by any possibility, enjoy the fruits of a quiet life. But who soever (not only because he must needs die, but also because there is nothing in death to be feared) doth not pass on death, he assuredly, hath gotten himself a strong stay, for a quiet life. Although I am not ignorant, that many will speak against it: whose vain reproach I could by no means annoyed, unless I should write nothing at al. For if in mine orations, in the which I somewhat esteem the favour of the people (for that rhetoric is an art appliable to the comen voice of the people, & the very end and perfection of eloquence, is the praise and commendation of the hearers.) If then I say there were some, which would like nothing in my orations, in the wits, they themselves were not likely to passet and would extend their commendation in other men's works no further, than they thought their own which might well attain the same: and for that cause when any other man passed them in weight of sentence and eloquence of words, would say, that they liked rather a thin and base then so plentiful a style (of the which sort also they were, that were called Attici, who boasted the profession of that, which no man else knew, who now are almost laughed out of all courts). If then in the allowing of mine orations the people were of several minds, what manner of hearer (think you) shall I in this graver matter have of the same? For philosophy seeks not the judgement or praise of many, but of purpose flies the press of the comen people, of whom it is always either feared, or hated. So that, if either any man list to dispraise it wholly, he may do it with the good will of the people, or else if he will chiefly dyscommend that, which we now treat of, he may have sufficient aid out of the books of other philosophers. But we have answered all the foes of philosophy, in our book entitled Hortensius, and whatsoever was to be spoken in the defence of Plato & his sect, called Academia, we have expressed in our four books entitled Academics.  
But yet nevertheless, so much it lacks that I would be angry or displeased, if any man should write against the same, that I wish it even with all my heart. For philosophy in Greece itself, had never come to such perfection, unless there had been such contention, and diversity amongs the best learned men, as concerning the same. Wherefore I desire all such as are able to do it, that they would help to take this praise also from Greece, that is already fainted, and bring it into this our city, as our ancestors have already done by all the rest, that were worth any pain or travail. And truly, the praise of orators increased from a low to such perfection, that now (as nature's course doth work in all things) it beginneth to wax aged, and within this short space is likely to come to nought.  
Wherefore, now let philosophy, begin to be spread in the latin tongue: and let us help the increase thereof, although that for the same we be reproved and refuted. Which truly they can not abide, which bind themselves to a●ye certain opinion, as men wholly given to the same, so that sometimes they are constrained, to get them opinion of constancy, to maintain such things, as otherwise they would not allow. But I who in all things follow probability, and can go no farther than likelihood, am ready both to write against others without any stubbornness and also to be written against, without any anger. If so we may bring this kind of exercise, from the Grecians to our countrymen, we shall not want the help of the Greek libraries, which are stuffed with an infinite company of books, written of the same matter.  
For many have written the same in effect that some others have done afore them. So that the number of books is infinite. The which shall in likewise happen to us, when many give themselves to writing. But I will assay chiefly to provoke them to write, who being well learned, and instructed with perfect eloquence, can indite philosophy with a good trade and order. For there is a certain sort of men, which will needs be counted philosophers, that are reported to have written many latin books, which surely I do not despise, because I never red them: but inasmuch as the authors themselves, do plainly confess, that they can write neither distinctly, orderly, eloquently, nor trimly, I assuredly neglect the reading of that, which should nothing at all delight me, inasmuch as they care not, what they write: I know not why any man should be bound to read them, but such as ar● of the same opinion that they be. For as all men read Plato, and the works of other, scholars of Socrates, & so likewise of others, that were taught of them, although they agree not in opinion with them, or at the least wise do not greatly allow them, but Epicurus and Metrodorus none almost handles, but such as be of their own sect, so these late latin writers they only read, which think the same to be well and wisely written. But me seemeth, that whatsoever any man would set abroad, ought afore to be commended by the judgement of such as are learned. And for that cause, the ancient custom peripatecian and academias, to reason on either part of every question, doth marvelously well like me: not only for that by no other means the truth● of every doubtful question might be tried, but also because there is in it a great exercise and practise of Rhetoric: which Aristotle chief used, and all they that followed him. But in this our time, Phil● (whom we have herd) appointed one time to teach the precepts of Rhetoric, and an other to declare the rules of philosophy. To the which order I being likewise moved of my familiar fryendes, spent there in such leisure as I had in my manner of Tusculanum. Wherefore when I had spent the morning in the study of rhetoric, after noon we came down to our school: in the which such reasoning as we had. I do now express: not as if I told it, but even in manner with the self same words, as it was done. Therefore whiles we walked, we fell into this talk.  Hea. 
I can not well express how much I was delighted, or rather strengthened with your yesterdays reasoning. For although I am assured, that I was at no time to much desirous of my life, yet nevertheless there would come come sometime both fear and grief, to my heart, when I thought, that I should one day lose the fruition of this pleasant light, and eke of all the commodities of this life. Of this trouble assuredly, I am now so eased, that I care for nothing less.  Mar. 
It is no marvel truly. For such is the effect of philosophy: it helpeth the mind, it taketh a way all vain care, rids the mind of desire, and drives away fear: but this her power is not of like force with all men. But than it worketh most, when it chanceth on a good nature. For stout men not only fortune doth help (as the old proverb is) but much more reason. Which in manner with certain precepts, confirmeth the strength of fortitude. Nature first made you high minded, and meet to despise all earthly things, and for that cause, in your stout stomach ', the persuasion of suffering death is lightly rooted. But think you, that these self same persuasions, do so much prevail with them (except very few) of whom they were first invented, reasoned, and written? No truly. For how many philosophers shall you find, whose life and behaviour is such as reason requireth? Or that doth use their teaching not as a brag and boasting of knowledge, but as the law and order of good life? Or how many of them shall ye find, that are ruled by themselves, or obey their own decrees? you shall see some of such lightness, and arrogancy, that it had been better for them, never to have learned. Some other covetous men: many very desirous of glory: and moste of them slaves of pleasure. So that, their talk and their life seems marvelously to differ, which assuredly, seems to me a thing worthy great reproach. For like as if one that did profess grammar, should speak false latin, or one that would be counted a musician should sing out of tune, his fault were so much the worse, because it is in that kind of knowledge which he professeth: so likewise, a philosopher showing ill example of living is so much the more to be blamed, as he offendeth in that thing, of the which he professeth himself a teacher, and professing the art of life, offendeth in his living.  Hea. 
Is it not then to be feared lest you commend philosophy● without a cause? For what can be a greater proof, that it is not available than that divers notable philosophers do live abominably?  Mar. 
Truly it is no proof at all. For as all fields that are tilled are not fruitful, and it was falsely said. 
Although the fruitful seed in barren ground be cast.  
Yet it at length will there take root and so come up at last.   
So not all the minds that are sown with the seed of philosophy, do bring fruit thereof. And that I may persist in the same similitude, as the ground be it never so fruitful, yet without tilling can not be fruitful, so neither can our mind without learning. For Philosophy is the plough of the mind, whose share cuts up all vice by the roots, and prepares our minds to receive the seeds of virtue: and so at last soweth the same in it, which in due time yield most plentiful increase. But let us now go forward, say what so ever you are willing to hear discussed.  Hearer. 
I think that grief and pain is the greatest evil that may be.  Marcus. 
What? greater than shame or dishonesty?  Hea. 
I dare not so say. And therefore I am ashamed to be so soon tripped in my talk.  Marcus. 
Nay it were more shame for you, if you did continue in your former opinion. For what ought to seem worse unto you, than shame, vice, and dishonesty? which to escape what grief is there, that we ought not only not to refuse, but also to covet, and desire?  Hearer. 
I think so likewise. But yet although grief be not the chiefest evil, yet assuredly it is an evil.  Mar. 
See you then by this my short admonition, how much you have abated of the terror of grief.  Hearer. 
I do see it sufficiently. But I desire to hear it more at large.  Mar. 
I will assay what I can do. Howbeit it is a great matter, and I had need to have you well willing to hear.  Hea. 
You shall be sure of that. For as I did yesterday, so now also will I follow reason whether soever she leadeth me.  Mar 
first then, I will speak of the weakness of many men, and the divers doctrines of philosophers: the chief of the which as well in authority, as also in ancienty, Aristippus the scholar of Socrates, doubted not to say, that grief is the greatest evil that might happen to man. This nice and effeminate opinion, Epicurus was very ready t● take: and after him one Jerome a Rhodian said, that to want grief, was the greatest good that might be. So much evil he thought was in sorrow. And divers other, except Zeno, Aristo, and Pyrrho, were of the same opinion.  Hea. 
But what think you?  Mar. 
That it is an evil in deed. But 〈◊〉 nevertheless that there are other far●●● worse than it. For that which both nature itself, and also all stout courage doth deny, I mean that you should not count grief the greatest evil that might be, but that shame did far pass the same) that also philosophy the mistress and lady of our life doth still maintain. For what duty, what praise, what honesty, will he so much esteem, that he will put his body to pain for the attaining of the same, who thinketh grief to be the chiefest evil? And what shame, what dishonesty would not a man suffer to escape grief, if he thought it to be the greatest misery? To conclude, who is there not wretched, not only then, when he is oppressed with pain, if grief be so miserable, but also in asmuch as he knoweth it may hap unto him? For who is there to whom it can not chance? So hereof it must needs follow, that none at all can be blessed. Metrodorus truly thinks him to be happy, whose body is in good health, and is assured, that it shall be so for ever. But who is he, that can promise himself any such assurance. Now Epicurus opinion is such, that I think he invented it purposely to move men to laughter.  
He affirmeth in a certain place, that if a wise man be burnt, if he be vexed, yet he will bear it, and not yield unto it. A great praise surely, and worthy of Hercules himself. But yet nevertheless, this will not suffice Epicurus a hard and a stout man (god wots).  
For he albeit he were in Phalaris bull, will say, o how pleasant is it? how little do I care for it? yea it is even sweet to me. Why is it not enough, if it seem not bitter? For they truly themselves, that say that grief if no evil, are not wont to say, that torment is pleasant to any man. But that it is sharp hard, hateful and against nature: and yet nevertheless no evil. And he that thinketh this only to be evil, yea and the extremest of all evils, thinks that a wise man will count it pleasant. I do not require you to term grief so lightly, as Epicurus (a man wholly given to pleasure) doth. Let him say on god's name, that it were alone to him, to be in phalaris bull, and in a soft featherbed: I do not require in a wise man so great patience against grief. If he be able to perform his duty in suffering it, I do not require him to be glad of it. For undoubtedly, it is a heavy thing, sharp, bitter, enemy to nature, hard to bear, and suffer. For see Philocteta, whom we must give leave to mourn. For he had seen Hercules afore in the hill O●ta roaring, because of the greatness of the grief that he suffered. The arrows that he afore time had received of Hercules, could then be no ease to his smart, when the veins of his inward bowels, infected with adders poison put him to bitter grief, causing him to call for help, and desire death in this wise. 
O what man now within the seas would drench my wretched corpse.  
Or who would beat my bloody brains about the boisterous rocks.  
How wretchedly I here consume? the poison wastes my life.  
I would to God that some good man would rid the same with knife.   
¶ It were a hard thing to say, that he were in no evil, who should be constrained to cry out so. But let us hear Hercules himself, whom the pains of grief did then pierce, when he passed by death to immortality. What kind of ou●ecryes makes he in Sophocles? who when he had put on him the shirt which ●eianira sent him, imbrued with the blood of the Centaur, & it stack to his ribs he cried in this wise.  

¶ O grievous pains to speak, and hard to suffer eke:  
That these my fainted limbs, and troubled mind have boar.  
Not I●nos malice strange to me was ever like,  
Nor yet Euristeus force, erst troubled me so sore:   

¶ As now one foolish wench Oeneus daughter lo.  
That wrapped me thus unwares, within this deadly clout:  
Which cleaving to my skin, my flesh doth pull up so:  
That shortly it is like to rive my spirit out.   

¶ For now it wasted hath well nigh my breath and blood.  
And thus this cruel death my body lo hath spent.  
Which now the bitter bane of poisoned shirt doth shroud.  
Lo here behold those wounds, which enemies hands near lent,   

Not giants mighty strength, nor monstrous centaurs hand.  
Not Grecians prudent force, nor Barbares cruelty,  
Nor yet the cruel folk which dwell at th'end of land:  
Which passing I full oft near tried such misery.   

But now a woman's hand my martial corpse shall slay.  
O son, in this one thing thy wretched father please:  
Let not my cruel death thy mother's love allay.  
But bring me her whose bane would make me feel some ease.   

¶ Now shall I prove whom best thou lovest of us twain.  
Go to my son bewail thy poisoned father's case.  
Rue on me whose vile death, whole nations will complain.  
O that I like a wench, to tears should wrest my face?   

¶ Whom no man erst hath seen to sigh at any sore.  
So now my weakened force, shall die afore his date.  
Come near my son behold thy father's grief therefore  
Whose inwards fretting force, of poison now doth grate.   

¶ Behold all men, & thou which heaven and earth didst make.  
Cast down on me thy bolts, which other men do fear.  
For now the whirling pangs of grief my body shake.  
And now the poison smarts, O hands that conquerors were.   

¶ O heart, O breast, and eke you loathsome lazy hands.  
Did erst your force constrain, a Lion lose his life?  
Or Lerna put to death yseared with fire brands?  
Did ye from Centaur once, his wretched life bereave?   

¶ Did ye destroy the beast, that Erimanthia spoiled?  
Or else from hell drive out, the threefold hellish hound?  
Were ye those hands that erst, the waker dragon failed?  
That kept the golden fruit, there dying on the ground?  
Did ye erst do these things, or give so great assays?  
Or did your valiant deeds deserve a worthy praise.   
¶ Can we despise grief, since Hercules was so impatient of it? Now let us hear Aeschilus, not a Poet only, but a Pythagorean also. How doth he make Prometheus lamenting the grief, which he suffereth for the theft committed in Lemnos. For the fire which we have, it is said that he stole from jupiter. And for that cause, doth there endure torment: which he recounting with himself, tied to the mount Caucasus, speaketh in this wise.  

You rare of Titan's stock, partakers of my blaud,  
Descended once from heavens, behold me here ybound  
And ryed unto the rocks▪ as ship in main sea flood  
The wary shipmen use with ropes to tie on ground:   

¶ The son of Saturn jupiter did cause me here to lie:  
When he did join his hand to Vulcan's heavy wrath.  
Who in these lasting gives my body lo did tie:  
And crushed my limbs in two so in this baleful bath,   

With irons all to pierced I miser here do lie.  
And when the third day comes the bitter'st that may be:  
An Eagle then full ●ell with talents hooked I see:  
Which stoops from high to plum her greedy fill on me.   

¶ But when she being filled hath ta'en away her flight  
In aers high: she licks her gored bloody beak.  
And when my liver is renewed in each night:  
Then lo she comes again, her fill thereof to eat.   

¶ So I continually mine only woe maintain:  
Which doth me still torment with woeful misery.  
For as you here see bound, with Io●es most mighty chain:  
I can not fear the foul away, from me to fly.   

¶ So age hath come on me whiles I this pain abide  
desiring bitter death the same to finish once  
But jones most cruel doom hath death to me denied  
And so this cruel plague shall still stick in my bones  
Till that ●he son my flesh upon this hill roast shall  
Which that most filthy foul from high doth oft let fall.   
¶ Assuredly, I think we can not but count a man in his case wretched, and if he be wretched, them is grief an evil.  Hea. 
As yet you have pleaded my part. But thereof we will talk hereafter.  
But in the mean time, I marvel much what you mean by using verses so much in your talk?  Mar. 
I will tell you the cause, and it is well asked of you, since you see that I am now at leisure. I think when you were in Athenes, you have been often ere now, in the schools of the philosophers.  Hea. 
Yea truly, and that very gladly.  Mar●us. 
Did you not then mark, that they did much use to bring in verses in their talk.  Hea. 
In deed I remember that Dionysius the Stoic brought in very many.  Mar. 
You say troth. But he did it without any choice or eloquence. But Philo both kept the number of his verse, and used choice therein and placed them also conveniently.  
Wherefore since the time that I first fell in love with this declamation of mine old age, I do gladly bring in my talk the verses of our poets. And if they chance to be imperfect in any point, I have translated the same out of the Greek: because I would not, that our tongue should want any kind of ornament that the Greeks had.  
But do you see the discommodity that poets cause? first they bring in stout men lamenting, which weakeneth the reader's courage. Then they be so pleasant, that men do not only read them, but also learn them without book.  
So, when to little learning, and to a wanton and effeminate life, poets are once adjoined, they utterly slake all the pricks of virtue. And for that cause, they are worthily banished of Plato, out of that cicie, which he framed as the most perfect form of a well framed and governed common wealth.  
Yet nevertheless, we being learned so to do of the Grecians, do both read them even from our youth upwards, and also learn them without book: thinking their learning to be both good & honest. But what should we blame poets? since there have been philosopher's, who ought to have been the masters of all virtue, which have thought sorrow & grief to have been the greatest evil: and whereas you being but a young man, and even now of the self same opinion, with this only demand, whether it were greater than shame, did forthwith relent and forsake your vain opinion: Now● ask Epicurus the same question, and he will say, that small grief is a greater evil, than the greatest shame that may be. For he will say, that shame is no evil, unless grief do follow.  
I marvel then, that there doth no grief follow Epicurus, when he sayeth that grief is the greatest evil: which is the most shameful thing, that any Philosopher might have spoken. Wherefore you did well answer when you said, that shame seemed to you a greater evil than grief. And if you will persist in that opinion, you shall lightly perceive, how much we ought to avoid grief. For we must not so much search, whether grief itself be an evil yea or no, as how we ought to strengthen our minds to bear the same. The stoics occupy themselves in certain light reasons to show the cause why it ought not to be called an evil. As if the controversy were of the word, and not of the matter. Why dost thou deceive me Zeno? For when thou deniest that grief and forment (which seem to me horrible things) are any pain at all: I am straight delighted therewith and become desirous to know, how the which I esteem the greatest misery, can be counted no evil at all. There is nothing evil (sayeth he) but the which is dishonest or vicious. Now y● tryflest. For that which grieved me most, thou leavest untouched. I know that pain and grief is no sin. Cease therefore to tell me of that. Teach me, whether it be any thing material to sorrow, or not sorrow. Nothing at all (thou sayest) as concerning a blessed life, which consisteth in only virtue. But yet nevertheless it is not to be used, but left: and why so? Because it is sharp against nature, painful to suffer, heavy and hard. Here is plenty of words in deed and yet nevertheless, all this in effect is no more but evil. And by this variety of words, thou dost describe and define unto me, what grief is, and not how I should rid myself of it. Thou callest it sharp, repugnant to nature, scarce able to be borne, neither dost thou lie therein. But thou shouldest not have used such copy in words, and fainted in matter. As to say, that nothing can be good, that is not honest, nor nothing ill that is not dishonest: that is to wish a thing as it should be, and not to teach it as it is. But that was said much better and truer, that all things which nature doth abhor are evil: and contrary wise, such things as it covets are good. This foundation being placed, and all contention about words set a part, yet nevertheless, that self same thing which the stoics so much esteem, which we call honesty, right, and comeliness, and which we sometimes comprise under the name of virtue, shall so much pass all other, that the goods of the body and fortune, may well seem right small in comparison of it. Wherefore, if (as you granted at the beginning) shame is worse than pain, then truly is pain nothing at all. For when thou shalt think it a shame, for one that would be counted a man, to groan, cry, lament, and bewail, them shalt thou have afore thine eyes, the beauty of stoutness & honesty. According to the which, as long as thou shalt rule thyself, thou shalt undoubtedly perceive, that grief will yield & give place to virtue. For where so ever virtue is, there is no fear of grief. For first as for pru-without the which a man can not so much as understand any other virtue. Will she suffer the to do any thing or attain to any profit, without labour or travail? Will temperance suffer the to do any thing, without moderation? And justice what man can observe, that for fear of pain would disclose secrets, that were told him, betray his friends, or overpass many other duties of a just man?  
But inespecially, what wilt thou answer to fortitude and her mates, stoutness of stomach, gravity, patience, and despising of all worldly things? what wilt thou lie like a miser, complaining lamentably, to th'intent to hear some other call the a stout man?  
Now assuredly, one in that case, no man would esteem to be a man.  
Wherefore, either we must despise manly courage, or else bury grief. What? know you not this, that although, you lose one jewel, yet the residue of your substance may be safe? But if you lose one virtue (but virtue can not be lost) or if you confess that you lack one, you must needs lack all? May we then call Philocteta afore mentioned, a stout man, or a man of great courage, or a patient or a grave man? For I had rather to have your judgement therein then mine own. But he truly can be no stout man, who li●th in a warm bed and yet With cries complaints and sighs, doth cause the aer resound.  
I do not deny pain to be a grief: for then, what need should we have of fortitude? But I say, that it ought to be overcome with patience, and sufferance, if there be any such thing. But if there be none such, then why do we in vain commend philosophy? or what mean we so much to brag of the works of the same Doth grief prick thee? Let it vex thee on god's name, or else if thou be naked, let it even 〈◊〉 ●hy throat. But if thou have thy harness framed in Vulcan's forge, (that is) a stout courage, withstand it. For fortitude the preserver of worship, unless thou so do, will leave and forsake thee.  
The laws of the Cretenses, which either jupiter himself made, or else Minos at the commandment of jupiter (as the poets say) and so likewise the laws of Lycurgus, do command, that youth should be brought up in labour, huntynge, running, hunger, thirst, cold, and heat. And the boys of Sparta, at the altars, are so jaded with stripes, that oft times a great deal of blood gusheth out of their bodies: yea and sometimes (as it was told me, when I was in that country) even to the death. Yet of them all not one, did at any time not only not cry, but neither so much as groan. Why then, may children suffer so much, & men nothing? or shall custom so much prevail, and reason nothing? There is a difference betwixt labour & grief, yet nevertheless, they are very nigh in nature. But they differ somewhat. For labour is the exercise of the mind or body, in some busy work or travail. But grief is a sharp motion in the body, contrary to the senses.  
These both, the Grecians, whose tongue is more plentiful than ours do confound under one name. Therefore, painful men they name desirous and lovers of grief. But we, much more aptly, call them painful. For it is one thing to labour, and an other to be grieved. O Greece, sometimes yet barren of words, with the which thou thinkest thyself chiefly to flow. I say, there is great diversity betwixt grief and labour. It was a grief to Caius Marius, when the veins in his thigh were cut. But it was a labour for him, when in a hot day, he marched afore his army. Yet nevertheless there is some affinity betwixt these. For the use and custom of labour, causeth grief to be more easy to be borne. And for that cause, they which first gave laws to the comen wealth of Greece, commanded inespecially that young man should be acquainted with travail: which the Lacedæmonians applied in likewise to their women.  
Who (whereas in other cities they sit shaded within the walls of their houses clothed in nice apparel) lived there nothing after that sort. For they more desired to wrestle, to bathe themselves in the river Eurotas, to abide the heat of the son, dust, travail, and warfare, then to sit idle and bear children. And among these painful exercises, grief must sometimes be intermeddled For they are some times beaten, stricken, and cast down. But custom itself doth even harden them from feeling the grief. But now as for warfare (I talk not of the Spartans, who use to march in measure according to the blast of the trumpet) but our armies, first you see are called exercitus, of exercise: then, what or how great labour do they en●ure, in bearing each man a half months victual, or any other thing that they shall have need to use? For as for the carriage of their target, sword, or helm, they count it no greater burden, then of their shoulders, legs or arms. For they say, that harness is the hands of a soldier. Which they carry so much without any cumbrance, that if need should be, they casting away their other carriage, might use they● weapons as their limbs. What? the exercising of our soldiers? the running, coupling, and shouting of them, what pain is it? Thereby their courage is made so r●ady, to abide blows in the field. Bring thither a fresh water soldier, albeit he have as good a stomach as the other, yet he will seem a woman in comparison. Why? such difference is there betwixt new comers, and old beaten soldiers, as we have sufficiently proved. The strength of the younger soldiers is commonly better. But to take pains, and to set nought by wounds, that custom teacheth. Also we may divers times see, when they being wounded, are borne out of the field, that a young and raw souldioure, having a small blow will weep like a child: But the old beaten warrior being hardened ●y continuance, will but call for a Surgyan to bind up his wounds. 
He says Patrocles here I come you● gentle aid to crave:  
Afore I die the doleful death which enemies sword me gave:  
For lo my blood out of my wound in wondrous wise doth run:  
Wherefore assay if by your help the death I now may shun.  
For both Aesclapius children's hals are full of wounded men.  
So that by no means any access I now may have to them.   
This is Euripylus. You may well perceive him to be a man much exercised in war. For where is his long lamentation? See how stoutly he talketh, yea and shows a reason, why he ought to take it in good part. 
Who so doth mind, his ●oe in war with deadly ●int to strike:  
Let him first think, that tother doth for him provide the like.   
Truly if Patrocles had been a man, he would have borne him into his chamber, and bound up his wounds but he did nothing less, for he inquireth, how the field was fought. Tell me quoth he, in what case now the Grecians state doth stand.  
He is not able to express the same so well in words, as by shewing the tokens which appeared on him. Cease therefore, to ask him any more questions (O Patrocles) and bind up his wounds. For although Euripylus can abide the grief, yet Aesopus can not. Who after he described Hector's fatal chance, weeping lamentateth the ruinous state of the Troyans', in great sorrow and anguish. So impatient is a stout man sometimes, for the loss of glory in the field. Well: shall an old soldier be able, by continuance and custom to do these things? and a well learned and wise man not? Now truly he ought to do it far better. But as yet I speak of the custom of e●ercise, and not of reason and wisdom. Old women very oft will bear hunger ii or iii days. Take away meat but one day, from one of these stout ●yghters: he will cry out upon jupiter himself, & say he is not able to bears it. Custom is of great force. For we see, that hunters lie all night on the snow, and in the day are parched with the son, rebounding from the hills. Thereof it cometh also, that masters of fence and champions stir not for a dry blow. But what do I here talk of them, who strive for games as it were for the office of the consulship? these ruffians, and other desperate persons, what blows bear they? And whereof cometh it, that such as have been well brought up, ●ad rather receive punishment justly deserved, than by shame to avoid it? How many proofs have we of some, that esteem nothing more, then to please either their masters or else the people. Yea, and of some, who when they have been almost stain, have sent to their masters, to know their pleasure: saying, that if their wyil be so be●te, they are even ready to die. What so mean a champion, did at any time groan at a stroke: or else so much as one's chaung● his countenance? Who of them, did not only stand in fight, but either die with shame? Who of them, being commanded to lay his head on the block to be stricken of with an axe, did at any time shrink in his neck? Such is the force of exercise, use, and custom. Shall a Samnite then, a filthy man, worthy of so beastly a life, be able to abide these things, and shall a man well brought up, and even framed to obtain glory, have any part of his mind so effeminate, which with exercise and wit he can not fortify? The sight of the fence players, seemeth to many men marvelous cruel: and I can not well say, whether it be so or no, as it is now a days used. But truly I think, that when condemned people did fight out their lives, as there might be some better instructions for the ears, to teach men to despise grief, so assuredly, to prove the same, and even to set it before our eyes, I think there could be none better. Thus much I have spoken of the exercise, custom, and practise of grief. But now let us consider the reasons against the same, unless you have any thing thing to say against that, which is already spoken.  Hea. 
What that I should trouble you in your talk? No surely, I will not. your reasons so much move me to credit you.  Mar. 
Whether grief be any evil or no, that let the stoics weigh: who with far fet and trifling conclusions, in the which the sense of man hath no judgement, assay to conclude, that grief is no evil. But I (what so ever thing it be) think assuredly, that it is not so great as it seemeth, and that men are more afraid, with the outward appearance and show of it, than they need. And to be short, that there is no pains in it, but that is very tolerable. Whence therefore were it best for me to begin? shall I briefly repeat those things which I have already spoken, that my talk may the better proceed in order? This therefore all men grant, aswell learned as unlearned, that it is the part of courageous, stout hearted, and valiant men, patiently to bear grief. Neither was there any man, who would not count him worthy great praise, that could suffer the same. That therefore, which is both necessarily required of stout men, and also counted praise worthy when it is done, that I say, either to fear when it is coming, or else not to bear when it doth come, is it not a great shame? And whereas all the good affections of the mind, are properly called virtues, it seemeth to me, that that name, doth most properly belong to that only, which doth far pass all the rest. Now the name of virtue, is derived of the name of man, which in latin is vir. To whom the virtue that doth most properly belong, and appertain, is fortitude and stout courage. The two chiefest points of the which are the contempt of death, and despising of grief. These therefore we must use, if we will be counted the obtayners of virtue, or rather thought worthy of the name of men: because of this word (vir) which in latin signifieth this word man) the name of virtue is taken. But perchance, thou wilt ask me, how should I bear grief? And not without good cause. For philosophy professeth also a medicine for the same. But now comes Epicurus, a man not very evil, or rather good, and giveth counsel according to his wit.  
Pass not for grief, sayeth he. Who sayeth so? even he, which colbeth grief to be the chiefest evil. Faintly enough god wots. How be it let us give him the hearing. If it be the greatest grief that may be (quoth he) then must it needs be short.  Hea. 
I pray you rehearse the same again, that I may understand, what he meaneth by greatest, and what by shortest.  Mar. 
The greatest is that, than the which there is none greater. And the shortest is that, more short than the which none can be In deed I despise the greatness of such grief▪ from which, the shortness of the time shall deliver me, well nigh afore it come. But if it be such, as the pain of Philocte●● was▪ it seems to me to be great enough, although it be not the greatest. For when no part of my body al●es, but my foot: yet mine eyes may, so may my head, sides, lights, and other parts of my body. And although this be not the greatest grief, because I feel not grief in all those parts, in the which I might, is it therefore no pain? But continual grief (says he) hath more mirth than sorrow.  
Now truly, I can not well 〈◊〉 that so learned a man wants wit. But assuredly, I think, he speaks it in derision of us. I call it the greatest grief, although some other be ten moats more than it. And think not, because that some other is greater than it, that for that cause it should be forthwith small & light. I can name many good men, which these many years, have been troubled with extreme pains of the gout. And shall we think their pains small, because they might have some greater? But he like a subtle man appoints neither any measure of the quantity, or greatness, ne yet of the length of grief. So that I can not know what he thinketh to be greatest in grief, or what to be short in time. Wherefore let us overpass him, whose words are to none effect: and let us plainly confess, that we ought not to seek remedy of our pain at his hands, which said that grief was the greatest of all evils: although he himself in his disease of strangury, seems to show himself some what stout. We must then seek help otherwhere: but chiefly (if we desire to know, what is most meet for us to do) at their hands, which think that which is honest, to be the chiefest good: and contrariwise, that which is dishonest, to be the principal evil. In their presence truly, thou durst not sigh, nor yet to brag of such trifles. For virtue itself, by their voice will comen with thee, in this sort. Wilt thou (seeing children in Lacedaemon, young men in the games of the mount Olympus, and barbarous bondmen in the lifts, abiding most bitter strokes, yea and that without any noise of cry) If any light grief chance to touch thee, schriche out forthwith like a woman? Wilt thou not abide it constantly, & quietly? thou wilt say, it can not be suffered: my nature will not bear it. I hear the. Children bear it: some for praise, some to avoid shame, and some for fear: and are we afraid, lest that which so many men, in so many divers places have suffered our nature will not bear? But it truly will not only bear it, but also requires it. For there is nothing that it doth more esteem, neither yet any thing that it doth more covet, than honesty, than praise, than dignity, than worship. By these divers names, I mean but one thing. But I use them to show the thing more evidently by many names. But my meaning is this, that that thing, is far above all other most convenient for each man, which is to be desired for itself: as a thing either issuing out of virtue, or else being itself placed amongs some one of the virtues, and of his own nature praise worthy. Which truly, I would rather term the singular and only, than the chiefest or greatest good. And as these things may be truly verified of honesty, so may the contrary aswell be spoken of dishonesty, than the which there is nothing more filthy, nothing more to d● abhorred, nothing more unmeet or unseemly for a man. Which if you be already persuaded (for you said at the beginning, that you thought there was more evil in shame and dishonesty, then in any grief) than you may well enough be your own master.  
Howbeit I do not well know how a man may understand that phrase of speech, of being your own master, as though one part should rule, & tother obey. Yet nevertheless, it is not spoken unadvisedly. For our mind is divided into two parts: of the which, the one is endued with reason, and the other is wholly void of the same. Wherefore, when we are commanded to rule ourselves, this is the effect thereof, that we aught by reason to rule rashness. There is in all men's minds some softness, wantonness, and faintness, and truly, if there were nothing else, there were nothing worse than man. But even with the sam●, we have reason, the mistress, & queen of all things given unto us, which by her own endeavour & further increase, is made perfect virtue. That this may govern that part of the mind, which ought to be subject & obedient unto it, that is the charge & duty of every good man. Perchance thou wilt say, how shall it rule the other? even as the master doth his servant, the captain his souldioure, or the father his son. For if that frail part of our mind, behave itself dishonestly, if it give itself effeminately to tears, and mourning, let it be fast bound, and committed to the ward of his neighbour reason. For often times we see some afraid of shame, whom otherwise reason could not move. Such therefore as servants, aught to be kept within the bands of fear. But such as are somewhat stronger, & yet not fully fortified, those we ought by often admonition to put in remembrance, of their own good name. See how the wisest man in Greece, being wounded lamenteth not unreasonably but moderately rather, saying. Go softly sirs, lest otherwise, you cause my grief increase.  
Pacuui●s therefore said far better than Sophocles. For be bringeth in Ulysses lamentably complaining, when he was wounded, yet nevertheless he makes such as carried him, waiting the worship of his person, say thus unto him. 
Now sure Ulixes, though we see the wounded grievously:  
Thy stomach truly is not such, as soldiers stout should be:  
Who all his time hath spent in wounds & bloodshed commonly   
The wise poet thought, that custom ought to have been no small instructor to him to bear grief. And he truly lamenteth not immoderately in extreme grief saying. 
O hold me: stay me now: and help by art to staunch my blood:  
Lay bare my wounds: for grief doth cause me now to ware nigh wood.   
Then he sounds, and forthwith returneth to himself, saying. 
Away depart and get you hence; and leave me here alone.  
For why, my pain doth more increase through your great noise & moan.   
See you how suddenly not the grief of his body was appeased, but the rage of his mind repressed? And therefore in the last verses he chideth others, even when he was dying with these words 
On fortune we may well complain, but yet not well lament.  
For why, the first beseems a man, the last is women's point.   
Lo, the weaker part of this man's mind, was so obedient to reason, as an old soldier should be to his captain. That man in the which perfect wisdom may be found (which truly we never see, but yet nevertheless know by the writings of Philosophers, what manner man he shall be, if there shall at any time rise any such) he truly, or else reason for him (which shall show her perfect force, and bear her full stroke in him) shall so rule and govern that inferior part, as a good father should his obedient children.  
He shall do with his commandment, what soever he list, without any pain or grief. He will strengthen, fortify, defend, and arm himself, to withstand grief, as his deadly enemy.  
But what be those weapons with the which he shall so furnish himself?  
The inward talk, and communication of his heart: when he is willing to fly all dishonesty, faintness, and all other things, not seemelye for a man. Let him also have always afore his eyes, the pure examples and pictures of honesty. Let him behold Zeno the philosopher of Eleas: who ●hose to suffer all kinds of torment, rather than he would utter such, as were privy to the conspiracy, to destroy the tyrants. Let him think of Anaxarchus Democritius, who being fallen into the hands of Nicocreon, the king of Cyprus, forsook and refused no kind of punishment. Calanus an indian, and unlearned and barbarous man, borne at the foot of the hill Caucasus, did voluntarily suffer himself to be burnt. And we, if our feet, our teeth, or all our body chance to ache, are not able to abide it. For we have a fond and light opinion, the which proceedeth not so much of grief, as of to much pleasure, by the which when we are once made nice, and begin to abound in wantonness, we can not so much as abide the sting of a be, without great outcries. But Caius Marius a man always bred in the country, but nevertheless a man in deed, when he was cut as I have showed afore, forbidden them to bind him. Neither was there any man afore him cut unbound. But many since: and why so? because they followed his example. Do you not then perceive, that we think grief to be a greater evil than it is in deed?  
And yet nevertheless, that it was a grief unto him, he himself doth sufficiently show. For he would not let his other thigh to be cut. So he did both bear the pain like a stout man, and also like a wise man, refused to suffer more than was needful. This matter therefore, chiefly consisteth in ruling yourself. But what kind of rule that must be, I have already showed.  
And truly this consideration when a man weyghes, what things are worthy to be suffered, for the name of patience, a stout stomach, & a haughty courage, doth not only restrain the mind from doing amiss, but also (I know not how) doth greatly assuage the grief itself For as we see in the field, when a coward and fearful souldioure, at the first sight of his enemy casting away his armour, flies asmuch as he can, thereby sometimes comes to his destruction, whereas he that abode in the field, felt no such chance: so they that can not abide the first brunt of sorrow do cast away themselves, and lie some sore vexed, and other some mad, whereas they that withstood it, do often times depart, having the upper hand.  
For there be some things, in the which our mind doth resemble our body. For as our bodies are the better able to bear burdens, when we stretch out our limbs, and settle ourselves to abide the weight thereof, and contrariwise when we have no courage to it, an easy burden overlades our lazy limbs: so likewise, our mind having an earnest attentive desire to any thing, can lightly cast of the weight of any burden troubling it from the same.  
But if it once slack his good will, it is to kept down, & depressed by the same, that it can never after raise itself again. And (if we will say that which is truth) in the execution of all such things, as appertain to our duty, there ought to be an earnest and zealous desire of our mind, which is the only maintainer and preserver of all duties. But this chiefly we must provide in the suffering of all grief, that we do nothing fearfully, cowardly, slavishely, or effeminately: and above all other things, that we utterly reject such lamentable complaints, as Philocteta made. To sigh and groan may be well granted and permitted to a man: but to cry out, not so mcuhe as to a woman. For, such mourning the law of the xii tables forbiddeth any man to use in funerals. Neither truly, will a stout or wise man, at any time so much as sigh, unless it be to settle himself more strongly, for the abiding of grief. As runners sometimes in their race, cry as loud as they can. So do the wrestlers in their exercise, and the champions, even when they lift their clubs to strike at their adversaries, use to groan. Not for that they feel any pain, or that their heart fainteth them, but because with their lo●de shout, the strength of their body is pulled together, and so there cometh a sorer stripe. So, they that are minded to cry very loud, are not contented to apply thereto their sides, tongue, and jaws, which are the instruments of the which the sound of our voice is caused, but that also with their hole body, and every part of the same, they assay to pour out their voice. truly I saw when Marcus Antonius pleading very earnestly for himself, touched the ground with his knee. For, as stone bows, and other guns, that shoot out stones, and arrows, cast so much the faster, as they be stiffer bent, and drawn more hardly: so our voice, running, or stroke, is so much the greater, as it proceedeth from the earnest endeavour of the whole body, being bend to nothing else saving that only. The which earnest good will, since it is of such force and power, i● such sighing in the suffering of grief, as proceedeth from the same, be to the confirmation and strengthening of our courage, such I think best that we use. But as for the lamentable, weak, abject and woeful cry, to that I say, who so ever shall give himself, him surely, would I scarce think worthy the name of a man. Which if it did bring any ease to his pain, yet were it the part of him to consider, what were the duty of a stout and courageous man. But since it assuageth no part of our smart, why should we show ourselves lewd without any cause? For what is more fond then to weep like a woman? And this precept, which we now give of grief, extendeth further. For all such things, as we ought to avoid, we must withstand with as earnest desire and affection, as we ought grief itself. For if we burn with anger, or fry with the flames of lust, we must run to the same fort, & take the same weapons to withstand it. But since our purpose here is to entreat of grief, we will overpass those thinger To bear grief therefore quietelye and patiently, it is necessarily expedient, that we have our hole intent fixed on the honesty of the thing, wherefore we suffer it. For we are of nature (as I said before (howbeit I must remember it oftener) very desirous of honesty▪ the glimpse of the which, if we once chance to see, there is nothing that we be not ready either to bear, or suffer, for the obtaining of the same. From this earnest desire, that our mind hath to get true praise, and honesty, proceed the adventuring of so many dangers, in the battle, so that stout men do either not feel their wounds, or else if they do feel them, yet had rather to die, the● to lose one jot of their worship. Both the Deci● saw the glistering sword of their enemies, when they voluntarily ran upon them.  
The nobility and glory of their death, did take from them all the fear of wounds. Do you think that it grieved Epaminundas, when he felt his life to faint even as his blood wasted? no truly.  
For he left his country ruling over the Lacedæmonians, to whom when he came first to office, they were bond and slaves. These be the comforts and eases of the greatest griefs, that may be. But thou wilt say, what comfort may they have which are pained at home in peace, out of wars in their quiet beds? Now thou bringest me to philosophers, which come not often into the field: among the which one Dionysius borne at Heraclea, a vain and a light man, learning these same instructions of Zeno, to be stout against grief, was afterwards nevertheless overcome of the same. For having a pain in the rains of his back in his greatest grief he cried out, that all those things were false which he had learned afore as concerning grief Whom, when Cleanthes his scoolefelowe demanded, what reason had moved him to change his opinion, he answered: because (says he) if I should spend all my time in philosophy, and not be able to bear grief, it were a sufficient proof, that it is an evil.  
But I have spent a great number of years in philosophy, and can not nevertheless abide grief, it must needs therefore be evil. Then Cleanthes hearing this, striking the ground with his foot, rehearsed this verse. Dost tho● hear this Amphiara●s ygraved in the ground.  
By Amphiara●s he meant Zeno, from whom he was sorry to hear him so degenerate. But far otherwise did our country man Possidonius, whom I myself have often seen, and of whom I will tell you, what Pompeius was wont to remember. Which was, that when he departing out of Syria, came to Rhodes, he would gladlis have heard Possidonius. But understanding that he was grievously sick, with an ache in all his limbs, & that for that cause, he could not hear him dispute, yet he thought good to see the noble philosopher. To whose presence when he came and had honourably saluted him, saying that it grieved him very much, that he could not hear him reason of philosophy, at that present: you may very well, if you please (quoth he) for I will never suffer, that a little ache of my body, should cause the journey of so noble a man, to be taken in vain. So Pompeius told me, that he lying, reasoned very sagely and eloquently of this position, that nothing is good but that which is honest. And when the thorns of grief would now and then prick him, he would often say, all this is to no end O grief: for be thou never so troublesome unto me, yet will I never confess the to be evil.  
So all noble and renowned labours, even with despising of them are made tolerable. Do we not see in the schools of fence, that such as esteem the praise of the same, pass for no pain, so they may attain it? Likewise, those, whom the praise of huntynge and riding the horse doth more delight, do they refuse any pain, in learning the same? What shall I speak of our ambition for offices, for greedy desire of honours?  
What fire is there, through which they would not run that sue for the same, with tooth and nail, as a man would say. Africanus had always in his hands Xenophon the scholar of Socrates, whom amongs all other things, he chiefly praised for this saying, that the self same labour, was not alike grievous to the captain, and to the soldier. Because the honour makes the captains labour but light But it chanceth commonly, that amongs the comen sort of fools, the opinion of honesty is of some force, but it itself they can not discern: and for that cause, they are much moved with comen report and judgement of the multitude, and so think that only to be honest, which most men commend. But I would not wish you, although you be in the favour of the comen people, yet to stand to their judgement: neither to esteem that best which they do. You must use your own discretion and judgement. If you like your own judgement in esteeming such things as be honest, you shall not only be able to rule yourself, (as I said somewhat a●ore) but all other men and all other things likewise. Wherefore propose to yourself a certain stoutness, and highenes of stomach, which is of great force to cause a man to contemn and despise all griefs. Think also, that there is but one thing which is most beautiful of all other, and that so much the more, if it want the praise of the people, and not looking for it, doth delight itself with his own commodities. Truly all such things as are done without boasting, or commendation of the people, seem to me more praiseworthy than the contrary. Not for that I would have such things done out of the face of the people (for all honest deeds love to be placed in the light) But, because there is no greater praise that virtue requireth, than the good judgement of a sound and undefiled conscience. And let us chiefly think, that this sufferance of grief, which we have said often heretofore, aught to be strengthened with the earnest desire of the mind, ought to be equally and indifferently showed and applied in all cases. For many which either for desire of conquest and dictorye, or covetise of glory, have stoutly abiden many cruel strokes, yet nevertheless sometimes the self same men, are not able to abide the pains of a disease. For the cause is, for that that pain which they suffered afore, they suffered not learned by the guide and conducting of reason, or wisdom, but only for desire of glory.  
And for that cause many rude and barbarous people, can stoutly wield their weapons, and yet nevertheless can not behave themselves manly, in their disease. But the Grecians being men not very stout, but wise enough (as the wits of men are diverse) can not behave themselves stoutly against their enemies, and yet nevertheless can bear diseases patiently, and as it becometh men. And the Cimbrians and Celtiberians, are stout in the field, and plain women in their sickness. For, nothing can have any equality or measure in it, which doth not proceed of reason. And when you see them, whom either earnest desire, or else a vain opinion moveth to covet any thing, in following and attaining the same, not to be wearied of grief, then ought you to think, that grief is either no evil at all, or else if there be any hardness in it, or any thing contrary to nature, and for that cause it may please you to call it evil, yet nevertheless, that it is so little, and so much overcome of virtue, that it can not appear at all. Which I beseech you ponder with yourself. For this reason will serve you to many more uses, then to avoid grief. For if we must refer all our doings to the avoiding of dishon●stye, than we shall not only need to despise the pricks of sorrow, but the thunderbolts of flattering fortune also. Specially inasmuch as at our last end, there is that haven and port prepared for us, of the which we reasoned the day before: namely death. For, like as if God would say, to a sailor persecuted with Pirates, cast thyself over the ship board, for there is a Dolphin which will bear thee (as he did Arion) or else the horse which draw Neptunus' chair upon the seas, shall be ready to receive thee, & carry the whether so ever thou list. Would not then this mariner (think you) abandon fear? So, when the sharpness of grief doth vex us, if it be such that we can not bear it, you see where is our refuge.  
Thus much I thought good to speak at this present. But I think you do still persist in your former opinion.  Hea. 
No truly, for by these two days reasonings, I hope that I am eased of those two things, which I did chiefly of all other fear.  Mar. 
To morrow we will measure our talk by the clock But I think, that you can not be at leisure.  Hea. 
Yes truly, even before dinner this self same time.  Mar. 
So we will do, & satisfy (as I trust) your earnest desire.  
Finis.   

THE third BOOK containing the third Question disputed by Mark Tully Cicero in his third days reasoning, in his manor of Tusculanum, treating how a wise man ought to behave himself in sorrow and grief of mind.  
WHat might I think the cause to be (dear friend Brutus) that whereas we consist both of soul and body, there is an art invented for the preservation and health of the body, and it also so much esteemed, that the invention thereof▪ is fathered on the immortal gods. But the cure of the soul, was neither so much desired afore it was found, nor greatly frequented after it was known, neither scarce well accepted nor allowed of some men, but rather suspected and hated of the most? may this be the cause, for that the grief and disease of the body, we may judge by our mind, but the grief of our mind, we can not discern by our body? and so it happeneth, that our mind then judgeth of itself, when the▪ wherewith it judgeth is sick? For truly, if nature had made us such at the first, that we might plainly behold and perceive her force and under her most sure guide and conduit pass the course of our life, than needed we not to require the help either of reason or learning. But she hath given us only certain small sparkles, which with naughty fashions ● erroneous opinions we do lightly quench, in such wise, that not so much as any glimpse of the light of nature can appear. For there are sown within us, the seeds of virtue, which i● they might increase and grow to ripeness, would of their own nature with out any other aid, bring us to the blessed & immortal life: but now as soon as we are borne & brought forth into this light we are forthwith continually trained in all noughtiness and perverse opinions, so that it may well be said, that even with the milk of our nurses, we do suck error. And when from them we are committed to our second parents (our masters I mean) we are then seasone● with so many lies, that truth yieldeth to vanity, and the instructions of nature, to the strength of false opinions. Hereunto also are poets adjoined: who, for that they have an outward show of learning & wisdom, are heard, read, & learned, and so are fully fastened in our minds. But when to this same we join the people also, as a wise teacher, and the comen voice of the multitude, the confirmer of all vice, then are we altogether infected with erroneous opinions, & swar●● wholly from the rule of nature. So that those which teach us that nothing is more necessary, more to be desired, or coveted then honour, empire & the praise of the common people, seem in teaching us so contrary doctrines to the instructions of nature to have envied us the fruicton of those most excellent principles, which she at the first had engrafted in us. All men nevertheless do greedily desire the praise of the comen sort, and suing therein after true and unfeigned honesty (which only, nature in all her works doth propose as an end) are foully deluded and mocked. For they do not obtain any perfect picture of virtue, but the shaded image of glory. For, true glory is a sound and perfect thing, and no coloured shadow. And that is the incorrupted and universal praise, of all good men, proceeding of the right report of the excellency of virtue.  
Which truly is in manner the echo of virtue. For it always answereth to the sound of the same. Which in asmuch as commonly it followeth all good deeds, is not to be refused nor despised of such, as are good men. But it which will needs be an imitator of the same (the comen brute of the people I mean) is often time rash, unadvised, and most commonly a commender of vice, and naughtiness, and under the shape of honesty, staineth the form and beauty of unfeigned glory. With the ignorance of the which men's minds being blinded, and coveting always to do some fact, whereby they might be renowned, knowing not nevertheless, how or which way they might perform the same, have fallen into great inconvenience. For some have razed their own cities and some have slain themselves.  
And so they seeking things that are of themselves good, are deceived, not so much of a set purpose, as because of the ignorance of the way, by the which they should come to the same. Now, those which have their minds vexed with the greedy desire of money, or with the filthy lust of pleasure, or they whose minds are so much disquieted with the same, that they are not far from madness (as foolish men commonly are). Have all these sorts of men no need of help think you? either because the diseases of the mind have less need of help then the sicknesses of the body, or else for that there is an art invented to cure the body, and none to heal the soul? But truly the diseases of the mind are both more deadly, and also more in number then those of the body. For they be so much the more grievous, as they pertain to the mind, and the vexing thereof, which being sick, doth always err (as Ennius sayeth) and can for grief neither do, neither suffer any thing well. And furthermore never ceaseth to be vexed with desire: then both the which maladies, that is to wit, grief and desire, what greater diseases may there be? And who can prove, that the soul is not able to cure itself, inasmuch as it first invented medicines for the body? and also, whereas the healing of the bodies, doth much consist in the constitution and nature of the same, and all men which were contented to be cured, have not been healed, yet every man's mind which was willing to be healed, and was therein ruled by the precepts and counsels of wise men, hath been always undoubtedly cured. The medicine of the mind, is philosophy, which helpeth us (not as the diseases of our body are helped) by things without us, but we ourselves must with all our power & endeavour, labour to cure ourselves. But of philosophy universally, how much it should be either esteemed or used I have sufficiently spoken (as I think) in my my book entitled Hortensius. And of other weighty questions, I have not been slack, either to dispute or write. But in these books, I have indited those questions which I reasoned with my familiar friends, in my manor of Tusculanum. And in asmuch as in the two first books, you have heard our disputations of death, and of the grief of the body, in this third book you shall receive our reasoning kept the third day. Therefore when I came down to my school (the mids of the day being passed) I required some of them, that were present, to put forth somewhat, whereof we might reason. Then the matter fell our thus.  Hea. 
I think the grief of the mind sometimes happeneth to a wise man.  Mar. 
Think you so likewise of the other perturbations of the mind, fear, lust▪ & anger? hath any disease (under the name of diseases, the philosophers comprise those troublesome motions of the mind, as I said afore) is no more hole than our bodies in sickness. So it must needs be, that wisdom is the health of the soul, & folly the sickness of the same. Which we may call either madness or foolishness. The which is better expressed in the latin words, than greek. As it chanceth in many other terms besides. But thereof we shall treat an other time. Now let us speak of that we have in hand. This therefore, whereof we treat, what it is, the word itself doth sufficiently declare.  
For we must needs think them to be hole, whose mind is troubled with no motion, in manner of disease, and such as contrariwise are vexed with the same, to be diseased. The latin word of the which called Insania, doth properly signify madness. And therefore we use to say in the latin tongue, that such as are out of their wits, as become frenzy, either with lust or anger. Although, anger itself is a part of lust: for thus it is defined.  
Anger is the lusting after vengeance. They therefore, which are said to be out of their wits, are so termed, because they can not use their wits to the which nature hath granted the rule of the mind. But why the Grecians call it 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, I do not well know. But we distinguish the same better than they. For this unhealthfulnesse which being all one in effect with foolishness, extendeth very far, we separate from madness. So the Greeks would. But they have no apt word for it. For that which we call madness, they call Melancholian. As though men were made frontike only with melancholy, and not rather and more often, with great anger, grief, or fear. as we read that Athamans, Alcmeon, Aiar, and Orestes, were. And in such case, who so ever is, him the the law of the twelve Tables, forbiddeth to have the using of his own goods. And there it is written, if a man be (Insanus) which signifieth unhelthful, but if he be (Furiosu●) which properly signifieth mad and furious. For by this word (●nsania) they did understand, the want of a good and perfect disposition. How be it they thought, that a man in such case might well accomplish all duties, pertaining to the comen and accustomed trade of life. But madness, they thought, was the blindness of the mind towards all things. Which although it seem to be a great deal worse, than the unhealthfulnesse of the mind, yet truly it is such, that it may sooner chance to a wise man, than this lack of health of the mind, I mean foolishness. But that is an other question. Let us return to our purpose. You said (unless I be deceived) that you thought, that grief of mind might chance to a wise man.  Hea. 
I think so in deed.  Mar. 
You do but like a man, in that you think so. For we are not made of flint. But there is naturally in us some tender and soft thing, which grief of mind shaketh as a storm. Neither was it evil said of Crantor, who was a man of great report in our university. I do not agree with them (quoth he) who affirm so much insensibility of grief, which no man either can, or ought to have. I would not gladly be sick (quoth he) but if I be, let me feel it whether they cut away any dead flesh, or else take any thing out of my body. For to feel nothing at all, can not be without great dullness in the mind, nor masinesse in the body. But weigh ye well, whether by this talk, he agree to our infirmity, or favour our softness. Wherefore, let us attempt to cut of, not only the branches of these foolish miseries, but also to pull up all the moor of the same, by the root.  
Yet do we the best we may: some thing will remain. Folly hath rooted so deep in men's hearts. But yet only so much shall remain as is necessary to be le●te. Wherefore, know you this for a certainty, that unless our mind be cured (which by no means can be done without philosophy) we shall never have an end of misery. Wherefore, know you this for a certainty, that unless our mind be cured (which by no means can be done without philosophy) we shall never have an end of misery. Wherefore as we have begun, so let us wholly yield ourselves to it, to be cured. We shall be healed if we list. And I will go somewhat farther. For I will treat not of the grief of the mind only (although thereof chiefly) But of all the perturbations or rather diseases of the same, as the Greeks term them. And first if you be so pleased, let us follow the order of the stoics: who are wont, first in a short compass to frame the force of their arguments. And afterwards, we will talk of the same more at large after our accustomed use. Who so ever is a stout man, he must needs be bold, but whosoever is bold, feareth not (for boldness and fear are things different in nature) But to whom so ever grief of mind may chance, to him likewise fear may come). For whatsoever things do grieve us when they chance, the same afore they come we fear. Therefore grief of the mind, is contrary to stoutness of stomach.  
Furthermore it is likely, that who soever may feel grief, he must also abide fear and faintheartedness, the which two, in whom so ever they be found, he may be subject to affections, and must needs confess himself overcome with them. But none of all these can happen to a stout man.  
Therefore neither grief may. But none can be a wise man, unless he be stout. Wherefore, to no wise man, can any grief happen. Furthermore, it must needs be, that he which is a stout man, should have a hau●y courage: and who so ever hath such courage, is invincible of all evil motions. And he that is so invincible will despise all casualties, that may hap to man, as things worse than himself. But no man despiseth those things, the miss of the which should grieve him, but a stout man. Whereof it is concluded, that all stout men are void of grief. But in a wise man, stoutness is requisite. No wise man therefore can feel grief. And like as a troubled eye is not in good estate to execute his function, and so likewise the other parts of the body, or the whole body, when it is once moved from his quiet state, faynt●th in doing his part and duty: so likewise, a troubled mind, is not able to execu●ue his duty. But the duty of the mind is to use reason well: And the mind of a wise man is always so disposed, that it can guide itself according to the use of reason. It is then never troubled. But all grief is a trouble to the mind. Wherefore every wise man must needs be void of the same. It is likely also that every temperate man, whom the Greeks call 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 and the virtue itself 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 which I am wont to term temperance or moderance, and sometimes modesty. But I can not well say, whether it may be called frugality, which the Greeks take very straightly, who name frugal men 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 which signifieth only profitable. But it hath a larger sense. For all abstinence, all innocence (which amongs the Greeks hath no proper name, but may well be called 〈◊〉. For innocency is such an affection of the mind as hurteth no man) and all the rest of the virtues may well be comprised under the name of frugality.  
Which if it were not so largely taken, but so limited as some men think. L. Piso had never got so great a name for using of it. But because neither he who for fear doth forsake his garrison, (which is a point of cowardice, neither he which because of covetise doth not restore a thing secretly committed to his custody (which is the point of injury and wrong) neither he which through rashness hath lost the field, (which is a point of folly) are wont to be called frugal. For that self same cause this name frugality containeth these iii virtues fortitude, justice, and prudence. And if this be common to all virtues, that they be all coupled & kni● together amongs themselves, than the last and fourth virtue, frugality itself must needs be. For it is the proper duty hereof, to rule and appease the motions of a raging mind, and standing always stiff against lust, and pleasure, to keep a moderate steadfastness in all deeds. The contrary vice to the which, is properly called naughtiness: but frugality (as I think) was so called of fruit, than the which the earth can yield nothing better.  
And naughtiness hereof (for although it be somewhat hard to derive it, yet let us assay, and if we chance not to derive it well, let men then deem that we spoke it merely), because the use of it serves to nought in any man Who soever therefore is frugal, or rather moderate, and temperate, he must needs also be constant. But he that is constant, must be quiet. He that is quiet, must be void of perturbation, and by that means of grief also. But all those things afore recited, appertain to a wise man. A wise man therefore shall want grief.  
And therefore Dionysius an Heraclean, doth not unwittely reason, against the complaint of Achilles, in Homer, in this manner (as I remember) 
My heart with angry mood, puffed up in wondrous wise doth swell,  
When I record from honour high, and worship how I fell.   
Is thy hand in good estate when it swells? or is there any of thy limbs, which being swollen or puffed up, is not sore and ill at ease? So likewise, a swelling mind is always sick. But the mind of a wise man, is always veyde of sickness. It doth therefore never swell. But an angry mind doth always swell. A wise man therefore is never angry. For if he be angry, he doth also desire: for it doth properly belong to an angry man, to desire and wish the greatest grief that may be, to him of whom he thinks he was hurt. But whosoever wisheth any thing, he must needs when he hath attained the same greatly rejoice: & so in this case, he should rejoice at an other man's misfortune: which if it chance not to any wise ●ā, no more truly may anger. But if this grief of the mind whereof we talk, might hap to a wise man, than should anger also, which inas it may not, no more truly may not grief. For if a wise man might feel grief, then might he feel also pity, and envying. For pity and envy go together. For who so ever is sorry, for some man's adversity, he may likewise envy some others prosperity. As Theophrastus, lamenting the death of Calisthenes his fellow, is vexed and grieved with the prosperity of Alexander. And therefore he saith, that Calisthenes chanced on a man of great power, & notable felicity, but nothing skilful how to use his prosperity. So as pity is a grief conceived of other men's adversity, so is envy a sorrow, for other men's prosperity. Who so ever therefore is subject to pity, he is also some●ines troubled with with envy. But to envy is no point of a wise man: wherefore neither to pity. But if a wise man should take grievously any man's adversity, he must needs be subject to pity. All grief therefore is far absent from a wise man.  
These are the reasons of the stoics, and their crooked conclusions, which sometime hereafter we will express more largely, & also more plainly, and their reasons we must needs follow, because they ground their foundation, upon the stoutest and manliest opinion. For our familiar friends 〈◊〉 Perepatetikes (than the which we philosophers can be either more eloquent, more learned, or more sage) can not well persuade me, that there is a mediocrity of the perturbations, or diseases of the mind. For every evil thing, though it be but mean, yet nevertheless is to much. And we intend to show, that there can be no such grief in a wise man. For as the body, if it be but meetly sick, yet nevertheless, is far from health: so truly if the mind be but meanly troubled, it wanteth health. Therefore our countrymen, as they have well given many proper and meet names to other things, so have they very well termed grief, care, and anguish of the mind (for the likeness that it hath to the diseases of the body) sickness. With the like word, do the Grecians term all perturbations. For they call all troublesome motions of the mind ●athos which is as much in effect as diseases. For the sickness of the mind doth much resemble the diseases of the body. But lust is not like to a disease.  
Nor immoderate joy, which is the merry mood of the mind. Neither is fear itself any thing like a disease, although it is very nigh unto grief. But that which is called a disease in the body, is commonly called a grief in the mind. We must therefore, show the original beginning of this grief. I mean the thing that worketh grief in our minds, as some other thing doth disease in the body. For as the physicians, when they have once found out the cause of any disease, think the cure thereof to be but light: so we when we have once found the cause of this grief, shall lightly find some help for the same. All the cause therefore consisteth in our own opinion. I mean not only of grief of the mind, but of all other perturbations also: which are but four generally. But there are more branches and parts of the same. For, inasmuch as every motion of the mind is either void of reason, or a despiser of reason, or disobedient to reason, and that motion is stirred with the opinion either of good or evil, within these ii parts, all the four perturbations are equally contained. For ii proceed of the opinion of good: of the which the one, is called immoderate joy, which riseth of some marvelous goodness being achieved and gotten: and the other is named desire, which is an immoderate lust after some thing of the which we have once conceived a great opinion of goodness, not obeying to reason. And as these two are moved with the opinion of goodness, so are the other ii raised of the opinion of some evil. For fear comes of the opinion of some great evil, which is at hand: & sorrow is the opinion of some evil, already chanced: and that some such evil, that it seems but right, that a man should ve●e himself about it, so that he, whom it grieves, thinketh that he aught of right to be grieved with it.  
These perturbations, which only folly sendeth amongs men, as certain furies we must withstand with all our might and power, if we mind to pass this little space of our life, quietly and pleasantly. But of the rest we will talk at other times. But now let us vanquish grief if we may. For that is our purpose, inasmuch as you said that you thought it might chance to a wise man: which I can by no means think. For it is a beastly wretched, and detestable thing, and such as we ought to fly with might and main, as a man might say. How like you then, the nephew of Tantalus, the son of Pelops, which heretofore by force ravished Hippodamia, from his father in law Oenomaus? Doth he seem now to be the kinsman of jupiter, lamenting and vexing himself like an abject? 
Take heed ye strangers all (quoth he) that none to me draw nigh:  
Lest my disease may you infect, or shadow you annoy.  
This hateful plague is rooted in my flesh so grievously.   
Wilt thou O Thyestes condemn thyself to death, for an other man's fault? But now, as for the son of Phoebus, do you not think him worthy to behold his father's light? who lamenteth in this wise. 
Mine eyes within my head, are shrunk, my body lo consumes.  
The skin is fretted from mine eyes by my continual tears:  
My bed in drivelinges is ydrownd, my mouth hath stinking fumes.  
And so my breast looks hoar, like fowl, the whited plumes aye bears.   
These evils, thou thyself O foolish Aeta, wast the causer of: for they were not amongs those things which chance cast upon the. For all sorrow as I will hereafter show, proceedeth of the opinion of some evil that is present. But thou mournest truly, for the lack of thy kingdom, and not of thy daughter. For her thou didst hate, and that perchance not without a cause. But it grieved the greatly, to lack thy kingdom. truly it is a shameless sorrow, to mourn, for that thou mayst not keep free men in servitude. Dionysius the tyrant, when he was banished from Siracusa, taught children at Corinthe. So great desire he had, to bear rule. But who could be more impudent than Tarqvinius? Who waged war with them, that would not suffer his pride. He at the last when neither the armies of the Ueientes, neither yet the Latins, could restore him into his kingdom, went to the city of Cume in italy, and therewith age and anguish pined away. And think you, that the like may chance to any wise man? I mean, to be wasted with thought? which is no better than mere misery. For whereas every perturbation is a certain kind of misery, chiefly sorrow is the very torment of a troubled mind Lust bringeth heat, overmuch gladness causeth lightness, and fear breedeth a baseness of courage. But sorrow, causeth far greater things than all these, as pining, vexation, affliction, and filthiness. It tears eats, and murders the mind. It unless we lay apart, that we utterly shake it from us, we can never want misery. And this truly is plain and evident, that the cause of grief of the mind, is when any thing which we account to be some marvelous evil, seemeth to be even at hand, and presentelye to prick us. But Epicurus thinketh, that the opinion and thought of any evil, causeth sorrow: so that whosoever beholdeth any great evil, if he think that the same hath at any time chanced unto him, he by his opinion must needs be troubled with sorrow. The followers of Aristippus, called Cyrenaikes, think that grief of mind, riseth not of every grief, but only of such as cometh unlooked for, and unprovided.  
And assuredly, that is of no small force to increase the grief: for all sudden chances seem to be more grievous than other.  
And for that cause are these verses worthily commended, as the sayings of a established mind. 
When first of all I them begot, I knew that they must die.  
To bring them up that well to do, I did my whole duty.  
And eke when I to Troy them sent their country to defend:  
I knew I did to deadly war, and not to feasts them send.   
This foreknoweledge of evils which are to come, doth make the fall of those things more tolerable, whose coming a man hath long time afore foreseen: and for that cause, these sayings of Theseus, in Euripides are commended (For I may lawfully, after my wont fashion, turn the same into latin.) 
Recounting oft with me the words of that wise father old.  
In mind the mischiefs that might come, I did always behold,  
Some cruel death, or exile else, and now and then among  
Of every other mischief strange, I did forethink a throng.  
So that if any storm should fall, by fortune's bitterness:  
Like as a thing foreseen before, it should me grieve the less.   
Whereas Theseus sayeth, that he learned it of a wise old man, Euripides meaneth that by himself. For he was the scholar of Anaxagoras, who when news were brought him of the death of his child, said. I knew that I begot him subject to mortality: which saying declareth that such chances are grievous to them which look not for them. Therefore, herein truly is little doubt, that all such things as are counted evil, are then most grievous, when they fa●l suddenly.  
Wherefore, although this thing only doth not cause sorrow, yet nevertheless because the settling and preparing of the mind, is of great force to assuage the grief, let every man forethynke such, inasmuch as they may happen to a man. And truly, it is a great point of wisdom, for a man to look for all such casualties, as customably happen to men, not to marvel at any thing when it doth chance, and not to doubt but any mischief which is not chanced may well enough happen. 
Wherefore let every man in his prosperity,  
Muse with himself, by what means he may bear adversity.  
Some peril, loss, or cruel exile, when he returneth home.  
His child's offence, or his wives death, let him aye think upon.  
And these as comen let him take besides some stranger pain,  
If some good chance befall to him, let him take that as gain.   
¶ inasmuch as Terence hath spoken this so wisely, which he borrowed of philosophy, shall not we out of whose store it was taken, both say the same better, and also think it more constantly? For this is the same countenance which never changeth.  
Which Xantippe was wont to praise in her husband Socrates: saying, that he always showed the same look at his coming home, that he did at his going out. Neither was he in this point like to Marcus Crassus, who as (Lucilius sayeth) never laughed but once in all his life. But (as far as I could learn) he was fair and clear ●ysaged. And truly, there was good cause, why his countenance should be always alike, inasmuch as his mind, which causeth the diversity of all looks, did never vary, Wherefore both I will take of the Cyrenaikes, these weapons against chances, that is to break their force, with long forthinking of the same: and also I judge, that that evil which is in grief consisteth in men's opinion, and not in the things themselves. For if it were in the things, that chance unto us, wherefore should the foresight of them, make them the lighter. But there may be more subtle reasoning of these matters, if first we see the opinion of Epycurus.  
Who thinks it necessary, that every man, to whom any evil is chanced, should forthwith live in grief and sorrow aswell although he did foresee, and provide for those chances afore hand, as also when they wax old.  
For neither doth the length of time make the evils the less (sayeth he) neither yet the foresight of them, make us to bear them more lightly. He sayeth also, that such forthinking of evils, is very fond. Because it may be, that they shall not chance at all.  
Every grief (sayeth he) is odious enough, when it doth chance: but he that always looks for some adversity, makes it to him a continual and everlasting misery. And if it should chance not to come, in vain then should a man voluntarily sorrow.  
So he thinketh, that a man is always vexed, either with the chance, or else with the thought of some evil. But the ease of sorrow, he placeth in thinking of grief, the other in drawyng● it to the contemplation of pleasure.  
For he thinketh, that our mind may aselye obey reason, and follow her guide. Reason (sayeth he) doth forbid us to think on grief. It drawth our dull wits from the sharp thoughts of sorrow, to behold the misery of the same: from the which, when she, hath once withdrawn us, she than moves and stirs us, to behold and handle sundry sorts of pleasure: the which both to remember when they are passed, and also to hope for, when they are coming, he thinketh to be the perfect life of a wise man. Thus I have uttered his opinion, according to my fashion But the Epicureans do it after an other sort of their own. But now let us consider, how lightly we esteem their words in this point.  
first of all, they do without cause reprove the forthinking of evils to come. For there is nothing, that may so much dull or lighten the force of grief, as a continual thought and persuasion, through out all our life, that there is no misery, which may not happen unto us: as the pondering of the condition and estate of man: as the law of our life, and study to obey. Which causeth us not to mourn always, but never. For who so pondereth with himself, the state of every thing, the inconstancy of his life, and the weakness of mankind, he doth not then mourn but rather then chiefly doth the part of a wise man. For hereby he getteth two commodities. The one, that in weighing the frayletye of man, he doth execute the duty of a philosopher, the other, for that against adversity, he hath gotten three comforts. The first, for that he thought long afore, that it might happen. Which only thought doth most of all other, suage and wipe away all sorrow. The second, for that he thinketh, that all chances which may happen to a man, are patiently to be borne. And last of all, because he seeth, that there is no evil but where is some fault. And it is no fault of his, inasmuch as that, which a man could not withstand, is chanced. For that revoking of our mind from the thought of grief (which Epicurus would have) is to no point at all. For it is not in our power, when we are pricked with misery, or mischance, to dissemble or forget it. For such chances tear, vex, prick, and inflame us. And finally, suffer us not to take any quiet rest. And yet nevertheless, thou Epicurus, willest me to forget that, which is against nature.  
But now, to the help which thou showest of an old rooted grief. truly, although it be somewhat slow, yet great is the remedy, that length of time and space of years doth bring. But thou willest me to propose to myself, the hope of good things, and forget the evil. Now truly thy saying were somewhat, yea and worthy a notable philosopher, if thou though●est those things to be good, which in deed are most worthy a man's travail and pains. If Pythagoras, Socrates, or Plato, should say thus unto me: Why liest thou sad? Wherefore returnest thou? or why dost thou thus faint, and yield to the stroke of fortune Which, as perhaps she may pull and prick thee, so she can not wholly daunt thy courageous force. virtues are of great power, to resist and withstand the same. Them (if perhaps they sleep in thee) raise & quicken. Then will the valiant fortitude forthwith be at hand, which will cause the to be of so good courage, that thou shalt despise and esteem as nothing, all chances which may happen to a man. Then shall stand by thee, temperance (which is also moderance, and by me termed somewhat afore frugality) which will suffer the to do nothing shamefully, or dishonestly. But what is worse or shamefuller, than an effeminate person? Now truly, justice will not suffer the so to do: which seems to have least to do in this matter. She will say, that thou art two ways injurious. Thone in that thou desirest that which is not thine, who being borne mortal, dost look for the estate of the immortal gods: tother, for that it grieveth thee, to restore that, which was lente thee only to use for a space. But to prudence what wilt thou answer, when she shall say, that virtue is sufficient of herself, to make a good and happy life? The excellency of the which, if it hang upon outward chance, and be not contented with his own force, and power, but lacketh the ornament of foreign goods: I see no cause why it should be so much either commended in words, or coveted in deeds.  
To these goods O Epicurus, if thou call me, I obey thee, I follow thee, I take the as my guide. I blot also (as thou willest me) out of my memory all evils and that also so much the gladlier because I count them not worthy the name of evils. But thou drawest my thoughts to pleasures, and delights. Of what sort I pray thee? Of the body, I think, or at the least wise such, as we do either remember that our body hath enjoyed, or at the least wise ●hope, that it shall. Is it any otherwise? Do I truly interpret thy meaning? For they are wont to say, that we do not understand what Epicurus meaneth. Even this truly he meaneth.  
And this the old Zeno, the Grecian, at Athenes in my hearing was wont very earnestly to affirm, that happy was he, which did either presently enjoy pleasure, or else did hope, he should enjoy it: either throughout all his life, or at the least wise, through the greatest part, without any intercourse of grief. Or if there were any, if it were extreme, that it should be short. Or if it were somewhat long that it should have more pleasure, than misery. He that did so think, he said should be blessed: especially if he were contented with the pleasure, that he had before taken, and also feared not god. Thus here you see the happy life appointed by Epicurus, describe so plainly, with the words of Zeno, that therein is nothing that he can deny. May the proposing, and thought of such a life then, ease either Thy●stes, or Aeta, of whom I spoke before, or Telamonius, a poor exile banished from his native country. Of whom this wonder was made. 
Is this that Telamonius, whom late frail glory raised on high.  
On whom the Greeks of late did gaze with many an envious eye.   
¶ truly, if any man with his substance hath lost his courage also, he must seek his remedy of those grave and ancient philosophers, and not of those slaves of pleasure. For what company of goods is it, that they mean? Admit truly, that it were the chiefest good that might be to feel no grief. Howbeit that can not well be called pleasure. But is that such a thing, as the sight or minding thereof might ease our sorrow? Admit that grief be the greatest evil, that may be. Shall he then that feeleth not it, forthwith enjoy the chiefest felicity? But why dalyest thou Epicurus? And will not grant that thou meanest, that pleasure, which thou thyself in other places dost express? Be these which I will rehearse, thy words or no?  
In that book which containeth thy whole doctrine (for I will now play the part of an interpreter least any man think I lie) thou spakest in this wise. Neither truly do I perceive what good thing I may imagine, void of those pleasures, that consist in taste, or void of those which consist in the hearing of sweet noises: or wanting those pleasa●n●e sights, which the eyes do gather of fair beauties: or lacking the pleasures requisite to any of the four senses in man. Neither may we truly say that the delight of the mind is only in such goodness as want all these. For I know, that the mind will so rejoice, even with the only hope of those pleasures, which I have afore named, that when it hath once attained them, it is void of all grief. These be the words of Epicurus. By the which every man may right well perceive, what pleasure Epicurus meant. For somewhat after. Right oft, I have demanded of them that were counted wise, (sayeth he) what they would account good, if they take away those pleasures by me afore named. But I could get nothing of them, but only bare words. Who if they will name virtues, and wisdom, they do no more than show the way of those pleasures, by me afore named. Those words that follow are to the same purpose. And to conclude, all his book entitled of the chiefest good, is stuffed with such words & sentences. Wilt thou then to this life revoke Telamon, to ease his grief? And if thou chance to see any of thy friends vexed with sorrow, wilt thou give him rather a dainty dish of fish than some comfortable book of Socrates? Wilt thou exhort him, to hear rather the counsel of dainty courtiers, then of Plato? Thou wilt set afore him fresh sights to gaze on, burn sweet smells at his nose, and set garlands, and roses about his head.  
truly (I think) if thou add any thing more thou must needs take away all his mourning. Either all these comforts Epicurus must confess, or else all those things which even now I recited word for word must be blotted out of his book: or rather his whole book must be called in For it is full of commendation of pleasures. I ask of him therefore, by what means we may ease him of grief, which crieth out in this sort. 
Now riches truly more I want, than noble stock or race.  
For once a crowned king I was: se● now from what high place,  
What stock & power, fond fortun● hath now brought me to this case   
What? is it best to give this man some pleasant potion, to make him cease his mourning? Hercken another in the same point. From great wealth fallen, I Hector come, thy aid now to desire.  
¶ It is a point of gentleness, to help him. For he desireth aid. 
Where may I aid or succour crave▪ whose help should I trust to?  
Who want both realm, and royal place, and know not where to go  
Whose altars all for sacrifice, are broken and cast down.  
Whose churches fire hath consumed whose walls are overthrown.   
And divers other such like exclamations as follow. But this inespecyallye. 
O father, friends, my country eke, and Priam's house farewell.  
Farewell thou church with walls yfenst, till Priam's palace fell.  
I have the known well ydect, whiles that this kingdom stood.  
With ivory sheen, & glistering gold, with stones and pearls good.   
O cunning Poet. He thinketh that all sudden chances, are more grievous than others. And therefore, after he had reckoned up the treasure and power of the king, which seemed to be such, that there was in manner no end thereof. See what he then sayeth. 
All these things lo I saw, when fire did inflame.  
When at the altars Priamus, with enemies hand was slain.  
The gushing of whose guiltless blood, joves' aultare did distain.   
A goodly verse. For it is both in deed, word, and measure lamentable. Let us ease him of his grief. How? Let us lay him on a soft featherbed, bring him a singing woman, let us burn cedar at his nose, and bring him some pleasant potion, and therewithal provide him of some good meat.  
Be these the goods that are able to slake the greatest sorrows? For you even now said, you knew none other goods. But I could well agree to Epicurus, that a man in sorrow ought to be called to the contemplation of good if we could agree what that is which we term good. But some man perchance, will say. What? think you that Epicurus meant as you interpret him? And that his sentences, are to be referred to bodily pleasure. No truly. I think nothing less. For I see many things, gravely and notably spoken of him. But as I have often heretofore said the controversy is of his words, and not of his manners or life. Let him say, that he despiseth those pleasures which he did whilom commend, yet I will well remember, what felicity he seemeth by his words to declare.  
For he did not only name it by this word pleasure, but also expounded his own saying, taste (quoth he) & the embracing of fair and seemly bodies, plays, and songs, and those shapes, with the which the eyes are pleasantly delighted. Do I feign? Do I lie? I desire to be reproved. For what else do I covet, but that the truth may appear, in every question. He sayeth also, that the pleasure doth not increase, the grief being gone: and yet that it is the chiefest pleasure, to feel no grief. In a few words, he hath made three great faults. One, in that he is contrary to himself. For even now he said, that he could not so much as think, any thing to be good, unless the senses were tickled with the pleasures of the same. And now he sayeth, that to lack grief is greatest pleasure that may be. May any thing be more contrary? another fault is, that whereas there be naturally thre● yoyntes, the one to rejoice, the other to sorrow, the third neither to be glad nor sorry: he thinketh, the first and the last to be all one, and doth not separate pleasure from the want of grief.  
The third fault (which is comen to some men) is, that whereas virtue is the thing, which we ought most of all other to desire, because that for the attaining of the same, philosophy was chiefly invented, yet he hath separated felicity from virtue. But (some man will say) he doth often commend virtue.  
And truly, Caius Gracchus, when he gave abroad the comen money, and beggared the treasure, yet nevertheless in his talk defended the same. What should I hear his words, when as I see his deeds to the contrary? Piso the thryftye, had always withstood the law of distributing corn. Yet nevertheless, that law being established, he being once afore Consul, came to take corn. Whom when Gracchus espied he asked him in the audience of all the people, what he meant, to come to demand corn by that law, which he had always dissuaded.  
Whereunto he answered, I would not gladly, O Gracchus (quoth he) that thou shouldest distribute and give away my goods. But if thou wilt needs do it, I will take some part myself. Did not that grave and wise counsellor, sufficiently in those words declare that by the law of Gracchus, the comen treasure was scattered? Read the orations of Gracchus, you will say, that he is a defender of the treasure house. So Epicurus denieth that a man may live pleasantly, unless he live also virtuously. He denieth also, that fortune hath any force on a wise man.  
He preferreth a bare living, before a sumptuous and costly. He sayeth that there is no time, in the which a wise man is not happy. All these things are worthy to be spoken of a philosopher, nevertheless they are contrary to pleasure. But he meaneth not 〈◊〉 sort of pleasure. Let him mean● what pleasure he will, so he doth not mean such a pleasure as hath in it not so much as one jot of virtue. Well, if we understand not what pleasure he meaneth, neither do we know what grief he understandeth. But I do think that he which thinketh grief to be the chiefest evil, ought not once to make mention of virtue. Truly the Epicureans complain, that I do of a set purpose inveigh against Epicurus. As though we did strive for some honour or worship. I think that the chiefest good consisteth in the mind, and he placeth the same in the body. I think virtue to be it, and he taketh pleasure for the same. And hereabout they contend, and call for their neighbours help, with great outcries.  
But I am one, which little pass for such contention. For I do not now reason of the war betwixt us and the Carthaginenses: wherein nevertheless when M. Cato, and L. Lentulus were of several opinions, yet they did never strive about it. But these men are now to much angry, whereas otherwise they do not stoutelye enough defend their opinion: for the which they are afraid, either afore the Senate, or at the bar, afore the army, or in presence of the Censors, to plead. But with them I will reason at other times, and that truly, not with the mind to contend: but wholly glad to yield to their reasons. Only thus much I will admonish them, that if it were true, that a wise man should refer all things to his body, or (to speak somewhat more honestly) that he should do nothing, but that were for his own profit, or commodity, because these things deserve no comen praise, let them laugh in their sleeves (as they say) and leave of their open brags. Now there remaineth the opinion of the Cyrenaikes: which think, that grief is then only caused, when any mischief comes unlooked for: and truly that is a great occasion of grief, as I said before.  
And also, I know that Chrysippus, thinketh, that chances not foreseen, happen most vehemently. But this is not all. For we know, that the sudden coming of our enemies doth more trouble us than when we look for them: and also, a tempest in the sea, rising on a sudden, doth more fear the sailors, then that which they have foreseen afore. And so is it most commonly in all other things. But if you do diligently weigh, the nature of such sudden chances, you shall perceive, that they seem the greater chiefly for two causes.  
first, because we have not leisure to consider, how great the things are, which, have chanced unto us. secondarily, for that we think it might have been avoided, if it had been foreseen: and so, thinking it to have chanced only through our own fault, it maketh our grief the sharper. Which to be true, time itself declareth. Which in space doth so assuage our sorrow, that the evils remaygninge all one, yet our grief, is not only minished, but also many times utterly abolished.  
Many Carthaginenses lived in bondage at Rome. And likewise the Macedonians, their king Perses being taken prisoner. I saw also, in Peleponnesus (whiles I was young) certain Corynthians, which might hau● song the song of Andromacha, before mentioned. For their countenance, talk, and miserable behaviour, was such, that a man might well have said, they were miserable Greeks.  
Yet nevertheless, the sudden sight of the reced walls of their city Corynthus, moved me much more, than it did the Corynthians themselves: whose hearts, the daily sight thereof, had even hardened against sorrow.  
We read the book of Clitomachus, which he, after the subduing of Carthage sent to the citizens, that were prisoners, to comfort them. Therein is written a disputation of Carneades: which Clitomachus sayeth, that he there hath abridged. In it when it was first proposed, that it seemeth that a wise man should lament the captivity of his country, forthwith follow the reasons of Carneades to the contrary: in the which truly, the philosopher, doth so much comfort their present calamity, as in an old grief a man would scarce have wished, or desired. And truly, if that book had been sent a few years after to them, it would not so much have helped their sores, as their scars. For sorrow, by little, and little, in process of time, doth wear and consume: not for that the things themselves, either are wont, or may be changed: but because, at the last, that which reason ought to have done, experience doth persuade us: namely that those things are but small, which seemed to be so great. Why then (some will say) what need have we of reason? Or of any of those comforts, which men do use, when they would lighten the sorrow of such as mourn? As this and such other, that nothing that is chanced aught to seem strange, or unlooked for? Yes truly, he shall more tolerably bear every discommodity, who knoweth, that of necessity, such things must chance to men. For such persuasions in deed, do make the evil itself nothing the less, only hereof it putteth us in mind that nothing is happened, which was not to be looked for. Neither yet therefore are that sort of persuasions, nothing available, to the curing of gryete: but they are rather of all other, the best. Wherefore, these sudden chances, are not of such force, that they only should be the causers of all grief. They smite us perhaps more sharply, than the rest. But they are not able, to make those things, which so chance, greater than the rest. They seem greater, because they are new, and fresh, and not because they came suddenly. But there are ii ways, to find out the truth, not in those things only, which have the appearance of evil, but in those also, with seem to be good. For either we question of the nature of the thing itself, of what sort, and how great it is. As of poverty sometimes, whose burden we make light with reason, showing how small and how few things nature doth require: or else, from the subtle disputation of the nature of things, we turn our talk to examples. And in this part, we rehearse Socrates and Diogenes, and also that saying of Cecilius. In bare threads oft full p●re yclad, dame Sapience doth lie hid.  
¶ And inasmuch as the force of poverty is alike, wheresoever it lighteth, what might be the cause, that Cai●● Fabritius could easily bear it, and other men not? And to this last kind, that sort of consolation like, which showeth that those things which are chanced, are commonly incident t● the life of all men. For this persuasion is not only of this effect, to put him in remembrance that he is a man: but also it signifieth that those things are tolerable, which other have both in times passed borne, and also do daily suffer. As if our talk were of poverty many patient poor men, might be recited. Or if we should speak of the contempt of honour, many men that have despised the same might be rehearsed, & truly, even the happier, for so doing: for surely their life is above all others namely commended which have preferred their private quietness, before the stir of public affairs. Neither is the saying of that mighty prince to be forgotten: wherein he commendeth an old man, and accounteth him fortunate, because without glory, he should in manner unknown, come to his last end.  
Likewise the mourning of those, which lament the loss of their children, is suaged, with the examples of them, that have abiden the like.  
So the trial of other men afore hand, maketh that those things, which chance on a sudden, seem less in deed, than we took them at the first to be. So it cometh to pass, that whiles we ponder the things well, by little and little, we perceive how much our opinion was deceived, and that Telamonius doth well prove saying. When first of all I them begot, I knew that they must die.  
And Theseus. In mind the mischiefs that might come, I did always behold.  
¶ And Anaxagoras, said. I knew that he was borne to die. For all these men, long weighing the chances that happen to men, perceived that they are not to be feared, according to the opinion of the comen people. And truly, me seemeth, that they which ponder things afore hand, are helped after the same sort, that they are, whom continuance of time doth help: saving that reason, healeth the first, and nature the other: they having this always in their minds, which is the ground of all such remedies, namely, that the evil which they thought to be so great, is not such, that it may destroy a happy and a blessed life.  
Thus therefore we will conclude, that of a sudden chance there cometh a sorer stripe, not as they think, that when two equal chances do happen to a man, it only should put him to grief, which cometh of a sudden: for it is written that some men understanding the comen misery of mankind, namely that we are all borne under that law, that none may be for ever void of misery: have taken it very heavily, yea and mourned for it.  
For the which cause, Carneades (as Antiochus writeth) was wont to reprove Chrysippus, for commending these verses of Euripides. 
There is no man whom grief of mind, & sickness may not pain  
Some many children do beget, and bury them again.  
And death, is th'end of all the grieves that happen may to man.  
We all must render earth to earth, and dust from whence we came  
And till that time shall mow us up, we here on earth must live.  
Like as we suffer corn to grow, to reap the same with scive.   
For he said, that such kind of talk was of no efficacy to ease a man of grief, but rather, gave us occasion to lament, that we were borne under so ●ruell necessity. And as for that kind● of comfort, which cometh of the rehearsal of other which have abiden the like griefs that he thought was good to comfort none other, but only those which were delighted to hear other men's sorrows. But I truly think far otherwise. For, both the necessity of bearing the estate of mankind, forbids us to strive with god: and also it putteth us in remembrance that we are men (which only thought doth greatly ease all grief) and also the rehearsal of examples, serveth not to delight the minds of envious persons, but only to prove, that he which mourneth, aught to bear it patiently, inasmuch as, he seeth that manies afore him, have with great moderation and quietness suffered the same. For they must have all manner of such stays, which are ready to fall, and can not withstand the greatness of grief. And well did Chrysippus say, that grief of mind was called 〈◊〉, which signifieth the dissolving loo●yng of every part of a man.  
Which may well be rooted out even at the first, the cause of the grief being once known. But the cause of it is nothing else, than the opinion of some great evil that is present and at hand. But the grief of the body, whose pricks are right sharp, may well be borne with the hope of ease. And the life honestly and worshypfullye spent, is so great a comfort, that those which have so lived, either grief toucheth not at all, or at the least very lightly. But to this opinion of some great evil, when that also is adjoined, that we think we ought, and that it is our duty to take such chance grevoslye, then truly, becometh that grief of mind a heavy perturbation. For of that opinion, proceed those divers and detestable kinds of lamenting: tearing of the hear like women, scratching of their face, beating of the breast, legs, and head. So is Agamemnon of Homer, and also of A●●ius described. And renting oft for grief his goodly bush of hear.  
Whereupon, there is a merry jest of Byon. saying that the foolish king pulled of his hear, as though baldness would help his sorrow. But all these things they do, thinking that they ought of right so to do. And for that cause, Aeschines inveigheth against Demosthenes, for that he three days after the death of his daughter, had done sacrifice. But how rhetorically pleadeth he? what reasons gathers he? How wrieth he his words? So that a man may well perceive, that a rhetorician may say what he list. But truly his talk no man would allow, unless we had this foolish opinion in our minds, that all good men ought to mourn, for the death of their friends. Hereof it cometh, that in great grieves some men fly to solytarynes● as Homer writeth of Belerophon. 
Who flying all resort of men in fields did walk alone.  
And there consumed and pined away with bitter grief and moan.   
And Niobe is feigned to have been turned into a stone, (as I think) to note thereby her continual solytarynes in mourning. But Hecuba, for the cruel madness of her mind, the poets ●ayne to have been turned into a dog. And there be some, whom in sorrow it delighteth, to talk with solitariness▪ As the nurse in Ennius. 
A furious lust is come on me, now out abroad to tell  
The wretched chance of Medea, to heaven, to earth, and hell.   
¶ All these things men do in grief, having opinion, that they ought of right and duty to be done. And if any perchance, at such time as they thought that they ought to mourn, did behave themselves somewhat gently, or spoke any thing merrily: they will revoke them s●l●es again to sadness, & blame yourselves as of a fault, for that they ceased to mourn. But young children their mothers and masters are wont to chasten, not only with words, but also with stripes, if in time of comen ●●urnynge, they chance either to do or speak any thing merely, they compel them to weep. What I pray you? when they leave of their mourning, and perceive that they profit nothings at all, with sorrow, doth not that declare, that all which they did afore, was only of their own will, without any other constraint?  
What? the old man in Terence, the tormentor of himself, doth he not say? 
I think O Chremes, so much le●●e wrong I do to my son.  
As if I do myself appoint a wreath for to become.   
Lo he hath even decreed to be a wretch and doth any man appoint any such thing, against his own will? I would myself worthy account of any misery.  
Lo, he thinketh himself worthy 〈◊〉 misery. You see therefore, that th● evil of his grief proceedeth of opinion, and not of nature.  
Besides this, sometimes, the thyng● itself doth make them cease they● mourning: as in Homer the daily murder, and death of men doth make them to cease their sorrow. In whom this is written. 
For now we see to many erst lie dead and breathless here.  
So that scarce any house is void of dole or mourning cheer.  
Wherefore it is most meet, that them we in their graves do lay,  
And finish all our mourning, with the wain of son and day.   
Wherefore, it is in our power, to lay● apart grief, when we will and tim● both serve us. And is there any tim● (because the thing itself is in our● power) to soon to lay away sorow● and care? It is well known, that those that saw Pompeius slain (fearyng● in that sharp and cruel fight, greatly the loss of their own lives, because they saw themselves on all sides enclosed with the navy of their enemies) did at that present nothing else, but encourage the shippemen to sail swiftly, for the safety of their lives. But afterwards when they came t● Tyrus, began to afflyct themselves, and lament. Can fear therefore, stay them from sorrow, and shall not reason and wisdom be able to do it? But what is there, that may sooner make us leave our sorrow, then when we perceive, that it profiteth us nothing: and that all our labour therein was spent in vain? If then we may leave sorrow we may also not take it al. Wherefore, we must needs confess, that of our own will and accord, we suffer grief to enter on us. And that is well declared also, by their patience, who having abiden many cruel chances, do more easily bear whatsoever cometh.  
And are in manner hardened against the blows of fortune. As he in Euripides. 
If this time were the first, that I such misery did try.  
And that afore I had not felt, the same continually.  
Then had I just cause to lament, like as new broken colts  
Bear ill the bridles bit, when first they are brought from the holtes.  
But I have ever lived in woe, and with so seldom change,  
That now as one yduld therewith, no pain to me is strange.   
Wherefore inasmuch as the weariness of miseries, doth lighten grief, we must needs confess, that the thing itself, which is chanced unto us, is not the cause of our sorrow. Those that are chiefly studious of wisdom and have not as yet attained the same, do they not sufficiently understand, that they are in great misery? for they have not gotten the perfection of wisdom. And truly there can be no greater misery, than the imperfection of wisdom. Yet nevertheless, they do not lament this misery. And why so? Because to this sort of evils, there is not affixed that opinion, that it is right and just, or any part of our duty to take it heavily, for that we are not wise.  
With the which opinion, that grief is always accompanied, out of the which proceedeth mourning. For Aristotle, blaming the ancient philosophers, which thought that their wits had made philosophy perfect: sayeth that they were either most foolish or else most vain glorious of all men. For he saw, that within few years the same was greatly increased. So that it was likely, that in short time, it would be finished. But Theophrastus, at the time of his death is reported to have blamed nature. For that to hearts and daws, whom the same served to little use, she had granted long life: but to men, to whom it might have been most commodious, she had granted but a short term. Whose age, if it might be lengthened, it would come to pass, that all arts being made perfect, the life of man should be adorned with all kind of learning.  
And therefore, he did complain, that when he first began to perceive somewhat therein, than it was his chance to be taken out of this life. Likewise of all the rest, doth not every of them that is counted wisest and gravest witted, confess the ignorance of many points? And that there are many things, the which he would gladly learn? And yet nevertheless, albeit they know that they stick in ignorance, than the which there can be no thing worse, they do not sorrow nor mourn. For they have no such opinion, that it is any part of their duty, to be sorry. They which think that men ought not to mourn, as Quintus Maximus, who buried his only son, that had been once Consul: as Lucius Paulus, who lost both his sons in one day: as Marcus Cato, whose son died when he was appointed to be Praetor: As all the rest whom we have reckoned up in ours book which is entitled of the comfort of philosophy. The mournings of all these men (I say) what other thing did stay, but that they thought sorrow and sadness to be things not properly belonging to any man.  
So whereas other men, delayed with an opinion of duty, do yield themselves to grief, they thinking it a shame, did withstand sorrow. Whereby it is evident, that grief of mind, consisteth not in the nature of the chance, but in the opinion of men. Against this it is said, who is there so mad, that would of his own voluntary will be sad and mourn? Nature bringeth sorrow. To the which, your Crantor (say they) thinketh, that we ought to yield. For it doth prick, and burden us, neither can we resist it. So Oileus in Sophocles, which comforted Telamonius afore, when he mourned for the death of Ajax, he (I say) when he heard of his own mischance, was even overcome with sorrow. Of the sudden change of whose mind, these verses are witness. 
I think no man so constant is, whose wit can serve him so.  
That though he counsel other, to assuage their grief and woe.  
Yet when that fortune hath on him, once laid her heavy stroke.  
Would not be overcome, and with his own hurt strait way broke  
So that the words which he afore, to others wisely spoke,  
Should slip away as things the which adversity did slake.   
By such kind of proofs, they go about to persuade, that we may by no means withstand nature. Yet nevertheless, they themselves confess, that men sometimes take greater sorrow, than nature constraineth them. What madness is it then, that we should desire every man so to do? But there are many causes of sorrow. first, the opinion which we have, that is an evil which is chanced unto us. Which when we be once persuaded, them grief of mind doth necessarily ensue. The second occasion is, for that they think their mourning to be acceptable to such, as are departed. And hereunto is adjoined, a certain effeminate superstition. For they think, that they shall the sooner content the anger of the immortal gods, if they as men astonied with their heavy stroke, do af●lycte and vex themselves. But in the mean time, these men mark not how contrary they are to them selves. For they commend them, which die willingly. And yet they dispraise those, that bear not heavily the departure of their friends. As thought it might be by any means, that any man should love another better than himself. That is a notable saying, and (if you mark it well) right and true, that such as aught of all other to be dearest unto us, we love as our selves. But that we should love them more than ourselves, I think that is truly impossible. Neither truly is it to be desired in friendship, that my friend should love me more, than himself: or I him more than myself.  
For thereof would ensue, a confusion of the whole trade of our life, and of all sorts of duties. But hereof we will reason, in other places. Now this shallbe sufficient to admonish, that to the loss of friends we do not adjoin our misery: and that we love them not more, than they themselves would, or at the least wise more than ourselves. For whereas some say that such kind of comforts, do help many men nothing at all, and add thereunto, that such as comfort others, when fortune turneth her face to them, are not able to cloak their own misery: the answering of both is easy enough. For these are the faults not of nature, but of folly.  
But to inveigh against such folly, although I might at this present very largely, yet I will not. For both they which do not suffer themselves to be helped, do thereby provoke others to misery, & also, they that take their own chance more grievously, then afore they counseled others, are not more to be blamed then the comen sort, which being niggards, yet reprove covetous parsons, and being ambitious themselves, reprehend●●ā ynegl●ryous fools.  
For it is a comen practice of fools, to espy other men's faults, and overpass their own. But this is a great proof, that whereas it is certain, that time taketh aways sorrow, yet that help doth not consist in time itself, but in long musing and pondering of the mischance. For if both the chance and also the man himself, are always one, how may the sorrow be any part suaged? if neither the thing which caused it, neither yet the man which sorroweth, are changed? wherefore, this continual opinion, that there is no evil in the thing, that is chanced, doth help the sorrow, and not the length of time. Here some men bring in the moderation of all perturbations which if it be naturally in man, then will nature itself appoint a measure of sorrow. But they consist only in the opinion. Let that opinion be wholly rooted out therefore. Now (I think) we ha●● sufficiently proved, that sorrow proceedeth of the opinion of some present evil: to the which opinion also, this is adjoined, that we ought of right to lament and be sorry. To this definition, Zeno hath well added, that that opinion of some present evil, aught to be fresh. By the which term he doth understand, not only that to be fresh, which happened but late, but also, as long as, in that which we took to be evil, there is any force or countenance which troubleth us.  
As Artemisia, the wife of Mausolus, king of Carya, which made that famous tomb at Halycarnassus, she (I say) all her life time lived in sorrow: and therewith also at length consumed. To her, this opinion which we now talk of, was continually fresh. He therefore that will assay to comfort any man, in his sorrow, ought either utterly to root out his grief, or to appease it, or else to mitigate it as much as may be, or else to suppress it, not suffering it to spread any further, or else to turn his mind from one grief to another. There be some, who think, that this only is the duty of him that would assay to comfort any man, to prove that it is no evil at all. Of the which opinion Cleantes is.  
There are other some which would have him show, that the evil is not so great as he taketh it. And of this mind are the peripatetics, and other there be, which think it sufficient to show, that it is no strange chance, which is happened. Chrysippus thinketh, that it is one of the chiefest points of comfort, to take away from him that is in heaviness this opinion, that he ought of duty to lament, and be sorry. There be some also, that put all these things together for divers men are diversly moved. I have put them all in my book, which I wrote of consolation. For at that present, my mind was greatly vexed, and I assayed all means to help myself. But we must take our time, as well in the diseases of the mind, as of the body. As Prometheus in Aeschilus. To whom when one said. 
But this (Prometheus) I do think, you know assuredly  
That reason force full lightly may, fond anger remedy.   
He answereth in this wise. 
I think so eke, if to the same, a man lay salve in time.  
And do not to a festered sore, apply his medicine.   
The first precept therefore in consolation, is to show that that which is chanced, is either no evil, or else very small. The next is, to show the comen estate and misery of mankind. The third, that it is mere folly in vain to waste himself with sorrow: especially, in asmuch as he perceived, that he is nothing helped thereby. For Cleantes comfort, serves but for a wise man, who needs no comfort at all. For if you persuade a sorrowful mind, that nothing is evil, but that which is dishonest, you shall not by that means take away his sorrow, but his folly. But truly both the time, is ill t● teach, and also it seemeth, that Cleantes saw not, that grief of mind might be stirred sometimes, upon such occasion, as I am sure he himself will confess not to be greatly evil. For what will he say hereunto? when Socrates persuaded Alcibiades, that there was no point of manhood in him, and that he was no better than the vilest slave, that went on the ground. When Alcibiades did for this cause afflict him, and humbly weeping, requested Socrates to instruct him in virtue, that he might fly vice: what? will you say Cleantes? that the cause of Alcibiades grief was no evil at all, because it was not the greatest evil that might be. Lycon, minding to make men esteem grief of mind, as a light matter, says that it is stirred upon small occasions: as with the mischances of fortune, and bodily hurt, without any evils pertaining to the mind. But did not the grief of Alcibiades, rise chiefly for the vices, which he felt in his own mind? Now of the consolation of Epicurus we have spoken sufficiently heretofore. Neither truly is that kind of comfort very strong, although it both is much used, and also many times taketh effect, I mean, to show, that such chances come not to him only. It helpeth in deed (as I have said) but neither at all times, neither yet all men. For there are some that despise it. But it is a great matter, bow we bear it. For we ought not to tell, what mischance every private man hath suffered, but how wisely wise men have borne it. The consolation of Chrysippus, is the strongest for the truth of the saying: but hardest to persuade in time of sorrow. For it is a hard work to prove to one that mourneth, that he doth it of his own free will, and for that he thinketh he ought so to do. Wherefore, as in pleading of causes, we do not always use one kind of state (for so we term the sundry sorts of controversies) but therein confirm ourselves, to the time, the nature of the question, and the person of the hearer, so must we do in the assuaging of grief. For we must mark what kind of cure each man is apt to take. But I know not how I have made a long digression from our purpose. For you moved your question of a wise man, to whom either nothing may seem evil, that wanteth dishonesty, or else if any evil chance unto him, it is lightly overcome with wisdom: so that it is scarce seen. Because he fosters no fond opinion, to the increase of his grief. Neither thinketh it wisdom to vex and waste himself with mourning. Then the which there can be nothing worse.  
Yet nevertheless, reason hath taught us (as I think) albeit it was not our appointed question at this present time, that nothing is evil, but that which is dishonest. Or at the lea●● wise, if there be any evil in grief, that it is not natural, but proceedeth of our own voluntary will, and erroneous opinion. Thus we have treated of the nature of sorrow, which is the greatest of all griefs. For it being taken away, the remedies of the rest need not greatly to be sought. Yet nevertheless, there are especial comforts against poverty, and a base and low life. And there are private schools appointed, to reason of banishment, the ruin of our country, bondage, weakness, blindness, and of every chance that may have the name of calamity. For these things the Greeks divide into several schools. For although they are matters worthy the reasoning, yet they ●ou●yte in handling of them only to delight the hearer. But as Physicians in curing the whole body, help also every least part, that had any grief in it. So likewise philosophy after it hath taken away this universal sorrow, rideth also all the rest, that use to trouble us, as pinching poverty infamous shame, hateful exile, or any of those griefs which I hau● already treated of.  
Yet there are several sorts of remedies, for every one of these.  
But we must always come to thy● foundation, that all grief of mind, aught to be far from a wise man.  
Because it is vain and to no purpose Because it is not natural, but proceedeth of a fond opinion, and judgement alluring us to sorrow, when we have once determined, that we ought so to do. This being taken away, which wholly consisteth in our own will, all sorrowful mourn, shall be utterly quenched. Perchance, certain privy pricks may remain, which let them count natural, so that the heavy, terrible, and deadly name of sorrow, be gone. Which may by no means dwell with wisdom. But there are many bitter branches of sorrow, which the stock being once rooted out, must needs whither and perish. How be it we had need of several reasonings against them: wherein, we will bestow some time of leisure. But there is one nature of all the griefs of the mind albeit there are several names. For both to envy is a point of grief of the mind, and also to back bite any man to be pitiful, to be vexed, to h● wail, to mourn, to lament, to sorrow, to be careful, to be afflicted, and to despair, all these, the stoics do seueral●ye define. And these words which I have rehearsed, are the names of several things, and not (as they seem to be) many words signyfyenge one thing: but differ somewhat. As we will in some other place perhaps, entreat more at large. These are the shoots of the stock (which we spoke of even now) which we ought so to root out that they might never rise again.  
A great work and a hard as no man denieth. But what notable thing is there which is not hard? Yet nevertheless, philosophy will bring it to pass. Let us only suffer ourselves to be ●ured of her. And thus we will finish this Question. And of the rest at some other time in this self same place I will be ready to reason.  
Finis.   

The fourth days reasoning of the fourth Question, disputed by Mark tully Cicer●, in his manor of Tusculanum, as well containing in it, the description and division, of all those perturbations, which commonly disquiet the mind, as also proving, that none such may, or aught to be in a wise man.  
BOth in many other things, I am wont to wonder at the wit, and travail of our countrymen (dear fr●nd Brutus, but chiefly as oft as I refer my mind to those studies, which being crept but very late into some estimation with us, and therefore scarcely miss or desired until these later days, they have now derived our of Greece, into this our city. For whereas even from the very beginning of the city. partly by orders appointed by the kings, which then reigned, & partly by written laws, divination by birds, ceremonies, elections of officers, appealementes, a parliament of lords, a muster of horsemen, and footmen, were ordained: yet much more afterwards, the comen wealth being once eased of the yoke of the kingdom, there was made a wonderful forwardness and a speedy course, to all kind of excellency. But this place serveth not, to talk of the customs and ordinances of our forefathers, or of the orders and governance of the city. Thereof, we have spoken sufficiently in other places. But chiefly, in those vi books, which we have written of a comen wealth. But in this place, whiles I consider with myself the studies of all sorts of arts, and learning, I have many occasions to think, that as they have been borrowed ●nd brought from the Greeks, so of us they have not only been desired, but also preserved and honoured. For there was well nigh in the sight of our forefathers, Pythagoras, a man of wonderful wisdom, and great fame ●or learning. who li●ed in Italy, about the same time, that Lucius Brutus (the noble ancestor, of your house) delivered his country, from the bondage of the kings. Pythagoras learning, spreading far abroad, came at the last also into this our city: the which we may gather, both by many probable conjectures, & also by evident reasons, which in manner of steps shall show us the truth. For who would think, that, whereas the country called great grease, well stored with mighty cities▪ was famous throughout all italy, & in it, first Pythagoras himself, and afterwards his scol●rs & followers, began to have a great reports name, who could thin●e I say, that the ears of our countrymen, were stopped or closed against their learned doctrine? I do rather judge, that because of the great estimation that the pythagoreans were in, such as l●ued after Numa, notwithstanding, y● Pithagora● lived not in his time, esteemed him to be a scol●r & follower of Pythagoras.  
For they knowing his orders & rules, and hearing of their forefathers the justice & wisdom of king Numa, being ignorant of the ages & times, because it did far pass the memory of them that then lived, believed, that he, who far passed all the men of his time, in wisdom & learning was undoubtedly the scholar and ●earer of Pythagoras. And thus far we have, reasoned by conjecture. But now, as concerning proofs▪ to show, that our countrymen knew the Pithagoreans. I could bring many. But I will use 〈…〉 ●●we, because▪ it is not our purpose, at this present time. For like as it is reported of th●●, that they were wont to give dark precepts in verses, & also to withdraw their minds from weighty▪ meditations, with song & instruments, so Cato a man of great gravity, and authority, wrote in his b●●ke which he made of the beginnings of this our city, that it was a custom used among our forefathers, in all banquets, that such as sat at the table should sing to the tune of an instrument the praise & prows of worthy men. whereby it is evident the songs even it the time were pricked by note. Also the law of the xii tables doth declare, that verses were wont to be made at that present: in that they command, that no man should make any ditye, to the hurt of another. Neither may this seem a light proof, of the learning which they used in those times: that, afore the pillows of the gods, and at the feasts of the magistrates, musicians did play: which was a thing, chiefly used of that sect, of which I now speak. Furthermore the verse of Appius the blind, which Paneti●● commendeth highly, in an epistle which he wrote to Q. Tubero, seemeth is savour Pythagoras doctrine. There be many of our orders also, which we had from them, which I do here overpass, least we may seem to have learned those things otherwhere, which we are thought to have invented our selves. But to bring back my talk to my first purpose: in how short time, how many and how notable poets, but chiefly what excellent orators, have there been among us? So that it may well appear, that our countrymen could attain all things, as soon as they gave their minds unto them. And of other studies, we both will speak in other places, if need shall require, and also have already spoken very oft. But the study of wisdom, is rooted truly among us: howbeit afore the time of Lelius and Scipio. I scarce find any, whom I might well name wise. In whose youth I understand, that Diogenes the Stoic, and Carneades the Academike, were sent ambassadors from the people of Athenes so our Senate, who having never borne any office in the comen wealth: & being borne the one at Cyrene, the other at Babylon, truly as I think, they had never been appointed to that office, unless in them, as in certain principal men, all studies of learning at that time had chiefly flourished.  
Such men, when they employed their wits, to writing, some penned the civil law, some their own orations, some the monuments of their forefathers. But this most ample and necessary art of all the rest. I mean the rule of good life, they taught more with their sincere cunning, then with any monuments of learning. And therefore of that true and excellent philosophy, which invented of Socrates, hath hitherto remained amongs the peripatetics, there be almost, either none, or else very few Latin works, either, because of the greatness & hardness of the things themselves, or else, because they thought, that their travail therein, should be nothing acceptable to such as were rude and ignorant.  
But while those worthy sages whisted & kept silence, there rose one Caius Amasanius, with whose books the people being persuaded gave themselves to his doctrine, whether it were, for that it was very easy to learn, either because they were alured thereunto, with the flattering baits of pleasure, or else because there was no other philosophy written, the which they heard, they followed. But after Amasianus many followers of his doctrine writing many books, spread the same, throughout all italy. And y●, which is a great proof that there is no witty invention, in their reasons, I mean because they be both lightli perceived, & also allowed of the unlearned, that they think to be a great strengthening to all their doctrine. but let every man defend what he likes best For each man's judgement ought to be free. I will keep mine old wont: & binding myself to no one sect to the which I ought of necessity to be subject, will always seek out, what in all things is most likely to be true. Which I have done, both in many other places heretofore. But chiefly of late in my manor of Tusculanum with earnest pains. Wherefore since I have already told you our iii days reasonings, it resteth that in this book you hear the fourth days disputation likewise.  
Therefore, when we came down into our shaded walk, as we did all the rest of the days, the matter fell out thus.  
Let some man say, whereof he will dispute.  Hea. 
I think that a wise man cannot want all perturbations of the mind.  Mar. 
Yesterday you thought that he might want sorrow unless perchance you agreed only because of the shortness of the time.  Hea. 
Not so, for your talk did marvelously well please me.  Mar. 
Think you then that sorrow can not hap to a wise man.  Hea. 
Yea truly, I think it can not.  Mar. 
But if it can not trouble the mind of a wise man, then truly can none at all. For what should do it? might fear disquiet it? But fear proceedeth but of the absence of those things, whose presence causeth grief and sorrow. Taking away sorrow therefore, fear is gone. Then there remain two perturbations: light gladness and desire. Which if they can not chance to a wise man, then shall his mind be always quiet.  Hea. 
So in deed I think.  Mar. 
Whether will you then, that we forthwith hoist up all our sails, or else as shipmen are wont to do, when they come forth of a haven, to row a while with oars.  Hea. 
What mean you by that? for I do not well understand you.  Mar. 
Because Chrysippus, and the stoics, when they reason of the perturbations of the mind, do bestow a great part of the time, in dividing and defining. Which talk of theirs, assuredly is of little purpose, to ease a troubled mind. But the peripatetics, bring many reasons to the comforting of our minds, and overpass these crabbed partitions, and definitions. I did therefore ask of you, whether I should at the first, hoist the sails of my talk, or else at the beginning row the same forwards with the oars or logic.  Hea. 
I think it best even so. For by that means best, shall my question be discussed.  Mar. 
Truly, it is the wisest way. For hereafter you may as●e of me, if any thing seem some what dark unto you.  Hea. 
I will do so in deed. But you nevertheless, after your accustomed wont, shall express these dark reasons more plainly, than the Greeks d● utter them.  Mar. 
I will do my endeavour. But you had need to hear attentively: least if you chance to forget some one small thing, all the rest also may chance to slip from you. Because those motions (which the Greeks term Pathae, we call perturbations rather than diseases: in describing of them, I will first f●lowe the ancient order of Pythagoras, than the trade of Plato. Who divideth the mind into two points: o● the which, the one they say is endued with reason, & the other is wholly void of the same. In that part which is partaker of reason, they place quietness with an assured constancy. In the other, they say, are all the troublous motions, as well of anger as desire, which are all enemies, and contrary to reason.  
Let this therefore be our foundation: but in describing these perturbations, we will use the● definitions and divisions of the stoics, which in my opinion handle this question more wittily than all the rest. This therefore, is the definition of Zeno, that that, which we term perturbation, & he Pathos, is a turning from the rule of reason, contrary to the nature of the mind. Some describe it more shortly, to be a vehement appetite. By vehement, they mean such a lust, as hath swerved far from the constancy of nature. But the sundry kinds of perturbations (they say) have their beginning of the two sorts of goods, and two sorts of evils. And so there are in number four. Two that are stirred by the opinion of some good thing: which are desire and gladness. For gladness proceedeth of joy, for some good thing, that is present: & desire, of some good that is to come. And two that are caused of the opinion of some evil, which are fear and grief of mind. Fear of evil to com●, and sorrow for some present evil. For those things, which we fear, when they are coming, those put us to grief when they are come. But mirth and desire, proceed always of the opinion of some good things▪ Desire fervently co●eytinge some thing that seems good unto i●, and mirth rejoicing for the obtaining of some thing which it had long time before coveted. For naturally, every man coveites that which seemeth to be good, and flies the contrary, wherefore wheresoever there is any thing which hath in it any appearance or show of goodness, forthwith na●●re itself provokes us to desire the same. Such a desire or lust, the stoics name Voyl●s●, and we term willing. It, they think, to be in a wise man only, and define it thus. Willing, is that, which desireth any thing according to reason.  
But it which covets against reason is called lust, or immoderate desire, which is in all fools. Also when we have attained any good thing, our mind is moved two manner ways.  
For either it is quyetelye moved unto mirth according unto reason: and then it is called i●ye: or else it rejoiceth vaynlye without measure, and then it may well be called light or overmuch mirth. Which they define to be the joy of the mind, without reason. And as we do naturally covet such things, as seem in our eye to be good, so do we naturally fly from those things which seem to be evil. Which if we do according unto reason, we may well call it wariness: and say, that it is in none, but only such as are wise. But if it be with an humble submission, without reason, then may it be called fear. So fear is weariness against reason. But as for any affection that should be in a wise man, because of some present evil, there is none at all. But that wherewith fools are cumbered, is sorrow, which proceedeth of the opinion of some present evil, and causeth them to abate their courage, and faint, contrary to reason. For the which cause, it is defined, to be a fainting of the mind, contrary to reason. So there are four kinds of perturbations: and but three sorts of good motions, because there is no good motion contrary to sorrow. But they think, that all these perturbations are stirred of our own judgement, and free will.  
And for that cause, they define they● yet more straightly: that men may not only perceive, how ill they be, but also, that they are in our own power. Sorrow therefore, is a fresh opinion of s●●e present evil. In the which it seemeth right, that the mind should ●●mble and submit itself to grief. girth, is a fresh opinion, of some good that i● present, wherein, it seemeth ●yght to rejoice. Fear is the opinion 〈◊〉 s●me evil hanging over us, which we think ourselves scarce able to suffer. Desire is the opinion of some good likely to come unto us, which it were for our profit presently to have. But in these opinions, they do not only place the perturbations themselves, but also those things which are done by them. As grief of mind, causeth a certain nipping of sorrow, and fear a fainting & submission of the mind, and joy an unreasonable mirth, and lust an immoderate desire. And this word opinion, which we have put into every one of the former definitions, they interpret to be a light agreement. But of every perturbation, there are many parts of the same sort. As of grief of mind, invyenge, (for we must use at this time that word, albeit it be not much in use. For envy is not properly said to be in him only, which doth envy another, but also in him which is envied) emulation, obtraction, pity, anguish, wailing, mourning, grief, sadness, lamentation, carefulness, troublesomeness, affliction, desperation, and such like. The sundry sorts of fear, are slothfulness, shame terror, flare, dread, extreme, fear examination, trouble, fearfulness. Of joy, there is malevolence, rejoicing at other men's loss, vain delg●htes, boasting, and others like. Of lust, or desire, there are anger, shaking, hatred, enmity, indigence, desire, with others of the same sort. And all these parts, they define after this sort. Enuienge, is a sorrow taken for some other man's prosperity, which nothing hurts the ●●●your. For, if any man be aggrieved with the prosperity of any man, that is noisome to him, he can not be well said to envy him. As no man would say, that Agamemnon did envy Hector. But he, which is grieved with the prosperity of some other man which is nothing hurtful to him, is said to envy. But emulation is taken two manner ways, the one praise worthy, tother discommendable.  
For, the desire to excel in virtue, is ●alled emulation. But thereof we will say nothing at this time. For it is commendable: and also, there is emulation which is a grief taken, for that another: hath obtained that which we 〈◊〉 t● have, and we do lack it, and this we now speak of. Obtrectation is a ●orowe taken, for that an other man hath gotten that which we desysyred. Pity, is a sorrow taken for the misery of some man plagued therewith unjustly. For the punishment of a mankyller, or a traitor mo●eth no man to pity. anguish, is a sharp grief. Wailing is a sorrow taken of some man's death, whom we loved entirely. mourning is a lamentable sorrow. Grief is a painful sorrow. Sadness is a vexing sorrow. Lamentation is sorrow joined with mourning. Carefulness is grief joined with thought. Troublesomeness, is a continual grief. Affliction, is sorrow joined with vexation of the body. Desperation is grie●● without hope of amendment. The parts of fear are defined thus. sloth, is a fear of some labour to come. terror is a quaking fear. For like as blushing followeth shame: so doth after terror, come paleness and quaking. Dread, is the fear of some evil nigh at hand. Extreme fear is such, as maketh a man besides himself. whereof there is this verse of Ennius. Then extreme fear, out from with in me, did bereave my wits.  
¶ Exanimation, is a fear following and ensuing extreme fear. Conturbation, is a fear, dispersing the thoughts. Fearfulness, is a continual fear The parts of fear they describe in this wise. Malevolence, is a pleasure conceived of an other man's adversity, which is nothing to our profit. Delight, is a pleasure rejoicing the mind, with some pleasant noise, sight touching, smell, or taste. Which are all of one sort. Pleasures invented to effeminate the mind. boasting, is a light and a bragging pleasure. The parts of desire they define in this wise. Anger is a desire to punish him which seemeth to have hurt us without cause. Chafing, is an anger soon begun & soon ended, which in Greek is called Thymosis, Hatred, is an inveterate malice. Enmity, is anger, waiting time to revenge. Discord, is a bitter anger, conceived with inward hatred, from the heart. Indigence, is an insatiable lust. Desire, is a lust to see some thing that is not present. But, the fountain and spring of all perturbations, is intemperance. Which is a swaxuinge of the whole mind, from the obedience of reason: so strayed from the rule of the same, that the lusts of the mind, can neither be ruled nor bridled. Wherefore, like as temperance doth quiet all lusts, and maketh them to obey reason, and keepeth the judgements of the mind uncorrupted: so the enemy of the same, intemperance, disquieteth, troubleth, and vexeth every part of the mind.  
And for that cause, both sorrow and grief, and also the other perturbations, are stirred by her. Like as when the blood in the body of man, is once corrupted, or fleaume or choler doth abound, it causeth sicknesses and diseases to rise in the body: so, the trouble of evil opinions, and their contrariety amongs themselves, bereaves the mind of health, and troubles it with diseases. Those diseases take their first beginning of perturbations▪ which the Greeks call Nosimata. In this point the stoics take much pains, in comparing the diseases of the mind, with the sicknesses of the body. Which (as a thing nothing necessary) being overpassed, let us com● to the matter. Let this therefore be presupposed, that every perturbation, because of opinions troublouslye tossing to and fro, is always moving. When this heat and stirring hath pierced the mind, and is entered as it were into the veins and marry, them riseth there both some sickness, and disease, and also those vices which are contrary to the same. For virtue, is not contrary to any perturbation but a mean betwixt two of them. These things which I say, differ in thinking, but in deed they are all one: and rise of desire a●d joy. For when a man coneyteth money, and hath not by him forthwith reason, which as the salve of Socrates, might heal that desire, it spreads forth into the veins, and pricketh in the inward bowels. An● there at the length, becometh a sickness or disease. Which being once rooted, can never be remedied: and is called avarice. The like is the beginning of all the rest: as of the desire of glory, concupisbence of women, and all the other perturbations. But those things, which are contrary to the same, are thought to b●●aused o● fear, as the hat● of women, or of all mankind, which was in Timon.  
Who was called 〈◊〉, which signifieth a hater of women. All these diseases, rise of a certain ●●are o● those things, which they fly, or ha●e ' But the sickness of the mind, to be a vehement opinion, that some thing ought to be desired which is not to be coveted. And the same firmly set and gra●●ed in the mind●. But that disease, which proceedeth of the mind being offended, they 〈◊〉 to be an earnest opinion, in anya 〈◊〉 that he ought to fly that, which ●n deed he ought not. And this opinion is in thinking, that he knoweth that, which 〈◊〉 knoweth not. But under the name of sicknesses, are contained all these. Co●eytise, ambition, concupiscence of women, stubbornness, riot, drunkenness and such like. Covetise, is an opinion ●●rmelye fired in our mind, that we ought to desire money. And after th● sam● sort are all the rest defined. But ●●ose vices, which grow by the offences of our mind against certain thinger, are thus defined. In hospita●●●●e▪ is a vehement opinion, firmly ●ooted in our minds, that good house ●●pynge, and hospitality, aught to be forsaken. After th● like sort is the hate of wom●n defiled. Which was in Timon. And that I may come at length, to th● comparison of health, and sickness of the body: herewith using it nevertheless, more sparelye than the stoics are wont: as there are some more prone to diseases, than other, whom we call syckelye, not for that they are always sick, but very 〈◊〉): So are there also, some more prone to fear, and some to some other perturbation.  
So in some men there is carefulness, whereof they are called careful: and in some angrynes, which differeth from anger. For it is one thing to be angry▪ and another to be angered. As carefulness, differeth from anguish. For ne●ther are all men careful at some time, when they feel anguish: neither ar● all careful men in anguish. As drunkenness, and drowsiness, differ, and it is one thing to be a lover, and another to be loving. And this proneness of diseases, extendeth far. For both it do●● pertain to many perturbations, 〈◊〉 also it is apparent in many vices▪ 〈◊〉 it hath no certain name▪ Therefore, men are called envious, evil willers, fearful, and pitiful, because they 〈◊〉 prone to these perturbations, though they be not always troubled with them. This proneness, in comparison▪ may be called sickness: so that proneness be always counted a readiness t● be sick. But it in good things, because some are more apt to goodness▪ than other, may be termed aptness.  
And in evil things, it may signify a ●●adines t●●all. And in such things, ●s are neither good nor bad, it may ●aue his former name. But as there ●re diseases and sicknesses in the 〈◊〉, so like wise there are in the mind. A disease, they call the infection of the whole body but a sickness, they name ● faint disease: A fault is, when the limbs of the body are not equally proporc●o●●ed: but some miss● placed, and ill favoured to see. So a disease, and sickness, are, when the whole bandy is disquiet, or out of tempe●▪ 〈…〉 may be oftentimes per●●yue●, 〈◊〉 body being of perfect health. But in the ●●nde, we can not separable ● 〈◊〉 from a disease, but only by thought. And in it that which we 〈◊〉 a fault in the body, may well 〈◊〉 called viciousness. Which is an in●●staunt and wavering dssposition, 〈◊〉 all the life tyme. So it 〈◊〉 to pass, that the corruption 〈◊〉 manners▪ breedeth a sickness and disease, and the other causeth inconstancy ●nd repugnance. Neither yet, doth e●●ry imperfection, cause discordance in the mind. As they who are not far from wisdom, yet whiles they are in that imperfection, have some jarring in their minds, but no such contrariety or repugnance. But, sicknesses and diseases, are parts of viciousness. But whether perturbations be parts of the same, it is in doubt. For vices be permanente affections: but perturbations, are continually in motion, so that they can be no parts of such affections, as use to continued in the mind. ●nd as in the proportion of evils, the mind may well be resembled to the body, so it may likewise in good things. For the chief parts in the body are beauty, might, health, and swiftness. The same likewise, there are in the mind. The body is in health when those principles of the which we consist, agree among themselves, and jar not. So the mind is said to be in good health, when it agreeth in right judgements, and true opinions. ●nd that is that virtue of the mind, which some ●all temperance▪ And other some name 〈◊〉 be a virtue, following and obeying temperance▪ having no certain name. But which of them so ever it be, they do all agree; that it is in a wise man only. But there is a certain health of mind, which a ●oole also may have. Which is, when by the help of philosophy, the perturbations of his mind are cured. And, is there is a certain proportion of the ●●●mes of the body, with a pleasant shape, which is called beauty: so likewise the equality and consent of the mind in opinions; and judgements▪ with a certain stoutness and constancy, following virtue, or rather, con●●ynyng the whole power and force of 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉 named the beauty of the mind. Now, as for the strength, ●●yntes, and stiffness of the body, there are like parts also in the mind. But whereas there is a certain quickness in the body otherwise called swiftness, neither doth the mind want that praise also: which in short time can run over, the remembrance of things, in number infinite. But these differences there are betwixt the body and the mind: that the mind being in good health, may in no part feel any grief: but the body may. Also, the diseases of the body may sometime come without our fault. But so can not the diseases of the mind. The lightest troubles of the which, can not happen, without the despising of r●●son. And for that cause, they be in me● only. For beasts may have some such like chances▪ but they have no ●●rturbations: and betwixt quick and dull witted men, this difference there is▪ that wise men, like as the brass 〈◊〉 Cori●●he will, seldom 〈◊〉 rows●ye, so will they likewise, either hardly fall into a●ye disease, or else y● they chance to fall into any, lightly●●e cured. And so it is not with dull witted men. Besides that, the mind of ● wise man is not subject to every perturbation. For he doth none of those things which are beastly and cruel. Yea, and those perturbations, which sometimes chance unto him, have a certain show of gentleness: as pity, sorrow, and fear. But those sicknesses, and diseases of the mind are more hard to be rooted out, than those extreme vices, which are contrary to virtues. For those old rooted diseases remaining, vices can not be taken away. Because they are not so lightly healed, as the other rooted out. And thus you have so much, as the stoics subtelye reason of perturbations.  
Which they call logical, because they are profoundly written. From the which, since our talk is now escaped, as it were from cragged rocks, now let us go to the other part of our disputations: if you think that we have spoken plainly enough, respecting the darkness of the matter.  Hea. 
Yea truly plainly enough. Therefore, now we look that you should spread the sails of your talk, which whilom you spoke of.  Mar. 
Forasmuch as, ●●th at other times heretofore, we have spoken much of virtue, and must also hereafter do the same. In many other places, (for most of those questions, which pertain to the trade of life and manners, are grounded upon virtue) for that cause we will now define virtue. Which is a constant, and laudable affection of the mind: both making them in whom it is commendable: and also itself, even without the name of profit, worthy of praise.  
From it, do proceed all honest desires, words, and deeds. And to be short, the whole rule of reason. Howbeit, virtue itself, may in the briefest manner, well be termed the rule of reason. To this virtue, vice is contrary, for so, I think better to term it, than malice: which the Greeks call Kaki●. For, malice is the name, of some one certain vice. But vice is the name of all. From which also, proceed all perturbations. Which be (as I said afore) the troubled and stirred motions of the mind, strayed from reason: enemies of the mind, and also of a quiet life. For they bring with they● careful and bitter griefs, they afflict and weaken the mind, with fear. They inflame it also, with a greedy appetite. Which we term, either desire or lust. Which is an impotency of the mind, swerving from temperance, and moderation. Which if it chance to obtain that, which it did desire, than it falleth into excessive mirth. So that, then, nothing which he doth is to any purpose at all. Like as he, which thinketh joy and pleasure of the mind, to be th● chiefest error. The help of all these evils, consisteth in virtue only. But what is there, not only more miserable, but also more filthy, or ill favoured, then to see a man afflicted or overcome with grief? To which misery, he truly is very nigh, who feareth any evil when it it is coming, and stands continually in dread of the same. The power whereof, the poets minding to express, feigned that in hell, a stone hangeth over the head of Tantalus, for the mischiefs which he had done, and his proud heart. And truly, it is the common pain of all folly. For all men, whose minds abhor from reason, have always some grief, or fear hanging over them. And as these two, namely grief and fear, are motions, wasting and consuming the mind: so, those which are some what more merry (I mean desire, which doth always gredely● covet some thing, and vain gladness, which is as much as excessive mirth) do either nothing at all or else very little, differ from madness.  
Whereby we may well perceive, what manner of man he should be, whom we call moderate, modest, temperate, constant, and continent. Which words also, we use sometimes, to refer to the name of frugality: as the chief of all the rest. And truly, unless under that name, all virtues were contained: this saying had never been so comen, that it had at these days purchased the name of a proverb. namely, that a a frugal man doth all things well.  
Which self same saying, the stoics affirm with great constancy, and stoutness. Whosoever therefore, hath so fortified his mind with moderance and constancy, that he is neither pined with sorrow, nor discouraged with fear, neither greedily coveting any thing, doth burn with desire, neither rejoicing, with excessive mirth, doth become effeminate: he is that man whom we seek. He is happy to whom neither any grief shall seem so intolerable, that it may constrain him to abate his courage: neither yet any joy so great, that it should cause him vainly to boast and brag of himself. For what may seem great to him, in this world, who museth on eternity, and knoweth the largeness of the wide world? For what, either in the invention of man, or else in this shortness of life, may seem strange to a wise man? whose mind, is always so watchful, that nothing can befall to him unlooked for, nothing unprovided, nor strange. Who also spreads his wit so far on all parts, that he doth always, see both place, and also time, how, and where he may live in time of anguish. So y●, whatsoever chance fortune shall cast on him, he will quietly take it, and be content therewith. Which, whosoever doth, he shall want not only grief of mind, but all the other perturbations also. And truly, the mind being of them eased, is perfectly and absolutely happy. And the same stirred and drawn by them, from sure and perfect reason, doth lose not only constancy, but also, all his health. Wherefore, fond and effeminate is the reason and talk of the peripatetics, who think it necessary, that our minds should be troubled. But, they appoint a certain mean, which we ought not to exceed. Will you make any mean in vice? Or is it no vice, not to follow reason? Or doth not reason teach, that it is not good, either thirstily to covet any thing, or when thou hast obtained it, to rejoice vainly? Doth she teach, that it is no evil, either to be overcome, or else not to be quiet in mind, because of sorrow?  
Doth not she show thee: that all exceeding sadness, or vain mirth, proceedeth of error? For let us seek some mean in sorrow. For in it men take most pain. Fanius writeth, that Publius Kutilius, took grievously his brother's repulse, when he stood in election for the consulship. But it seemeth that he passed measure. For it was the only cause of his death. He ought then, to have taken it more moderately. But, what if whiles he took this so grievously, the death of some of his children had chanced also? Then there had also come a new grief. Nevertheless, moderate: but yet it had been a great increase of his former sorrow. What, if then, there had ensued some disease in his body, the loss of goods, blindness, banishment, and some new grief, and a new sorrow for every one of them? then it were made the greatest grief that might be: which could not be borne. So we see that, who so ever seeks to appoint a mean in any vice, doth, like as if a man would think, that one that should cast himself down from a rock, into the sea, might stay himself, when he would. For truly, like as that can not be, so, neither can a troubled, or moved mind, stay itself, where and when it wil Also, those things which are ill, when they come to their ripenesss, and proof, those same also are nought, when they are tender & young. But sorrow, and all other perturbations, when they are increased to the most, are undoubtedly pestilent. Therefore, even at the first breeding they are not without vice. For when they are departed once from reason, they increase of their own accord: and over own frailty flatters it: and so at the last, unwares launches into the deep, where it can not stand. Wherefore there is no difference, whether they allow a mediocrity of perturbations, or a mean of unrighteousness, sloth, and intemperance. And he which appointeth a mean in vice, confesseth, that some part thereof aught to be borne. Which both is odious of itself, and also so much the worse, as all vices are of slippery nature, and being once begun in any man, do continually cause him to fall and slide into all naughtiness. So that, he can by no means, stay himself. Furthermore, what a thing is it that the Parepatetikes say, that these perturbations, which we think aught to be pulled out by the roots, are not only placed in us of nature, but also that the same was done for a great commodity? For this is their saying. first they commend anger highly, naming it the whet sloane of fortitude and saying, that it inflameth the hearts of men, more stoutly both against their enemies, and also against a wicked citesen: terming their reason's light, who did thus persuade themselves. It is right that we should wage this war, that we should fight for our laws, liberty, and country.  
These things, are of no force to inflame our courage (say they) unless anger be present. Neither do they reason thus of warriors only. But they think also, that there can be no severe judgements, without some sharpness of anger. Neither do they allow any orator, not only being plaintiff, but also defendant, unless he plead angerly. Or, if he be not angry, yet both in his words, and gestures, do feign anger: so that, his words, may kindle and provoke the hearers to anger. To conclude, they think he is no man, that can not be angry. And that which we call gentleness, they term lenity: and count it a fault. Neither do they only commend this kind of lust (for anger as I have already defined it, is the lust to revenge) but say also that that other sort of lust, or desire, was given us of nature for a great commodity. For they think that no man can do any thing notable, unless he have an earnest lust, or desire unto it.  
Themistocles walked in the night time, in the open street, because he could not sleep. The cause whereof, when some men did inquire, he answered, that the triumph of Milciades would not suffer him to take his rest. who hath not hard, of the watchfulness of Demosthenes? who said that it grieved him very much, if he should here any workmen up afore him. To conclude, the chiefest Philosophers, should never have profited so much in their studies, without a burning desire, and zeal of learning. We have heard, that Pythagoras, Democritus, and Plato, searched the farthest countries that are known, for knowledge. For where so ever they hard, that there was any thing for them to learn, thither, they thought, that they ought to travail. And think we, that they would so have done, without a great heat of desire? Now, sorrow itself, which I said, that men ought with all their might to fly, as an horrible and ugly beast, they think to have been appointed of nature, not without some singular commodity. Which is, that it should grieve men for their faults to be chastened, rebuked, and put to shame. For they seem safely to have sinned, who bear shame and reproach (which they deserved for their fault) without any sorrow. It is better to have his conscience gnawed with repenta unce.  
Whereof proceeded that saying of Afranius, who when his effeminate son cried out, alas I wretch, his severe father answered. If one part grieve thee, would to god, that all did smart a like.  
¶ Also, the other two parts of sorrow they say, are profitable. Pity, to help and relieve the calamity, of such as are vniu●●lye tormented. Yea and that emulation is not unprofitable: which is, when we are agryeved, that either we have not attained that, which some other hath, or else some other hath obtained the same, which we have gotten. But fear, if any man should take away, then were all diligence (think they) utterly gone. Which is chiefly seen in them, which fear the laws, the officers, poverty, shame, death, or sorrow. All these things, they say, aught to be cut of, from their full stirring and liberty, but to be rooted out, they think they neither can, neither need to be. So that, as in all other things, so in this also, they think the mean to be best. In which reasons, think you, that they speak any thing to the purpose, yea or no?  Hea. 
Truly, they seem to me, to speak very reasonably. And therefore I look, how you wilt answer them.  Mar. 
I will find some what to object against them. But this one thing before. Do you mark, how great modesty there was amongs the Academics? For they speak plainly to the purpose. The Peripat●tikes, are answered of the stoics. Let them contend for me: who need not, but to inquire what is most likely to be true, in every question. What is there then in this question, whereby that may be tried? farther than the which the wit of man can not reach, the definition of perturbations: which I think, that Zeno hath well expressed. For he doth thus define it. A perturbation, is a motion contrary to reason, and against the nature of the mind. Or more briefly thus. A perturbation, is a vehement appetite, or lust. By vehement, be understandeth such an appetite, as should far serve, from the constancy of nature. What is there that I may say against these definitions? But these are for the most part, the words of wise and subtle disputers. But these terms of the peripatetics, the heat of the mind, and the whetstones of virtue, come out of the Rhetoricians schools. But can not a man be stout, but when he gins to stomach the matter. Truly, that is a point of masters of fence: howbeit, oftentimes in them also, we see great modesty. They comen together, they company together, they ask questions one of another. So that they seem to be pleased, rather than angry. But of their opinion, let there be some one like Pacidianus, whom Lucilius describeth with these words. 
I'll kill him straight, and beat him sure, if that be it you seek.  
But first perhaps his chance may be, me in some place to strike.  
Afore my sword within his heart or lights I fasten may.  
I hate the slave, and therefore now no longer will I stay  
Then till his sword out of his sheath into his hand he take.  
So much I long my hateful wrath upon his blood to slake.   
But without this drunken anger, we see Aiar in Homer, coming out many times, with great mirth, when he should fight with Hector. Whose entry into the field, when he had put on his armour, rejoiced his fellows, and feared his foes. insomuch, that, (as Homer writeth) it repented Hector himself, that he had provoked him to battle. And they truly; commoning gently, and quyetely, the one with the other, afore they fought, did not in their very fight, do any thing angerly, or outrageously. I truly think, that not Torquatus, who got his name by fight, did with an angry mood, take away the french man's ●hayne. Neither, that Marcellus was therefore to be counted stout, at Clastidium, because he was angry. For Africanus, because he is better known unto us, for that he lived but of late years, I durst swear, that he was not then inflamed with anger, when he covered with his Tergat, Marcus Halienus, a Pelignian, & fastened his dart, in the breast of his enemy: of Lucius Brutus, there is more doubt whether, because of the unmeasurable hate, that he bore against the Tyrant, he ran more fiercely against Aruns or no. For I understand, that either of them, at one course, slew the other. What need you, to bring in anger then? Hath fortitude no force, unless she begin to wax mad? What? think you that Hercules, whom this self same valiantness, hath now placed in the heaven's: was angry, when he fought with the bore of Erimanthia, or with the lion of the wood Nemeus? Did Theseus in a chafe, hold the bull of Marathonia, by the horns? Take heed, that you join not fortitude with madness. Whereas anger is full of all lightness. And fortitude, can not be without reason. All chances that may happen to man, are to be despised.  
Death is not to be feared. We must think, all grief, and pain, tolerable. These things, when a man mindeth with himself, with a sincere ●udgement, and reasonable decree: them is fortitude in him strong, and stable. Unless perchance they will say, that such things, as are done vehemently and stoutly, are done angerly. But ●rulye, Scipio, who was wont to affirm that saying of the stoics, that a wise man was never angry: in my opinion was not angry with T. Gra●●hus when he (I say) being chief priest forsook the consul being sick, and he himself, being but a payvate man, as if he had been consul, commanded every man, that bare good will to the common wealth, to follow him. I know not, whether I myself did any thing stoutly, when I bare office in the comen wealth. But if I did any such thing, truly it was without anger. Is there any thing that doth more resemble madness, than anger? which Ennius did well term, the beginning ●f madness. The colour, voice, eyes, and breath, being scarce able as well to speak as to do any thing, what point of health or wisdom do they declare▪ what may there be more foolish, then Achilles in Homer? or then Againem non scolding? for Ajax anger brought both to madness, and also to death. Fortitude therefore needeth not the aid of anger. It is sufficiently furnished, armed and aided of itself. For after their opinion, we may say, that drunkenness, is profitable for fortitude. And so likewise of madness. Because, both mad & drunken men, do many things very stoutly. Ajax was at all times stout, but most of all in his madness. For than he did a valiant feat, when the Grecians, being ready to fly, he only aided them, and renewed the battle. Shall we therefore say, that madness is profitable? Weigh the definition of fortitude. So shall you perceive, that it needeth not anger. Fortitude therefore, is an affection of the mind, obeying the high law of reason in suffering things. Or the continuance, of a stable and sure judgement, in the suffering or avoiding, of those things, which seem to be fearful & terrible. Or, the knowledge of such things, as aught to be feared, & also of the contraries, continuing a certain and a sincere judgement of the same. Or else, more briefly, as Chrysippus doth (for all the former definitions, are made by one Spherus, who according to the judgements of the stoics, is expert in defining, and they are all in manner like, but the one declareth some things, mere plainly than the other.)  
How then sayeth Chrysippus? Fortitude, is the knowledge (sayeth he) how to bear, or suffer griefs. Or it is an affection of the mind, obeying the high law of reason, in bearing and suffering without all fear. Although, we use to scoff at these philosophers, as Carneades was wont, yet I fear, lest they only, are to be counted philosophers. For, which of these definitions, doth not open unto us, the opinion, which is hidden, and closed in our minds, of the nature of fortitude? Which being opened, and known, who is there that would seek any other aid, for a warrior, judge, or orator. Or would not think, that they, without madness or anger, could do any thing stoutly? Why? the stoics when they prove, that all fools are mad, do they not rehearse, these things, amongs their folly, and madness. Take away the perturbations, and anger chiefly, their reasons will seem to be monsters. They reason thus. We say, that all fools are mad likeas we say, that dung smells ill.  
But as dung doth not always smell ill, but when you stir it, you shall then perceive it: so likewise, an angry man, is not always angered. but provoke him a little, and then shall you see him stark mad. What? this warlike anger, when it entereth into any house what division maketh it, betwixt the man and wife, children, and all the household? Is it then profitable also? Is there any thing, that a dysquyete mind, can better do, than a quiet and constant? Or can any man be angry, without the disquieting of his mind? Our countrymen therefore, whereas all diseases of the mind, are great faults and vices, yet, because none of them was worse than anger, did term only those, which were angry men, si●ke persons. But an orator truly, anger becometh not, and to dissemble, is it not a shame? Do you think us then to be angry, when we speak somewhat earnestly, or vehemently in pleading? Also, when the matters being paste and gone, we write orations, do we then write angrily? Did any man think that either Aesopus, pleaded being angry? or, that Accius, wrote in a chafe? All things, are handled more notably, and far better, of some orator, then of any stage player. But they are handled by them, quietly and peasablye. Now, to commend lust, what a toy of lust is it? You bring for the Themistocles, and Demosthenes, to whom you join also, Pythagoras, Democritus and plato. What? do you ●all earnest study, a lust? which being referred to the best sort of things, yet ought we to be quiet and steadfast. But in praising sorrow, of all others most detestable, what philosophers, do they show themselves? But Afranins said well. If one part grieve thee, would to god, that all might smart alike.  
For he spoke it, of a reckless, and a dissolute young man. But we put our question of a constant and a wise man. And so let us leave that anger, to some captain, or soldier: whom we need not here to rehearse. For it is good, for them to use the motions of their mind who can not use reason. But we (as I have often heretofore said) put our question of a wise man. But emulation, obtrectation, and pity, are also profitable. Why shouldest thou pity a man rather than help him, if thou canst? Can we not be liberal without pity? We ought not to sorrow for other men, put if we can, to ease others of sorrow. Now, obtrectation, and emulation, whereunto are they profitable? since it is the point of emulation, to be vexed at an other man's commodity, which he himself hath not: and the nature of obtrectation is, to be grieved, with the prosperity of an other, for that he hath gotten the self same commodity, that we had. But who could find in his heart, to come to the experience of things, by sorrow? And the mediocrity of evils, who can justly commend? For, who is there, in whom there is any lust, or desire at all, that is not a naughty lustre, & desirer of that, he should not?  
Or who is there, in whom there is any anger, that is not an angry person?  
Or who is there, in whom there is sorrow, that is not sorrowful? In whom is there fear, that is not fearful? And think you, that a wise man, may be a vicious desyrer, of that, he should not, or an angry, sorrowful, or fearful person? Of whose praise, although, I could speak very much, yet thus much I will briefly say, that wisdom, is the science, and knowledge, of the proper, & appointed causes, of every thing: as well in heaven as in earth. Whereby, it appeareth, that it pursueth only such things, as are heavenly: & earthly things, it doth subdue & rule, with virtue: Did you then say, that to him, as a sea lying open for every wind, any perturbation might chance.  
What is there, that could trouble so great gravity, and constancy? May some sudden or unprovided chance do it? But what such thing, may happen to him, to whom no chance, that may happen to man, doth come unlooked for? For whereas they say, that that, which is overmuch ought to be cut away, and that those things only, which are natural, ought to be left: what one thing is there, engrafted in us of nature, of the which, we have over much? For all these things spring out of the roots of error: which ought wholly to be pulled up, and not to be pared, or cut away. But because I think, you do not put your question of a wise man: but of yourself, or of some other comen person, (for him perchance, you think to be void of all perturbations) let us see what store of remedies, philosophy hath devised, to help the diseases of the mind. For assuredly, there is some medicine. For nature was not so cruelly bend against mankind, that whereas, she hath invented so many remedies for the body, she would devise none for the mind. Of which also, she hath better deserved. For that whereas the medicines of the body, are made of things without the same: the health and helps of the mind are closed within itself. But look, how much more noble, and heavenly their nature is, so much the more diligence they need to be cured. Reason therefore, being in good plight, sees what is best to do: But being neglected, or impure, it is wrapped in many errors. To you therefore now I must turn all my talk For you feign, that you put your question of a wise man. But, perhaps you mean it by yourself. Of those perturbations therefore, which I have rehearsed, there are divers and sundry remedies. For all sorrow is not suaged after one sort. For, there is one way to help him that mourneth: an other, to help him that pitieth: and an other to help him that envieth. Also, there is this doubt in all the four perturbations, whether we ought, in consolations, to apply our talk against all perturbations generally (which are the despising of reason, or else a vehement appetite) or else frame our persuasion, against every singular perturbation. As against fear; desire, or any of all the rest. And whether we ought is reason, whether this private chance, for the which he is so vexed, ought patiently to be borne: or else, to show, that we must not be sorry for any chance. As if a man were pricked with poverty, whether, would you prove unto him, that poverty is no evil at all, or else, that a man ought to take no mischance heavily. This last truly were the better: lest, if you should not persuade him, that poverty is no evil, you must needs give him leave to sorrow. But if you take away all manner of grief, with such reasons, as I yesterday used: you shall in manner, take away, all the evil of poverty. But, let every such perturbation, be finished with the quietness of the mind. which comes, when you prove, that it is no good, that we so desire: or that causeth us, to rejoice: and that it is no evil, whereof our fear, or grief doth proceed. And this is a sure and approved remedy: to show, that the perturbations themselves, are vicious. And, that they are not in us of nature: neither are caused by necessity. As we see that commonly men suage their sorrow, when we cast in their teeth, the weakness of their effeminate mind: & when we commend unto them, their gravity, and steadfastness, which without any trouble, do bear the like. Which truly, is wont sometimes to chance to them, which think them to be evelles in deed, and yet nevertheless, that they are to be taken in good part. As perchance, some man thinks pleasure to be a good thing: and some other hath the same opinion of money: yet nevertheless, both the one may well be stayed from riot, and also the other from coveteyse. But the other manner of persuasion, which doth assay, both to take away their fond opinion, and also to rid their sorrow: is in deed, more profitable. But it takes effect but field, And also, it is not to be ministered to the comen people. Also, there are some sorts of sorrows, which that medicine can not help. As if any man be aggryeved for the lack, that he feeleth in himself, of virtue, courage, good behaviour, or honesty: he truly, were grieved for a thing, that is in deed evil. But there must be some other salve ministered to him. And that is such truly, as may well enough be a help of all the rest. For this every man ought to confess, that although, those things which stir us to fear, or sorrow, be evil, yea, or no: or those things, which cause us to desire, and rejoice, be good, yea or no: yet assuredly, that motion or stirring of the mind is evil. For, we will, that he, whom we term a stout hearted, and valaiunt man, should be constant, quiet, gra●e and such a one, as should tread under his feet, all chances, that might happen to man. But such a one, can not be a sorrowful, fearful, desirous, or a fond, joyous person. For, those things are in such, as suffer chances to bear dominion over them. Wherefore, this is one precept, comen amongs all philosophers, that we speak not of that, which troubleth the mind: but only of the perturbation itself. And therefore, first as concerning desire, when we mind to take away that perturbation, we must not always reason, whether that be good or no, which moved us to desire: but the desire itself, must be taken away. So that, whether honesty be the chiefest good, and therefore chiefly to be desired, or if pleasure be it, or else both of them joined together, or all those three sorts of goods, namely of the mind, body and fortune: yet nevertheless, if we unto much desire, even virtue itself: we must use the like means, to dissuade men from that, as we use in all the rest. Also, the description of the nature of man, being set afore our eyes, is a great means to quiet our mind. Which, that they may more plainly behold, you must describe in your talk, the comen state, and misery of man's life. And therefore, it is reported, that Socrates, not without cause, cut away these three first verses of Euripides, from that tragedy, in the which he describeth the history of Orestes. 
The fearefulst chance, that either tongue may tell, or ear may hear.  
That chance may bring, or gods down fling, our troubled minds to fear.  
The nature yet, and heart of man, with patience well may bear.   
¶ Also, to persuade, that it which is chanced, both may, and also aught to be borne, the rehearsal of many, which have suffered the same, is very profitable. Howbeit, we have showed, how sorrow might be suaged, both in our yesterdays talk, and also in our book of consolation: which, (for I must needs confess: that I am no wise man) I wrote in the mids of all my grief and sorrow. And whereas, Chrysippus doth forbid us to minister our medicines, when our mind is fresh swollen, with the wound: yet I did it, and joined thereunto, the whole strength of my nature: that, the sharpness of my sorrow, might yield, to the strength, of the medicine. But next to sorrow (of the which we have sufficiently spoken) comes fear. Of the which also, somewhat must be said. For as sorrow, proceedeth always, of some present grief: so is fear always caused, of some grief that is to come. And for that cause, some said, that fear was a certain branch of grief: other some, said it was the forerunner and guide of grief. Wherefore, by the same means, that we may bear grief, when it is present, by the same also we may despise it, that is likely to ●om●. For we must take great heed, that in them both, we do nothing more humbly, lowly, wantonly, effeminately, or abject like, then it becometh a man. But, although, we must treat of the inconstancy, weakness, & lightness of fear: yet it is good to despise those things, which most men fear. And for that cause, whether it were by chance, or else of set purpose, it happened very well, that the first, and second day, we reasoned of those things, which men most of all fear, namely of death, and of pain. Our reasons of the which, who so ever doth like, and bear away well: he may easily be rid of fear. And hitherto we have treated of those perturbations, which proceed of the opinion of some evil. Now, let us consider those, which are stirred, by the opinion of some goodness. Which are joy and desire. And I think truly that of all perturbations of the mind, there is one only cause: and that, they are all in our power: and, that we suffer them to enter upon us, of our own voluntary free will. This error therefore, and feigned opinion, must be taken away, & as by reason, we make those things, which seem to be evil, more tolerable, so we must in those things also, which are thought to be great and notable goods, make our mind more quiet and peaceable. And this truly, is comen, as well to those things, which are counted evil, as also to those which are counted good: that, if there be any difficulty to persuade, that those things, which trouble his mind, are not good, or that they are not evil, yet nevertheless, we must have a several remedy for every kind of motion. For there is one way to help an envious person, another to ●elpe a lover. One mean to ease a so●owefull man, and an other to help a ●earefull person. And truly, it were easy for such a one, as followeth the true opinion of good and evil, to deny, that ●●oole could at any time be troubled with mirth. Because nothing that ●ood were, could happen unto him.  
But now, we speak after the comen ●●rte. Admit that those things, which 〈◊〉 thought in this world to be the ●●●efest goods, were so in deed. I ●eane, honour, riches, pleasure, & such 〈◊〉. Yet nevertheless, if we had obtained any of the same: fond & light ●irth, were to be dispraised. As, although it be lawful to laugh, yet light ●aughter is discommendable. For the same fault, is vain joy of the mind in mirth: that shrinking and abating ●f courage, is in sorrow. And even as light, and fond, is desire in coveting: as joy is in obtaining. And as ve●a●●on in an afflicted: so, in a joyful mind vain mirth is counted light: and whereas, to envy, is a branch of grief, but to be delighted with other men's mischance, is a part of light mirth: both sorts, are wont to be reproved, by setting afore them their own cruelty, and fierceness. And as it becometh us, to be bold, but to fear, it doth not beseem us: so we lawfully may rejoice, but not be drowned in vain mirth. For, for to teach more plainly, we will at this time dissever joy and mirth. We have said already that the shrinking of the mind, could never be without fault. But the raising or exalting of the same, might well be. For otherwise Hector in Ne●ius doth rejoice. 
It glads me (father) that you, who were well est●emd always.  
Did not disdain, with blameless tongue, my simple facts to praise.   
¶ And otherwise Cherea, in Trabea. 
A bawd being greased with money, shall be ready at my call.  
My finger's push, shall cause the doors, and gates abroad to fall.  
And forthwith Chrisis, as soon as she shall me there espy,  
Will merely come to meet me then, rejoicing me to see.   
What a commodity and pleasure, he thinketh this to be, his own words, may well declare. Thus my good chance shall pass, the luck, of fortune lo itself.  
What a filthy mirth this is, it is sufficient, that who so ever list behold it, may sufficiently see, and look how ●eastlye they be, that do then rejoice, when they have obtained the pleasures of the flesh: alike filthy are they also, which fervently desire the same. But all that, which is called love, (and truly, I can find no other name that it hath) is of such lightness, that I know not, whereunto I might compare it.  
Of whom Cecilius writeth. 
Who would not count him now for god, and that right worthily.  
Who makes some fools, and other still in ignorance lets lie.  
In whose hand madness is and wit, who some men's hearts hath fired  
Some makes beloved, some hated eke, and some to be desired.   
O notable poetry, the amender of our lives, which thinks, that the love of sin, and the ancthoure of all lightness, ought to be placed amongs the immortal Gods. But, hitherto, I speak of a comedy. Which consisteth of nothing else, but such mischiefs.  
But what sayeth the prince of the sailors in the ship Argo, in a tragedy? Thou savedst me but for my love, and not mine honours sake.  
This love of Medea, what flames of misery did it kindle? And yet nevertheless, she in an other poet, dares to say to her father, that she had a husband. Whom love her gave, whose force did pass the duty she ought him.  
¶ But let us give the poets leave to trifle, in whose tales, we see this vice, attributed to jupiter himself. And let us come, to the Philosophers, the masters of all virtue. Which deny that thereabout contend much with Epicurus. Who therein, in my opinion, lieth nothing. For what is this love, that men term friendship? Or why, doth no man love a foul young man, or a fair old man? truly, I think, this custom began first in the universities of Greece, in the which, such love is permitted. But well said Ennius. 
It is the cause of much mischief, and vice as I suppose,  
That men should use in open sight, their bodies to disclose.   
Which sort of men, if they be honest, (as I think they may) yet is it not without great pain and trouble. Yea, and that so much the more, for that, they do, in manner constrain themselves to refrain. And that I may overpass the love of women, which is far more natural than the other: who doubts what the poets meant, by the rape of ? Or who knoweth not what Laius in E●ripides, doth both speak and wish? Furthermore, who seeth not, what songs and ballads, the most chiefest, and best learned poets, set forth of their own loves.  
Alceus, being a man of good reputation, in the common wealth, yet what toys wrote he, of the love of young men? And all the writings of Anacreon, are only of love. But most of all other, Rheginus Ibicus, even burned with love: as it appeareth by his writings. And now, we philosophers also, (yea and that, by the council and authority of Plato, whom Dicearchus doth therefore worthily reprehend) are become the commenders, and honourers of love. For the stoics, both say, that every wise man will love: and also, define love, to be the desire to get amity: stirred by the sight of beauty. Which, if it may be without care, desire, & thought, I am well contented to admit. For them, it wants the perturbation of desire. Against the which, we at this present reason. But if love be, (as it is truly) not far distant from madness, as it was in him of the i'll of Leucadia, who crieth out thus.  
If so in heaven be any god, that doth for me take care.  
Now truly, it were but reason, that the gods should care, how he might obtain his fleshly lust. Then he goeth forward.  
Alas unhappy man:  
truly, he spoke nothing in all his talk, more true. But he answereth him well. May I think, that thou thy wits well hast, that dost so sore lament?  
So he seems, even to his own companion, to be mad. But hark what tragedies he makes. On the Apollo, now I call, on Neptune, and ye winds.  
He thinks, that the whole world, will turn to help him. Venus' only, he excludeth as unjust. Saying. For wherefore should I now, call on thy name O Venus' vain.  
For her, he thinks, for the delight, that she takes in fleshly pleasure, to care for nothing else. As though he himself, doth not both do and say, all his flagitious toys, only for fleshly pleasure. Whosoever therefore, is herewith diseased, aught thus to be cured. Both by chewing, how light, how fond, and also of how small effect, that thing is, which he doth desire: or else, how ease lie in some other place, or by some other means, he may obtain his dedesire, or utterly neglect it. Also, he must sometimes be turned to other thoughts, cares, & business Oftentimes change of place helpeth, likeas it doth also, a diseased body. Also, some think that old love is driven away with some new fancy, lykeas, when with one nail, we drive out another. But chiefly we must put him in mind, what madness is in love. For of all the perturbations of the mind, there is none more vehement. So that, if you would not blame it, for the whoredom adultery, & other vicious acts, which ensue thereupon: yet you must needs hate it, because of itself, it is a perturbation. For, that I may overpass those things, which declare stark madness in it. Of what fondness, are all these th●nges, which seem to be but mean? 
In love are wrath, fierce hate, & truce, with sour suspicions eke.  
Now war, than peace: which if that thou, to make certain dost seek  
By reason's force: then sure I think, thou shouldst do nothing more,  
Then if thou seek how to be mad, obeying reason's lore.   
This inconstancy, and wavering of mind, only, whom is it not able to fear? Also, we must show unto them that which is comen to every perturbation: that namely, that they are all taken of a fond opinion, and of our own free will. For, if love were natural, both all men should love, and also be loved, and should at all times love, yea, and all men one thing. Neither, should shame, thought, or satiety fear any man from the same. But anger, although it doth long trouble the mind, yet it is not taken to be madness: by force of the which, there riseth sometimes, even amongs brethren such like chiding. 
What man in shameless impudence could any time pass thee?  
Nay, who, in cankered malice could thy better ever be?   
You know what followeth. For, verse for verse, there are very quick taunts betwixt those brethren. So that it may lightly appear, that they were the sons of Atreus. Who museth, how to invent some strange cruelty, against his brother. 
A greater poise of mischief now, doth lie upon my neck.  
In musing how, his stubborn heart and stomach I may break.   
Will you know what poise, or load of mischief, this is? Then hear Thyestes saying. My wicked brother, counsels me, my children's flesh to eat.  
Lo he sets the bowels of his children afore him. For what cruelty is there, to the which, anger, & madness would not persuade a man? And for that cause we do well say, that angry men are out of their own power. By the which, we mean, that they are without counsel and reason. Which only, aught to rule our minds. From such men, we must remove them, on whom they would gladly avenge themselves till such time, as they come again to themselves. Which, what other thing is it, then to bring home, the scattered parts of the mind, into their own place? Or else we must desire and entreat them, that if they have any great desire to revenge: yet they would differre it, to some other time, till their anger coal. For, in their anger, the heat of their mind, doth even boil against reason. For the which cause, the saying of Architas, is much commended. Who, being angry with one of his hinds, said. O how would I have beaten thee, unless I had been angry? Who be they then, that say, that anger is profitable? (so may madness be profitable) or natural? Can any thing be natural, which is contrary to reason? Also, if anger were given us of nature, how should one man be more angry than another? Or, how could any man be sorry for that, which he had done in his anger? As we have heard of king Alexander, who when in his rage, he had caused his very friend Clitus, to be put to death, afterwards, for sorrow he would have slain himself. So much it did repent him. Wherefore is there any doubt, but that this motition also, doth wholly consist in our own opinion, and will? For, who doubteth, that all diseases, such as covetousness and desire of glory are: do rise, and are caused hereof: namely, for that we have those things, of the which they take their beginning, in great reputation? Wherefore, we do well perceive, that every perturbation, consisteth in opinion. And, if boldness, be a certain and sure knowledge, and a constant opinion, not agreeing rashly to any thing: then is fear, a mistrust, and doubt of some evil, that we look for even at hand. And, if hope, be the expectation of some good thing: then, is fear the expectation of some evil thing. As fear therefore, so all the other perturbations also, are of the number of evils. And, as constancy, is caused of knowledge: so doth perturbation proceed of error. But, such, as are said naturally to be angry, pitiful, envious, o● any such like: they truly, have an ill constitution of their minds. But nevertheless, they may well be healed. As it is reported of Socrates, in whom, when one Zopirus (which professed the knowledge of every man's disposition, by the sight of his face,) had reckoned up a great number of vices, in the presence of some of the friends of Socrates, who knew, that he was not faulty in them: they laughed him to scorn. But Socrates, defended him.  
Saying, that those signs and conjectures were in him in deed. But, that he did overcome them with reason.  
Wherefore, as men being in good health, may seem yet, some more than other, to be given, to this or that disease: so likewise some man's mind is more prone to vice, than some others. But their vices, who are not of nature but only be their own fault vicious, consist, of the false opinions of those things, which they count either good or evil. And a disease once rooted, like as in the body, so in the mind also, is hardly helped. For, easier it is, to heal a sudden swelling, of the eyes, than a continual blearynesse. So, the cause of all perturbations, being once known, which take their beginning, of the sundry judgements, of opinions, we will here finish this days disputation. For the ends of good, and evil, being known, as much as a man may know them, nothing more profitable, may be wished, or desired, of all philosophy, than those things, which in these four days we have discussed. For, to the despising of death, and bearing of all bodily pain, we joined the ease of sorrow. Then the which, there is nothing more troublous, to man. For although every perturbation be grievous unto us, and doth not much differ from madness: yet, when men are in any of the other perturbations, as fear, mirth, or desire, we say, that they are but troubled, or disquieted. But, those that are subject unto sorrow, we term wretched, afflicted, and full of calamity.  
And for that cause, it was not by chance, but well, and aduisedly●, appointed by you, that we made a several discourse of sorrow, from all the other perturbations. For, in it, is the spring and fountain, of all misery. But there is one way, to help, both it, and also all the other diseases of the mind. Namely, by the showing, that they are caused only, by our own fond opinion and will, because we think it right, and duty, to take them on us. This error, as the root of all evil, philosophy promiseth to pull up, even by the roots. Let us therefore, yield ourselves to it, and suffer it to heal us. For, as long as these ●uels are within us, we shall neither be happy, nor whole. Either let us therefore plainly deny, that reason can do any thing (whereas in deed, nothing can well be done without it) or else, inasmuch as philosophy consisteth of the conference of reasons: of her, (if we will be either good, or blessed) let us learn the helps, to attain to a happy, and a blessed life.  
Finis.   

THE fift AND LAST book of M. Tully Cicero: containing his reasoning of the last and fift question, which he disputed, in his manor of Tusculanum being this in effect, whether virtue only, be sufficient to make a man lead a happy life.  
THis fift day (fryende Brutus) shall make an end of our disputations holden in our manor or Tusculanum: in the which, we reasoned of that Question, which you, most of all others are wont to allow. For I perceived, both by the book, which you wrote unto me, & also by your talk, at many other times, that you like this opinion very well. namely, that virtue is sufficient of itself, to the maintaining of a happy and a blessed life. Which although it be very hard to prove, because of so many and sundry strokes of fortune: yet nevertheless, such it is, that we ought to travail, and take pains for the proof thereof. For, there is nothing in all philosophy, more gravely or more wisely spoken. For, inasmuch, as it moved all those, that first gave themselves to the study of philosophy, despising all other things, to settle themselves, wholly, to the searching of the happiest state of life: truly, they took so great travail, and pains, only in hope, to attain a blessed life. And truly, if such men, have either found out, or accomplished virtue: and if they found sufficient aid in only virtue, for the attaining of a blessed life: who would not judge, that well, and worthily, both they did first invent, and we also have, followed, the study of philosophy? But, if, virtue being subject, to sundry and uncertain chances, is the slave of fortune, and not of sufficient ability, to maintain herself: I fear much then, lest it be all one, to trust to the aid of virtue, for the obtaining of a blessed life, & to sit still, a●d wish after the same. In deed, remembering many times, the chances, with the which, fortune hath galled me. I begin to mistrust this opinion, and to fear, the weakness, and frayletye of mankind. For, I am wont to fear, lest, inasmuch as, nature hath given us weak bodies, to the which also, she hath fastened sundry sorts of incurable diseases, & intolerable grieves: lest, she (I say) hath likewise given us minds, agreeable to the diseases & griefs of our body. And also of themselves, wrapped in other several cares & troubles. But, in this point, I correct myself. For that, I judge of the strength of virtue, according to the wantonness and weakness of other, yea, and perchance of myself: and not by virtue itself. For virtue truly (if there be any such thing at all, which doubt, if there were any, your father's brother, (O Brutus) hath already taken away) hath undoubtedly, all chances which may happen to man, in subjection under it: and despising them, condemneth all worldly casualty: and, being itself, void of all blame, thinketh, that nothing besides it itself, is requisite unto it. But we, increasing all adversity, while it is coming, with fear: and when it comes, with sorrow: will condemn rather those things, which naturally are good, than our own pernicious error. But as well of this fault, as also, of all the rest, we must seek the redress, in philosophy. Into whose bosom, being, in the very beginning of my age, led by mine own will, and earnest desire: now, after that I was tossed, with most troublesome storms, I have even fled to the same, as to the haven, from the which I once departed. O philosophy, the guide of our life, the searcher of virtue, the expeller of vice, what were not we only, but generally, all the life of man able to do without thee? Thou foundedst cities, thou reclaymedst men, whiles they were yet wild and wanderers, to a comen society and fellowship of life: thou bredst love betwixt them: first by neyghbourhoode, next by marriage, and last of all by communicating of talk, and writing. Thou, wast the inventor of laws, the mistress of manners, and of all good order. To the we fly, of the we ask secure. To the, even as afore for some part, so now, I give myself wholly, to be ruled and governed. For one day, well spent, according to thy precepts, is to be preferred, well night afore immortality. Whose aid therefore, should we rather use, than thine? Who, both hast granted us, the quietness of life, and also, hast taken from us, the fear and dread of death. But, so much it lacks, that philosophy is so much commended, as it hath deserved of the life of man, that it is, of the most part, neglected, & of many wholly dispraised. Who would think, that any man durst, to dispraise the parent of his life, and so defile himself with parricide? and show himself so unnaturally unkind, as to dispraise her, which he ought to fear, yea though he could not understand? But I think, this error and mist, is bred in the hearts of the unlearned, because, they are not able to discern the truth: and for that cause, think, that they were not philosophers, who did first help, to garnish the life of man. And truly though this study, of itself, be most ancient of all others: yet the name is but new. For, wisdom truly, who can deny to be right ancient, as well in deed, as in word? which, obtained this worthy name, amongs the ancient sages, for that, it doth consist, of the knowledge, as well of heavenly things, as earthly: Of the beginnings, causes, and nature of every thing. And for that cause, those seven which of the Greeks, are called Sophi o●r forefathers, both counted, and also named wise. So called they Lycurgus likewise, many years afore, in whose time it is reported that Homer lived, afore the building of our city. We have heard also, that, when the half gods lived on the earth, Ulixes, and Nestor, both were in deed, and also were called wise. Neither truly, had it been reported, that Atlas sustaineth the heaven, or that Prometheus lieth ●ounde to the hill Caucasus, or that Cepheus is placed among the stars, with his wife, son in law, and daughter: unless their knowledge in heavenly matters, had first caused, such tales to be raised of their names. Whom, all the rest that since have followed, and placed their study, in the contemplation of the nature of things: were, both counted, and also named wise.  
Which name continued until the time of Pythagoras. Who (as Heraclides borne in Pontus, a scholar of Plato, a man very well learned doth write) came to Phliuns, a city in Greece.  
And there, reasoned both learnedly and largely, with Leo the chief of the same town. Whose wit, and eloquence Leo wondering at, asked of him, in what art he was most perfect. Whereunto, he answered, that he knew no art. But, that he was, a lover of wisdom. Leo, wondering at the strangeness of the name, asked of him, who were those lovers of wisdom. And what difference was, betwixt them, and other men. Whereunto, Pythagoras answered, that the life of man might well be resembled, to that fair, which, with all pomp of plays, all Greece is wont to frequent, and solempnyse. For, like as there, some by the exercise of their bodies, would assay to win some game, & crown: and, some other, came thither, for the desire to gain, by buying and selling and also, there was a third sort, far passing all the rest, who sought neither game, nor gains, but came thither only to behold, and see, what was done, and how: so likewise we coming into this life, as it were into a great frequented fair, or market, seek some for glory, and some for money.  
But very few, there are, which despising all other things, would study the contemplation of nature. But those (he said) were they, whom he called the lovers of wisdom. And like as there, it is counted a greater worship, to come for the sight of things, than to meddle with buying and selling: even so likewise in this life, the contemplation and knowledge of things did far excel all other worldly troubles. Neither truly, was Pythagoras only, the inventor of this name, but also an increaser of the study itself, Who, when after this communication at Phliuns, he came into Italy, instructed that country, which is now called great Greece, both privately, and also openly, with most notable orders, and arts. Of whose doctrine, perhaps, we shall have some more commodious time to speak. But that philosophy, which in ancient time was in use, till the time of Socrates, who was the hearer of Archelaus, the scholar of Socrates: did only treat of numbers, and motions, and whereof all things were made, and whereinto they did end. They did also curiously search out the quantity, distance, and courses of the stars, and other heavenvly bodies. But Socrates, first of all, turned philosophy, from the consideration of the heavenly motions, and placed it in cities, and brought it, even into our housen: making it, to reason of our life, and manners: of all things that are good and evil. Whose sundry kind of reasoning, with the variety of the things themselves, and the sundry compasses of men's wits, made divers sects of dissenting philosophers. Of all the which, I follow that, which I suppose Socrates did use. namely, to conceal, mine own opinion, and reprove other men's errors. And, in all reasoning, to inquire, what is most likely to be true. Which custom, inasmuch as, Carneades did continue, marvelous wittily, and copiously: I also, enforced myself to do the same, of late, in my manner of Tusculanum. And the talk of our first four days, I have already sent unto you, reported in as many books. But the fift day, when we came to our accustomed place, thus began our reasoning.  Hea. 
I think, that virtue is not sufficient of itself, to make a happy and a blessed life.  Mar. 
truly, my friend Brutus thinks the contrary. Whose judgement (you must give me leave to say my fancy) I do always prefer afore yours.  Hea. 
I do not doubt thereof, neither is it now in controversy, how much you love him. But I would hear your opinion, what you think of that which I have proposed.  Mar. 
Do you deny, that virtue of itself, is sufficient, to make a man's life blessed?  Hea. 
Yea truly.  Mar. 
What? may not a man with virtue only live well, honestly and laudably?  Hea. 
Yes truly.  Mar. 
Can you then say, that either he which liveth ill, is not wretched? or that he, which liveth well, liveth not also happily?  Hea. 
What else? for, even in torments, a man may live well, honestly, and commendably.  
So, you understand, how I mean to live well. Which is, to live constantly, gravely, wisely, and stoutly. For, these do stick by a man, even when he is on the rack. Yet there is no happy life.  Mar. 
Why so? will you shut a blessed life only, out of the prison door? when constancy, gravity, fortitude, and wisdom, may enter within the same? and refuse no prison, punishment, nor pain?  Hea. 
truly, if you mind to move me, you must seek some other reasons then those: not only, because they are comen: but also, because like as cold wines have no taste in the water: so these reason's delight me, rather in the first taste, then when I have drunk them up. As this whole company of virtues, when it cometh to torments, placeth images and shades afore our eyes, with great majesty: so, that it would seem, that blessed life would even straight ways, come to them, and not suffer them to think, that she would forsake them. But when you have, once turned your mind, from these pictures and shades, to the thing, and truth itself: then there is this only left bare, whether any man may be happy, as long as he is in torment. Wherefore, hereof let us reason But you need not to fear, lest the virtues should complain, that they are forsaken, betrayed, and left of a happy life. For, if there can be no virtue without prudence, prudence itself must needs foresee, that all good men, can not be happy. She remembreth many histories, of Marcus Attilius, Quintus Cepio, and Marcus Aquilius, and such others. And (if you think good, rather to use the allusion of the images, than the things themselves) even stays her, when she would come to the rack, or to any other place of torment. Saying, that she hath nothing to do, with grief, and torment.  Mar. 
I am well contented, to reason, even after your appointment. Howebe it you do me wrong, in prescribing me an order, how you will have me reason. But first, I ask this, whether we have concluded any thing, all the other days?  Hea. 
Yea, and that very much.  Mar. 
If it be so, then, is this question almost, fully answered.  Hea. 
How so?  Mar. 
Because, all troublesome motions, sudden, and unadvised tossings of the mind, despising all ●eason, leave us no part of a blessed life. For, who is there that feareth either death, or grief, (of the which the one chanceth very often, and the other doth always hang over our heads) that is not wretched? Also, if any man (as the most part do) doth fear poverty, shame, or infamy: if any dread weakness, blindness, or (that which hath happened, not only to private men, but even to whole nations) bondage. May any man, that feareth these things, be happy? Also, he, which doth not only fear such things, when they are coming: but also can not bear nor suffer them, when they are present: as banishment, mourning, barrenness: he, I say, who being overcome with these, and such like, doth yield to sorrow: must he not needs be wretthed? Furthermore, he that is inflamed, and even rageth with desire: rashly desiring all things, with an unsatiable greediness: and how much the more plenty he hath of pleasure, so much the more, thirsting, and desiring the same: him (I say) might you not well think, to be of all others most miserable? Also, he that is even puffed up with lightness, and fondly rejoiceth in his vain mirth: is he not so much more miserable, as he seemeth to himself to be happier? Wherefore, as, all those whom we have rehearsed, are wretched: so, they contrariwise, are blessed, whom no fears affray, no griefs consume, no lust inflames, no vain joy, or effeminate pleasures do puff up. And, like as the sea, is then thought to be calm, when no little puff, doth raise any waves at all: so, that is thought, to be the quiet and peaceable state of the mind, when as, it is void of all perturbations, that may either move or stir it. Which, if it be so, then, he, that counteth the strokes of fortune, and all chances, that may happen to man, tolerable: so that, for them, neither fear can vex him, neither sorrow torment him. He so, if he be neither troubled with desire neither, have his mind puffed up, with any vain pleasure: what cause is there, why he should not be happy? And, if all these things, are brought to pass by virtue, what cause is there, why virtue of itself can not make us happy?  Hea. 
truly, this can not be denied, but that those, which are troubled, neither with fear, sorrow, desire nor mirth, must needs be happy. Therefore, that I grant you.  Mar. 
And truly, tother is not unproved. For we showed in our former disputations, that, a wise man, wanted all perturbations of the mind. So this question, seemeth to be fully answered.  Hea. 
Almost in deed.  Mar. 
But this is the manner of the Mathematicians, and not of philosophers. For, the Geometricians, when they will prove any thing, if it pertain to any of those things which they have afore proved, they take all those things afore proved as things that ought to be granted, and are undoubted. And only expre●se those things whereof they wrote nothing afore. Philosophers, what so ever thing they have in hand to prove, bring in forthwith all things, that are appliable to the proof of the same. Although they have written them, in some other place, afore. For otherwise, what needed the stoics, in proving, that virtue is sufficient, to make a blessed life, to use so many words? whereas, it were enough for them, to answer, that, they had showed afore, that nothing is good, but that which is honest. Which being granted, it must needs follow, that a blessed life may, be attained by virtue only. And, like as this doth follow upon that, so likewise, by the other, this is concluded. That, if virtue only will bring us to a happy life, than no other thing can be good, but that which is honest. Yet nevertheless they do not so. For, both of honesty, and also of the chiefest good, and felicity, they have written several books.  
And, although, it be hereof sufficiently proved, that virtue is able enough of itself, to bring us to a blessed life: yet nevertheless, they make a several discourse, more at large of the same. For every question, must be handled with his own proper reasons, proofs, and admonitions, especially being so notable, and so large, as this is. For, I would not have you think, that, there is any thing more clear in all philosophy, or that there is any promiss of the same more plentiful, than this is. For, mark well, what it doth profess. Namely, to bring to pass, that who so ever doth obey the laws of virtue, should be always armed, against fortune, and should have in him, all the aids, of a blessed and happy life. And to conclude, that he should be always happy. But we will talk in other places, of the effects of philosophy. In the mean time, I esteem that greatly which she promiseth. For Xerxes, being glutted with all the rewards and gifts, that fortune might give: not contented, with an infinite company of horsemen, and footmen, with a wonderful sail of ships, nor yet with innumerable store of gold, proposed a reward for him, that could devise any strange pleasure. For filthy lust hath no end nor measure. I would we could get one, who for hope of reward would make us believe this more steadfastly.  Hea. 
I would wish so likewise. But I have one thing to say unto you. For I do well agree, that of those things, which you even now rehearsed, the one doth well follow upon the grant of the other. Namely, that, like as if it be granted, that only, that which is honest, is good: it must needs follow that happy life consisteth in only virtue: so if happy life do consist in virtue only, than it must needs be, that there is nothing good but only virtue. But your friend Brutus, following the advise of Aristo, & Antiochus, thinketh not so: for he thinketh, that there are other sorts of goods, besides virtue.  Mar. 
What? think you that I will at this time, reason against him?  Hea. 
Therein do as you shall think good.  
For it is not my part, to appoint you.  Mar. 
Then, to show, how these conclusions follow, the one upon the other, we will defer it to some other time.  
For herein, when I was captive, being at Athenes, I dissented, both from Antiochus, and Aristo. For I thought, that no man might be happy, as long as he might be in any evil. And truly, a wise man may be cumbered with evils if those, which they call the evils of the body, and of fortune, be any evils at all. Hereunto, this was answered, which also, Antiochus hath written in many places. Namely that virtue of itself, may make a blessed life. But not the most blessed, that may be. Also that many things, take their name of the greater part, although some part did want or miss. As we call men strong, healthful, rich, honourable, glorious, because they have a great part of such things in them, although they have not the things themselves, as perfect, as they might have. So likewise, a blessed life, they said, although it halted in some part: yet it took his name of the greater part. I need not now curiously to pike out these things. Howbeit they seem to me, to be spoken scarce constantly. For both, I can not understand, what he that is happy, should lack to make himself more happy: (for if he lack any thing than is he not happy at all). And also, whereas they say, that every thing is named of the greater part, that is true in some other things and not in this. But whereas they say that there are three sorts of evils: shall we say (I pray you) that he, that is burdened with the ii first sorts, namely, either with the adversity of fortune, or else with diseases in his body, doth therefore want any thing of a happy life? Or of the happiest of all?  
This is it that Theophrastus would not say. For when he had written, that stripes, torments, punishments, the rasinge of our country, exile, barrenness, & such like, were able to make our life miserable, he was ashamed to speak stoutly, inasmuch as he wrote so faintly, Although he doth not justly complain, yet truly he is constant in his own opinion. And therefore, I like not them, who when they have granted the original, yet will deny or reprove that, which necessarily dependeth thereof. For they reprehend this most excellent, and learned philosopher. But slenderly, for that he appointeth three sorts of goods. Yet they all reprove him in that book, which he wrote of the attaining of a happy life. For that, he reasoneth much, that he which is in torment, can not be blessed In that book also, they think he sayeth, that to the wheel (which is a kind of torment among the Grecians) happy life cannot come, truly he saith in no place so. But he says as much in effect. And truly, if I should grant to any man, that the grieves of the body or the shipwreck of fortune, aught to be counted evils: could I be justly angry, with the same, if he should say, that then, all good men are not blessed? For as much as, such evils, might happen to the best men that might be. The same Theophrastus, is baited at, as well in the books, as in the schools of all philosophers, for that he commended this saying of Calisthenes. Not wisdom's lore, but fortune's force, this world lo doth rule.  
They say, that no philosopher, might have spoken any thing more faintly.  
And therein in deed they say well.  
But yet I can not see, how he might speak more constantli, following their opinion. For, if there be so many goods in the body, and so many without the body, subject to casualty and fortune: is it not probable, that fortune, which is the ruler of all outward things, pertaining to the body, should bear more sway in our life then prudence? Or rather should we follow Epicurus, who oftentimes speaketh many things very wisely? but little cares, how constant and agreeable he be in his talk. He commendeth bare living. And truly, so it becomes a philosopher. If Socrates or Antisthenes, had said it, & not he, who esteemeth pleasure to be the end of all goods. He denies, that any man may ●lue pleasantly, unless he live honestly, wisely, and justly. Truly, nothing could be more sagely spoken, nor more worthy a philosopher. Unless, he did refer that same honesty, wisdom, and justice, to pleasure. What can be better spoken, then that a wise man ought to be contented, with a mean and bare life? But doth he say this? Who inas much as, he hath not only said, that grief is the chiefest evil, but also, that it only is evil: may, even then, when he shall boast himself most against fortune, be overcome with a little grief in his body? the same also, Metrodorus spoke in stouter words. saying, I have now taken the captive O fortune, and stopped up all thy holes, so that thou mayst by no means come unto me. A notable saying, if it had been spoken, either of Aristo, Chius, or Zeno the Stoic.  
Who would think nothing evil, but that which were dishonest. But thou, O Metrodorus, which hast placed all good in dainty dishes, and delicate feeding, and haste defined that to be the chiefest good, that doth consist in the good health of the body, and the certain hope, that it shall so endure:  
Hast thou (I say) shut up all the holes ●f fortune? How: I pray the. For, that which thou thinkest to be so great good, thou mayst lightly lose. But, these are your baits, for such, as are unlearned, and such sentences have caused so many to be of that sect. But it is the point of a wise reasoner, not to way what every man doth say, but what they ought to say. As in this self same position, which is now proposed to dispute: I say, that all good men are happy and blessed. Whom I name good, it is plain enough. For such as are adorned with all kind of virtues, we term both wise and good men. Now, let us see, whom we call blessed. Truly I think, those which enjoy such things, as are good, without the intermeddling of any evil. For truly, when we call any man blessed, we understand thereby, no other thing than the perfect conjoining of such things, as are good, severed, and disjoined, from all those things that are evil. It, virtue can never attain, if there be any thing good besides it. For there will always be at hand, a throng of evils (if we may well term them evils) such as poverty, baseness of birth solitariness, the loss of friends, grievous infirmities of the body, the loss of health, weakness, blindness, the captivity of our country, banishment, and bondage) In these, and such like, a man may be good, and wise. For these things, casualty, and chance, bring upon us, which may happen even to a wise man. But, if these things be evil, who can justly affirm, that a wise man is always happy? since, even in all these, he may be at one instant.  
Wherefore, I will not gladly grant, neither to both our masters, nor yet to those ancient philosophers, Aristotle, Speusippus, Xenocrates, and Polemon: that inasmuch as they count all those things, which I have afore rehearsed to be evil) they may well affirm that a wise man should be always blessed. But, if this fair, and glorious saying doth delight them: being in deed most worthy of Pythagoras, Socrates and Plato: then, let them find in their hearts, to despise those things, with the which they are now so much delighted. namely, strength, health, beauty, riches, honour, and substance.  
And to set at nought those things, which are contrary to that which they ●ayne they do desire. Then may they plainly profess, that they are nothing moved neither with the force of fortune, neither with the opinion of the people, neither with grief nor poverty. But that all their aid, consisteth in themselves: and that there is nothing without their power, that they esteem to be good. For it can not be by any means, that any should speak these words which belong, to a stout and high minded man: and yet should think those things to be good, or evil, which the common people so counteth. With the which glory, Epicurus being moved, first rose up who (if god will) thinks, that a wise man may be always blessed. He is delighted with the worthiness of this saying. But truly, he would never say it, if he did agree to his own words. For, what is there less agreeable then, that, he, which thinketh grief to be the greatest evil, or else, that it only is evil, that he (I say) should think, that a wise man even in his torments should say? O how pleasant is this? We must not therefore, judge philosophers, by every particular saying: but by their continual, and constant asseveration, in all their assertions.  Hea. 
You move me somewhat to agree unto you. But, beware, lest you also may seem to lack a point of constancy.  Mar. 
Why so?  Hea. 
Because I did of late, read your book, of the ends of good and evil. In the which, me thought, that reasoning against Cato, you assayed to prove, this (which liked me very well) I mean, that betwixt Zeno, and the peripatetics, there is no more difference, than the strangeness of certain terms. Which, if it be true, what cause is there, why, if Zeno think, that virtue is of itself sufficient, to lead an honest life, the peripatetics also, do not think the same?  
For, I think, we ought to have regard to their meaning, and not to their words.  Mar. 
You truly, work straightly with me. For, you report, whatsoever I have said or written.  
But I reason with other men, which well nigh of necessity maintain the opinion of any one sect, after this sort. We live but a short time, whatsoever seemeth probable unto us, that we do affirm. Wherefore, we only, of all other are free. But forasmuch as, I spoke somewhat afore of constanry, and steadfastness: I mind not in this place, to dispute, whether it were true, that Zeno liked best, and his follower Aristo: I mean, that that only is good, which is honest: but, that, if it be so, than he should place blessed and happy life, in only virtue: wherefore, let us grant to my friend Brutus, that according to his opinion, a wise man should be always happy. For, who is more worthy, to have the glory of that saying, than he? But yet, how well it doth agree with his own opinion, let himself consider. But let us hold that a wise man is always most happy.  
And although Zeno, a stranger born in Citium, a town of Cypress, an obscure carver of words, would gladly creep into the name of an ancient philosopher: Yet, the gravity of this opinion, ought first to be derived, from the authority of Plato. In whom, this is very often repeated, that nothing ought to be called good, but only virtue. As in his book, which he entitled Gorgias, when one demanded of Socrates, whether he did not think, that Archelaus (who then was counted most fortunate of all other) was happy & blessed? He answered, that he knew not. For, he never talked with him, in all his life. What? sayest thou so? canst thou not know it otherwise? No truly. Dost thou doubt, then, whether the mighty king of the Persians be happy, yea or no? Why should I not since I know not, how learned he is, or whether he be a good man, or no? Why? thinkest thou, that happy life consisteth therein? I truly think, that all good men are happy: and that all naughty men are wretched. Is Archelaus then a wretch? Yea truly, if he be a vicious liver. Doth not this man (think you) place happy life in virtue only? He also, in his book, which is entitled Epitaphium, hath these words. For that man (quoth he) who within himself, hath all things necessary for a happy life, and wavereth not, depending upon the good or evil chance of any other thing, he hath even gotten, the trade of a perfect life. He is a modest, stout, and a wise man. He, although all other foreign commodities, either rise or fall, will always obey the old precept, & neither rejoice neither sorrow over much, because, all his hope is fixed only in himself.  
Out of this holy and sacred spring of Plato, shall flow all our talk that followeth. From whence therefore may we better take our beginning, then, from nature: the common parent, and author of all things? Who, what so ever she made, not only being a living creature, but also, either any such thing, as springeth out of the ground: made it, every thing, perfect in his own kind. And for that cause, both trees & vines, & also the low flowers, which can not springe high from the ground, some of them are always green And some of them, being made bare in the winter, yet reviving in the spring, begin to bud out again. For there is none of them, that is not so nourished, either with some inward motion, or else some power enclosed in it, that it doth not at certain times of the year, yield either, flowers, fruits or berries. And all things, as much as pertaineth to their nature, are perfect within themselves, unless, they be hurt by the injury of some foreign force. But we may much more plainly, perceive this power of nature in beasts. Because, there are by nature, senses given to them. For some beasts nature would to be swimming, and abiding in the waters: which are called fishes. To other some, she gave the open aer, to inhabit: which are called birds. Some she made creepers, & some goers, and of them all, some she made solitary: and some flockers together: some wild: some tame: some hidden and covered with the ground. And of all these, every one following his duty, and, being not able to turn into the nature of any other living creature: abides still, within that law, which nature hath appointed it. And, likeas, there is naturally given to every beast, some especial property from all the rest, which it doth always keep and never part from: so is there like wise to man. But it is much more excellent, than the other. How be it, excellent, is not properly spoken, but of th●se things, betwixt the which, there is some comparison. But the mind of man, proceeding first, even from the spirit of God, ought to be compared with no other thing, than God himself. It therefore, if it be well garnished, and his sight so cleared, that it be not blinded with errors: than it becomes a perfect mind, which is, as much to say, as absolute reason. Which is even the same the virtue is. And if that be happy, which lacketh nothing, but is perfect of itself in his own kind, and that properly belongeth only to virtue: then needs must all such as have attained virtue, be happy. And herein, truly both Brutus, Aristoteles, Xenocrates, Speusippus, and Polemon, do agree with me. But I think further, that such as are partakers of virtue, are also most happy. For what doth he lack to a happy life, which trusteth on no other goods, than his own? Or he that doth mistrust his goods, how can he be happy? But he must needs mistrust them, who makes three sorts of goods For, how can he assure himself, either of the good estate of his body, or else of any stay in fortune? But truly, no man can be made happy with any good, unless the same be stable and sure. And what certainty is there, of any of those goods? None at all. To the which, that merry saying of a citizen of Lacedaemon, may in my opinion be well applied. To whom, when a certain merchant man made his brags, that he had set forth a great company of ships, to sundry realms, laden with merchandise: now truly (quoth he) I like not this wealth, that hangs all on gable ends. And is it any doubt that those things which may be lost, are not of that sort of goods which make a hapyye, and a blessed life? For, none of those things of the which such a life doth consist, can either wax aged, perish, or moult and fall away. For he that standeth in fear of the loss of any such things, can not be happy. For we will, that he, whom we count happy, shall be quiet, invincible, and troubled I say, not with a little fear, but with none at all. For as he is called innocent, which not only hurteth no man lightly, but also, hurteth no man at all: so he is to be counted void fear, not which feareth smallly, but who feareth nothing at all. For, what is fortitude, otherwise, than a patient affection of the mind, as well in attempting perilous affairs, as also in abiding travail and grief, far from all fear? And truly, this were not so, unless, all good did consist in honesty only. But how might he obtain quietness of mind (which every man so greatly wisheth and desireth (by quietness, I mean the lack of all sorrow, in the which happy life doth consist) who either presently had or else might have, a great number of evils fall on him? Also, how may he be stout, and high minded, despising all chances, which may happen to man: as trifles (as a wise man must) unless he think, that he needeth no more help than that which is within himself?  
The Lacedæmonians, when king Philip threatened them, that he would bar all their enterprises: asked of him whether he would forbid them also to die? And shall we notsoner find out this one man, whom we now treat of, of such a stomach, than a whole city? Furthermore, when to this stoutness (of the which we now talk) temperance is once adjoined, which is the cooler of all motions: What then may he lack of a blessed life? whom fortitude shall defend from grief, sorrow, and fear: and temperance shall revoke from greedy desire, and vain mirth? And that these things are wrought by virtue, I would now prove, if I had not, more largely showed the same afore. And in asmuch, as the perturbations, & troubles of the mind, do make a wretched life: and, contrariwise, the quietness of the same, causeth a happy life: And there are two sorts of perturbations: the one proceeding out of the opinion of evil, which are sorrow, and fear: the other caused of the opinion of good: which are desire and light mirth: inasmuch as, all these strive with reason, and council, will you doubt to say, that he which is quiet, and rid from such troublous motions, repugnant and contrary the one to the other, is blessed? But, a wise man is always so. A wise man therefore, is always blessed. Also, we ought to rejoice, of all thing, that good is.  
But that, which we ought to rejoice, of, is worthy praise: and, what so ever is such, it also is glorious. If it be glorious, it is also commendable. But whatsoever is commendable, the same is honest also. Therefore, whatsoever is good, the same is honest. But those things, which these men call goods, they themselves truly, will not say that they are honest. But that only is good, which is honest. It followeth therefore, that in honesty only, consists a happy life. And those are neither to be counted, neither yet to be named goods: with the which, although a man do abound, yet he may be most miserable. But who doubteth but a man being in good health, perfect strength, seemly beauty, having his senses also as quick and as clear, a● they might be. Add thereunto, also, swiftness, and lightness, let him have riches, honour, rule, wealth, and glory: if he, that hath all these things, be an unrighteous man, a ryotter, a fearful person, or a man of slender wit, or none at all, will you doubt (I say) to call him wretched? Wherefore what manner goods be these, which he that hath, nevertheless, may be wretched? We must remember, that like as a heap of corn, is made of a number of grains, of one sort: so likewise happy life doth consist of many parts in nature, like to itself. Which, if it be so, then must we frame a happy life, of those goods only, which are honest. For if there be a mixtion of unlike and contrary parts, then can there be no honesty made thereof.  
Which being taken away what can there be happy? For whatsoever is good, that ought to be desired. And whatsoever ought to be desired, aught to be allowable. whatsoever ought to ●e allowed, the same ought well and fully to be accepted. And for that cause it must be had in worship and reverence also. Which, if it be so, them must it needs be laudable. All good therefore is laudable. Whereof, I do conclude, that whatsoever is honest, the same only is good. Which assertion, unless we hold fast, we shall make an infinite number of goods. For, that I overpass riches (which, inasmuch as every man (be he never so unworthy) may have, I will never count for goods. For, that which is good, no naughty person may have). That I may overpass also, nobility, the brute of the people, raised by the consent of fools, and vicious persons. Yet these trifles which I will rehearse, will be counted goods. White teeth, rolling eyes, a beautiful complexion, and that which Euriala praised, when she washed the feet of Ulires, namely gentle speech, and tender flesh. And these things, if we do once call goods, what more wit shall there be accounted, in the grave wisdom of philosophers, then in the rash brute of the ●ascall people? These things, which those men term goods, the stoics call additions. Without the which, they think a happy life can not be fully furnished. But these men think, that without them, there is no happy life at all. Or if it be happy, that it is not the happiest life of all. But we will have it, to be the happiest of all.  
And that we confirm, by a conclusion of Socrates. For in this sort, that prince and founder of philosophy, did reason. such, as the affection of man is, such is his talk. To his talk, his deeds be like. To his deeds his life. But there is no affection in the mind of a good man, but good and commendable. Then it must needs be honest also, if it be commendable. Whereof it is necessarily concluded, that all good men lead a happy life. For, have we done nothing with our former disputations? Have we made a vain speak only, for pleasure, and to spend the time, when we reasoned, that a wise man was always free from all motions of the mind, which I term perturbations? And, that there is always nothing, but quiet peace, within his heart? Therefore, a temperate, and constant man, without any fear, without any grief, without any excessive mirth or desire, is not he (I say) happy? But a wise man is always so.  
He is therefore always happy. Furthermore, how can a good man do any thing else, then refer all his deeds and thoughts, to that, which is commendable? But, he refers them all to a happy life. A happy life than is commendable. but nothing is commendable, wythou●e virtue. A happy, and a blessed life therefore, is attained by virtue. The same also, is concluded after this sort. There is nothing praise worthy, either in a miserable life, or else, in such, as is neither miserable, nor blessed. But there is some kind of life, in the which there is some thing praise worthy, and to be desired. As Epaminundas sayeth. Our witty counsels have debased, the Lacedæmonians praise.  
And Africanus sayeth. 
From farthest East, where son doth rise, unto Meaotis marsh.  
He liveth not whose feats my deeds or famous facts may pass.   
Which if it be so, than a happy life ought to be desired. For there is nothing else, that aught to be praised, or desired, Which being once concluded, you know what followeth. And truly, unless that life be happy, which is also honest, there should be somewhat better than a blessed life. For if honesty, and it, might be separated: every man would grant, that honesty were better. And so there should be something better than a blessed life. Then the which, what could be said more fond? Also, when they confess, that vice is sufficient, to make us lead a miserable life: do they not then grant that virtue is of the like power, to make a happy life? For of contraries, the conclusions also are contrary.  
And in this place, I would fain know, what Critolaus meant, by his balance. Who, when into the one scale, he had put the goods of the mind and into the other, the goods of the body, and of fortune, makes, that scale of goods of the mind, so far to weigh down the other, as the heaven doth the earth and seas. What lets him then, or Xenocrates, that most grave philosopher (who doth so much amplify the power of virtue, and debase and depsise all the rest) that he can not find in his heart, to place the happiest life of all others, in only virtue? Which truly, unless it be so, there must needs ensue, the decay of all virtues. For, to whom sorrow may come, to him also may fear. For fearing is a careful waiting for sorrow, that is coming. And whosoever is subject to fear, he must needs be cumbered also with all the mates of the same: fearfulness, dread, and quaking. And for that cause, he must not think himself invincible, neither that, that saying of Atreus was spoken to him.  
Let no man in this wretched life, himself so ill behave,  
That unto fortunes cruel stroke he show himself a slave.  
But such a man, will straight ways be overcome: and not only be vanquished, but become even a slave. And we will have virtue always free and invincible. For otherwise it is no virtue. But if there be sufficient help, in virtue itself to live well: there shallbe sufficient also, to live blessedly. For truly, virtue, is able enough, of itself to make us live stoutly. If it be able enough, of itself, thereto, it is able also, to make us to be of a stout courage. So that, we shall neither be feared, neither yet overcome, of any other thing. And thereof, it must needs follow, that nothing may make us to repent: that we may lack nothing: nor nothing can withstand us. So we shall have all things abundantly, fully, and prosperously. And for that cause, blessedly also. Furthermore, virtue, is able enough, to make us live stoutly, and for that cause happily also. For, as folly, although it hath obtained that, which it did desire, yet nevertheless, never thinks itself satisfied: so wisdom contrariwise, is always contented with that which it hath, and never repenteth her own estate.  
Think you, that it was not all one, to Caius Lelius, to be once chosen consul, and another time to take a repulse? Although, when a wise, and a good man (as he was) lacketh voices: the people, ought rather to be deemed, to have the repulse from a good Consul, then that he hath any repulse, of the vain multitude. But whether would you (if you might choose) be consul once, as Lelius was, or four times, as Cinna? I do little doubt what you will answer. For I know to whom I speak. I would not so boldly ask the same, of some other. For, I know, that some there be, that would answer me, that they would prefer not only the four Consulshippes, of Cinna, but even one day of his reign afore the lives of many notable men. But Cinna, commanded the heads of his fellow consul Caius Octavius, of Publius Crassus, and Lucius Cesar, three most notable men (whose wits had been well proved, as well in time of war, as peace) of Marcus Antonius also, the most eloquent Orator, that ever I heard: and of Caius Cesar (in whom, in my opinion, was the perfection of all gentleness, pleasantness, and mirth) to be stricken of. Is he then happy, which put these men to death? Truly, in my opinion, he is not only wretched, for that he caused that to be done: but also, because he behaved himself so, that he might do it. Although, no man may lawfully sin. But I err, using the wont manner of speech. For, we say commonly, that a man may do that, which he hath power to do. Yet whether was Caius Marius more happy, then, when he communicated the glory of his victory, which he obtained against the Cymbrians, with his fellow in office Catulus, in wisdom an other Lelius: (for in my opinion, they may well be compared) or else, when he, being conqueror in the civil battle, angry with the friends of the same Catulus, which entreated for him, would give them no other word, but let him die: let him die. Now truly, more happy was he, that obeyed that bloody commandment, than he, that commanded it.  
For, both it is far better, to suffer, then to do injury: and also, willingly to meet death, when it approacheth (as Catulus did) it was far better done, then as Marius did: by the death of so worthy a man, to stain the glory of his six first consulshippes: and with bloodshed, to defile the last time of his age. Eight and thirty years, Dionysius was tyrant of Siracusa, coming to the kingdom, at xxv years of age. That beautiful city, of so notable wealth, how did he keep in bondage? And of this man, we read thus much written in histories. That he used a marvelous temperate diet, and that in all his deeds, he proved himself a marvelous witty, & a painful man. And yet nevertheless, he was of a mischievous cruel nature. Wherefore to all such, as do well weigh his case, he must needs seem to be wretched.  
For, that, which he so much desired, he could not then attain, when he thought he might have done, what he listed.  
Who, having good and honest parents, and being come of an honest stock, (howbeit thereof divers men diversly do write) having also great acquaintance, and familiarity with princes, and also certain young boys, according to the manner of Greece, appointed for his love & play: yet, durst, to trust none of them all. But committed the custody of his body, to certain slaves, whom he himself had made free: to hired servants, and to cruel Barbarians. So, only, for the desire he had, to bear rule: he had in manner, shut up himself, into a prison. Also, because he would not trust any barber to shave him, he caused his own daughters to learn to shave. So the maidens of honour, when they had learned, that filthy and slavish science as barbers, shaved the beard, & hears of their father. And yet nevertheless, them also, when they came to years of discrescretion, he would not trust, with a razor: but, commanded that with the shells of walnuts heated, they should burn of his beard, and his hears. And although he had two wives, Aristomache borne in the same city, and Doris, borne in the city of Locris: yet, he would never come to any of them, in the night, afore that, all places were searched, for fear of treason. And then, would he have an artificial trench above his bed, which had but one way, to pass over, which was by a draw bridge. Which he himself when the chamber door was locked, would draw to him. And furthermore daring not, to come to any place of resort, he would talk to his subjects, down from a high tower. On a certain time, when he would play at tenesse (for that game he used very much) it is said, that he delivered to a young man whom he loved very well his sword to keep. which when one of his familiar friends, espying, said in ●este: to him now you trust your life: and, the young man smiled at it: he commanded them both to be slain. The one, because he had showed the way how he might be slain: the other, for that he seemed in smiling, to allow the same. But, that deed afterwards so much repent him, that nothing in all his life, grieved him more. For, he had caused him to be put to death, whom he loved entirely. But this tyrant, seemeth himself, to have showed, how happy he was in deed. For, when on a time, Damocles, one of his flatterers, did reckon up his power, might, majesty, and rule: his great abundance of all things, and his magnificence in building, saying, that there was no man at any time, more happy than he: wilt thou then, O Damocles, (quoth he) because this life doth so much delight thee, thyself taste thereof? and, try the pleasure, of my happy chance? Whereunto, when he answered that he would very gladly: Dionysius, commanded him, to be laid in a bed of gold, having a coverlet of cloth of gold and hangings of beaten gold: wrought with very fair works. Also he set coupbordes, and chests afore him, full of plate, both of gold, and also of silver guilt. Then he commanded, certain boys of notable beauty, to attend on his person, and to be ready at his beck. There were brought in precious ointments, imperial crowns the perfumes burnt in every place, and the tables were spread, with the most dainty dishes that might be gotten. Then, seemed Damocles to be happy. But, in the mids of all this iolitye Dionysius commanded a glistering sword, to be hanged over his head, by a horse hear. So that it might well nigh touch his neck. Wherewith, Damocles being feared, could neither find in his heart, to look upon his fair boys, neither yet upon the graven gold, neither would he reach his hand to the table, to taste of any thing that was thereon. The crowns fell down from his head. To be short, he desired the tyrant to licence him to departed. Saying, that he would no longer be happy. Did not he (think you) declare sufficiently, that he can have no happiness, over whom there hangeth any fear? Yet nevertheless, he truly was not able to return to justice.  
Neither to restore to his citizens they● liberty and laws. For, he was even from his youth upward bred in tyranny. So that, though he would have repent, yet he could not have lived in safety. Yet how much he desired friendship (the unfaithfulness of the which, he did much mistrust) he did well show in those two pythagoreans. The one of the which, when he was taken for surety, that the other should return at a certain day to suffer death: and, the other came in deed, at the day appointed: I would to god (quoth he) that I were worthy to be your third friend. What a misery was it, for him to want the company of his friends, all society of life, and all familiar talk? being especially, a man very well learned, a● one, from his childhood upwards, still bred up in learning? We have heard also, that he loved musicians very well, and, that he was a good poet, in compiling of tragedies.  
But, how good he was therein, it is nothing to our purpose to talk of. For in this kind of study, inespceiallye, more than in all the rest, every man likes his own doings best. For I never thitherto knew any Poet (yet I was very well acquainted, both with Aquinius, and also with many other) who did not think, his own doings better, than all the others. So it is alway. Your doings like you best, and mine, me.  
But to return to Dionysius. He lived without any gentleness, or manners, as it becomes a man. He lived with caitiffs, cutthroats, and barbarians. He thought no man to be his friend, that either was worthy to be free, or would be free. I will not now, with this man's life (than the which there could be nothing more miserable, beastly, or detestable) compare the lives of Plato, or Architas, famous learned, and wise men. But I will raise up from the dust and dunghill, Archimedes a poor, and an obscure person●borne in the same city, who lived many years after. Whose tomb, when I was Questor, I found out at Siracusa, all beset and overgrown with bushes and thorns. Whereas, the men of the city told me, that there was no such thing. For I remembered certain verses, which I heard say, were written upon his tomb. Which did declare, that upon his grave, there was a sphere, and a Cilindre. But I, after I had diligently viewed on every side, (for there is at the gates called Agragians, a great company of graves) I espied at last, a little pillar, somewhat higher than the bushes, in the which there was the form of a Sphere, and of a Cilindre. Then, I told the worshipful of the city, which were there with me, that I thought, that same was it, which I looked for. Then, forthwith, certain labourers, set in with scyves, and cutting hooks, opened the place. Into the which, when we came, at the farther part of the bottom, there appeared an Epigram, with the later part of certain verses, some who lie worn away, & some, half remaining, and half worn. So, one of the noblest cities in all Greece, yea, and in time passed one of the best learned, had not known the tomb of this their most famous citizen, unless, they had learned it, of a man borne at Arpinas. But I will return thither, from whence I first came. What man is there, who hath any familiarity, not with the muses only, but either with any part of honesty, or learning, that would not wish himself, rather to be this Mathematician, than that tyrant? If we desire to know the manner and trade of both their lives. The mind of the one, lived in the searching and conferring of reasons with the delight of knowledge: which is the sweetest food, that our souls may have.  
But, the mind of the other, was nourished with slaughter, and injury, and beset with continual fear. But now bring in Democritus, Pythagoras, and Anaragoras. What kingdom, or what riches, would you prefer afore their studies and delights? For truly, that, which we now seek: namely, the most happy and blessed life of all others: must needs be in that part, which is best in all the man.  
But what is there in any man, better, than a wise and a good mind?  
That therefore, which is the chief good of the mind, we must study to attain, if we will be happy. But the chief good of the mind, is virtue.  
Wherefore, it must needs follow, that in it is contained a happy life. And hereof issue all those things, which we call beautiful, honest, and fair. But we must speak this same more at large.  
For all these things are full of joy.  
But of continual and perfect joy, it is evident, that a happy life doth proceed. Wherefore it must needs consist of honesty. But, let us not only in words, move the same, which we will prove: but also, propose some certain image of the same, which may now move us the more, to the knowledge, and understanding of these things, For let us propose some notable man, endued with most excellent qualities, and imagine and conceive him, only in our mind. first, he must needs have a notable wit. For dull heads, do not so easily attain virtue, as those which are quick witted. Then, he must needs have a very earnest zeal, and desire, to search out the truth.  
Whereof, rise those three properties, of the mind. The one, consisting in the knowledge of things, and description of nature: the other, in the describing of those things, that aught to be desired or avoided: and the third, in judging, what doth necessarily follow of any thing, or what is contrary to the same. In the which, is contained both all the subtlety of reasoning, and also the truth of judgements. What joy, then, must the mind of this wise man needs dwell in, day and night, with such pleasant thoughts? when he shall also behold the motions and turnings of the whole world: and shall see innumerable stars fastened in the skies, and turned, only by the motion of the same. And other some, to hau● motions, & courses of their own, distant the one from the other, either in highness or lownesses. Whose wandering motions, keep nevertheless, a steadfast and certain course. truly, the sight of those, moved and learned those ancient philosophers, to search further. Thereof came the first searching out of principles, as it were of seeds, and the inquiring, whereof all things, had their beginning and being. As well things living, as without life. As well dumb, as speaking. Also, how they lived, and by what natural cause they came to death and corruption. Also, how one thing is changed and turned to another. How the earth had first his beginning. How it was so poised, in the midst of the world. Also, into what vaults, it doth receive, the flowing and ebbing of the seas. And how that all heavy things naturally fall into it, as into the middle place of the world. Which is, always the lowest, in any round body. About these things, whiles the mind is busied night and day, he must needs also some times remember, that precept, which the God of Delphos gave. Namely, that it know itself free from all vice, and understand, that it is part of the nature of god. Whereby, it is filled with insatiable joy. For, the very thinking, of the power, & nature of the gods, inflames our hearts, to follow that eternity, and not to despair for the shortness of life. Inasmuch as, we see the causes of all things, to be necessarily knit one to an other. Which even from the beginning, cotinuing till the end, yet the mind, & reason, of men may well comprehend, and rule. These things, he beholding, and marveling at, with what quietness of mind must he needs consider, both all earthly things, and also all other above the same? Hereof riseth the knowledge of virtue. And hereof springe out all the sundry sorts and branches of the same. Hereby we find out, what is the best of all goods, and what is the uttermost, and extreemest of all evils. Also, to what end we ought to refer all our duties, in this life. An● what trade we ought to choose to pass our life in. Which, with such other like things, being once found out, then is that brought to pass, which in this reasoning we seek to prove. Namely, that virtue is of itself only sufficient, to make a man lead a blessed life. There followeth now the third kind, which spreadeth and is derived, through out all the parts of wisdom. Which defineth every thing: divideth it into sundry parts: joineth thereunto such things, as may follow of it: concludes things perfectly, and judgeth them to be either true or false. I mean, the trade and oder of reasoning. Of the which, there riseth, both great profit, in the weyging of overye question, and also very great delight, and even worthy of a wise man. But all these things, pertain to time of leisure: let the same wise man, come to the governing of a common wealth. Who can do it better than he? inasmuch as, he shall see, that in his prudence and policy, the profit of all the citizens doth consist. And justice will not suffer him, to derive any thing, that aught to be common, to his own private commdditye. And so, in likewise, he shall have the help of all the other virtues. join thereto the fruit of friendship, in the which, all learned men, do place both the universal and friendly consent, for the maintaining of our common life: and also, a great joy and pleasure, in the common society, and use of neighbourhood.  
What (I pray you) may such a life lack to make it more happy? To the which, being furnished and accomplished, with so great joys, even fortune itself, must needs yield. truly, if to rejoice, for the obtaining of such goods and commodities of the mind, be to be blessed: and all wise men do feel such pleasure, then must you needs confess, that all such are happy.  Hea. 
What? in thyyr pain and torments also.  Mar. 
Why, do you think, that I mean, that they are happy in some pleasant garden. Or in a ●ed of violets, or roses? Shall it be lawful for Epicurus (who is a philosopher only, to the face outwards; and gave himself that name) to say (which saying nevertheless, I would not gladly take from him) that there is no time, in the which a wise man, although he were burned, racked, or cut in pieces, would not say, how little do I esteem all this? Whereas he himself thinketh, that all evil consisteth in pain: and all good in pleasure. And jesteth at those things, which we call honest and dishonest. saying, that we are occupied only in vain words, and care for no thing, but only the gentle or sharp suffering of the body. He therefore, whose judgement doth not much differ, from the judgement of brute beasts: may lawfully forget himself.  
And so, despise fortune. Whereas all, his good and evil, doth consist, only in the power of fortune. He may think himself happy in pain and torments, whereas he not only thinketh, that pain is the greatest evil that may be, but also, that it only is evil. Neither yet hath he gotten these remedies against the suffering of grief. Namely the stoutness of stomach, shame of dishonesty, exercise, and custom of suffering the precepts of fortitude, and manly stoutness. But he, sayeth, he is contented only with the remembrance of his former pleasures. As if, a man well nigh parched with heat, so that, he is no longer able to abide the son should comfort himself, with the remembrance, that once heretofore, he had bathed himself in the cold rivers of Arpynas'. For truly, I see not, how the pleasures that are past, may ease the griefs that are present. But inasmuch as he (I say) sayeth, that a wise man is always happy, who, if he would be agreeable to himself, might worst of all other speak it: what shall they do which think, that nothing ought to be desired, or counted good which wanteth honesty? Truly in my opinion, let the peripatetics, yea, & the ancient Academics, cease any longer to doubt: and plainly say that happy life, may come even into the bull of Phalaris. For let there be four sorts of goods that we may now depart from the brakes of the stoics, which I understand now that I have used more than I would.  
Let there be therefore (I say) three sorts of goods, so that the goods of the body, and of fortune, may lie on the ground: and be counted goods, only, because they are not to be refused. But the other, which are in manner heavenly, may in comparison of them, reach unto the heavens. So that we need not doubt, to call him, which hath once attained them, not only happy, but even the happiest that may be. Now, shall a wise man fear grief?  
Whereas he is most contrary to this opinion. For against the fear of our own death, and the sorrow that we might take for the death of our friends we seem to be sufficiently armed and prepared by the former days disputations. But, pain seemeth, to be the sharpest adversary of virtue. It shaketh his brands at us, it threateneth, that she will weaken fortitude, stoutness of mind, and patience. To it, shall virtue give place? Or the happy life of a wise and constant man yield? O god, what a shame were that? The boys of Sparta, do not so much as sigh, when their skin are even torn with stripes. Myself, saw whols companies of young men, in Lacedaemon, striving one against an other, with their fists, heels, nails, and teeth. So long, that they would be even out of breath, and almost overcome, afore they would confess themselves to be beaten. What part of Barbary, is there, more wild or rude, ●then India? Yet nevertheless, amongs them those which are counted wise men, are first bred up, bare and naked. And yet suffer both the cold of the hill Caucasus, and also, the sharpness of the winter, without any pain. And when they come to the fire, they are able to abide the heat, well nigh, till they roast. But the women there, when any of their husbands dieth, are wont to fall in contention, which of them (for they have many wives) he loved best in his life. She that winneth, being very joyful (a great company of her friends and kinsfolk, following her) is cast into the fire, with her dead husband.  
truly, custom would never overcome nature. For it is of itself invincible. But we, with wantonness, pleasure idleness, and sloth, do first infect our minds. And afterwards effeminating it, with perverse opinions, and evil custom, we cause it even wholly to degenerate. Who is ignorant, of the error of the Egyptians? who persuaded with a foolish opinion, would rather abide any torment, than they would hurt the beast called Ibis, or the serpent called Aspis, or a Cat, or a Dog, or a Crocodyle. But, if they chance, to hurt any of them unwares they will refuse no punishment for the same. Hitherto I have spoken of men. But what shall I say of beasts? Do not they suffer cold and hunger? run both up hill and down hill, when they be coursed? Do not they fight so for their whelps, that they are oft wounded, fearing no blows nor strokes? I overpass here, what pains ambitious men take, to obtain honour. And vain glorious men, to get that, which they think to be glory. Or such as are inflamed with love, to accomplish their desire. Our life is full of examples. But I will measure my talk, and return thither from whence I first strayed. Happy life (I say) will offer itself into torments. And will not, inasmuch as it hath always afore followed justice, temperance, fortitude, stoutness of stomach, and patience: as soon as it shall see the face of the tormentoure, then turn back and slip away. And inasmuch as all the virtues without any fear, shall hazard themselves, in the pain of torment: she only, shall not stand without the door and entry of the prison. For what may be more filthy or ill favoured, then happy life, when it is destitute, and separated from the fair train of virtues? Which nevertheless, can by no means be. For, neither can a man have all the virtues, without a happy life: neither yet may there be a happy life, without virtue. And for that cause they will not suffer it to tarry behind. But will always, take her with them to what so ever grief, or torment they shall go. For, it is the point of a wise man, to do nothiuge that may repent him, nor any thing against his will. But, to do all things comely, constantly, gravely, and honestly. To look for nothing, as though it were certain. And also to think nothing strange, or unaccustomed, when it is happened. To refer all things to his own discretion, and stand to his own judgement. Then the which truly. I can see nothing that may be more happy. The stoics, conclude this question lightly. saying, that inasmuch as, the chief end of all good, is to agree unto nature: and to live according unto her precepts: and, it, is in the power of a wise man. It must needs follow, that in whose power it is, to attain the chiefest good, in his power also it lieth, to lead a quiet life. So, every wise man, doth lead a blessed life. Thus you have that, which I think to be most stoutly spoken, of a blessed and happy life. And (as the case standeth) unless you can bring any proof, that also, which is as truly spoken, as it may be.  Hea. 
truly, I have nothing better to say. But I would gladly entreat you, if it were not troublesome unto you, because you are not bound to any one feet, but only, borrow of every one, that which seemeth to you to be most true. For that somewhat afore, you seemed to exhort the peripatetics, and the ancient Academics, that without any fear, they would boldly say, that a wise man is always most happy: that (I say) I would gladly hear, how you could make agreeable, to their opinion. For you have spoken very much against this opinion. Yea, and concluded it with the reason of the stoics.  Mar. 
Let us then use our liberty. The fruition of the which, we chiefly of all other philosophers do feel. Whose talk judgeth nothing, but is applied against all opinions. That it may, by itself, without any other authority be judged. And that the gladlier, because you seem to be well pleased, that what soever of the same sundry sorts of opinions be true, yet virtue should be sufficient to make us lead a happy life.  
(which also Carneades was wont to dispute, and that very sharply, against the stoics, whom he did always gladly reprove, and against whose doctrine, his mind was in manner inflamed. But we will do the same quietly. For, if the stoics, have well appointed the ends of good and evil: then, is the matter dispatched. For than must a wise man needs be happy. But let us examine, the opinions of all the rest that, this, so notable a decree, of a blessed and happy life, may be confirmed, with all their verdites. The opinions which yet continue, and are openly defended, as concerning the ends of good and evil (as far as I know) are these. first, four general, or simple opinions. Namely, that nothing is good, but that which is honest. As the stoics say. Or that nothing is good but pleasure. As Epicurus affirmeth. Or that nothing is good, except the lack of pain. As Jerome thinketh. Or that nothing is good, but to enjoy and increase those most excellent and principal goods, which are given us of nature. These are the general, or simple opinions. But the mixed or compound are these. first the three sorts of goods. The chiefest of the mind, the next of the body: and the last of fortune. As the peripatetics say. Neither do the ancient Academics, much differ from them. But Clitomachus, and Calipho, joined pleasure with honesty: and Diodorus the Peripatetic joined the want of grief, with honesty. These are all the opinions, which have any certainty in them. For, the opinions of Aristo, Pirrho, Herillus, and many others: are even worn away. What would follow of all these opinions, overpassing the stoics, (whose authority, we have already sufficiently defended) and the peripatetics (whose cause is already debated: excepting Theophrastus, who with his followers, feared grief more than he needed) let us now se. For truly, as for all tother, they may do (as they commonly are wont) namely, to amplify the gravity, and dignity of virtue, which, when they have extolleth even to the skies, (as eloquent men should) in all the rest of their talk they tread it under feet, and despise it.  
But they, which think, that we ought even with grief, to labour for praise: must not they needs confess, that they are happy which have attained it?  
For although they be in some evil, yet this name of a blessed, and happy life extendeth far. For, like as tillage, is counted a gainful, & profitable trade although some year, tempest or some other chance doth let the success: yet it is counted profitable, because it is so most commonly. Even so our life not only if it be replenished with all goods but also, if it have more goods, than evils, is to be counted happy. Wherefore, by their own reason, happy life, must needs accompany virtue, even to punishment. And shall go with her into torments. Yea, Aristotle, Xenocrates, Speusippus, & Polemon, witnessing the same. And shall never forsake it, at the entysement of a few flattering pleasures. To the same end, shall come the opinions of Caliphon, and Diodorus: both the which, so embrace honesty, that they think, that all such things as are without the same, ought utterly to be despised, and set at nought. The other philosophers stick more. And with more pain, swim out of the mire. I mean Epicurus, and Hieronimus, & all the rest, which a say to defend, the eloquent Carneades. For there is none of them, which thinketh that the mind ought to be the judge of all goods: or that doth accustom the same, to despise those things, which only have the appearance either of good or evil. For what soever thou think O Epicure, the same will both Hieronimus, and Carneades and also all the rest say. Yet, who of them is there, not sufficiently provided against death or grief? Let us begin of him (if you please) whom we call so wanton and full of pleasure. Doth not he (think you) despise death and pain who counteth that day, in the which he shall die, happy and blessed? And thinketh, that such as are in the greatest pangs of pain, may comfort themselves, with the remembrance of pleasures past? Neither yet doth he speak that, as if he did rashly blab it out. For his reason why death ought not to be feared is this. Because when the life is gone, all sense is past. And, when we are once without sense or feeling: there is no manner chance, that may grieve us. Also, he hath certain remedies for grief. For, if it be great he comforteth himself with the shortness of the time, that it shall endure.  
And if it be long, than he thinketh that space of time will make it wax lighter and lighter. I pray you, in what better case, are all the grave philosophers, against these two most dreadful ●uels, than Epicurus? Also, against all the other, which are counted evils: are not Epicurus, and all the other philosophers sufficiently armed? Who is there that doth not fear poverty? And yet what philosopher is there? yea or Epicurus himself, with how little is he content? No man hath spoken, or written, more of a spare, and bare life. For inasmuch as, he doth so much avoid all those things, which necessarily require money. Namely, love, ambition and such like. What● cause might there be, why he should either desire, or care for money? Could Anacharses a Scythian despise money, and shall not our philosophers be able to do the same?  
There is an epistle of his written in this manner. Anacharses to Hanno sendeth greeting. My clothing is a beasts skin ●f Scythia. My shoes, are the hard brawn in the soles of my feet. My bed is the ground. My sauce is hunger. My meat is milk, butter, and flesh. Wherefore you may well come quietly unto me. But as for those gifts, with the which, you think you should pleasure me, I pray you give them either to your own citizens, or else to the immortal gods. Truly, all philosophers, of whatsoever sect they were, unless they be such, as a vicious nature hath turned from the rule of reason, may well be of the same mind. Socrates, when there was a great plenty of gold and silver brought unto him, now lord (quoth he) how little do I pass for such store? Xenocrates, when the messengers which came to him from Alexander, had brought him twenty talents (which was counted at that time, at Athenes inespecially, a great sum of money) he brought the ambassadors into that place, where Plato once kept his school, and there made them a supper, only of so much, as was sufficient, without any great cost. And when they asked him on the morrow, to whom he would have them tell the money, Why (quoth he) did you not understand by the supper, I made you the last night that I lack no money? But when he saw them very sad at that saying, he took thirty pounds, lest he should seem to despise, the kings liberality. But Diogenes, when Alexander asked what he lacked, answered more like a currish philosopher. saying, stand out of the son. For he stood betwixt the son and him. And he was wont to dispute, how much he did surmount the king of Persia, in a happy life, and good luck. Saying, that he lacked nothing, and the other would never hau● enough. And that he desired not pleasures with the which, the other could not be satisfied. And that those pleasures, which he felt, the other might never attain. You remember (I think) how Epicurus derived the sundry sorts of desires: although not over subtly, yet commodiously enough. saying, that they are partly natural and necessary: and partly, neither natural nor necessary. And that such as are necessary, may be contented, and sufficed, well nigh with nothing. For, sufficient for nature may lightly be gotten. But the second sort, he thinks it neither hard to obtain, neither yet to lack. And the thrd, because they were utterly vain and fond, and were requisite, neither for necessity, nor nature: he said aught utterly to be rooted out. Hereabout, the followers of Epicurus reason much, and do debase, and despise in their talk these pleasures, very much. Which nevertheless, they do not despise, but seek to have plenty of. For, both they say, that filthy pleasures, of the which they have great talk, are easy, common and ri●e to be gotten: and also, if nature do require them, they think they ought to be measured, by beauty, age, and handsomeness. And that it is nothing hard to abstain from them, if either our health, duty, or fame, do so require● And that this kind of pleasure, is then best, when it hurteth not. For it never profiteth. And all these precepts of pleasures, he gave, to the end, he would show, that pleasure, for itself only, because it is pleasure, is to be wished and desired. And contrariwise, that pain only, because it is pain, aught to be hated and avoided. And this moderation, he thinketh a wise man ought to use. namely, to fly pleasure, if he think that it will bring a greater pain And to suffer pain, if he think, it will cause a greater pleasure. And that all pleasure, although it be judged by the senses of the body: yet nevertheless, ●ught to be referred to the mind. And that for that cause, the body doth rejoice, only so long, as it doth feel the pleasure present. But the mind, do both joy with the body, and also when ●t foresees, any pleasure coming: or remembreth, that which is paste. So that, a wise man, must needs have a continual and an everlasting pleasure inasmuch as, to the hope of such as are coming, he did join also, the remembrance of such as are past. Such like also, is their talk, as concerning moderation of fare. They dispraise all magnificence, and cost in banquets.  
Saying, that nature is contented with a little. For truly, who knows not, that the best sauce, is lack or want?  
Darius, when in his flight, he drank muddy and stinking water, said, that he never drank a sweeter draft.  
For truly, he was never afore thirsty, when he drank. No ydre had P●olomeus, eaten at any time with hunger. To whom, when (as he road his progress in Egipte, and strayed from his guard) a certain old man gave a house hold loaf, in a poor cottage: he said, that he never eat sweeter bred, in all his life. They say, that Socrates walking earnestly, towards the evening, and being demanded, for what cause he did so: answered, that, to th'intent he might sup the better, he did hunt for hunger. What? see we not the diet of the Lacedæmonians, in their banquets, which they call Philitia? In the which when the tyrant Dionysius, ●n a time supped, he said: that their black porridge, which was the best part of the supper, liked not him. Then the cook which made them, answered. It is no marvel, since you lack sauce. What sauce quoth he? Marry quoth he, the labour in hunting, sweat, running, from the river Eurotas, hunger, and thirst. For these be the sauces of the Lacedæmonians meat. And this truly, may well be perceived, not only by the custom of men, but also by beasts The which, as soon as, any thing is set afore them, which is not contrary to nature, contenting themselves therewith, seek no further. Yea whole cities, taught by custom, are sometimes delighted with thin diet. As we have already showed, of the Lacedæmonians. Xenophon describeth the living of the Persians. Who (as he sayeth) eat nothing with their bread, but only water cresses. Although, if their nature should desire any pleasant meat, there are many fruits, there both springing out of the ground, and also, growing on the trees, which excel, both in pleasure and plenty.  
join hereunto, the temperatenes that cometh of this continency in living: and the conservation, of health. Compare herewith, those that sweat, and belch with eating like fat Oxen.  
Then shall you perceive, that they which most desire pleasure, do most seldom obtain it. And, that the pleasure of meat, consisteth in a hungry, and empty stomach, and not in fullness and satiety. They say, that Timotheus a noble man in Athenes, and chief of the city, when on a time he supped with Plato, and was very well pleased with his cheer: seeing him the next day after, said. Your supper truly, is not only for the time present, but also for many days after pleasant. Also, what a thing is it, that being much stuffed with meat and drink, we can not use our wit at liberty? There is a notable Epistle of Plato, written to the kinsmen of Dion. In the which, in manner word for word, this is written. Thither when I came, that, which the Italians, and Siracusa●s, count a happy life.  
namely, to be fed with a great number of dainty dishes, liked me no whit. Neither yet, to be filled twice in a day nor sit up all night. And such like things (which do necessarily follow that kind of life) little pleased me. By the which, no man may be made wise, and much less moderate. For what nature may keep so wonderful a temperature? Wherefore, how may● that life be pleasant, in the which, there lacketh prudence or moderation? And herein, I remember the error of that most wealthy king of Syria, Sar●anapalus. Who commanded this, to be graven on his tomb. 
Those things only I think I have which while I live, I eat.  
And contrary, those I count lost which I behind me left.   
What more meet thing (quod Aristotle) could a man chose out, to grave on the tomb of an Ox, not of a king? He being dead, sayeth he hath all those things, which even whiles he lived, he had no longer, then whiles he used them. Wherefore then, should we feel any miss of richesse? Or where will not poverty suffer us to be happy? perhaps in fair tables, plays, & painted signs. Do not poor men enjoy the same better, than they the are plentifully stored with them? For there is great store of all such things in the common buildings of our city. Which they that have privately in their own houses, see neither so many, neither yet so often: only when they go down to their manors in the country. Whom also many times their consciece pricks, when they remember, how, or from whence, they came by them. A whole day would be to little for me, if I should here plead the cause of poverty. Both it is plain enough of itself, and also daily experience sets before our eyes, how few things, how small, and how base those are, which the nature man requireth. Shall poverty therefore, or baseness of birth: yea or the anger and grudge of the people let a wise man to be happy? Beware that you prove not, that this praise of the people, and glory that every man so much desireth, doth bring more trouble, than pleasure. And therefore truly, Demosthenes was to light, who said, that it delighted him, to hear a woman, as she went to fetch water, (as the manner is in Greece) say unto her fellow, when he passed by. This is that same Demosthenes. What could be more ●ondly said? Yet how famous an orator was he? But it appeareth, that he was wont to talk much afore other men, & not to comen with his own conscience. We must therefore know this, that neither high place, or glory, are for themselves to be desired: neither poverty and baseness to be feared. For, Democritus said. Come to Athenes, there no man knoweth me.  
A constant man, and a grave truly: which glorieth that he was without glory. Shall trumpeters and other musicians play and blow according as it shall seem good to them. And shall a wise man, whose art is far more excellent seek out and follow not that that is truest, but what the people liketh? Is there any thing more foolish? than, that those, whom taking one and one, you despise as slaves and fools, to think (I say) that those altogether are any better? But a wise man truly, will despise all our ambition, and lightness. Yea, he will despise all honour, though it be proffered unto him. But we can not despise them, afore repentance drive us to it. In the books Hermodorus a writer of natural philosophy, there is such a saying. He would, that all the Ephesians should be put to death. For that, when they banished Hermodorus their king, out of the city, they spoke in this wise. Let there no man amongs us be above the rest. Or, if there be any, that would be so, let him go to some other place, and amongs other men. Is it not so in the common people every where likewise? Doth it not spite them, to see any man, pass all the rest in virtue? What? Aristides (for I had rather to bring forth the examples of the Grecians, than our own:) was not he banished from his country, because he was just above all measure, as they thought What troubles therefore, want they, which have nothing to do with the people? Or what is more pleasant than leisure bestowed on learning? Such learning I mean, as teacheth us the knowledge of all nature: the heaven, the earth, the seas, and all the rest.  
Despising therefore, honour, and riches, What is there, that a man should fear? Exile perhaps, which is counted one of the greatest evils. It, if you count to be evil, because of the pleasure and grudge of the people, then how little we ought to esteem it, I have spoken afore. But if you count it a misery, to be from your country: then truly is every province full of wretched men, of whom very few return home again into their country. But all banished men lose their goods. What then? have we showed nothing how men ought to bear poverty? And truly, exile and banishment, if we weigh the nature of the thing, and not th● shame of the name, how much differeth it from that continual wandering, in the which these most notable philosophers, Xenocrates, Crantor, Arcesilas, Lacides, Aristoteles, Theophrastus, Zeno, Cleanther, Chrysippus, Antipater, Carneades, Panetius, Clitomachus, Philo, Antiochus, Possidonius, and other innumerable, have spent their whole age, and the course of their life? Who, after they once departed from their countries, never came thither again.  
And truly, it could put a wise man (of whom only our talk is at this present) to no shame at all. Because, no such thing, can rightfully come unto him.  
For such a one, as is rightfully banished, we ought not to comfort. To conclude, to prove this, we may easily apply their opinion, who refer all things in this life to pleasure. For in what soever place we have such things, there we may live well and happily. And therefore, hereunto, that saying of Tencer may well be applied.  
My country (quoth he) is, wheresoever I ●●ue well. And Socrates, when one asked of him whence he was? He answered of the world, So, he thought himself to be a 〈◊〉 and an inhabitant of every place in the world. Also Titus Albutius. Did he not, when he was banished, go to Athenes, & there study philosophy? Who also, should not have been banished at all, if he holding his peace, would have obeyed the laws of Epicurus. And then I pray you, what was Epicurus the happier for that he lived in his country: then Metrodorus living at Athenes? Or wherein, was Plato more happy than Xenocrates? Or Polemon, than Arcesilas? Or how is that city to be esteemed, out of the which good and wise men are banished? Demaratus truly, the father of Tarqvinius our king, because he could not abide the tyrants Cypselus, ca●sed all the Tarquin's to forsake Corinth. And here placed his stock, and increased his family. Did ●e not wisely prefer, freedom in banishment, afore bondage at home?  
But now the motions, the cares, and griefs of the mind, are suaged with forgetting the same, and drawing of the mind to pleasure. It was not without some cause therefore, that Epicurus durst to say. That a wise man, hath always many goods, because he is always in pleasure. Whereof he thinketh that it must necessarily follow, that a wise man is always happy.  Hea. 
Yea? if he lack his sight? or his hearing?  Mar. 
Yea, For he despiseth even these lacks also. And first of all this horrible blindness, what pleasure wants it? Inasmuch as some say, that all the other pleasures, are within the senses themselves. But those things which we see, are not any pleasure to our eyes. As all those things, which we taste, smell, feel, or hear, are in that self same part where we feel them. But in the eyes there is no such thing. Our mind taketh those things which we see. But the mind may be delighted, many and divers ways, although our body can not see. For now I speak of a learned man, whose life is study. His thoughts and wit require not eyes to see that, which with his mind he can not see. Truly, if night can not let a man, but that he may be happy: why should a day like to night do it? For the answer of Appius, the Cyrenaike, is not so honest, although it be not much from this purpose. Whose blindness when certain women did lament: what mean you quoth he? Is there no pleasure in the night think ye? We perceive, both by his offices, and also by his deeds, that that old Appius which was blind many years, yet in that his mischance supplied his duty, both at home, and also abroad in the common wealth. Also we have heard that the house of Caius Drusus, was wont to be full of Clients. So that whereas they that could see, could not see their own case, they were fain to take a blind man, to their guide and counsellor. Whiles I was a boy, Cneius Aufidius, who had been once Praetor, being blind, did both give counsel to his friends and write an history in Greek, and also had good skill in all learning.  
Diodorus the Stoic, being blind, lived many years at my house. He (which is scarce credible) besides that, he did continually take more pains in the study of philosophy, them he did afore and also played on instruments, after the manner of the pythagoreans: & had books red unto him, day and night, in the which studies nevertheless he did not much need his eyes: yet besides all this I say (which may scarce be without eyes) he used the practice of Geometry. Teaching his scholars how far, & after what sort, they should draw every line. They say, the Asclepiades, no base nor mean philosopher, when one asked of him, what discommoditi blindness had brought him he answered, that he had more need of one boy, to wait on him. For, like as extreme poverty were tolerable, if a man might do as certain Grecians may, so likewise may blindness easily be borne, if we lack not helps, for our necessity. Democritus having lost his eyes, could not discern white & black. But things good & evil just & unjust, honest & dishonest, profitable & unprofitable, he could discern.  
So, although without the sight of sundry colours he could live happily, yet without the knowledge of things he could not. And he also thought that the judgement & quickness of the mind was hindered by the sighed of the eyes. And whereas other men scarseli can se y●, which lieth afore their feet, he beheld in his mind the whole nature of every thing, so that nothing could be hidden from him. It is said also, that Homer was blind. But that they may say, the see his picture, & not his poetry. For what region, what coast, what place of Greece, what shape of beauty, what battle, what army what stir of men or beasts, is not so expressed in him? that, those things which he himself saw not yet he hath made us to see, who never beheld the same? Then what delight or pleasure of the mind, did either Homer or any other learned man, the was blind want at any time? none truly. For other wise, would Anaragoras, or the same Demo●ritus of whom we now spoke, have left their lands & inheritance & given themselves, to this heavenly delight, of study and learning? Also Tiresias the soothsayer, whom the poets feign to have been a wise man, they never bring in complaining his blindness. But Homer, feigning Poliphemus to have been a rude, and a huge giant, maketh him talking with a ram, commending his good chance, for that he could see to go where he would, and touch what he listed. And truly, that talk was well applied to such a person.  
For he was no wiser than the ram, with whom he talked. But in deafness what evil is there? Marcus Crassus was somewhat deaf. But there was one thing worse than that, belonging to him. namely, that he had an evil report. Although that truly, in my opinion, was without cause. Our Epicures can not understand, nor speak Greek. Neither the Greek, Epicures latin. They therefore were deaf in these men's language. And likewise, these men in theirs. And all men in those languages which they understand not, are no better than deaf But some man will say. They can not hear the sweet noise, of any instrument. No more can they the grating or jarring of a saw, when he is whetted: neither the squeaking of a pig when he is sticked: neither, when they are disposed to take their rest, the roaring of the main sea. And if they 〈◊〉 so greatly delighted with songs and instruments: they ought to consider that afore any such things were invented, there were many wise men, that led a happy life. And also, that there may be far greater pleasure taken, in reading, then hearings such toys. Furthermore, as we did afore commend unto blind men, the pleasures of the ears: so we may unto deaf men, commend the pleasures of the eyes. And furthermore, who soever can comen secretly with his own conscience, he shall not need the talk of another. Now let all these miseries be put together. So that some man lack both his sight and hearing: and furthermore be pained with extreme grief in his body: which both of themselves are able at the first to kill a man or else if they tarry any thing long, do prick a man more vehemently, then that he should have occasion to abide them, yet what need we to trouble ourselves? Inasmuch as, there is always a haven & bay ready for us. Death I mean, the everlasting home of our body, when it is once past sense. Theodorus, when Lysimachus threatened him, that he would put him to death, said. Surely your power is great, if you be able to do asmuch, as a Cantarides. Paulus when Perses desired him, that he might not be led in his triumph: answered. That is in your choice. Of death we spoke much the first day when we disputed purposely of it & somewhat also, the next day, when we entreated of grief, we said thereof: which who soever doth remember, there is no doubt but he will either wish for death, or at the least wise not fear it. I think that herein, we ought to keep that custom which the Grecians use in their feasts for they have such a term. Either let him drink or else departed. And but right For, either let him with other keep fellowship in drinking: or else, lest he being sober, should be in the company of drunkards, he must depart before. So likewise, the injuries of fortune, which we can not abide, we ought to avoid by flight. The same that Epicurus sayeth, Hieronimus also affirmeth almost with the self same words.  
Therefore if these philosophers, which think, virtue of itself to be of no force & that all that, which we call honest and laudable, is but a vain thing, only coloured with a fair name: if these men nevertheless, think, that a wise man is always happy: what then should we look for, of Socrates, Plato, & other more excellent philosophers? Of that which some say, that the goods of the mind are of such excellency, that they blemish all the goods of the body, & of fortune. And some other count these to be no goods at all, but place all things in the mind only. Whose controversy, Carneades was wont to finish like an honourable judge. For he said, that there was no cause of controversy betwixt them, although, those things which the peripatetike● did call goods, that Stoics did count but commodities: so that the peripatetics did attribute no more to riches, good health, and other such like, than the stoics, when it comes to the pdndering of the thing itself, and not of the word. And, as for the philosophers of other sects, how they can have any place in this opinion, let themselves see. Yet I am glad, that they profess some thing worthy the name of philosophers, of the ableness of a wise man to live well. But, inasmuch as, in the morning we must go from hence, let us now pen out these our five days disputations. I trust, that I shall at the last, have some leisure to set them abroad. For wherein may I better employ this little leisure that I have? And to my friend Brutus we will send these five books, by whom I was not only moved, but also provoked to write of philosophy.  
Wherein, how much we shall profit other men, I can not well say. But for mine own sharpest sorrows, and sundry troubles, that on all sides compassed me, I could find no better remedy.  
FINIS.   

¶ Faults escaped in printing.  

In the first book.  fol.  page. line 3 2 7 for unto, read till 8 2 2 for Hea. read Mar. 9 1 8 for also, read ask. 10 1 23 for members, read numbers 12 2 20 for may, read any 13 2 8 for where, read are 14 2 4 for his, read this 14 1 23 for foolish, read foolishly 15 2 16 for hearty, read haughty. 18 2 1 for which, read when 20 2 8 for exhaltations, read exha●● 21 1 1 for as, read and lations. 22 2 8 for bound, read bored. 24 2 9 for self, read soul 29 2 12 for Nectari, read Nectar 31 2 17 for now, read new 32 2 17 for motion, read mixtion. ●6 2 8 for Aecus, read Aeacus. 
In the second book.  fol.  pa. li. 2 2 12 for wits, read which ● 2 16 for which, read wits  2 22 for Peripatician and Academians, read Peripate●●kes and academics. 
In the third book.  fol. pa. li.  5 2 22 for as, read be 8 12 9 for excutue, read execute. 11 1 7 for we, read no 12 1 11 for bed, read beard, 20 2 14 for goodness, read goods 34 2 1 for delayed, read deluded 37 1 9 for countenance, read continuance. 39 1 6 for bear, read minister, 39 1 20 for confirm, read conform 40 2 11 for mourn, read mourning 
In the fourth book.  fol. pa. li.  2 2 1 for lined, read lived 4 2 1 for cunning, read living 10 1 10 for fear, read joy 10 1 23 for sonoe read soon 17 1 21 for for, read or 28 2 19 for valiant, read valiant 
❧ In the fift book.  fol. pa. li.  8 2 16 for so, read also, 12 2 7 for line, read li●e 27 2 3 for thitherto, read hitherto   

Words left out.  

❧ In the first book.  
16. leaf. first page, 11. line betwixt (for) and (what) bring in (for). 19 fol. 2. pa. 13. li. betwixt (but) and (he) bring in (he thought) 23. foli. 1. pa. 4. line. betwixt fear and for, bring in. What terror I pray you? or what fear? 43. fol. 1. pa. 19 line. betwixt, such, and, as, bring in, that   

In the second book.  
4. fol. 2. pa. 2. li. betwixt, me, and, inasmuch, bring in, for. 4. fol. 2. pa. 22. li. betwixt, custom, and, peripatetics, bring in, of the   

In the third book.  
6. fol. 1. pa. 26. li. betwixt, is, and, written, bring in, not .16. fol. 2. pa. 24. line. betwixt, in, and, thinking, bring in, two points, the one in withdrawing our mind from the. 27. fol. 2. pa. 12. li. betwixt, kind, & that, bring in, is. 35. fol. 1. pa. 16. lin. betwixt, that, &, is, bring in it.   

In the fourth book.  
11. fol. 2. page .17. li betwixt, mind, &, to, bring in, they define. 13. fol. 2. page.  
22. line. betwixt, comparison, &, may, bring in, of diseases of the body. 34. fo. 1. pa. 1. line. betwixt, that, &, thereabout, bring in, there is any love of whoredom. And.   

In the fift book.  
18. fol. 2, page. 6. line, betwixt, void, and, fear, bring in, of.    

¶ Imprinted at London in Fleetstreet near to S. Dunston's church by Thomas Marsh.