Book 1

Mother of Rome, delight of Gods and men, Dear Venus that beneath the gliding stars Makest to teem the many-voyaged main And fruitful lands—for all of living things Through thee alone are evermore conceived, Through thee are risen to visit the great sun— Before thee, Goddess, and thy coming on, Flee stormy wind and massy cloud away, For thee the daedal Earth bears scented flowers, For thee waters of the unvexed deep Smile, and the hollows of the serene sky Glow with diffused radiance for thee! For soon as comes the springtime face of day, And procreant gales blow from the West unbarred, First fowls of air, smit to the heart by thee, Foretoken thy approach, O thou Divine, And leap the wild herds round the happy fields Or swim the bounding torrents. Thus amain, Seized with the spell, all creatures follow thee Whithersoever thou walkest forth to lead, And thence through seas and mountains and swift streams, Through leafy homes of birds and greening plains, Kindling the lure of love in every breast, Thou bringest the eternal generations forth, Kind after kind. And since 'tis thou alone Guidest the Cosmos, and without thee naught Is risen to reach the shining shores of light, Nor aught of joyful or of lovely born, Thee do I crave co-partner in that verse Which I presume on Nature to compose For Memmius mine, whom thou hast willed to be Peerless in every grace at every hour— Wherefore indeed, Divine one, give my words Immortal charm. Lull to a timely rest O'er sea and land the savage works of war, For thou alone hast power with public peace To aid mortality; since he who rules The savage works of battle, puissant Mars, How often to thy bosom flings his strength O'ermastered by the eternal wound of love— And there, with eyes and full throat backward thrown, Gazing, my Goddess, open-mouthed at thee, Pastures on love his greedy sight, his breath Hanging upon thy lips. Him thus reclined Fill with thy holy body, round, above! Pour from those lips soft syllables to win Peace for the Romans, glorious Lady, peace! For in a season troublous to the state Neither may I attend this task of mine With thought untroubled, nor mid such events The illustrious scion of the Memmian house Neglect the civic cause. Whilst human kind Throughout the lands lay miserably crushed Before all eyes beneath Religion—who Would show her head along the region skies, Glowering on mortals with her hideous face— A Greek it was who first opposing dared Raise mortal eyes that terror to withstand, Whom nor the fame of Gods nor lightning's stroke Nor threatening thunder of the ominous sky Abashed; but rather chafed to angry zest His dauntless heart to be the first to rend The crossbars at the gates of Nature old. And thus his will and hardy wisdom won; And forward thus he fared afar, beyond The flaming ramparts of the world, until He wandered the unmeasurable All. Whence he to us, a conqueror, reports What things can rise to being, what cannot, And by what law to each its scope prescribed, Its boundary stone that clings so deep in Time. Wherefore Religion now is under foot, And us his victory now exalts to heaven. I know how hard it is in Latian verse To tell the dark discoveries of the Greeks, Chiefly because our pauper-speech must find Strange terms to fit the strangeness of the thing; Yet worth of thine and the expected joy Of thy sweet friendship do persuade me on To bear all toil and wake the clear nights through, Seeking with what of words and what of song I may at last most gloriously uncloud For thee the light beyond, wherewith to view The core of being at the centre hid. And for the rest, summon to judgments true, Unbusied ears and singleness of mind Withdrawn from cares; lest these my gifts, arranged For thee with eager service, thou disdain Before thou comprehendest: since for thee I prove the supreme law of Gods and sky, And the primordial germs of things unfold, Whence Nature all creates, and multiplies And fosters all, and whither she resolves Each in the end when each is overthrown. This ultimate stock we have devised to name Procreant atoms, matter, seeds of things, Or primal bodies, as primal to the world. I fear perhaps thou deemest that we fare An impious road to realms of thought profane; But 'tis that same religion oftener far Hath bred the foul impieties of men: As once at Aulis, the elected chiefs, Foremost of heroes, Danaan counsellors, Defiled Diana's altar, virgin queen, With Agamemnon's daughter, foully slain. She felt the chaplet round her maiden locks And fillets, fluttering down on either cheek, And at the altar marked her grieving sire, The priests beside him who concealed the knife, And all the folk in tears at sight of her. With a dumb terror and a sinking knee She dropped; nor might avail her now that first 'Twas she who gave the king a father's name. They raised her up, they bore the trembling girl On to the altar—hither led not now With solemn rites and hymeneal choir, But sinless woman, sinfully foredone, A parent felled her on her bridal day, Making his child a sacrificial beast To give the ships auspicious winds for Troy: Such are the crimes to which Religion leads. And there shall come the time when even thou, Forced by the soothsayer's terror-tales, shalt seek To break from us. Ah, many a dream even now Can they concoct to rout thy plans of life, And trouble all thy fortunes with base fears. I own with reason: for, if men but knew Some fixed end to ills, they would be strong By some device unconquered to withstand Religions and the menacings of seers. But now nor skill nor instrument is theirs, Since men must dread eternal pains in death. For what the soul may be they do not know, Whether 'tis born, or enter in at birth, And whether, snatched by death, it die with us, Or visit the shadows and the vasty caves Of Orcus, or by some divine decree Enter the brute herds, as our Ennius sang, Who first from lovely Helicon brought down A laurel wreath of bright perennial leaves, Renowned forever among the Italian clans. Yet Ennius too in everlasting verse Proclaims those vaults of Acheron to be, Though thence, he said, nor souls nor bodies fare, But only phantom figures, strangely wan, And tells how once from out those regions rose Old Homer's ghost to him and shed salt tears And with his words unfolded Nature's source. Then be it ours with steady mind to clasp The purport of the skies—the law behind The wandering courses of the sun and moon; To scan the powers that speed all life below; But most to see with reasonable eyes Of what the mind, of what the soul is made, And what it is so terrible that breaks On us asleep, or waking in disease, Until we seem to mark and hear at hand Dead men whose bones earth bosomed long ago.

Mother of Rome, delight of gods and men, Dear Venus, beneath the gliding stars You fill the much-traveled sea with life, And the fruitful lands. For all living things Are conceived through you alone. Through you they rise to see the great sun. Goddess, before you and your coming, Storm winds and heavy clouds flee. For you, the skillful Earth bears fragrant flowers. For you, the waters of the calm deep Smile, and the open spaces of the clear sky Glow with radiance spread out for you! For as soon as the springtime day appears And the fertile west winds blow freely, The birds of the air, struck to the heart by you, First announce your coming, divine one. Wild herds leap through the joyful fields Or swim across rushing streams. So eagerly, Caught in your spell, all creatures follow you Wherever you go to lead them. And so, through seas and mountains and swift streams, Through the leafy homes of birds and greening plains, You kindle the lure of love in every breast And bring forth the endless generations, Kind after kind. Since you alone Guide the Cosmos, and without you nothing Rises to reach the shining shores of light, And nothing joyful or lovely is born, I ask you to be my partner in the poem I dare to write about Nature For my dear Memmius, whom you have willed to be Without equal in every grace at all times. So, divine one, give my words Immortal charm. Bring a timely rest To the savage work of war on sea and land. For you alone have the power to help Mortals by bringing peace to all. For Mars, Who rules the savage work of battle, Often throws his strength into your embrace, Overcome by love’s eternal wound. There, with his eyes and full throat turned back, He gazes at you, my goddess, his mouth open. His hungry eyes feed on love, and his breath Hangs on your lips. As he lies there, Enfold him with your holy body from all around and above! Speak softly from those lips and win Peace for the Romans, glorious Lady, peace! For in a time of trouble for the state, I cannot attend to my task With an untroubled mind. Nor, amid such events, Can the illustrious son of the Memmian house Neglect the affairs of the state. While humankind Across the lands lay miserably crushed, For all to see, beneath Religion, Religion showed her head in the skies, Glaring at mortals with her hideous face. A Greek was the first who dared to oppose her. He raised mortal eyes to face that terror. Neither the fame of the gods nor a lightning strike Nor the threatening thunder of the ominous sky Frightened him. Instead, they stirred His fearless heart to an angry zeal. He would be the first to break The bars at the gates of ancient Nature. And so his will and brave wisdom won. He traveled far beyond The flaming walls of the world, until He wandered through the boundless All. From there he returns as a conqueror and tells us What can come into being and what cannot, And by what law each thing has its allotted range And its boundary stone, fixed so deeply in time. So Religion is now trampled underfoot, And his victory lifts us to heaven. I know how hard it is in Latin verse To explain the Greeks’ obscure discoveries. Our poor language must find Strange terms to fit these strange things. Yet your worth and the joy I expect From your dear friendship persuade me To bear every labor and stay awake through clear nights, Searching for the words and verse That will most brilliantly clear away the clouds for you From the light beyond, so you may see The hidden heart at the center of being. And now, prepare to judge truly. Listen without distraction, and give me your full attention, Setting aside your cares. Do not reject these gifts, Which I have arranged for you with eager devotion, Before you understand them. For I will explain to you The highest law of the gods and the sky. I will reveal the first seeds of things, From which Nature creates, multiplies, And nourishes all things, and into which she dissolves Each thing in the end, when it is destroyed. We have chosen to call this basic substance Fertile atoms, matter, seeds of things, Or primal bodies, since they are the first elements of the world. I fear you may think that we are taking A godless path into unholy realms of thought. But religion itself has far more often Given rise to men’s foul acts of impiety. Once at Aulis, the chosen leaders, The foremost heroes and counselors of the Danaans, Defiled the altar of Diana, the virgin queen, By cruelly killing Agamemnon’s daughter. She felt the wreath around her maiden hair And the ribbons fluttering down her cheeks. At the altar she saw her grieving father, The priests beside him hiding the knife, And all the people weeping at the sight of her. Speechless with terror, her knees giving way, She fell. It could not help her now that she had been the first To give the king the name of father. They lifted her and carried the trembling girl To the altar. She was not led there now With solemn rites and a wedding choir. Instead, though innocent, she was sinfully struck down. On her wedding day, her father killed her, Making his child a sacrificial victim To give the ships favorable winds for Troy. Such are the crimes to which Religion leads. And a time will come when even you, Driven by the fortune-teller’s frightening tales, will seek To break away from us. Ah, even now They can invent many a dream to overturn your plans for life And trouble all your fortunes with shameful fears. I admit they have reason to do so. For if people knew That their troubles had a fixed end, they would be strong Enough somehow to resist and overcome Religions and the threats of seers. But now people have neither the skill nor the means, Since they must fear eternal suffering in death. For they do not know what the soul is, Whether it is born with us or enters us at birth, Or whether, seized by death, it dies with us, Or visits the shadows and vast caves Of Orcus, or by some divine decree Enters the bodies of animals, as our Ennius sang. He was the first to bring down from lovely Helicon A laurel wreath of bright, everlasting leaves, Famous forever among the Italian peoples. Yet Ennius also declares in immortal verse That the vaults of Acheron exist. From there, he said, neither souls nor bodies emerge, But only ghostly figures, strangely pale. He tells how, once, from those regions rose Old Homer’s ghost, who shed bitter tears And spoke to him of Nature’s source. So let us set our minds steadily on understanding The meaning of the heavens, the law behind The wandering courses of the sun and moon. Let us examine the forces that drive all life below. But above all, let us use reason to see What the mind and soul are made of, And what terrible thing comes upon us In sleep or when we are awake and ill, Until we seem to see and hear close at hand Dead people whose bones the earth embraced long ago.

This terror, then, this darkness of the mind, Not sunrise with its flaring spokes of light, Nor glittering arrows of morning can disperse, But only Nature's aspect and her law, Which, teaching us, hath this exordium: Nothing from nothing ever yet was born. Fear holds dominion over mortality Only because, seeing in land and sky So much the cause whereof no wise they know, Men think Divinities are working there. Meantime, when once we know from nothing still Nothing can be create, we shall divine More clearly what we seek: those elements From which alone all things created are, And how accomplished by no tool of Gods. Suppose all sprang from all things: any kind Might take its origin from any thing, No fixed seed required. Men from the sea Might rise, and from the land the scaly breed, And, fowl full fledged come bursting from the sky; The horned cattle, the herds and all the wild Would haunt with varying offspring tilth and waste; Nor would the same fruits keep their olden trees, But each might grow from any stock or limb By chance and change. Indeed, and were there not For each its procreant atoms, could things have Each its unalterable mother old? But, since produced from fixed seeds are all, Each birth goes forth upon the shores of light From its own stuff, from its own primal bodies. And all from all cannot become, because In each resides a secret power its own. Again, why see we lavished o'er the lands At spring the rose, at summer heat the corn, The vines that mellow when the autumn lures, If not because the fixed seeds of things At their own season must together stream, And new creations only be revealed When the due times arrive and pregnant earth Safely may give unto the shores of light Her tender progenies? But if from naught Were their becoming, they would spring abroad Suddenly, unforeseen, in alien months, With no primordial germs, to be preserved From procreant unions at an adverse hour. Nor on the mingling of the living seeds Would space be needed for the growth of things Were life an increment of nothing: then The tiny babe forthwith would walk a man, And from the turf would leap a branching tree— Wonders unheard of; for, by Nature, each Slowly increases from its lawful seed, And through that increase shall conserve its kind. Whence take the proof that things enlarge and feed From out their proper matter. Thus it comes That earth, without her seasons of fixed rains, Could bear no produce such as makes us glad, And whatsoever lives, if shut from food, Prolongs its kind and guards its life no more. Thus easier 'tis to hold that many things Have primal bodies in common (as we see The single letters common to many words) Than aught exists without its origins. Moreover, why should Nature not prepare Men of a bulk to ford the seas afoot, Or rend the mighty mountains with their hands, Or conquer Time with length of days, if not Because for all begotten things abides The changeless stuff, and what from that may spring Is fixed forevermore? Lastly we see How far the tilled surpass the fields untilled And to the labour of our hands return Their more abounding crops; there are indeed Within the earth primordial germs of things, Which, as the ploughshare turns the fruitful clods And kneads the mould, we quicken into birth. Else would ye mark, without all toil of ours, Spontaneous generations, fairer forms. Confess then, naught from nothing can become, Since all must have their seeds, wherefrom to grow, Wherefrom to reach the gentle fields of air. Hence too it comes that Nature all dissolves Into their primal bodies again, and naught Perishes ever to annihilation. For, were aught mortal in its every part, Before our eyes it might be snatched away Unto destruction; since no force were needed To sunder its members and undo its bands. Whereas, of truth, because all things exist, With seed imperishable, Nature allows Destruction nor collapse of aught, until Some outward force may shatter by a blow, Or inward craft, entering its hollow cells, Dissolve it down. And more than this, if Time, That wastes with eld the works along the world, Destroy entire, consuming matter all, Whence then may Venus back to light of life Restore the generations kind by kind? Or how, when thus restored, may daedal Earth Foster and plenish with her ancient food, Which, kind by kind, she offers unto each? Whence may the water-springs, beneath the sea, Or inland rivers, far and wide away, Keep the unfathomable ocean full? And out of what does Ether feed the stars? For lapsed years and infinite age must else Have eat all shapes of mortal stock away: But be it the Long Ago contained those germs, By which this sum of things recruited lives, Those same infallibly can never die, Nor nothing to nothing evermore return. And, too, the selfsame power might end alike All things, were they not still together held By matter eternal, shackled through its parts, Now more, now less. A touch might be enough To cause destruction. For the slightest force Would loose the weft of things wherein no part Were of imperishable stock. But now Because the fastenings of primordial parts Are put together diversely and stuff Is everlasting, things abide the same Unhurt and sure, until some power comes on Strong to destroy the warp and woof of each: Nothing returns to naught; but all return At their collapse to primal forms of stuff. Lo, the rains perish which Ether-father throws Down to the bosom of Earth-mother; but then Upsprings the shining grain, and boughs are green Amid the trees, and trees themselves wax big And lade themselves with fruits; and hence in turn The race of man and all the wild are fed; Hence joyful cities thrive with boys and girls; And leafy woodlands echo with new birds; Hence cattle, fat and drowsy, lay their bulk Along the joyous pastures whilst the drops Of white ooze trickle from distended bags; Hence the young scamper on their weakling joints Along the tender herbs, fresh hearts afrisk With warm new milk. Thus naught of what so seems Perishes utterly, since Nature ever Upbuilds one thing from other, suffering naught To come to birth but through some other's death.

This terror, then, this darkness of the mind, Cannot be driven away by sunrise and its blazing rays, Or by the glittering arrows of morning. Only Nature’s appearance and her laws can dispel it. Nature begins her teaching with this principle: Nothing has ever been born from nothing. Fear rules over mortal life Only because people see so much on earth and in the sky Whose causes they do not know at all. So they think gods are at work there. But once we know that nothing Can ever be created from nothing, we will see More clearly what we seek: the elements From which alone all things are created, And how they are made without any help from the gods. Suppose everything sprang from everything else. Any kind Could arise from anything, With no fixed seed required. People might rise from the sea, And scaly creatures from the land. Fully grown birds might burst from the sky. Horned cattle, herds, and all wild beasts Would produce changing offspring in fields and wilderness alike. The same fruits would no longer stay on their familiar trees. Instead, each fruit might grow from any trunk or branch, By chance and change. Indeed, if each thing did not have Its own atoms for reproduction, how could things Each have their own unchanging mother? But since all things are produced from fixed seeds, Each living thing comes into the light From its own material, from its own primal bodies. And not everything can come from everything else, because Each thing has its own hidden power. Again, why do we see roses spread across the land In spring, grain in the heat of summer, And grapes ripening when autumn arrives? It is because the fixed seeds of things Must come together in their own season. New creations can appear only When the right times arrive and the fertile earth Can safely bring into the light Her tender young. But if they came from nothing, They would spring up suddenly and without warning, In the wrong months. There would be no primal seeds to keep From joining and producing life at an unfavorable time. Nor would living seeds need time to mingle And things need time to grow, If life grew from nothing. Then A tiny baby would immediately walk as a man, And a branching tree would leap from the ground. Such wonders are unheard of. For in Nature, each thing Grows slowly from its proper seed, And keeps its kind as it grows. This proves that things grow and feed On the matter suited to them. So Without regular seasonal rains, the earth Could produce none of the crops that delight us. And every living thing, if denied food, Can no longer preserve its kind or keep itself alive. So it is easier to believe that many things Have primal bodies in common, just as we see The same letters in many words, Than to believe that anything exists without a source. Besides, why would Nature not make People large enough to wade across the seas, Or tear apart mighty mountains with their hands, Or defeat Time by living long lives? It is because All things that are born come from unchanging material, And what can spring from that material Is fixed forever. Finally, we see How much cultivated fields surpass uncultivated ones. They repay the work of our hands With richer crops. Indeed, there are Primal seeds of things within the earth. When the plow turns the fertile clods And works the soil, we bring those seeds to life. Otherwise, without any work from us, you would see Things spring up on their own in even finer forms. Admit, then, that nothing can come from nothing. For everything must have seeds from which to grow, And from which to reach the gentle open air. For the same reason, Nature also breaks everything down Into its primal bodies again, and nothing Ever perishes completely. For if every part of a thing could die, It might be swept away into destruction Before our eyes. No force would be needed To separate its parts and undo their bonds. But in truth, all things exist With seeds that cannot perish. So Nature does not allow Anything to be destroyed or fall apart until Some outside force strikes and shatters it, Or some hidden force enters its hollow spaces And breaks it down. And if Time, Which wears away the works of the world with age, Destroyed them entirely and consumed all their matter, How could Venus bring back into the light of life Each generation, kind by kind? Or, once restored, how could the skillful Earth Nourish and sustain them with her ancient food, Which she offers to each kind? How could springs beneath the sea Or rivers across the land, far and wide, Keep the bottomless ocean full? And what does Ether use to feed the stars? Otherwise, the years gone by and endless time Would have eaten away every mortal form. But if the distant past contained the seeds That renew the life of this whole world, Those same seeds surely can never die. Nothing can ever return to nothing. Also, the same force could destroy All things alike, if their parts were not held together By eternal matter, Bound more tightly in some things than in others. A touch might be enough To destroy them. For the slightest force Would unravel things with no parts Made of imperishable matter. But as it is, The bonds between primal parts Are arranged in different ways, and matter Lasts forever. So things remain Safe and unchanged until some force comes Strong enough to destroy their fabric: Nothing returns to nothing. Instead, when things fall apart, All return to their primal forms of matter. Look, the rains perish when Father Ether sends them Down into the lap of Mother Earth. But then Bright grain springs up, and branches turn green Among the trees. The trees themselves grow large And load themselves with fruit. In turn, People and all wild creatures are fed by these. So joyful cities thrive with boys and girls, And leafy woods echo with the songs of new birds. So cattle, fat and drowsy, lay their bodies In the pleasant pastures, while drops Of white milk trickle from their swollen udders. So their young scamper on weak legs Through the tender grass, their fresh hearts lively With warm new milk. Thus nothing that seems to perish Is utterly destroyed. For Nature always Builds one thing from another, allowing nothing To be born except through the death of something else.

And now, since I have taught that things cannot Be born from nothing, nor the same, when born, To nothing be recalled, doubt not my words, Because our eyes no primal germs perceive; For mark those bodies which, though known to be In this our world, are yet invisible: The winds infuriate lash our face and frame, Unseen, and swamp huge ships and rend the clouds, Or, eddying wildly down, bestrew the plains With mighty trees, or scour the mountain tops With forest-crackling blasts. Thus on they rave With uproar shrill and ominous moan. The winds, 'Tis clear, are sightless bodies sweeping through The sea, the lands, the clouds along the sky, Vexing and whirling and seizing all amain; And forth they flow and pile destruction round, Even as the water's soft and supple bulk Becoming a river of abounding floods, Which a wide downpour from the lofty hills Swells with big showers, dashes headlong down Fragments of woodland and whole branching trees; Nor can the solid bridges bide the shock As on the waters whelm: the turbulent stream, Strong with a hundred rains, beats round the piers, Crashes with havoc, and rolls beneath its waves Down-toppled masonry and ponderous stone, Hurling away whatever would oppose. Even so must move the blasts of all the winds, Which, when they spread, like to a mighty flood, Hither or thither, drive things on before And hurl to ground with still renewed assault, Or sometimes in their circling vortex seize And bear in cones of whirlwind down the world: The winds are sightless bodies and naught else— Since both in works and ways they rival well The mighty rivers, the visible in form. Then too we know the varied smells of things Yet never to our nostrils see them come; With eyes we view not burning heats, nor cold, Nor are we wont men's voices to behold. Yet these must be corporeal at the base, Since thus they smite the senses: naught there is Save body, having property of touch. And raiment, hung by surf-beat shore, grows moist, The same, spread out before the sun, will dry; Yet no one saw how sank the moisture in, Nor how by heat off-driven. Thus we know, That moisture is dispersed about in bits Too small for eyes to see. Another case: A ring upon the finger thins away Along the under side, with years and suns; The drippings from the eaves will scoop the stone; The hooked ploughshare, though of iron, wastes Amid the fields insidiously. We view The rock-paved highways worn by many feet; And at the gates the brazen statues show Their right hands leaner from the frequent touch Of wayfarers innumerable who greet. We see how wearing-down hath minished these, But just what motes depart at any time, The envious nature of vision bars our sight. Lastly whatever days and nature add Little by little, constraining things to grow In due proportion, no gaze however keen Of these our eyes hath watched and known. No more Can we observe what's lost at any time, When things wax old with eld and foul decay, Or when salt seas eat under beetling crags. Thus Nature ever by unseen bodies works.

Now I have shown that things cannot be born from nothing, or, once born, return to nothing. Do not doubt my words because our eyes cannot see the first particles. Consider things that we know exist in our world, but cannot see: Fierce winds lash our faces and bodies, unseen. They swamp great ships and tear clouds apart. Or they swirl wildly down and scatter great trees across the plains, or sweep the mountain tops with blasts that break forests. So the winds rage with shrill uproar and ominous moans. Clearly, winds are invisible bodies sweeping through the sea, the land, and the clouds in the sky, stirring, whirling, and violently seizing everything. They rush onward and spread destruction, just as the soft, yielding mass of water becomes a river in full flood. A broad downpour from the high hills swells the river with heavy rain. It carries pieces of woodland and whole branching trees headlong. Even solid bridges cannot withstand the shock as the waters overwhelm them. The turbulent stream, swollen by countless rains, beats against the piers, crashes destructively, and rolls beneath its waves fallen masonry and heavy stones, sweeping away whatever stands in its path. The blasts of all winds must move in the same way. When they spread like a mighty flood, this way or that, they drive things before them and hurl them down with repeated blows. Or sometimes they seize things in a swirling vortex and carry them across the world in funnel-shaped whirlwinds. Winds are nothing but invisible bodies, since their actions and ways are much like those of mighty rivers, whose forms we can see. We also know the various smells of things, though we never see them reach our noses. Our eyes cannot see burning heat or cold, and we cannot see people's voices. Yet these things must be made of bodies, since they strike our senses. Nothing but a body can touch. Clothing hung by a shore beaten by surf grows damp. The same clothing dries when spread out in the sun. Yet no one has seen how the moisture enters it, or how heat drives the moisture away. So we know that moisture is made up of particles too small for our eyes to see. Here is another example: A ring on a finger grows thin on its underside as the years pass. Water dripping from the eaves hollows out stone. The curved plough blade, though made of iron, gradually wears away in the fields. We see stone-paved roads worn down by many feet. At the gates, bronze statues have thinner right hands from the frequent touch of countless travelers who greet them. We see how wear has made these things smaller, but the particles that leave them at any moment are hidden from us by the limits of sight. Finally, as time and nature add particles little by little, making things grow in their proper proportions, no eyes, however keen, have ever watched and seen the particles added. Nor can we see what is lost at any moment when things grow old and fall into decay, or when salt seas eat away at overhanging cliffs. So nature always works through unseen bodies.

But yet creation's neither crammed nor blocked About by body: there's in things a void— Which to have known will serve thee many a turn, Nor will not leave thee wandering in doubt, Forever searching in the sum of all, And losing faith in these pronouncements mine. There's place intangible, a void and room. For were it not, things could in nowise move; Since body's property to block and check Would work on all and at an times the same. Thus naught could evermore push forth and go, Since naught elsewhere would yield a starting place. But now through oceans, lands, and heights of heaven, By divers causes and in divers modes, Before our eyes we mark how much may move, Which, finding not a void, would fail deprived Of stir and motion; nay, would then have been Nowise begot at all, since matter, then, Had staid at rest, its parts together crammed. Then too, however solid objects seem, They yet are formed of matter mixed with void: In rocks and caves the watery moisture seeps, And beady drops stand out like plenteous tears; And food finds way through every frame that lives; The trees increase and yield the season's fruit Because their food throughout the whole is poured, Even from the deepest roots, through trunks and boughs; And voices pass the solid walls and fly Reverberant through shut doorways of a house; And stiffening frost seeps inward to our bones. Which but for voids for bodies to go through 'Tis clear could happen in nowise at all. Again, why see we among objects some Of heavier weight, but of no bulkier size? Indeed, if in a ball of wool there be As much of body as in lump of lead, The two should weigh alike, since body tends To load things downward, while the void abides, By contrary nature, the imponderable. Therefore, an object just as large but lighter Declares infallibly its more of void; Even as the heavier more of matter shows, And how much less of vacant room inside. That which we're seeking with sagacious quest Exists, infallibly, commixed with things— The void, the invisible inane. Right here I am compelled a question to expound, Forestalling something certain folk suppose, Lest it avail to lead thee off from truth: Waters (they say) before the shining breed Of the swift scaly creatures somehow give, And straightway open sudden liquid paths, Because the fishes leave behind them room To which at once the yielding billows stream. Thus things among themselves can yet be moved, And change their place, however full the Sum— Received opinion, wholly false forsooth. For where can scaly creatures forward dart, Save where the waters give them room? Again, Where can the billows yield a way, so long As ever the fish are powerless to go? Thus either all bodies of motion are deprived, Or things contain admixture of a void Where each thing gets its start in moving on. Lastly, where after impact two broad bodies Suddenly spring apart, the air must crowd The whole new void between those bodies formed; But air, however it stream with hastening gusts, Can yet not fill the gap at once—for first It makes for one place, ere diffused through all. And then, if haply any think this comes, When bodies spring apart, because the air Somehow condenses, wander they from truth: For then a void is formed, where none before; And, too, a void is filled which was before. Nor can air be condensed in such a wise; Nor, granting it could, without a void, I hold, It still could not contract upon itself And draw its parts together into one. Wherefore, despite demur and counter-speech, Confess thou must there is a void in things. And still I might by many an argument Here scrape together credence for my words. But for the keen eye these mere footprints serve, Whereby thou mayest know the rest thyself. As dogs full oft with noses on the ground, Find out the silent lairs, though hid in brush, Of beasts, the mountain-rangers, when but once They scent the certain footsteps of the way, Thus thou thyself in themes like these alone Can hunt from thought to thought, and keenly wind Along even onward to the secret places And drag out truth. But, if thou loiter loth Or veer, however little, from the point, This I can promise, Memmius, for a fact: Such copious drafts my singing tongue shall pour From the large well-springs of my plenished breast That much I dread slow age will steal and coil Along our members, and unloose the gates Of life within us, ere for thee my verse Hath put within thine ears the stores of proofs At hand for one soever question broached.

Yet creation is not packed full or blocked By matter. There is empty space in things. Knowing this will serve you in many ways. It will not leave you wandering in doubt, Forever searching through the whole of things, And losing faith in what I say. There is intangible space, an empty place. Without it, things could not move at all. For matter blocks and resists other matter, And would do so to everything, at all times. Nothing could ever move forward and go, Since nothing else would give it room to start. But across oceans, lands, and the heights of heaven, For various reasons and in various ways, We see with our own eyes how much can move. Without empty space, those things would be deprived Of movement. Indeed, they would never have been Created at all. For matter would have stayed At rest, its parts packed tightly together. And however solid objects seem, They are made of matter mixed with empty space. Water seeps through rocks and caves, And drops stand out like plentiful tears. Food makes its way through every living body. Trees grow and bear their fruit in season Because food spreads throughout the whole tree, From the deepest roots through trunk and branches. Voices pass through solid walls and echo Through the closed doorways of a house. And numbing frost seeps inward to our bones. Without empty spaces for matter to pass through, Clearly none of this could happen at all. Again, why do we see that some objects Weigh more than others, though they are no larger? If a ball of wool contained as much matter As a lump of lead, they should weigh the same. For matter gives things weight and pulls them down, While empty space, by contrast, has no weight. So an object of the same size but less weight Shows beyond doubt that it has more empty space. Just as the heavier object shows it has more matter, And how much less empty room it holds inside. What we are seeking with such careful inquiry Exists beyond doubt, mixed into things: Empty space, the invisible void. Right here, I must explain a question that some people raise. I must answer it before it leads you from the truth. They say that water makes way somehow Before swift, shining, scaly fish, And suddenly opens liquid paths for them. For the fish leave room behind them, And the yielding waters flow into it at once. So things can move among one another, they say, And change places, even if the whole is full. This accepted opinion is entirely false. For where can fish dart forward, Unless the water gives them room? And where can the water give way, As long as the fish cannot move? So either all bodies are deprived of movement, Or things contain some empty space Where each thing can begin to move. Finally, when two broad bodies collide And suddenly spring apart, air must rush in To fill the whole new space between them. But however swiftly the air rushes, It cannot fill the gap all at once. For it must reach one place first, Before spreading throughout the gap. Perhaps some think that, when bodies spring apart, The air somehow becomes compressed. But they are mistaken. For then empty space forms where there was none, And empty space that was there is filled. Nor can air be compressed in this way. Even if it could, I maintain that without empty space It could not shrink in on itself And draw its parts together. So, whatever your objections and arguments, You must admit that there is empty space in things. I could gather many more arguments here To win your belief in what I say. But for a keen eye, these footprints are enough. They will let you discover the rest for yourself. Dogs often keep their noses to the ground And find the quiet lairs, hidden in brush, Of beasts that roam the mountains. They need only catch the scent of their tracks. So, in matters like these, you can hunt alone From thought to thought, following the trail keenly To hidden places, and drag the truth into view. But if you hesitate, unwilling to go on, Or stray even a little from the point, I can promise you this, Memmius, as a fact: My singing tongue will pour such abundant drafts From the deep springs of my full heart That I fear slow old age will steal over us, Enfold our limbs, and open the gates of life, Before my verse has brought to your ears All the proofs available for any one question raised.

But, now again to weave the tale begun, All nature, then, as self-sustained, consists Of twain of things: of bodies and of void In which they're set, and where they're moved around. For common instinct of our race declares That body of itself exists: unless This primal faith, deep-founded, fail us not, Naught will there be whereunto to appeal On things occult when seeking aught to prove By reasonings of mind. Again, without That place and room, which we do call the inane, Nowhere could bodies then be set, nor go Hither or thither at all—as shown before. Besides, there's naught of which thou canst declare It lives disjoined from body, shut from void— A kind of third in nature. For whatever Exists must be a somewhat; and the same, If tangible, however fight and slight, Will yet increase the count of body's sum, With its own augmentation big or small; But, if intangible and powerless ever To keep a thing from passing through itself On any side, 'twill be naught else but that Which we do call the empty, the inane. Again, whate'er exists, as of itself, Must either act or suffer action on it, Or else be that wherein things move and be: Naught, saving body, acts, is acted on; Naught but the inane can furnish room. And thus, Beside the inane and bodies, is no third Nature amid the number of all things— Remainder none to fall at any time Under our senses, nor be seized and seen By any man through reasonings of mind. Name o'er creation with what names thou wilt, Thou'lt find but properties of those first twain, Or see but accidents those twain produce. A property is that which not at all Can be disjoined and severed from a thing Without a fatal dissolution: such, Weight to the rocks, heat to the fire, and flow To the wide waters, touch to corporal things, Intangibility to the viewless void. But state of slavery, pauperhood, and wealth, Freedom, and war, and concord, and all else Which come and go whilst nature stands the same, We're wont, and rightly, to call accidents. Even time exists not of itself; but sense Reads out of things what happened long ago, What presses now, and what shall follow after: No man, we must admit, feels time itself, Disjoined from motion and repose of things. Thus, when they say there "is" the ravishment Of Princess Helen, "is" the siege and sack Of Trojan Town, look out, they force us not To admit these acts existent by themselves, Merely because those races of mankind (Of whom these acts were accidents) long since Irrevocable age has borne away: For all past actions may be said to be But accidents, in one way, of mankind,— In other, of some region of the world. Add, too, had been no matter, and no room Wherein all things go on, the fire of love Upblown by that fair form, the glowing coal Under the Phrygian Alexander's breast, Had ne'er enkindled that renowned strife Of savage war, nor had the wooden horse Involved in flames old Pergama, by a birth At midnight of a brood of the Hellenes. And thus thou canst remark that every act At bottom exists not of itself, nor is As body is, nor has like name with void; But rather of sort more fitly to be called An accident of body, and of place Wherein all things go on.

But now, to return to the story I began, all nature exists independently and consists of two things: bodies and the void in which they exist and move around. For the common instinct of our race tells us that body exists in itself. Unless we can trust this deeply rooted belief, we will have nothing to appeal to when we try to prove hidden things through reasoning. Again, without the space and room we call the void, bodies could not exist anywhere or move from place to place, as I showed before. Besides, you cannot name anything that exists apart from body and outside the void, a third kind of thing in nature. For whatever exists must be something. And if that thing is tangible, however light and slight, it will add to the total amount of body, whether its addition is large or small. But if it is intangible and can never stop anything from passing through it in any direction, it will be nothing but what we call empty space, or the void. Again, whatever exists in itself must either act or be acted upon, or else be the place where things exist and move. Only body acts or is acted upon. Only the void can provide room. And so, besides the void and bodies, there is no third kind of thing among all that exists. Nothing remains that can ever be detected by our senses or grasped and understood by anyone through reasoning. Name anything in creation as you please. You will find only properties of these first two things or accidents produced by them. A property is something that cannot be separated or removed from a thing without destroying it. Examples are weight in rocks, heat in fire, and flow in wide waters, as well as tangibility in bodies and intangibility in the invisible void. But slavery, poverty, and wealth, freedom, war, peace, and everything else that comes and goes while nature remains unchanged are what we rightly call accidents. Even time does not exist in itself. Our senses tell us from things what happened long ago, what is happening now, and what will follow. We must admit that no one senses time itself apart from the motion and rest of things. So when people say there "is" the abduction of Princess Helen, or "is" the siege and sack of Trojan Town, we must take care. They must not force us to admit that these events exist in themselves just because the peoples to whom these events happened have long since been carried away by the irreversible passage of time. For all past actions can be called accidents of humankind in one sense, and of some region of the world in another. Also, if there had been no matter and no space where all things happen, the fire of love stirred up by that beautiful form, the glowing coal in the breast of the Phrygian Alexander, would never have set off that famous conflict of savage war. Nor would the wooden horse have set old Pergama ablaze by giving birth at midnight to a brood of Hellenes. And so you can see that every action does not ultimately exist in itself, or exist as body does, or belong to the same kind as the void. Instead, it is more fittingly called an accident of body and of the space where all things happen.

Bodies, again, Are partly primal germs of things, and partly Unions deriving from the primal germs. And those which are the primal germs of things No power can quench; for in the end they conquer By their own solidness; though hard it be To think that aught in things has solid frame; For lightnings pass, no less than voice and shout, Through hedging walls of houses, and the iron White-dazzles in the fire, and rocks will burn With exhalations fierce and burst asunder. Totters the rigid gold dissolved in heat; The ice of bronze melts conquered in the flame; Warmth and the piercing cold through silver seep, Since, with the cups held rightly in the hand, We oft feel both, as from above is poured The dew of waters between their shining sides: So true it is no solid form is found. But yet because true reason and nature of things Constrain us, come, whilst in few verses now I disentangle how there still exist Bodies of solid, everlasting frame— The seeds of things, the primal germs we teach, Whence all creation around us came to be. First since we know a twofold nature exists, Of things, both twain and utterly unlike— Body, and place in which an things go on— Then each must be both for and through itself, And all unmixed: where'er be empty space, There body's not; and so where body bides, There not at all exists the void inane. Thus primal bodies are solid, without a void. But since there's void in all begotten things, All solid matter must be round the same; Nor, by true reason canst thou prove aught hides And holds a void within its body, unless Thou grant what holds it be a solid. Know, That which can hold a void of things within Can be naught else than matter in union knit. Thus matter, consisting of a solid frame, Hath power to be eternal, though all else, Though all creation, be dissolved away. Again, were naught of empty and inane, The world were then a solid; as, without Some certain bodies to fill the places held, The world that is were but a vacant void. And so, infallibly, alternate-wise Body and void are still distinguished, Since nature knows no wholly full nor void. There are, then, certain bodies, possessed of power To vary forever the empty and the full; And these can nor be sundered from without By beats and blows, nor from within be torn By penetration, nor be overthrown By any assault soever through the world— For without void, naught can be crushed, it seems, Nor broken, nor severed by a cut in twain, Nor can it take the damp, or seeping cold Or piercing fire, those old destroyers three; But the more void within a thing, the more Entirely it totters at their sure assault. Thus if first bodies be, as I have taught, Solid, without a void, they must be then Eternal; and, if matter ne'er had been Eternal, long ere now had all things gone Back into nothing utterly, and all We see around from nothing had been born— But since I taught above that naught can be From naught created, nor the once begotten To naught be summoned back, these primal germs Must have an immortality of frame. And into these must each thing be resolved, When comes its supreme hour, that thus there be At hand the stuff for plenishing the world.

Bodies, moreover, are partly the first seeds of things, and partly combinations formed from those first seeds. And the first seeds of things cannot be destroyed by any power. In the end, they prevail because they are solid, although it is hard to believe that anything has a solid structure. For lightning, like voices and shouts, passes through the walls of houses, and iron glows white in fire, and rocks burn with fierce fumes and burst apart. Hard gold gives way and melts in heat. Cold bronze melts, overcome by flame. Warmth and piercing cold pass through silver. We often feel both when we hold a cup properly in our hand, as water is poured from above between its shining sides. So true it is that no solid form is found. But true reason and the nature of things compel us to believe otherwise. Come, let me now explain in a few lines how bodies with solid, everlasting structures can still exist. These are the seeds of things, the first seeds we teach of, from which all creation around us came to be. First, we know that two kinds of things exist. They are wholly unlike each other: body, and the space in which all things happen. Each must therefore exist on its own and by itself, without any mixture. Wherever there is empty space, there is no body. And where body exists, there is no empty void at all. Thus the first bodies are solid, with no void within them. But since there is void in all things that are born, solid matter must surround all of it. Nor can you prove by sound reasoning that anything encloses and holds a void within itself, unless you admit that what holds it is solid. Know that what can hold a void within itself can only be matter joined together. Thus matter with a solid structure can last forever, even if everything else, all of creation, is dissolved away. Again, if there were no empty void, the world would be solid. Likewise, without bodies to fill certain spaces, the world as it is would be nothing but an empty void. So body and void are certainly distinct and alternate with each other, since nature is neither wholly full nor wholly empty. There are, then, certain bodies that have the power to keep the empty and the full forever distinct. These bodies cannot be broken apart from outside by strikes and blows, or torn apart from within by anything passing through them. Nor can they be destroyed by any force at all in the world. For without void, it seems, nothing can be crushed, or broken, or cut in two. Nor can it admit moisture, or seeping cold, or piercing fire, those three age-old destroyers. But the more void there is within a thing, the more completely it gives way under their sure attack. So if the first bodies are, as I have taught, solid, with no void within them, they must be eternal. And if matter had never been eternal, all things would long ago have returned completely to nothing. And everything we see around us would have been born from nothing. But I taught above that nothing can be created from nothing, and nothing once born can return to nothing. So these first seeds must have an immortal structure. And each thing must be broken down into these seeds when its final hour comes, so that the material for replenishing the world will be at hand.

So primal germs have solid singleness Nor otherwise could they have been conserved Through aeons and infinity of time For the replenishment of wasted worlds. Once more, if nature had given a scope for things To be forever broken more and more, By now the bodies of matter would have been So far reduced by breakings in old days That from them nothing could, at season fixed, Be born, and arrive its prime and top of life. For, lo, each thing is quicker marred than made; And so whate'er the long infinitude Of days and all fore-passed time would now By this have broken and ruined and dissolved, That same could ne'er in all remaining time Be builded up for plenishing the world. But mark: infallibly a fixed bound Remaineth stablished 'gainst their breaking down; Since we behold each thing soever renewed, And unto all, their seasons, after their kind, Wherein they arrive the flower of their age. Again, if bounds have not been set against The breaking down of this corporeal world, Yet must all bodies of whatever things Have still endured from everlasting time Unto this present, as not yet assailed By shocks of peril. But because the same Are, to thy thinking, of a nature frail, It ill accords that thus they could remain (As thus they do) through everlasting time, Vexed through the ages (as indeed they are) By the innumerable blows of chance. So in our programme of creation, mark How 'tis that, though the bodies of all stuff Are solid to the core, we yet explain The ways whereby some things are fashioned soft— Air, water, earth, and fiery exhalations— And by what force they function and go on: The fact is founded in the void of things. But if the primal germs themselves be soft, Reason cannot be brought to bear to show The ways whereby may be created these Great crags of basalt and the during iron; For their whole nature will profoundly lack The first foundations of a solid frame. But powerful in old simplicity, Abide the solid, the primeval germs; And by their combinations more condensed, All objects can be tightly knit and bound And made to show unconquerable strength. Again, since all things kind by kind obtain Fixed bounds of growing and conserving life; Since Nature hath inviolably decreed What each can do, what each can never do; Since naught is changed, but all things so abide That ever the variegated birds reveal The spots or stripes peculiar to their kind, Spring after spring: thus surely all that is Must be composed of matter immutable. For if the primal germs in any wise Were open to conquest and to change, 'twould be Uncertain also what could come to birth And what could not, and by what law to each Its scope prescribed, its boundary stone that clings So deep in Time. Nor could the generations Kind after kind so often reproduce The nature, habits, motions, ways of life, Of their progenitors. And then again, Since there is ever an extreme bounding point

So the primal particles are solid and indivisible. Otherwise they could not have been preserved through ages and infinite time to replenish worlds that wear away. Again, if nature had allowed things to be broken down forever into smaller and smaller parts, by now the bodies of matter would have been so reduced by the breaking of ages past that nothing could be born from them at its appointed time and reach the peak and fullness of life. For everything is destroyed more quickly than it is made. So whatever the long infinity of days and all the time gone by had broken, ruined, and dissolved by now could never in all the time remaining be built up again to replenish the world. But notice: there is certainly a fixed limit to how far things can be broken down. For we see everything renewed, and each kind has its own season in which it reaches the flower of its life. Again, suppose no limits have been set to the breaking down of the material world. Even so, the bodies of all things must have endured from everlasting time until now, without being destroyed by dangerous blows. But because you think these bodies are fragile by nature, it makes little sense that they could last (as they do) through everlasting time, battered throughout the ages (as indeed they are) by the countless blows of chance. So, in our account of creation, notice how we explain that, although the bodies of all matter are solid through and through, some things are made soft. These include air, water, earth, and fiery vapors. We also explain by what force they act and continue: the explanation lies in the empty space within things. But if the primal particles themselves were soft, reason could not explain how they could produce great basalt cliffs and enduring iron. For their whole nature would utterly lack the basic foundations of a solid structure. But solid in their ancient simplicity and strong, the primal particles endure. When their combinations are more tightly packed, all objects can be closely joined and bound and made to show unconquerable strength. Again, all things of every kind have fixed limits to their growth and their lifespan. Nature has decreed without exception what each can do and what each can never do. Nothing changes, but all things remain the same. So the birds with their varied colors always show the spots or stripes peculiar to their kind, spring after spring. Surely, then, all that exists must be made of unchanging matter. For if the primal particles were in any way subject to defeat and change, it would be uncertain what could be born and what could not. It would also be uncertain what law sets each thing's range and its boundary, which is fixed so deeply in time. Nor could generations of each kind so often reproduce the nature, habits, movements, and ways of life of their ancestors. And again, since there is always an outermost boundary point

Of that first body which our senses now Cannot perceive: That bounding point indeed Exists without all parts, a minimum Of nature, nor was e'er a thing apart, As of itself,—nor shall hereafter be, Since 'tis itself still parcel of another, A first and single part, whence other parts And others similar in order lie In a packed phalanx, filling to the full The nature of first body: being thus Not self-existent, they must cleave to that From which in nowise they can sundered be. So primal germs have solid singleness, Which tightly packed and closely joined cohere By virtue of their minim particles— No compound by mere union of the same; But strong in their eternal singleness, Nature, reserving them as seeds for things, Permitteth naught of rupture or decrease. Moreover, were there not a minimum, The smallest bodies would have infinites, Since then a half-of-half could still be halved, With limitless division less and less. Then what the difference 'twixt the sum and least? None: for however infinite the sum, Yet even the smallest would consist the same Of infinite parts. But since true reason here Protests, denying that the mind can think it, Convinced thou must confess such things there are As have no parts, the minimums of nature. And since these are, likewise confess thou must That primal bodies are solid and eterne. Again, if Nature, creatress of all things, Were wont to force all things to be resolved Unto least parts, then would she not avail To reproduce from out them anything; Because whate'er is not endowed with parts Cannot possess those properties required Of generative stuff—divers connections, Weights, blows, encounters, motions, whereby things Forevermore have being and go on.

Of that primal body that our senses now Cannot perceive: its outermost point Has no parts and is a minimum Of nature. It has never existed apart, By itself, nor will it ever do so, Since it is always part of something else. It is a first, single part. From it, other parts Like it follow in order, Packed close together, completely filling The substance of the primal body. Since they Cannot exist on their own, they must cling to the body From which they cannot be separated. So primal seeds have a solid unity. Their smallest particles are tightly packed and held Close together. Yet primal seeds are not compounds Formed by merely joining those particles. Instead, their eternal unity makes them strong. Nature preserves them as seeds for things And allows nothing to break them or make them smaller. Moreover, if there were no minimum, The smallest bodies would contain infinite parts. For then, half of a half could always be halved again, Divided into smaller parts without limit. Then what difference would there be between the whole and the smallest part? None. However infinite the whole might be, Even the smallest part would likewise consist Of infinite parts. But sound reason Objects. It says the mind cannot conceive this. So you must accept that some things exist Without parts. These are nature's minimums. And since they exist, you must also accept That primal bodies are solid and eternal. Again, if Nature, the creator of all things, Were in the habit of reducing all things To their smallest parts, she could not Reproduce anything from those parts. For whatever has no parts Cannot have the properties needed For the stuff that produces things: different connections, Weights, blows, encounters, and motions, through which things Forever come into being and continue to exist.

And on such grounds it is that those who held The stuff of things is fire, and out of fire Alone the cosmic sum is formed, are seen Mightily from true reason to have lapsed. Of whom, chief leader to do battle, comes That Heraclitus, famous for dark speech Among the silly, not the serious Greeks Who search for truth. For dolts are ever prone That to bewonder and adore which hides Beneath distorted words, holding that true Which sweetly tickles in their stupid ears, Or which is rouged in finely finished phrase. For how, I ask, can things so varied be, If formed of fire, single and pure? No whit 'Twould help for fire to be condensed or thinned, If all the parts of fire did still preserve But fire's own nature, seen before in gross. The heat were keener with the parts compressed, Milder, again, when severed or dispersed— And more than this thou canst conceive of naught That from such causes could become; much less Might earth's variety of things be born From any fires soever, dense or rare. This too: if they suppose a void in things, Then fires can be condensed and still left rare; But since they see such opposites of thought Rising against them, and are loath to leave An unmixed void in things, they fear the steep And lose the road of truth. Nor do they see, That, if from things we take away the void, All things are then condensed, and out of all One body made, which has no power to dart Swiftly from out itself not anything— As throws the fire its light and warmth around, Giving thee proof its parts are not compact. But if perhaps they think, in other wise, Fires through their combinations can be quenched And change their substance, very well: behold, If fire shall spare to do so in no part, Then heat will perish utterly and all, And out of nothing would the world be formed. For change in anything from out its bounds Means instant death of that which was before; And thus a somewhat must persist unharmed Amid the world, lest all return to naught, And, born from naught, abundance thrive anew. Now since indeed there are those surest bodies Which keep their nature evermore the same, Upon whose going out and coming in And changed order things their nature change, And all corporeal substances transformed, 'Tis thine to know those primal bodies, then, Are not of fire. For 'twere of no avail Should some depart and go away, and some Be added new, and some be changed in order, If still all kept their nature of old heat: For whatsoever they created then Would still in any case be only fire. The truth, I fancy, this: bodies there are Whose clashings, motions, order, posture, shapes Produce the fire and which, by order changed, Do change the nature of the thing produced, And are thereafter nothing like to fire Nor whatso else has power to send its bodies With impact touching on the senses' touch. Again, to say that all things are but fire And no true thing in number of all things Exists but fire, as this same fellow says, Seems crazed folly. For the man himself Against the senses by the senses fights, And hews at that through which is all belief, Through which indeed unto himself is known The thing he calls the fire. For, though he thinks The senses truly can perceive the fire, He thinks they cannot as regards all else, Which still are palpably as clear to sense— To me a thought inept and crazy too. For whither shall we make appeal? for what More certain than our senses can there be Whereby to mark asunder error and truth? Besides, why rather do away with all, And wish to allow heat only, then deny The fire and still allow all else to be?— Alike the madness either way it seems. Thus whosoe'er have held the stuff of things To be but fire, and out of fire the sum, And whosoever have constituted air As first beginning of begotten things, And all whoever have held that of itself Water alone contrives things, or that earth Createth all and changes things anew To divers natures, mightily they seem A long way to have wandered from the truth. Add, too, whoever make the primal stuff Twofold, by joining air to fire, and earth To water; add who deem that things can grow Out of the four—fire, earth, and breath, and rain; As first Empedocles of Acragas, Whom that three-cornered isle of all the lands Bore on her coasts, around which flows and flows In mighty bend and bay the Ionic seas, Splashing the brine from off their gray-green waves. Here, billowing onward through the narrow straits, Swift ocean cuts her boundaries from the shores Of the Italic mainland. Here the waste Charybdis; and here Aetna rumbles threats To gather anew such furies of its flames As with its force anew to vomit fires, Belched from its throat, and skyward bear anew Its lightnings' flash. And though for much she seem The mighty and the wondrous isle to men, Most rich in all good things, and fortified With generous strength of heroes, she hath ne'er Possessed within her aught of more renown, Nor aught more holy, wonderful, and dear Than this true man. Nay, ever so far and pure The lofty music of his breast divine Lifts up its voice and tells of glories found, That scarce he seems of human stock create. Yet he and those forementioned (known to be So far beneath him, less than he in all), Though, as discoverers of much goodly truth, They gave, as 'twere from out of the heart's own shrine, Responses holier and soundlier based Than ever the Pythia pronounced for men From out the tripod and the Delphian laurel, Have still in matter of first-elements Made ruin of themselves, and, great men, great Indeed and heavy there for them the fall: First, because, banishing the void from things, They yet assign them motion, and allow Things soft and loosely textured to exist, As air, dew, fire, earth, animals, and grains, Without admixture of void amid their frame. Next, because, thinking there can be no end In cutting bodies down to less and less Nor pause established to their breaking up, They hold there is no minimum in things; Albeit we see the boundary point of aught Is that which to our senses seems its least, Whereby thou mayst conjecture, that, because The things thou canst not mark have boundary points, They surely have their minimums. Then, too, Since these philosophers ascribe to things Soft primal germs, which we behold to be Of birth and body mortal, thus, throughout, The sum of things must be returned to naught, And, born from naught, abundance thrive anew— Thou seest how far each doctrine stands from truth. And, next, these bodies are among themselves In many ways poisons and foes to each, Wherefore their congress will destroy them quite Or drive asunder as we see in storms Rains, winds, and lightnings all asunder fly. Thus too, if all things are create of four, And all again dissolved into the four, How can the four be called the primal germs Of things, more than all things themselves be thought, By retroversion, primal germs of them? For ever alternately are both begot, With interchange of nature and aspect From immemorial time. But if percase Thou think'st the frame of fire and earth, the air, The dew of water can in such wise meet As not by mingling to resign their nature, From them for thee no world can be create— No thing of breath, no stock or stalk of tree: In the wild congress of this varied heap Each thing its proper nature will display, And air will palpably be seen mixed up With earth together, unquenched heat with water. But primal germs in bringing things to birth Must have a latent, unseen quality, Lest some outstanding alien element Confuse and minish in the thing create Its proper being. But these men begin From heaven, and from its fires; and first they feign That fire will turn into the winds of air, Next, that from air the rain begotten is, And earth created out of rain, and then That all, reversely, are returned from earth— The moisture first, then air thereafter heat— And that these same ne'er cease in interchange, To go their ways from heaven to earth, from earth Unto the stars of the aethereal world— Which in no wise at all the germs can do. Since an immutable somewhat still must be, Lest all things utterly be sped to naught; For change in anything from out its bounds Means instant death of that which was before. Wherefore, since those things, mentioned heretofore, Suffer a changed state, they must derive From others ever unconvertible, Lest an things utterly return to naught. Then why not rather presuppose there be Bodies with such a nature furnished forth That, if perchance they have created fire, Can still (by virtue of a few withdrawn, Or added few, and motion and order changed) Fashion the winds of air, and thus all things Forevermore be interchanged with all? "But facts in proof are manifest," thou sayest, "That all things grow into the winds of air And forth from earth are nourished, and unless The season favour at propitious hour With rains enough to set the trees a-reel Under the soak of bulking thunderheads, And sun, for its share, foster and give heat, No grains, nor trees, nor breathing things can grow." True—and unless hard food and moisture soft Recruited man, his frame would waste away, And life dissolve from out his thews and bones; For out of doubt recruited and fed are we By certain things, as other things by others. Because in many ways the many germs Common to many things are mixed in things, No wonder 'tis that therefore divers things By divers things are nourished. And, again, Often it matters vastly with what others, In what positions the primordial germs Are bound together, and what motions, too, They give and get among themselves; for these Same germs do put together sky, sea, lands, Rivers, and sun, grains, trees, and breathing things, But yet commixed they are in divers modes With divers things, forever as they move. Nay, thou beholdest in our verses here Elements many, common to many worlds, Albeit thou must confess each verse, each word From one another differs both in sense And ring of sound—so much the elements Can bring about by change of order alone. But those which are the primal germs of things Have power to work more combinations still, Whence divers things can be produced in turn. Now let us also take for scrutiny The homeomeria of Anaxagoras, So called by Greeks, for which our pauper-speech Yieldeth no name in the Italian tongue, Although the thing itself is not o'erhard For explanation. First, then, when he speaks Of this homeomeria of things, he thinks Bones to be sprung from littlest bones minute, And from minute and littlest flesh all flesh, And blood created out of drops of blood, Conceiving gold compact of grains of gold, And earth concreted out of bits of earth, Fire made of fires, and water out of waters, Feigning the like with all the rest of stuff. Yet he concedes not any void in things, Nor any limit to cutting bodies down. Wherefore to me he seems on both accounts To err no less than those we named before. Add too: these germs he feigns are far too frail— If they be germs primordial furnished forth With but same nature as the things themselves, And travail and perish equally with those, And no rein curbs them from annihilation. For which will last against the grip and crush Under the teeth of death? the fire? the moist? Or else the air? which then? the blood? the bones? No one, methinks, when every thing will be At bottom as mortal as whate'er we mark To perish by force before our gazing eyes. But my appeal is to the proofs above That things cannot fall back to naught, nor yet From naught increase. And now again, since food Augments and nourishes the human frame, 'Tis thine to know our veins and blood and bones And thews are formed of particles unlike To them in kind; or if they say all foods Are of mixed substance having in themselves Small bodies of thews, and bones, and also veins And particles of blood, then every food, Solid or liquid, must itself be thought As made and mixed of things unlike in kind— Of bones, of thews, of ichor and of blood. Again, if all the bodies which upgrow From earth, are first within the earth, then earth Must be compound of alien substances. Which spring and bloom abroad from out the earth. Transfer the argument, and thou may'st use The selfsame words: if flame and smoke and ash Still lurk unseen within the wood, the wood Must be compound of alien substances Which spring from out the wood. Right here remains A certain slender means to skulk from truth, Which Anaxagoras takes unto himself, Who holds that all things lurk commixed with all While that one only comes to view, of which The bodies exceed in number all the rest, And lie more close to hand and at the fore— A notion banished from true reason far. For then 'twere meet that kernels of the grains Should oft, when crunched between the might of stones, Give forth a sign of blood, or of aught else Which in our human frame is fed; and that Rock rubbed on rock should yield a gory ooze. Likewise the herbs ought oft to give forth drops Of sweet milk, flavoured like the uddered sheep's; Indeed we ought to find, when crumbling up The earthy clods, there herbs, and grains, and leaves, All sorts dispersed minutely in the soil; Lastly we ought to find in cloven wood Ashes and smoke and bits of fire there hid. But since fact teaches this is not the case, 'Tis thine to know things are not mixed with things Thuswise; but seeds, common to many things, Commixed in many ways, must lurk in things. "But often it happens on skiey hills" thou sayest, "That neighbouring tops of lofty trees are rubbed One against other, smote by the blustering south, Till all ablaze with bursting flower of flame." Good sooth—yet fire is not ingraft in wood, But many are the seeds of heat, and when Rubbing together they together flow, They start the conflagrations in the forests. Whereas if flame, already fashioned, lay Stored up within the forests, then the fires Could not for any time be kept unseen, But would be laying all the wildwood waste And burning all the boscage. Now dost see (Even as we said a little space above) How mightily it matters with what others, In what positions these same primal germs Are bound together? And what motions, too, They give and get among themselves? how, hence, The same, if altered 'mongst themselves, can body Both igneous and ligneous objects forth— Precisely as these words themselves are made By somewhat altering their elements, Although we mark with name indeed distinct The igneous from the ligneous. Once again, If thou suppose whatever thou beholdest, Among all visible objects, cannot be, Unless thou feign bodies of matter endowed With a like nature,—by thy vain device For thee will perish all the germs of things: 'Twill come to pass they'll laugh aloud, like men, Shaken asunder by a spasm of mirth, Or moisten with salty tear-drops cheeks and chins.

On these grounds, those who held that the substance of things is fire, and that from fire alone the whole universe is formed, have clearly strayed far from true reason. The chief champion among them is Heraclitus, famous for his obscure speech among foolish Greeks, but not serious ones who seek truth. For fools are always inclined to admire and worship what lies hidden beneath twisted words, and to think true whatever pleasantly tickles their foolish ears, or is dressed up in polished phrases. For how, I ask, can things be so varied if they are formed from fire alone, pure and simple? It would not help to compress or thin out fire if all its particles still retained the nature of fire, as seen in the whole. The heat would be stronger when the particles were compressed, and milder when they were separated or scattered. You can imagine nothing more coming from such causes, and much less could the earth's variety of things be born from any fires, whether dense or thin. There is also this: if they suppose there is void in things, then fires can be compressed or left thin. But they see such opposing ideas rising against them, and are unwilling to allow pure void in things. So they fear the steep path and lose the road to truth. Nor do they see that if we remove the void from things, everything becomes solidly packed, and from everything one body is made, with no power to send anything swiftly out from itself. Yet fire sends its light and warmth around it, proving to you that its particles are not packed solid. But perhaps they think, instead, that fires can be put out through their combinations and change their substance. Very well, consider: if fire fails to spare any part of itself from this change, then heat will perish utterly, and everything in the world will have been formed from nothing. For when anything changes beyond its own limits, what it was before dies at once. And so something must remain unharmed throughout the world, or everything would return to nothing, and abundance would arise again, born from nothing. Now there are indeed certain bodies that always keep the same nature. As they leave, enter, and change their order, things change their nature, and all material substances are transformed. You must therefore understand that those first bodies are not made of fire. For it would make no difference if some left and went away, and others were newly added, and others changed their order, if all still kept their original nature as heat. For whatever they created then would still, in every case, be only fire. The truth, I think, is this: there are bodies whose collisions, motions, order, positions, and shapes produce fire. When their order changes, they change the nature of what they produce. Afterward, the bodies are nothing like fire, or anything else that can send out particles whose impact touches our senses. Again, to say that all things are only fire, and that among all things nothing truly exists except fire, as this same man says, seems like madness. For the man himself uses the senses to fight against the senses. He attacks the very means of all belief, the means by which he himself knows the thing he calls fire. For though he thinks the senses can truly perceive fire, he thinks they cannot perceive anything else, although other things are just as clear to the senses. To me, this thought is foolish and mad. For where can we turn? What could be more reliable than our senses for distinguishing error from truth? Besides, why should we dismiss everything else and choose to allow only heat, rather than deny fire and allow everything else to exist? Either way seems equally mad. So all who have held that the substance of things is only fire, and that the universe comes from fire, and all who have made air the first source of created things, and all who have held that water alone produces things, or that earth creates everything and changes things into different forms, all seem to have wandered far from the truth. Add those who make the first substance twofold, joining air to fire and earth to water. Add those who think things can grow from all four, fire, earth, air, and rain. First among them is Empedocles of Acragas, whom that three-cornered island bore on its shores. Around the island the Ionian seas flow on and on through great bends and bays, splashing salt water from their gray-green waves. Here, surging through the narrow straits, the swift sea separates the island from the shores of the Italian mainland. Here lies deadly Charybdis. Here Aetna rumbles with threats to gather once more the fury of its flames, and once more to spew out fires with its force, belching them from its throat, and again sending flashes of lightning skyward. And though the island seems mighty and wonderful to people for many reasons, rich in every good thing, and defended by the generous strength of heroes, it has never held anything more famous, or more sacred, wonderful, and dear than this true man. Indeed, the lofty music of his divine heart speaks so widely and purely of the glories he discovered that he hardly seems born of human stock. Yet he and those mentioned before him, who are known to stand so far below him, inferior in everything, discovered much noble truth. As if from the heart's own shrine, they gave answers more sacred and better grounded than any the Pythia ever gave to people from her tripod and the Delphian laurel. Even so, they came to ruin over the first elements. Great men as they were, their fall there was indeed great and hard. First, they banish the void from things, yet assign motion to them, and allow soft and loosely textured things to exist, such as air, dew, fire, earth, animals, and grains, without any void mixed into their structure. Next, they think there can be no end to cutting bodies into smaller and smaller pieces, and no limit to their division. So they hold that things have no smallest parts. Yet we see that the extreme point of anything is what seems to our senses its smallest part. From this you may infer that, because things you cannot see have extreme points, they must have their smallest parts too. Then, these philosophers attribute to things soft first particles, which we see are born and have mortal bodies. Thus, in the end, the whole universe must return to nothing, and abundance must arise again, born from nothing. You see how far each doctrine stands from truth. And then, these bodies are in many ways poisons and enemies to one another. So their coming together will destroy them completely or drive them apart, just as we see in storms rain, winds, and lightning all fly apart. Again, if all things are created from four elements, and all dissolve again into those four, how can the four be called the first particles of things, any more than all things themselves could, in reverse, be considered their first particles? For each continually gives birth to the other, exchanging nature and appearance from time immemorial. But if perhaps you think the structures of fire and earth, air, and the moisture of water can come together without giving up their natures through mixing, then no world can be created from them, no living thing, no trunk or stem of a tree. In the wild meeting of this varied heap, each thing will display its own nature. Air will clearly be seen mixed with earth, and unquenched heat with water. But the first particles, when they give birth to things, must have a hidden, unseen quality. Otherwise, some conspicuous foreign element would disturb and diminish the proper nature of the thing created. But these men begin with the heavens and their fires. First they imagine that fire turns into the winds of air. Next, rain is born from air, and earth is created from rain. Then everything returns in reverse order from earth: first moisture, then air, then heat. They say these elements never stop exchanging places, traveling from heaven to earth, and from earth to the stars of the heavenly realm. But the first particles cannot do this at all. For something unchanging must always remain, or everything would pass utterly into nothing. When anything changes beyond its own limits, what it was before dies at once. Therefore, since the things mentioned above undergo a change of state, they must come from other things that can never change in this way. Otherwise, everything would return utterly to nothing. Why not instead suppose there are bodies with a nature such that, if they have created fire, they can still, when a few are removed or a few added, and their motion and order changed, form the winds of air? In this way all things could forever change into one another. "But the evidence is plain," you say. "All things grow into the winds of air and are nourished from the earth. Unless the season is favorable at the right time, with enough rain to make the trees sway under the downpour from massed thunderclouds, and unless the sun, for its part, nurtures and warms them, no grains, trees, or living things can grow." True. And unless solid food and gentle moisture renewed a person's body, it would waste away, and life would leave the muscles and bones. For we are undoubtedly renewed and fed by certain things, as other things are by others. Many particles common to many things are mixed in things in many ways. So it is no wonder that different things are nourished by different things. Again, it often matters greatly what other particles the first particles are joined to, what positions they occupy, and what motions they give and receive among themselves. For these same particles make up sky, sea, lands, rivers, sun, grains, trees, and living things. Yet they are mixed in different ways with different things, as they move forever. Why, you can see in these verses of ours many letters common to many words. Yet you must admit that each verse and each word differs from the others in meaning and sound. Such effects can the elements produce by a change of order alone. But the first particles of things can form still more combinations, from which different things can in turn be produced. Now let us also examine the homeomeria of Anaxagoras, as the Greeks call it. Our poor language has no name for it in the Italian tongue, though the idea itself is not too hard to explain. First, when he speaks of the homeomeria of things, he thinks bones arise from tiny little bones, and all flesh from tiny little bits of flesh, and blood is created from drops of blood. He thinks gold is packed together from grains of gold, and earth formed from bits of earth, fire made from fires, and water from waters. He imagines the same for all other substances. Yet he admits no void in things, and no limit to cutting bodies into smaller pieces. So on both counts he seems to me to err no less than those we named before. Add this: the particles he imagines are far too frail if they are first particles endowed with the same nature as the things themselves. They would suffer and perish just as those things do, and nothing would keep them from destruction. For what will endure the grip and crush of death? Fire? Moisture? Or air? What then? Blood? Bones? Nothing, I think, when everything would be as mortal at its base as whatever we see perish by force before our eyes. But I appeal to the proofs given above: things cannot return to nothing, or grow from nothing. Now, since food enlarges and nourishes the human body, you must understand that our veins, blood, bones, and muscles are formed from particles unlike them in kind. Or, if they say all foods are mixed substances containing small bodies of muscle, bone, and veins, and particles of blood, then every food, solid or liquid, must itself be considered a mixture made of things unlike in kind: bones, muscles, fluid, and blood. Again, if all the bodies that grow from the earth are first within the earth, then earth must be made up of the different substances that spring and blossom from it. Apply the argument elsewhere, and you can use the very same words: if flame, smoke, and ash still lie unseen within wood, then wood must be made up of the different substances that spring from it. At this point there remains one narrow way to evade the truth, and Anaxagoras takes it. He holds that all things lie mixed within all things, while only that one comes into view whose particles outnumber all the rest and lie nearer the surface and in front. This notion is far removed from true reason. For then kernels of grain, when crushed between heavy stones, should often show signs of blood or of something else that is nourished in our bodies. And stone rubbed on stone should yield a bloody ooze. Likewise, herbs should often give off drops of sweet milk, flavored like milk from a ewe's udder. Indeed, when we crumble clods of earth, we should find herbs, grains, and leaves of every kind scattered in tiny pieces through the soil. Finally, in split wood we should find ashes, smoke, and bits of fire hidden there. But since the facts show this is not so, you must understand that things are not mixed with other things in this way. Instead, seeds common to many things, mixed in many ways, must lie hidden in things. "But often on mountains reaching into the sky," you say, "the neighboring tops of tall trees rub against each other, struck by the blustering south wind, until they burst into a blossoming flame." True enough. Yet fire is not embedded in wood. Rather, there are many seeds of heat, and when they come together through rubbing, they start fires in the forests. But if flame, already formed, lay stored within the forests, then those fires could not remain unseen for any length of time. They would lay the whole forest waste and burn all the woodland. Do you now see, just as we said a little while ago, how greatly it matters what other particles these same first particles are joined to, and in what positions? And what motions they give and receive among themselves? Thus, when their arrangement changes, the same particles can form both fiery and wooden things. Just so, these words themselves are made by changing their letters somewhat, though we call the fiery and the wooden by distinct names. Once again, if you suppose that nothing you see among visible things can exist unless you imagine bodies of matter endowed with a similar nature, then by your empty invention all the first particles of things will be lost to you. They will end up laughing aloud like people, shaken apart by a fit of laughter, or wetting their cheeks and chins with salty tears.

Now learn of what remains! More keenly hear! And for myself, my mind is not deceived How dark it is: But the large hope of praise Hath strook with pointed thyrsus through my heart; On the same hour hath strook into my breast Sweet love of the Muses, wherewith now instinct, I wander afield, thriving in sturdy thought, Through unpathed haunts of the Pierides, Trodden by step of none before. I joy To come on undefiled fountains there, To drain them deep; I joy to pluck new flowers, To seek for this my head a signal crown From regions where the Muses never yet Have garlanded the temples of a man: First, since I teach concerning mighty things, And go right on to loose from round the mind The tightened coils of dread religion; Next, since, concerning themes so dark, I frame Songs so pellucid, touching all throughout Even with the Muses' charm—which, as 'twould seem, Is not without a reasonable ground: But as physicians, when they seek to give Young boys the nauseous wormwood, first do touch The brim around the cup with the sweet juice And yellow of the honey, in order that The thoughtless age of boyhood be cajoled As far as the lips, and meanwhile swallow down The wormwood's bitter draught, and, though befooled, Be yet not merely duped, but rather thus Grow strong again with recreated health: So now I too (since this my doctrine seems In general somewhat woeful unto those Who've had it not in hand, and since the crowd Starts back from it in horror) have desired To expound our doctrine unto thee in song Soft-speaking and Pierian, and, as 'twere, To touch it with sweet honey of the Muse— If by such method haply I might hold The mind of thee upon these lines of ours, Till thou see through the nature of all things, And how exists the interwoven frame. But since I've taught that bodies of matter, made Completely solid, hither and thither fly Forevermore unconquered through all time, Now come, and whether to the sum of them There be a limit or be none, for thee Let us unfold; likewise what has been found To be the wide inane, or room, or space Wherein all things soever do go on, Let us examine if it finite be All and entire, or reach unmeasured round And downward an illimitable profound. Thus, then, the All that is is limited In no one region of its onward paths, For then 'tmust have forever its beyond. And a beyond 'tis seen can never be For aught, unless still further on there be A somewhat somewhere that may bound the same— So that the thing be seen still on to where The nature of sensation of that thing Can follow it no longer. Now because Confess we must there's naught beside the sum, There's no beyond, and so it lacks all end. It matters nothing where thou post thyself, In whatsoever regions of the same; Even any place a man has set him down Still leaves about him the unbounded all Outward in all directions; or, supposing A moment the all of space finite to be, If some one farthest traveller runs forth Unto the extreme coasts and throws ahead A flying spear, is't then thy wish to think It goes, hurled off amain, to where 'twas sent And shoots afar, or that some object there Can thwart and stop it? For the one or other Thou must admit and take. Either of which Shuts off escape for thee, and does compel That thou concede the all spreads everywhere, Owning no confines. Since whether there be Aught that may block and check it so it comes Not where 'twas sent, nor lodges in its goal, Or whether borne along, in either view 'Thas started not from any end. And so I'll follow on, and whereso'er thou set The extreme coasts, I'll query, "what becomes Thereafter of thy spear?" 'Twill come to pass That nowhere can a world's-end be, and that The chance for further flight prolongs forever The flight itself. Besides, were all the space Of the totality and sum shut in With fixed coasts, and bounded everywhere, Then would the abundance of world's matter flow Together by solid weight from everywhere Still downward to the bottom of the world, Nor aught could happen under cope of sky, Nor could there be a sky at all or sun— Indeed, where matter all one heap would lie, By having settled during infinite time. But in reality, repose is given Unto no bodies 'mongst the elements, Because there is no bottom whereunto They might, as 'twere, together flow, and where They might take up their undisturbed abodes. In endless motion everything goes on Forevermore; out of all regions, even Out of the pit below, from forth the vast, Are hurtled bodies evermore supplied. The nature of room, the space of the abyss Is such that even the flashing thunderbolts Can neither speed upon their courses through, Gliding across eternal tracts of time, Nor, further, bring to pass, as on they run, That they may bate their journeying one whit: Such huge abundance spreads for things around— Room off to every quarter, without end. Lastly, before our very eyes is seen Thing to bound thing: air hedges hill from hill, And mountain walls hedge air; land ends the sea, And sea in turn all lands; but for the All Truly is nothing which outside may bound. That, too, the sum of things itself may not Have power to fix a measure of its own, Great nature guards, she who compels the void To bound all body, as body all the void, Thus rendering by these alternates the whole An infinite; or else the one or other, Being unbounded by the other, spreads, Even by its single nature, ne'ertheless Immeasurably forth.... Nor sea, nor earth, nor shining vaults of sky, Nor breed of mortals, nor holy limbs of gods Could keep their place least portion of an hour: For, driven apart from out its meetings fit, The stock of stuff, dissolved, would be borne Along the illimitable inane afar, Or rather, in fact, would ne'er have once combined And given a birth to aught, since, scattered wide, It could not be united. For of truth Neither by counsel did the primal germs 'Stablish themselves, as by keen act of mind, Each in its proper place; nor did they make, Forsooth, a compact how each germ should move; But since, being many and changed in many modes Along the All, they're driven abroad and vexed By blow on blow, even from all time of old, They thus at last, after attempting all The kinds of motion and conjoining, come Into those great arrangements out of which This sum of things established is create, By which, moreover, through the mighty years, It is preserved, when once it has been thrown Into the proper motions, bringing to pass That ever the streams refresh the greedy main With river-waves abounding, and that earth, Lapped in warm exhalations of the sun, Renews her broods, and that the lusty race Of breathing creatures bears and blooms, and that The gliding fires of ether are alive— What still the primal germs nowise could do, Unless from out the infinite of space Could come supply of matter, whence in season They're wont whatever losses to repair. For as the nature of breathing creatures wastes, Losing its body, when deprived of food: So all things have to be dissolved as soon As matter, diverted by what means soever From off its course, shall fail to be on hand. Nor can the blows from outward still conserve, On every side, whatever sum of a world Has been united in a whole. They can Indeed, by frequent beating, check a part, Till others arriving may fulfil the sum; But meanwhile often are they forced to spring Rebounding back, and, as they spring, to yield, Unto those elements whence a world derives, Room and a time for flight, permitting them To be from off the massy union borne Free and afar. Wherefore, again, again: Needs must there come a many for supply; And also, that the blows themselves shall be Unfailing ever, must there ever be An infinite force of matter all sides round. And in these problems, shrink, my Memmius, far From yielding faith to that notorious talk: That all things inward to the centre press; And thus the nature of the world stands firm With never blows from outward, nor can be Nowhere disparted—since all height and depth Have always inward to the centre pressed (If thou art ready to believe that aught Itself can rest upon itself ); or that The ponderous bodies which be under earth Do all press upwards and do come to rest Upon the earth, in some way upside down, Like to those images of things we see At present through the waters. They contend, With like procedure, that all breathing things Head downward roam about, and yet cannot Tumble from earth to realms of sky below, No more than these our bodies wing away Spontaneously to vaults of sky above; That, when those creatures look upon the sun, We view the constellations of the night; And that with us the seasons of the sky They thus alternately divide, and thus Do pass the night coequal to our days, But a vain error has given these dreams to fools, Which they've embraced with reasoning perverse For centre none can be where world is still Boundless, nor yet, if now a centre were, Could aught take there a fixed position more Than for some other cause 'tmight be dislodged. For all of room and space we call the void Must both through centre and non-centre yield Alike to weights where'er their motions tend. Nor is there any place, where, when they've come, Bodies can be at standstill in the void, Deprived of force of weight; nor yet may void Furnish support to any,—nay, it must, True to its bent of nature, still give way. Thus in such manner not at all can things Be held in union, as if overcome By craving for a centre. But besides, Seeing they feign that not all bodies press To centre inward, rather only those Of earth and water (liquid of the sea, And the big billows from the mountain slopes, And whatsoever are encased, as 'twere, In earthen body), contrariwise, they teach How the thin air, and with it the hot fire, Is borne asunder from the centre, and how, For this all ether quivers with bright stars, And the sun's flame along the blue is fed (Because the heat, from out the centre flying, All gathers there), and how, again, the boughs Upon the tree-tops could not sprout their leaves, Unless, little by little, from out the earth For each were nutriment...

Now learn what remains! Listen more closely! I do not deceive myself. I know how obscure the subject is. But great hope of praise Has pierced my heart like a pointed thyrsus. At the same time, a sweet love of the Muses Has pierced my breast. Inspired by that love, I now wander far, strong in thought, Through the pathless haunts of the Pierides, Where no one has stepped before. I delight In finding untouched springs there And drinking deeply from them. I delight in picking new flowers And seeking a special crown for my head From places where the Muses have never yet Placed a garland on a man's brow. First, I delight because I teach about great things And strive to loosen from the mind The tight coils of religious dread. Second, I delight because I make such clear Songs about such obscure subjects, touching every part With the charm of the Muses. And, it seems, There is good reason for doing so. When doctors want to give Young boys bitter wormwood, they first touch The rim of the cup with the sweet Yellow juice of honey. They do this To coax the unsuspecting children To put their lips to the cup. Meanwhile, the boys swallow The bitter wormwood, and, though they have been tricked, They are not merely deceived. Instead, in this way, They regain their strength and health. So now I too have wished to explain Our doctrine to you in gentle, Pierian song, and, as it were, To touch it with the sweet honey of the Muse. For this doctrine generally seems rather grim to those Who have not yet studied it, and the crowd Recoils from it in horror. Perhaps by this method I can hold Your mind on these lines of mine Until you understand the nature of all things And how their interwoven structure exists. But I have taught that the bodies of matter are Completely solid and fly here and there Forever, undefeated through all time. Now come, let us explain whether Their total number has a limit or not. Let us also examine what we have found to be The vast void, or room, or space In which all things happen. Is it Finite in its entirety, or does it extend beyond measure In every direction and downward into limitless depths? The All, then, has no limit In any direction. If it did, There would have to be something beyond it. And there can be something beyond A thing only if something else lies farther on To mark its boundary. Then the thing can be perceived up to the point Beyond which our senses Can follow it no farther. Now we must admit That nothing exists outside the sum of all things. There is nothing beyond it, so it has no end. It does not matter where you place yourself, In whatever part of the All. Wherever a person stands, The boundless All still surrounds them, Stretching outward in every direction. Or suppose For a moment that all space is finite. If a traveler goes to its farthest edge And throws a spear forward, Would you say that the spear flies Swiftly toward its target and travels far, Or that something there Blocks and stops it? You must accept One possibility or the other. Either one Leaves you no escape and forces you To admit that the All extends everywhere Without boundaries. For whether something Blocks and stops the spear, so that it does not reach The place where it was sent and land at its target, Or whether it flies on, in either case It did not start from an edge. And so I will press on. Wherever you place The farthest edge, I will ask, "what becomes Of your spear afterward?" It follows That there can be no edge of the world anywhere. The chance of further flight extends forever The flight itself. Besides, if all the space Of the totality, the sum of things, were enclosed By fixed boundaries on every side, Then the world's abundant matter would flow Together under its solid weight from everywhere, Always downward to the bottom of the world. Nothing could happen beneath the shelter of the sky. There could be no sky or sun at all. Indeed, all matter would lie in one heap, Having settled there over infinite time. But in reality, none of the bodies Among the elements is ever at rest. For there is no bottom to which They could flow together, as it were, and where They could settle undisturbed. Everything moves endlessly Forever. From every region, even From the depths below, the vastness Forever supplies bodies, hurling them forth. The nature of room, the space of the abyss, Is such that even flashing thunderbolts Could never speed all the way through it, Though they traveled across endless stretches of time. Nor, as they traveled, could they manage To shorten their journey in the least. Such vast abundance surrounds things: Room in every direction, without end. Finally, we see before our very eyes That one thing bounds another. Air separates hill from hill, And mountain walls enclose air. Land bounds the sea, And the sea in turn bounds all lands. But nothing Outside the All can bound it. Great nature also prevents the sum of things From setting a limit to itself. She makes the void bound all body, And body bound all the void. By this alternation she makes the whole Infinite. Otherwise, one or the other, Not being bounded by the other, spreads, By its own nature alone, Immeasurably far.... Neither sea nor earth nor the shining vaults of the sky, Neither the race of mortals nor the sacred bodies of gods, Could remain in place for the smallest part of an hour. For the stock of matter would be driven apart From its proper combinations. Dissolved, it would be carried Far through the limitless void. Or rather, it would never have combined at all Or given birth to anything. Scattered so widely, It could not have come together. For in truth, The first particles did not place themselves Each in its proper position by planning Or some clever act of mind. Nor did they make An agreement about how each particle should move. But they are many and have changed in many ways Throughout the All. From all time past, They have been driven about and disturbed By blow after blow. Thus at last, after trying Every kind of motion and combination, they come Into those great arrangements from which This sum of things is established and created. By these arrangements, moreover, it is preserved Through the mighty years, once it has been set In the proper motions. These bring it about That streams continually refresh the greedy sea With abundant river waves, that earth, Bathed in the sun's warm heat, Renews her offspring, that the vigorous race Of breathing creatures thrives and flourishes, and that The gliding fires of the upper air are alive. The first particles could never accomplish this Unless a supply of matter could come From infinite space. From that supply, they regularly Repair their losses in due course. For the bodies of breathing creatures waste away When deprived of food. In the same way, all things must dissolve as soon As matter, diverted by whatever means From its course, fails to arrive. Nor can blows from outside always preserve, On every side, whatever whole world Has been joined together. They can Indeed hold part of it in check by frequent blows, Until other bodies arrive to complete the whole. But meanwhile the bodies striking it are often forced To bounce back. As they do, they give The elements from which a world is made Room and time to escape. Those elements can then Be carried free and far away From the massive union. So, again and again, Many bodies must come to replenish it. And if the blows themselves are to be Ever unfailing, there must always be An infinite force of matter on every side. In considering these questions, my Memmius, take great care Not to believe that notorious claim: That all things press inward toward the center, And so the world stands firm Without blows from outside, and cannot Be pulled apart anywhere, since everything above and below Has always pressed inward toward the center. You must believe that anything Can rest upon itself. Or else you must believe That the heavy bodies beneath the earth All press upward and somehow rest On the earth upside down, Like the images of things we now see Reflected in water. They also maintain That all breathing creatures there Walk about head downward, yet cannot Fall from earth into the regions of sky below, Any more than our bodies fly away Of their own accord into the sky above. They say that when those creatures look at the sun, We see the constellations of night. Thus they share the seasons of the sky With us in turn, and spend A night equal to our day. But a groundless error has given fools these dreams, And they have embraced them through perverse reasoning. For there can be no center where the world is Boundless. Even if there were a center, Nothing could settle there any more Than it could be dislodged for some other reason. For all the room and space we call the void Must give way to weights alike, At the center or away from it, wherever their motions lead. Nor is there any place where bodies, once they arrive, Can stand still in the void, Freed from the force of weight. Nor can the void Support anything. No, it must, True to its nature, always give way. So things cannot be held together In this way, as if overcome By a longing for the center. But besides, They imagine that not all bodies press Inward toward the center, but only those Of earth and water, the liquid of the sea, The great streams from the mountain slopes, And whatever is enclosed, as it were, Within the body of the earth. On the contrary, they teach That thin air, and with it hot fire, Moves away from the center. That is why, They say, all the upper air shimmers with bright stars, And the sun's flame is fed across the blue sky. For the heat, flying out from the center, Gathers there. They also say that branches At the tops of trees could not grow leaves Unless, little by little, each received Nourishment from the earth...

Lest, after the manner of the winged flames, The ramparts of the world should flee away, Dissolved amain throughout the mighty void, And lest all else should likewise follow after, Aye, lest the thundering vaults of heaven should burst And splinter upward, and the earth forthwith Withdraw from under our feet, and all its bulk, Among its mingled wrecks and those of heaven, With slipping asunder of the primal seeds, Should pass, along the immeasurable inane, Away forever, and, that instant, naught Of wrack and remnant would be left, beside The desolate space, and germs invisible. For on whatever side thou deemest first The primal bodies lacking, lo, that side Will be for things the very door of death: Wherethrough the throng of matter all will dash, Out and abroad. These points, if thou wilt ponder, Then, with but paltry trouble led along...

Otherwise, like flying flames, the walls of the world might fly apart, dissolving at once throughout the vast void, and everything else might follow. The thundering vaults of heaven might burst and shatter upward, and the earth might immediately vanish from beneath our feet. Its whole mass, amid its own wreckage and that of heaven, as the primal seeds fall apart, might pass through the boundless void, gone forever. At that instant, nothing of the wreckage would be left except empty space and invisible seeds. For whichever side you think lacks primal bodies first, that side will be the very door of death for things. Through it, the whole mass of matter will rush out and away. If you consider these points, then, with very little effort, you will be led on...

For one thing after other will grow clear, Nor shall the blind night rob thee of the road, To hinder thy gaze on nature's Farthest-forth. Thus things for things shall kindle torches new.

For one thing after another will become clear, And blind darkness will not hide the path from you Or keep you from seeing nature's farthest reaches. Thus each thing will light the way to another.