Book 3

O thou who first uplifted in such dark So clear a torch aloft, who first shed light Upon the profitable ends of man, O thee I follow, glory of the Greeks, And set my footsteps squarely planted now Even in the impress and the marks of thine— Less like one eager to dispute the palm, More as one craving out of very love That I may copy thee!—for how should swallow Contend with swans or what compare could be In a race between young kids with tumbling legs And the strong might of the horse? Our father thou, And finder-out of truth, and thou to us Suppliest a father's precepts; and from out Those scriven leaves of thine, renowned soul (Like bees that sip of all in flowery wolds), We feed upon thy golden sayings all— Golden, and ever worthiest endless life. For soon as ever thy planning thought that sprang From god-like mind begins its loud proclaim Of nature's courses, terrors of the brain Asunder flee, the ramparts of the world Dispart away, and through the void entire I see the movements of the universe. Rises to vision the majesty of gods, And their abodes of everlasting calm Which neither wind may shake nor rain-cloud splash, Nor snow, congealed by sharp frosts, may harm With its white downfall: ever, unclouded sky O'er roofs, and laughs with far-diffused light. And nature gives to them their all, nor aught May ever pluck their peace of mind away. But nowhere to my vision rise no more The vaults of Acheron, though the broad earth Bars me no more from gazing down o'er all Which under our feet is going on below Along the void. O, here in these affairs Some new divine delight and trembling awe Takes hold through me, that thus by power of thine Nature, so plain and manifest at last, Hath been on every side laid bare to man! And since I've taught already of what sort The seeds of all things are, and how, distinct In divers forms, they flit of own accord, Stirred with a motion everlasting on, And in what mode things be from them create, Now, after such matters, should my verse, meseems, Make clear the nature of the mind and soul, And drive that dread of Acheron without, Headlong, which so confounds our human life Unto its deeps, pouring o'er all that is The black of death, nor leaves not anything To prosper—a liquid and unsullied joy. For as to what men sometimes will affirm: That more than Tartarus (the realm of death) They fear diseases and a life of shame, And know the substance of the soul is blood, Or rather wind (if haply thus their whim), And so need naught of this our science, then Thou well may'st note from what's to follow now That more for glory do they braggart forth Than for belief. For mark these very same: Exiles from country, fugitives afar From sight of men, with charges foul attaint, Abased with every wretchedness, they yet Live, and where'er the wretches come, they yet Make the ancestral sacrifices there, Butcher the black sheep, and to gods below Offer the honours, and in bitter case Turn much more keenly to religion. Wherefore, it's surer testing of a man In doubtful perils—mark him as he is Amid adversities; for then alone Are the true voices conjured from his breast, The mask off-stripped, reality behind. And greed, again, and the blind lust of honours Which force poor wretches past the bounds of law, And, oft allies and ministers of crime, To push through nights and days with hugest toil To rise untrammelled to the peaks of power— These wounds of life in no mean part are kept Festering and open by this fright of death. For ever we see fierce Want and foul Disgrace Dislodged afar from secure life and sweet, Like huddling Shapes before the doors of death. And whilst, from these, men wish to scape afar, Driven by false terror, and afar remove, With civic blood a fortune they amass, They double their riches, greedy, heapers-up Of corpse on corpse they have a cruel laugh For the sad burial of a brother-born, And hatred and fear of tables of their kin. Likewise, through this same terror, envy oft Makes them to peak because before their eyes That man is lordly, that man gazed upon Who walks begirt with honour glorious, Whilst they in filth and darkness roll around; Some perish away for statues and a name, And oft to that degree, from fright of death, Will hate of living and beholding light Take hold on humankind that they inflict Their own destruction with a gloomy heart— Forgetful that this fear is font of cares, This fear the plague upon their sense of shame, And this that breaks the ties of comradry And oversets all reverence and faith, Mid direst slaughter. For long ere to-day Often were traitors to country and dear parents Through quest to shun the realms of Acheron. For just as children tremble and fear all In the viewless dark, so even we at times Dread in the light so many things that be No whit more fearsome than what children feign, Shuddering, will be upon them in the dark. This terror, then, this darkness of the mind, Not sunrise with its flaring spokes of light, Nor glittering arrows of morning sun disperse, But only nature's aspect and her law.

You were the first to lift, in such darkness, So clear a torch. You were the first to shed light On what is truly good for human beings. I follow you, glory of the Greeks, And now place my feet firmly In the very prints and marks of yours. I am less eager to compete for the prize Than, out of love, to imitate you. For how could a swallow Compete with swans? What contest could there be In a race between young goats on unsteady legs And a powerful horse? You are our father, The discoverer of truth, and you give us A father's teachings. From Your written pages, renowned soul, Like bees sipping among all the flowers in a meadow, We feed on all your golden sayings. They are golden, and forever worthy of lasting life. For as soon as your carefully reasoned thought, born From your godlike mind, begins to proclaim Nature's workings, the mind's terrors Scatter. The walls of the world Fall away, and throughout the whole void I see the movements of the universe. The majesty of the gods comes into view, And their homes of everlasting peace. No wind can shake them, no rain cloud drench them, And no snow, frozen by sharp frosts, can harm them With its white fall. Above their roofs The sky is always clear and smiles with widely spread light. Nature gives them everything, and nothing Can ever take away their peace of mind. But the depths of Acheron Appear nowhere in my sight, though the broad earth No longer prevents me from looking down at all That happens beneath our feet, Throughout the void. As I see these things, A strange, divine delight and trembling awe Come over me. For through your power, Nature has at last been made so clear and plain, And laid bare on every side for all to see! I have already taught what kind of things The seeds of all things are, and how, differing In shape, they move of their own accord, Driven by everlasting motion. I have also taught how things are created from them. Now, after these matters, I think my verse Should make clear the nature of the mind and soul, And drive away the fear of Acheron. For that fear throws human life into confusion To its very depths. It covers everything With the blackness of death, and leaves no joy Pure and unclouded. People sometimes claim That they fear disease and a life of shame More than Tartarus, the realm of death. They claim to know that the soul is made of blood, Or perhaps wind, if that happens to be their fancy. They say they therefore have no need of this science of ours. But from what follows, you may see That they boast more for glory Than from conviction. Look at these same people. Exiled from their country, driven far From human sight, stained by shameful charges, And brought low by every misery, they still Go on living. Wherever these wretches go, they still Make the sacrifices of their ancestors, Slaughter black sheep, and pay Honors to the gods below. In their bitter plight, They turn much more eagerly to religion. So the surer way to test a person Is in times of danger. Watch the person In adversity. Only then Do true words come from the heart. The mask is stripped away, and reality is revealed. Greed, too, and the blind lust for honor Drive poor wretches beyond the bounds of law. Often allied with crime and serving it, They struggle night and day, with immense effort, To rise without restraint to the heights of power. These wounds of life are kept Festering and open, in no small part, by fear of death. For we always see harsh Poverty and ugly Disgrace Far removed from a secure and pleasant life, Like shapes huddled before the doors of death. Driven by false terror, people want to escape Far from poverty and disgrace, and put them far behind. They amass fortunes through the blood of their fellow citizens. Greedily they double their riches, piling Corpse upon corpse. They laugh cruelly At the sad funeral of a brother, And hate and fear sharing a table with their kin. Likewise, this same terror often makes People waste away with envy. Before their eyes One man is powerful, another admired, Walking surrounded by glorious honor, While they themselves roll in filth and darkness. Some waste away for the sake of statues and a name. Often, from fear of death, Hatred of living and seeing the light Takes such hold of people that They destroy themselves, hearts filled with gloom. They forget that this fear is the source of their troubles. This fear infects their sense of shame. It breaks the bonds of friendship And overturns all reverence and trust, Amid the most terrible slaughter. For long before today, People often betrayed their country and beloved parents In seeking to escape the realms of Acheron. For just as children tremble and fear everything In the darkness, where they cannot see, so we too sometimes Fear, even in daylight, many things No more frightening than what children imagine Will attack them in the dark, making them shudder. This terror, this darkness of the mind, Is not scattered by sunrise and its blazing rays, Nor by the glittering arrows of the morning sun. Only the face and laws of nature can dispel it.

First, then, I say, the mind which oft we call The intellect, wherein is seated life's Counsel and regimen, is part no less Of man than hand and foot and eyes are parts Of one whole breathing creature. [But some hold] That sense of mind is in no fixed part seated, But is of body some one vital state,— Named "harmony" by Greeks, because thereby We live with sense, though intellect be not In any part: as oft the body is said To have good health (when health, however, 's not One part of him who has it), so they place The sense of mind in no fixed part of man. Mightily, diversly, meseems they err. Often the body palpable and seen Sickens, while yet in some invisible part We feel a pleasure; oft the other way, A miserable in mind feels pleasure still Throughout his body—quite the same as when A foot may pain without a pain in head. Besides, when these our limbs are given o'er To gentle sleep and lies the burdened frame At random void of sense, a something else Is yet within us, which upon that time Bestirs itself in many a wise, receiving All motions of joy and phantom cares of heart. Now, for to see that in man's members dwells Also the soul, and body ne'er is wont To feel sensation by a "harmony" Take this in chief: the fact that life remains Oft in our limbs, when much of body's gone; Yet that same life, when particles of heat, Though few, have scattered been, and through the mouth Air has been given forth abroad, forthwith Forever deserts the veins, and leaves the bones. Thus mayst thou know that not all particles Perform like parts, nor in like manner all Are props of weal and safety: rather those— The seeds of wind and exhalations warm— Take care that in our members life remains. Therefore a vital heat and wind there is Within the very body, which at death Deserts our frames. And so, since nature of mind And even of soul is found to be, as 'twere, A part of man, give over "harmony"— Name to musicians brought from Helicon,— Unless themselves they filched it otherwise, To serve for what was lacking name till then. Whate'er it be, they're welcome to it—thou, Hearken my other maxims. Mind and soul, I say, are held conjoined one with other, And form one single nature of themselves; But chief and regnant through the frame entire Is still that counsel which we call the mind, And that cleaves seated in the midmost breast. Here leap dismay and terror; round these haunts Be blandishments of joys; and therefore here The intellect, the mind. The rest of soul, Throughout the body scattered, but obeys— Moved by the nod and motion of the mind. This, for itself, sole through itself, hath thought; This for itself hath mirth, even when the thing That moves it, moves nor soul nor body at all. And as, when head or eye in us is smit By assailing pain, we are not tortured then Through all the body, so the mind alone Is sometimes smitten, or livens with a joy, Whilst yet the soul's remainder through the limbs And through the frame is stirred by nothing new. But when the mind is moved by shock more fierce, We mark the whole soul suffering all at once Along man's members: sweats and pallors spread Over the body, and the tongue is broken, And fails the voice away, and ring the ears, Mists blind the eyeballs, and the joints collapse,— Aye, men drop dead from terror of the mind. Hence, whoso will can readily remark That soul conjoined is with mind, and, when 'Tis strook by influence of the mind, forthwith In turn it hits and drives the body too. And this same argument establisheth That nature of mind and soul corporeal is: For when 'tis seen to drive the members on, To snatch from sleep the body, and to change The countenance, and the whole state of man To rule and turn,—what yet could never be Sans contact, and sans body contact fails— Must we not grant that mind and soul consist Of a corporeal nature?—And besides Thou markst that likewise with this body of ours Suffers the mind and with our body feels. If the dire speed of spear that cleaves the bones And bares the inner thews hits not the life, Yet follows a fainting and a foul collapse, And, on the ground, dazed tumult in the mind, And whiles a wavering will to rise afoot. So nature of mind must be corporeal, since From stroke and spear corporeal 'tis in throes. Now, of what body, what components formed Is this same mind I will go on to tell. First, I aver, 'tis superfine, composed Of tiniest particles—that such the fact Thou canst perceive, if thou attend, from this: Nothing is seen to happen with such speed As what the mind proposes and begins; Therefore the same bestirs itself more swiftly Than aught whose nature's palpable to eyes. But what's so agile must of seeds consist Most round, most tiny, that they may be moved, When hit by impulse slight. So water moves, In waves along, at impulse just the least— Being create of little shapes that roll; But, contrariwise, the quality of honey More stable is, its liquids more inert, More tardy its flow; for all its stock of matter Cleaves more together, since, indeed, 'tis made Of atoms not so smooth, so fine, and round. For the light breeze that hovers yet can blow High heaps of poppy-seed away for thee Downward from off the top; but, contrariwise, A pile of stones or spiny ears of wheat It can't at all. Thus, in so far as bodies Are small and smooth, is their mobility; But, contrariwise, the heavier and more rough, The more immovable they prove. Now, then, Since nature of mind is movable so much, Consist it must of seeds exceeding small And smooth and round. Which fact once known to thee, Good friend, will serve thee opportune in else. This also shows the nature of the same, How nice its texture, in how small a space 'Twould go, if once compacted as a pellet: When death's unvexed repose gets hold on man And mind and soul retire, thou markest there From the whole body nothing ta'en in form, Nothing in weight. Death grants ye everything, But vital sense and exhalation hot. Thus soul entire must be of smallmost seeds, Twined through the veins, the vitals, and the thews, Seeing that, when 'tis from whole body gone, The outward figuration of the limbs Is unimpaired and weight fails not a whit. Just so, when vanished the bouquet of wine, Or when an unguent's perfume delicate Into the winds away departs, or when From any body savour's gone, yet still The thing itself seems minished naught to eyes, Thereby, nor aught abstracted from its weight— No marvel, because seeds many and minute Produce the savours and the redolence In the whole body of the things. And so, Again, again, nature of mind and soul 'Tis thine to know created is of seeds The tiniest ever, since at flying-forth It beareth nothing of the weight away. Yet fancy not its nature simple so. For an impalpable aura, mixed with heat, Deserts the dying, and heat draws off the air; And heat there's none, unless commixed with air: For, since the nature of all heat is rare, Athrough it many seeds of air must move. Thus nature of mind is triple; yet those all Suffice not for creating sense—since mind Accepteth not that aught of these can cause Sense-bearing motions, and much less the thoughts A man revolves in mind. So unto these Must added be a somewhat, and a fourth; That somewhat's altogether void of name; Than which existeth naught more mobile, naught More an impalpable, of elements More small and smooth and round. That first transmits Sense-bearing motions through the frame, for that Is roused the first, composed of little shapes; Thence heat and viewless force of wind take up The motions, and thence air, and thence all things Are put in motion; the blood is strook, and then The vitals all begin to feel, and last To bones and marrow the sensation comes— Pleasure or torment. Nor will pain for naught Enter so far, nor a sharp ill seep through, But all things be perturbed to that degree That room for life will fail, and parts of soul Will scatter through the body's every pore. Yet as a rule, almost upon the skin These motion aIl are stopped, and this is why We have the power to retain our life. Now in my eagerness to tell thee how They are commixed, through what unions fit They function so, my country's pauper-speech Constrains me sadly. As I can, however, I'll touch some points and pass. In such a wise Course these primordials 'mongst one another With inter-motions that no one can be From other sundered, nor its agency Perform, if once divided by a space; Like many powers in one body they work. As in the flesh of any creature still Is odour and savour and a certain warmth, And yet from all of these one bulk of body Is made complete, so, viewless force of wind And warmth and air, commingled, do create One nature, by that mobile energy Assisted which from out itself to them Imparts initial motion, whereby first Sense-bearing motion along the vitals springs. For lurks this essence far and deep and under, Nor in our body is aught more shut from view, And 'tis the very soul of all the soul. And as within our members and whole frame The energy of mind and power of soul Is mixed and latent, since create it is Of bodies small and few, so lurks this fourth, This essence void of name, composed of small, And seems the very soul of all the soul, And holds dominion o'er the body all. And by like reason wind and air and heat Must function so, commingled through the frame, And now the one subside and now another In interchange of dominance, that thus From all of them one nature be produced, Lest heat and wind apart, and air apart, Make sense to perish, by disseverment. There is indeed in mind that heat it gets When seething in rage, and flashes from the eyes More swiftly fire; there is, again, that wind, Much, and so cold, companion of all dread, Which rouses the shudder in the shaken frame; There is no less that state of air composed, Making the tranquil breast, the serene face. But more of hot have they whose restive hearts, Whose minds of passion quickly seethe in rage— Of which kind chief are fierce abounding lions, Who often with roaring burst the breast o'erwrought, Unable to hold the surging wrath within; But the cold mind of stags has more of wind, And speedier through their inwards rouses up The icy currents which make their members quake. But more the oxen live by tranquil air, Nor e'er doth smoky torch of wrath applied, O'erspreading with shadows of a darkling murk, Rouse them too far; nor will they stiffen stark, Pierced through by icy javelins of fear; But have their place half-way between the two— Stags and fierce lions. Thus the race of men: Though training make them equally refined, It leaves those pristine vestiges behind Of each mind's nature. Nor may we suppose Evil can e'er be rooted up so far That one man's not more given to fits of wrath, Another's not more quickly touched by fear, A third not more long-suffering than he should. And needs must differ in many things besides The varied natures and resulting habits Of humankind—of which not now can I Expound the hidden causes, nor find names Enough for all the divers shapes of those Primordials whence this variation springs. But this meseems I'm able to declare: Those vestiges of natures left behind Which reason cannot quite expel from us Are still so slight that naught prevents a man From living a life even worthy of the gods. So then this soul is kept by all the body, Itself the body's guard, and source of weal: For they with common roots cleave each to each, Nor can be torn asunder without death. Not easy 'tis from lumps of frankincense To tear their fragrance forth, without its nature Perishing likewise: so, not easy 'tis From all the body nature of mind and soul To draw away, without the whole dissolved. With seeds so intertwined even from birth, They're dowered conjointly with a partner-life; No energy of body or mind, apart, Each of itself without the other's power, Can have sensation; but our sense, enkindled Along the vitals, to flame is blown by both With mutual motions. Besides the body alone Is nor begot nor grows, nor after death Seen to endure. For not as water at times Gives off the alien heat, nor is thereby Itself destroyed, but unimpaired remains— Not thus, I say, can the deserted frame Bear the dissevering of its joined soul, But, rent and ruined, moulders all away. Thus the joint contact of the body and soul Learns from their earliest age the vital motions, Even when still buried in the mother's womb; So no dissevering can hap to them, Without their bane and ill. And thence mayst see That, as conjoined is their source of weal, Conjoined also must their nature be. If one, moreover, denies that body feel, And holds that soul, through all the body mixed, Takes on this motion which we title "sense," He battles in vain indubitable facts: For who'll explain what body's feeling is, Except by what the public fact itself Has given and taught us?"But when soul is parted, Body's without all sense." True!—loses what Was even in its life-time not its own; And much beside it loses, when soul's driven Forth from that life-time. Or, to say that eyes Themselves can see no thing, but through the same The mind looks forth, as out of opened doors, Is—a hard saying; since the feel in eyes Says the reverse. For this itself draws on And forces into the pupils of our eyes Our consciousness. And note the case when often We lack the power to see refulgent things, Because our eyes are hampered by their light— With a mere doorway this would happen not; For, since it is our very selves that see, No open portals undertake the toil. Besides, if eyes of ours but act as doors, Methinks that, were our sight removed, the mind Ought then still better to behold a thing— When even the door-posts have been cleared away. Herein in these affairs nowise take up What honoured sage, Democritus, lays down— That proposition, that primordials Of body and mind, each super-posed on each, Vary alternately and interweave The fabric of our members. For not only Are the soul-elements smaller far than those Which this our body and inward parts compose, But also are they in their number less, And scattered sparsely through our frame. And thus This canst thou guarantee: soul's primal germs Maintain between them intervals as large At least as are the smallest bodies, which, When thrown against us, in our body rouse Sense-bearing motions. Hence it comes that we Sometimes don't feel alighting on our frames The clinging dust, or chalk that settles soft; Nor mists of night, nor spider's gossamer We feel against us, when, upon our road, Its net entangles us, nor on our head The dropping of its withered garmentings; Nor bird-feathers, nor vegetable down, Flying about, so light they barely fall; Nor feel the steps of every crawling thing, Nor each of all those footprints on our skin Of midges and the like. To that degree Must many primal germs be stirred in us Ere once the seeds of soul that through our frame Are intermingled 'gin to feel that those Primordials of the body have been strook, And ere, in pounding with such gaps between, They clash, combine and leap apart in turn. But mind is more the keeper of the gates, Hath more dominion over life than soul. For without intellect and mind there's not One part of soul can rest within our frame Least part of time; companioning, it goes With mind into the winds away, and leaves The icy members in the cold of death. But he whose mind and intellect abide Himself abides in life. However much The trunk be mangled, with the limbs lopped off, The soul withdrawn and taken from the limbs, Still lives the trunk and draws the vital air. Even when deprived of all but all the soul, Yet will it linger on and cleave to life,— Just as the power of vision still is strong, If but the pupil shall abide unharmed, Even when the eye around it's sorely rent— Provided only thou destroyest not Wholly the ball, but, cutting round the pupil, Leavest that pupil by itself behind— For more would ruin sight. But if that centre, That tiny part of eye, be eaten through, Forthwith the vision fails and darkness comes, Though in all else the unblemished ball be clear. 'Tis by like compact that the soul and mind Are each to other bound forevermore.

First, I say that the mind, often called the intellect, where life's judgment and direction reside, is as much a part of a person as a hand, foot, or eyes are parts of one whole living creature. [But some claim] that the mind's feeling has no fixed seat. They say it is a certain vital condition of the body, called "harmony" by the Greeks, because through it we live and feel, although the intellect is not in any particular part. In the same way, the body is often said to have good health, though health is not a part of the person who has it. So they place the mind's feeling in no fixed part of a person. I think they are greatly mistaken, and in various ways. Often the tangible, visible body falls ill, while in some invisible part we feel pleasure. Often the reverse happens: a person miserable in mind still feels pleasure throughout the body. It is just as a foot may hurt without the head hurting. Besides, when our limbs are given over to gentle sleep, and the heavy body lies unaware, in whatever position it has taken, something else is still within us. At that time it stirs in many ways, experiencing every kind of joy and the heart's imagined worries. Now, to see that the soul also lives in our limbs, and that the body never feels through a "harmony," consider this above all: life often remains in our limbs when much of the body is gone. Yet when a few particles of heat have scattered, and air has left through the mouth, that same life at once abandons the veins forever and leaves the bones. So you can see that not all particles play the same part, or equally support our well-being and safety. Rather, those seeds of wind and warm breath keep life in our limbs. So there is vital heat and wind within the body itself, and at death they leave our bodies. Since the mind and even the soul are found to be, so to speak, a part of a person, give up "harmony." That name came to musicians from Helicon, unless they stole it from somewhere else to use for something that had no name before. Whatever the case, they are welcome to it. You, listen to my other teachings. Mind and soul, I say, are joined to each other and together form a single nature. But the chief and ruling power throughout the body is that guiding force we call the mind. It remains seated in the middle of the breast. Here fear and terror leap up, and here joys bring their delights. So here is the intellect, the mind. The rest of the soul, scattered throughout the body, only obeys. It is moved by the will and motion of the mind. The mind alone thinks for itself, and feels joy for itself, even when what moves it moves neither soul nor body at all. And just as, when our head or eye is struck by an attack of pain, we do not suffer throughout the whole body, so the mind alone is sometimes struck, or brightened by joy, while the rest of the soul, throughout the limbs and body, is stirred by nothing new. But when a stronger shock moves the mind, we see the whole soul suffer at once throughout a person's limbs. Sweat and pallor spread over the body, the tongue falters, the voice fails, and the ears ring. Mist blinds the eyes, and the joints give way. Yes, people fall dead from terror in the mind. So anyone who wishes can easily see that the soul is joined to the mind. When the soul is struck by the mind's influence, it at once strikes and drives the body in turn. This same argument establishes that the mind and soul are bodily in nature. For we see them drive the limbs, rouse the body from sleep, change the face, and rule and alter a person's whole condition. Yet none of this could happen without contact, and contact is impossible without a body. Must we not then admit that mind and soul are bodily in nature? And besides, you see that the mind suffers and feels along with our body. If a spear speeds through the bones and exposes the inner muscles, but does not strike life itself, still a faintness and a dreadful collapse follow, and, as the person lies on the ground, a dazed confusion of mind, and sometimes an uncertain desire to rise. So the mind must be bodily in nature, since a bodily blow from a spear causes it pain. Now I will go on to tell you what kind of body the mind is, and what parts make it up. First, I say it is extremely fine, composed of the tiniest particles. You can see that this is so, if you pay attention, from this: nothing is seen to happen as quickly as what the mind plans and begins. So the mind moves more swiftly than anything whose nature is visible to our eyes. But anything so agile must consist of seeds that are very round and very tiny, so they can move when struck by a slight impulse. Thus water moves in waves at the slightest impulse, because it is made of small, rolling shapes. Honey, by contrast, is more stable, its liquid less active, and its flow slower. For all its matter clings together more closely, since it is made of atoms that are less smooth, fine, and round. Even a light breeze can blow a high heap of poppy seeds down from the top. But, by contrast, it cannot move a pile of stones or prickly heads of wheat at all. So the smaller and smoother bodies are, the more easily they move. But, by contrast, the heavier and rougher they are, the harder they are to move. Now then, since the mind's nature is so very mobile, it must consist of exceedingly small, smooth, round seeds. Once you know this, good friend, it will help you in other matters. The same fact also shows the mind's nature, how fine its texture is, and how little space it would occupy if pressed into a ball. When death's undisturbed rest takes hold of a person and mind and soul withdraw, you see that nothing has been taken from the whole body in shape or weight. Death leaves you everything except vital feeling and warm breath. So the whole soul must be made of the smallest seeds, woven through the veins, organs, and muscles. For when the soul has gone from the whole body, the outward shape of the limbs is unchanged, and the weight has not decreased at all. Just so, when the bouquet of wine vanishes, or when an ointment's delicate perfume drifts away on the wind, or when the flavor leaves any substance, still the thing itself does not seem any smaller to the eye, nor has any of its weight been taken away. That is no wonder, because many tiny seeds produce the flavors and scents throughout the substances. And so, again and again, you must understand that the mind and soul are made of the tiniest seeds, since when they fly away they carry none of the body's weight with them. Yet do not imagine that their nature is simple. For an intangible breeze, mixed with heat, leaves the dying, and heat draws air away with it. And there is no heat unless it is mixed with air. For since all heat is thin in nature, many seeds of air must move through it. So the mind's nature has three parts. Yet all of them are not enough to create feeling. The mind cannot accept that any of them can cause the motions that produce feeling, much less the thoughts a person turns over in the mind. So to these something must be added, a fourth thing. That something has no name at all. Nothing is more mobile or more intangible, or made of elements smaller, smoother, and rounder. It first transmits the motions that produce feeling through the body. For it is stirred first, being made of small shapes. Then heat and the invisible force of wind take up the motions, then air, and then everything is set in motion. The blood is struck, and then all the vital organs begin to feel. Last, the sensation reaches the bones and marrow, whether pleasure or pain. Pain cannot penetrate so far, nor a sharp injury pass so deep, without disturbing everything so much that life can find no room, and the parts of the soul scatter through every pore of the body. Yet as a rule, almost at the skin, all these motions stop, and that is why we are able to keep our lives. Now I am eager to tell you how these elements are mixed, and by what fitting unions they work together. But the poverty of my country's language sadly holds me back. As best I can, however, I will touch on some points and move on. These primary elements move among one another with motions so intertwined that none can be separated from another, or perform its function once a space divides them. They work like many powers in one body. In the flesh of any creature there is smell, taste, and a certain warmth, and yet from all these one whole body is formed. So the invisible force of wind, warmth, and air, mixed together, create one nature, helped by that mobile energy which from itself gives them their first motion. From this, the motion that produces feeling first begins among the vital organs. For this essence lies hidden far beneath them, and nothing in our body is more concealed. It is the very soul of the whole soul. And just as, within our limbs and whole body, the energy of the mind and the power of the soul are mixed and hidden, because they are made of small, few particles, so this fourth thing, this nameless essence, lies hidden, made of small particles. It seems the very soul of the whole soul, and rules over the entire body. By the same reasoning, wind, air, and heat must work together, mixed throughout the body. Now one must yield, now another, each taking its turn in command, so that all of them produce one nature. Otherwise heat and wind on one side, and air on the other, would, by separating, cause feeling to perish. There is indeed heat in the mind when it boils with rage, and fire flashes from the eyes more swiftly. There is also wind, much of it, and very cold, the companion of all fear. It stirs the shaken body to shudder. There is also a calm state of air, which makes the breast tranquil and the face serene. But those whose restless hearts and passionate minds quickly boil with rage have more heat. Foremost among these are the fierce, numerous lions. Often their roars burst from their strained breasts, because they cannot hold their surging anger inside. But the cold mind of stags has more wind. It more quickly stirs up icy currents inside them, making their limbs tremble. Oxen, however, live more by tranquil air. The smoky torch of anger, when applied, never stirs them too far, spreading shadows of dark gloom. Nor do they grow stiff and rigid, pierced by the icy spears of fear. They have their place halfway between the two, stags and fierce lions. So it is with humankind. Though training makes people equally refined, it leaves behind traces of each mind's original nature. Nor can we suppose that evil can ever be rooted out so completely that one person is not more prone to fits of anger, another more quickly touched by fear, and a third more patient than he should be. And the varied natures and resulting habits of humankind must differ in many other ways. I cannot now explain their hidden causes, nor find enough names for all the different shapes of the primary elements from which these differences arise. But this, I think, I can declare: those traces of our natures that remain, which reason cannot quite drive out of us, are still so slight that nothing prevents a person from living a life worthy even of the gods. So the whole body keeps the soul safe, while the soul guards the body and is the source of its well-being. For they cling to each other with common roots, and cannot be torn apart without death. It is not easy to tear the fragrance from lumps of frankincense without its nature also perishing. So it is not easy to draw the mind and soul from the whole body without the whole being destroyed. Their seeds are so intertwined from birth that they are granted a shared life together. Neither the body nor the mind can feel by its own power, apart from the other's power. Instead, feeling is kindled among the vital organs and fanned into flame by their mutual motions. Besides, the body alone is neither conceived nor grows, nor is it seen to endure after death. Water sometimes gives off heat that came from outside it. It is not thereby destroyed, but remains unharmed. The abandoned body, I say, cannot in the same way bear the separation of its joined soul. Instead, it is torn apart and ruined, and crumbles away. Thus, through their contact, body and soul together learn the motions of life from their earliest age, even while still hidden in the mother's womb. So they cannot be separated without harm and destruction. From this you can see that, since their well-being is joined, their nature must also be joined. If someone, moreover, denies that the body feels, and claims that the soul, mixed throughout the body, receives this motion that we call "feeling," he fights in vain against undeniable facts. For who can explain what bodily feeling is except by what the plain facts themselves have given and taught us? "But when the soul has departed, the body has no feeling." True! It loses what, even during its lifetime, was not its own. And it loses much else besides, when the soul is driven out of that life. Or consider the claim that the eyes themselves see nothing, but that through them the mind looks out, as through open doors. That is hard to believe, since feeling in the eyes says the opposite. For this feeling draws and forces our awareness into the pupils of our eyes. And notice how often we cannot look at bright things, because their light troubles our eyes. This would not happen to a mere doorway. For since it is we ourselves who see, no open doorway bears the strain. Besides, if our eyes act only as doors, I think that, if our eyes were removed, the mind should see things even better, when even the doorposts had been cleared away. On these matters, do not accept what the honored sage Democritus says. He proposes that the primary elements of body and mind lie one upon another, alternating and interweaving the fabric of our limbs. For the soul's elements are not only much smaller than those that make up our body and its inner parts, but also fewer in number and scattered sparsely through our body. So you can be sure of this: the soul's primary seeds keep between them gaps at least as large as the smallest bodies that, when they strike us, produce motions of feeling in our bodies. That is why we sometimes do not feel dust settling and clinging to our bodies, or chalk settling softly. Nor do we feel the mists of night or a spider's fine threads against us when its web catches us on our way. Nor do we feel its worn-out coverings falling on our heads, or bird feathers, or plant down flying about, so light they scarcely fall. Nor do we feel the steps of every crawling creature, or every footprint on our skin of midges and the like. So many primary seeds within us must be stirred before the seeds of the soul, mixed throughout our bodies, begin to feel that those primary elements of the body have been struck, and before, beating across such gaps, they strike, join, and leap apart in turn. But the mind is more the keeper of the gates and has more power over life than the soul. For without intellect and mind, not one part of the soul can remain in our bodies for the least moment. It follows the mind away into the winds, and leaves the icy limbs in the cold of death. But a person whose mind and intellect remain remains alive. However badly the trunk is mangled, with its limbs cut off and the soul withdrawn and taken from those limbs, the trunk still lives and draws the breath of life. Even when deprived of almost all the soul, it still lingers and clings to life. It is just as the power of sight remains strong, if only the pupil remains unharmed, even when the eye around it is badly torn. That is, provided you do not destroy the whole eyeball, but cut around the pupil and leave the pupil itself behind. For anything more would ruin sight. But if that center, that tiny part of the eye, is destroyed, sight fails at once and darkness comes, though the otherwise unblemished eyeball is clear. By a like bond, the soul and mind are bound to each other forever.

Now come: that thou mayst able be to know That minds and the light souls of all that live Have mortal birth and death, I will go on Verses to build meet for thy rule of life, Sought after long, discovered with sweet toil. But under one name I'd have thee yoke them both; And when, for instance, I shall speak of soul, Teaching the same to be but mortal, think Thereby I'm speaking also of the mind— Since both are one, a substance inter-joined. First, then, since I have taught how soul exists A subtle fabric, of particles minute, Made up from atoms smaller much than those Of water's liquid damp, or fog, or smoke, So in mobility it far excels, More prone to move, though strook by lighter cause Even moved by images of smoke or fog— As where we view, when in our sleeps we're lulled, The altars exhaling steam and smoke aloft— For, beyond doubt, these apparitions come To us from outward. Now, then, since thou seest, Their liquids depart, their waters flow away, When jars are shivered, and since fog and smoke Depart into the winds away, believe The soul no less is shed abroad and dies More quickly far, more quickly is dissolved Back to its primal bodies, when withdrawn From out man's members it has gone away. For, sure, if body (container of the same Like as a jar), when shivered from some cause, And rarefied by loss of blood from veins, Cannot for longer hold the soul, how then Thinkst thou it can be held by any air— A stuff much rarer than our bodies be? Besides we feel that mind to being comes Along with body, with body grows and ages. For just as children totter round about With frames infirm and tender, so there follows A weakling wisdom in their minds; and then, Where years have ripened into robust powers, Counsel is also greater, more increased The power of mind; thereafter, where already The body's shattered by master-powers of eld, And fallen the frame with its enfeebled powers, Thought hobbles, tongue wanders, and the mind gives way; All fails, all's lacking at the selfsame time. Therefore it suits that even the soul's dissolved, Like smoke, into the lofty winds of air; Since we behold the same to being come Along with body and grow, and, as I've taught, Crumble and crack, therewith outworn by eld. Then, too, we see, that, just as body takes Monstrous diseases and the dreadful pain, So mind its bitter cares, the grief, the fear; Wherefore it tallies that the mind no less Partaker is of death; for pain and disease Are both artificers of death,—as well We've learned by the passing of many a man ere now. Nay, too, in diseases of body, often the mind Wanders afield; for 'tis beside itself, And crazed it speaks, or many a time it sinks, With eyelids closing and a drooping nod, In heavy drowse, on to eternal sleep; From whence nor hears it any voices more, Nor able is to know the faces here Of those about him standing with wet cheeks Who vainly call him back to light and life. Wherefore mind too, confess we must, dissolves, Seeing, indeed, contagions of disease Enter into the same. Again, O why, When the strong wine has entered into man, And its diffused fire gone round the veins, Why follows then a heaviness of limbs, A tangle of the legs as round he reels, A stuttering tongue, an intellect besoaked, Eyes all aswim, and hiccups, shouts, and brawls, And whatso else is of that ilk?—Why this?— If not that violent and impetuous wine Is wont to confound the soul within the body? But whatso can confounded be and balked, Gives proof, that if a hardier cause got in, 'Twould hap that it would perish then, bereaved Of any life thereafter. And, moreover, Often will some one in a sudden fit, As if by stroke of lightning, tumble down Before our eyes, and sputter foam, and grunt, Blither, and twist about with sinews taut, Gasp up in starts, and weary out his limbs With tossing round. No marvel, since distract Through frame by violence of disease.

Come now, so that you may know that the minds and light souls of all living things are born and die, I will continue to build verses fit to guide your life, long sought and discovered through sweet labor. But I want you to join both under one name. So, for example, when I speak of the soul and teach that it is mortal, understand that I am also speaking of the mind, since both are one, a substance joined together. First, I have taught that the soul is a delicate structure of tiny particles, made of atoms much smaller than those of liquid water, fog, or smoke. So it moves far more easily, and is more readily moved by a lighter cause. It is even moved by images of smoke or fog. For example, when we are lulled to sleep, we see altars sending up steam and smoke. For without doubt, these apparitions come to us from outside. Now consider what you see. When jars are shattered, their liquids escape and their waters flow away. Fog and smoke also drift away on the winds. So believe that the soul, no less, is scattered and dies far more quickly. It is dissolved far more quickly into its original particles, once it has left a person's body and gone away. For the body holds the soul as a jar holds liquid. If the body is shattered, and made less dense by blood lost from its veins, it can no longer hold the soul. How then do you think any air can hold it? Air is much less dense than our bodies. Besides, we sense that the mind comes into being with the body, and grows and ages with it. For just as children totter about with weak and tender bodies, so too their minds show feeble judgment. Then, when their years bring them to robust maturity, their judgment is greater and their power of mind has increased. Later, when the body's powers have been shattered by old age, and its strength has failed, thought falters, the tongue wanders, and the mind gives way. Everything fails, everything gives out at the same time. So it follows that the soul too dissolves, like smoke, into the high winds of the air. For we see that the soul comes into being and grows with the body. And, as I have taught, it crumbles and breaks down with the body, worn out by age. We also see that, just as the body suffers terrible diseases and dreadful pain, the mind suffers bitter cares, grief, and fear. So it follows that the mind too shares in death. For pain and disease both bring about death, as we have learned from the passing of many people. Moreover, in diseases of the body, the mind often wanders. It is beside itself and speaks wildly. Or it often sinks, its eyelids closing and its head drooping, into heavy drowsiness and then eternal sleep. From that sleep, the mind hears no more voices and cannot recognize the faces of those standing around the person with wet cheeks, calling in vain for a return to light and life. So we must admit that the mind too dissolves, since the afflictions of disease enter it. Again, why is it that when strong wine has entered a person and its spreading fire has coursed through the veins, heaviness follows in the limbs? Why do the legs become tangled as the person reels, the tongue stutter, the intellect become soaked, the eyes swim, and hiccups, shouts, and brawls follow, along with whatever else is of that kind? Why? Is it not because strong and violent wine tends to confuse the soul within the body? But whatever can be confused and obstructed shows that, if a stronger cause entered it, it would perish, deprived of all life thereafter. Moreover, someone will often, in a sudden fit, fall before our eyes as if struck by lightning, foam at the mouth and grunt, babble and twist with muscles taut, gasp in spurts, and wear out his limbs by tossing about. No wonder, since, through the body, by the violence of disease, it is thrown into disorder.

Confounds, he foams, as if to vomit soul, As on the salt sea boil the billows round Under the master might of winds. And now A groan's forced out, because his limbs are griped, But, in the main, because the seeds of voice Are driven forth and carried in a mass Outwards by mouth, where they are wont to go, And have a builded highway. He becomes Mere fool, since energy of mind and soul Confounded is, and, as I've shown, to-riven, Asunder thrown, and torn to pieces all By the same venom. But, again, where cause Of that disease has faced about, and back Retreats sharp poison of corrupted frame Into its shadowy lairs, the man at first Arises reeling, and gradually comes back To all his senses and recovers soul. Thus, since within the body itself of man The mind and soul are by such great diseases Shaken, so miserably in labour distraught, Why, then, believe that in the open air, Without a body, they can pass their life, Immortal, battling with the master winds? And, since we mark the mind itself is cured, Like the sick body, and restored can be By medicine, this is forewarning too That mortal lives the mind. For proper it is That whosoe'er begins and undertakes To alter the mind, or meditates to change Any another nature soever, should add New parts, or readjust the order given, Or from the sum remove at least a bit. But what's immortal willeth for itself Its parts be nor increased, nor rearranged, Nor any bit soever flow away: For change of anything from out its bounds Means instant death of that which was before. Ergo, the mind, whether in sickness fallen, Or by the medicine restored, gives signs, As I have taught, of its mortality. So surely will a fact of truth make head 'Gainst errors' theories all, and so shut off All refuge from the adversary, and rout Error by two-edged confutation. And since the mind is of a man one part, Which in one fixed place remains, like ears, And eyes, and every sense which pilots life; And just as hand, or eye, or nose, apart, Severed from us, can neither feel nor be, But in the least of time is left to rot, Thus mind alone can never be, without The body and the man himself, which seems, As 'twere the vessel of the same—or aught Whate'er thou'lt feign as yet more closely joined: Since body cleaves to mind by surest bonds. Again, the body's and the mind's live powers Only in union prosper and enjoy; For neither can nature of mind, alone of self Sans body, give the vital motions forth; Nor, then, can body, wanting soul, endure And use the senses. Verily, as the eye, Alone, up-rended from its roots, apart From all the body, can peer about at naught, So soul and mind it seems are nothing able, When by themselves. No marvel, because, commixed Through veins and inwards, and through bones and thews, Their elements primordial are confined By all the body, and own no power free To bound around through interspaces big, Thus, shut within these confines, they take on Motions of sense, which, after death, thrown out Beyond the body to the winds of air, Take on they cannot—and on this account, Because no more in such a way confined. For air will be a body, be alive, If in that air the soul can keep itself, And in that air enclose those motions all Which in the thews and in the body itself A while ago 'twas making. So for this, Again, again, I say confess we must, That, when the body's wrappings are unwound, And when the vital breath is forced without, The soul, the senses of the mind dissolve,— Since for the twain the cause and ground of life Is in the fact of their conjoined estate. Once more, since body's unable to sustain Division from the soul, without decay And obscene stench, how canst thou doubt but that The soul, uprisen from the body's deeps, Has filtered away, wide-drifted like a smoke, Or that the changed body crumbling fell With ruin so entire, because, indeed, Its deep foundations have been moved from place, The soul out-filtering even through the frame, And through the body's every winding way And orifice? And so by many means Thou'rt free to learn that nature of the soul Hath passed in fragments out along the frame, And that 'twas shivered in the very body Ere ever it slipped abroad and swam away Into the winds of air. For never a man Dying appears to feel the soul go forth As one sure whole from all his body at once, Nor first come up the throat and into mouth; But feels it failing in a certain spot, Even as he knows the senses too dissolve Each in its own location in the frame. But were this mind of ours immortal mind, Dying 'twould scarce bewail a dissolution, But rather the going, the leaving of its coat, Like to a snake. Wherefore, when once the body Hath passed away, admit we must that soul, Shivered in all that body, perished too. Nay, even when moving in the bounds of life, Often the soul, now tottering from some cause, Craves to go out, and from the frame entire Loosened to be; the countenance becomes Flaccid, as if the supreme hour were there; And flabbily collapse the members all Against the bloodless trunk—the kind of case We see when we remark in common phrase, "That man's quite gone," or "fainted dead away"; And where there's now a bustle of alarm, And all are eager to get some hold upon The man's last link of life. For then the mind And all the power of soul are shook so sore, And these so totter along with all the frame, That any cause a little stronger might Dissolve them altogether.—Why, then, doubt That soul, when once without the body thrust, There in the open, an enfeebled thing, Its wrappings stripped away, cannot endure Not only through no everlasting age, But even, indeed, through not the least of time? Then, too, why never is the intellect, The counselling mind, begotten in the head, The feet, the hands, instead of cleaving still To one sole seat, to one fixed haunt, the breast, If not that fixed places be assigned For each thing's birth, where each, when 'tis create, Is able to endure, and that our frames Have such complex adjustments that no shift In order of our members may appear? To that degree effect succeeds to cause, Nor is the flame once wont to be create In flowing streams, nor cold begot in fire. Besides, if nature of soul immortal be, And able to feel, when from our frame disjoined, The same, I fancy, must be thought to be Endowed with senses five,—nor is there way But this whereby to image to ourselves How under-souls may roam in Acheron. Thus painters and the elder race of bards Have pictured souls with senses so endowed. But neither eyes, nor nose, nor hand, alone Apart from body can exist for soul, Nor tongue nor ears apart. And hence indeed Alone by self they can nor feel nor be. And since we mark the vital sense to be In the whole body, all one living thing, If of a sudden a force with rapid stroke Should slice it down the middle and cleave in twain, Beyond a doubt likewise the soul itself, Divided, dissevered, asunder will be flung Along with body. But what severed is And into sundry parts divides, indeed Admits it owns no everlasting nature. We hear how chariots of war, areek With hurly slaughter, lop with flashing scythes The limbs away so suddenly that there, Fallen from the trunk, they quiver on the earth, The while the mind and powers of the man Can feel no pain, for swiftness of his hurt, And sheer abandon in the zest of battle: With the remainder of his frame he seeks Anew the battle and the slaughter, nor marks How the swift wheels and scythes of ravin have dragged Off with the horses his left arm and shield; Nor other how his right has dropped away, Mounting again and on. A third attempts With leg dismembered to arise and stand, Whilst, on the ground hard by, the dying foot Twitches its spreading toes. And even the head, When from the warm and living trunk lopped off, Keeps on the ground the vital countenance And open eyes, until 't has rendered up All remnants of the soul. Nay, once again: If, when a serpent's darting forth its tongue, And lashing its tail, thou gettest chance to hew With axe its length of trunk to many parts, Thou'lt see each severed fragment writhing round With its fresh wound, and spattering up the sod, And there the fore-part seeking with the jaws After the hinder, with bite to stop the pain. So shall we say that these be souls entire In all those fractions?—but from that 'twould follow One creature'd have in body many souls. Therefore, the soul, which was indeed but one, Has been divided with the body too: Each is but mortal, since alike is each Hewn into many parts. Again, how often We view our fellow going by degrees, And losing limb by limb the vital sense; First nails and fingers of the feet turn blue, Next die the feet and legs, then o'er the rest Slow crawl the certain footsteps of cold death. And since this nature of the soul is torn, Nor mounts away, as at one time, entire, We needs must hold it mortal. But perchance If thou supposest that the soul itself Can inward draw along the frame, and bring Its parts together to one place, and so From all the members draw the sense away, Why, then, that place in which such stock of soul Collected is, should greater seem in sense. But since such place is nowhere, for a fact, As said before, 'tis rent and scattered forth, And so goes under. Or again, if now I please to grant the false, and say that soul Can thus be lumped within the frames of those Who leave the sunshine, dying bit by bit, Still must the soul as mortal be confessed; Nor aught it matters whether to wrack it go, Dispersed in the winds, or, gathered in a mass From all its parts, sink down to brutish death, Since more and more in every region sense Fails the whole man, and less and less of life In every region lingers. And besides, If soul immortal is, and winds its way Into the body at the birth of man, Why can we not remember something, then, Of life-time spent before? why keep we not Some footprints of the things we did of, old? But if so changed hath been the power of mind, That every recollection of things done Is fallen away, at no o'erlong remove Is that, I trow, from what we mean by death. Wherefore 'tis sure that what hath been before Hath died, and what now is is now create. Moreover, if after the body hath been built Our mind's live powers are wont to be put in, Just at the moment that we come to birth, And cross the sills of life, 'twould scarcely fit For them to live as if they seemed to grow Along with limbs and frame, even in the blood, But rather as in a cavern all alone. (Yet all the body duly throngs with sense.) But public fact declares against all this: For soul is so entwined through the veins, The flesh, the thews, the bones, that even the teeth Share in sensation, as proven by dull ache, By twinge from icy water, or grating crunch Upon a stone that got in mouth with bread. Wherefore, again, again, souls must be thought Nor void of birth, nor free from law of death; Nor, if, from outward, in they wound their way, Could they be thought as able so to cleave To these our frames, nor, since so interwove, Appears it that they're able to go forth Unhurt and whole and loose themselves unscathed From all the thews, articulations, bones. But, if perchance thou thinkest that the soul, From outward winding in its way, is wont To seep and soak along these members ours, Then all the more 'twill perish, being thus With body fused—for what will seep and soak Will be dissolved and will therefore die. For just as food, dispersed through all the pores Of body, and passed through limbs and all the frame, Perishes, supplying from itself the stuff For other nature, thus the soul and mind, Though whole and new into a body going, Are yet, by seeping in, dissolved away, Whilst, as through pores, to all the frame there pass Those particles from which created is This nature of mind, now ruler of our body, Born from that soul which perished, when divided Along the frame. Wherefore it seems that soul Hath both a natal and funeral hour. Besides are seeds of soul there left behind In the breathless body, or not? If there they are, It cannot justly be immortal deemed, Since, shorn of some parts lost, 'thas gone away: But if, borne off with members uncorrupt, 'Thas fled so absolutely all away It leaves not one remainder of itself Behind in body, whence do cadavers, then, From out their putrid flesh exhale the worms, And whence does such a mass of living things, Boneless and bloodless, o'er the bloated frame Bubble and swarm? But if perchance thou thinkest That souls from outward into worms can wind, And each into a separate body come, And reckonest not why many thousand souls Collect where only one has gone away, Here is a point, in sooth, that seems to need Inquiry and a putting to the test: Whether the souls go on a hunt for seeds Of worms wherewith to build their dwelling places, Or enter bodies ready-made, as 'twere. But why themselves they thus should do and toil 'Tis hard to say, since, being free of body, They flit around, harassed by no disease, Nor cold nor famine; for the body labours By more of kinship to these flaws of life, And mind by contact with that body suffers So many ills. But grant it be for them However useful to construct a body To which to enter in, 'tis plain they can't. Then, souls for self no frames nor bodies make, Nor is there how they once might enter in To bodies ready-made—for they cannot Be nicely interwoven with the same, And there'll be formed no interplay of sense Common to each. Again, why is't there goes Impetuous rage with lion's breed morose, And cunning with foxes, and to deer why given The ancestral fear and tendency to flee, And why in short do all the rest of traits Engender from the very start of life In the members and mentality, if not Because one certain power of mind that came From its own seed and breed waxes the same Along with all the body? But were mind Immortal, were it wont to change its bodies, How topsy-turvy would earth's creatures act! The Hyrcan hound would flee the onset oft Of antlered stag, the scurrying hawk would quake Along the winds of air at the coming dove, And men would dote, and savage beasts be wise; For false the reasoning of those that say Immortal mind is changed by change of body— For what is changed dissolves, and therefore dies. For parts are re-disposed and leave their order; Wherefore they must be also capable Of dissolution through the frame at last, That they along with body perish all. But should some say that always souls of men Go into human bodies, I will ask: How can a wise become a dullard soul? And why is never a child's a prudent soul? And the mare's filly why not trained so well As sturdy strength of steed? We may be sure They'll take their refuge in the thought that mind Becomes a weakling in a weakling frame. Yet be this so, 'tis needful to confess The soul but mortal, since, so altered now Throughout the frame, it loses the life and sense It had before. Or how can mind wax strong Coequally with body and attain The craved flower of life, unless it be The body's colleague in its origins? Or what's the purport of its going forth From aged limbs?—fears it, perhaps, to stay, Pent in a crumbled body? Or lest its house, Outworn by venerable length of days, May topple down upon it? But indeed For an immortal perils are there none. Again, at parturitions of the wild And at the rites of Love, that souls should stand Ready hard by seems ludicrous enough— Immortals waiting for their mortal limbs In numbers innumerable, contending madly Which shall be first and chief to enter in!— Unless perchance among the souls there be Such treaties stablished that the first to come Flying along, shall enter in the first, And that they make no rivalries of strength! Again, in ether can't exist a tree, Nor clouds in ocean deeps, nor in the fields Can fishes live, nor blood in timber be, Nor sap in boulders: fixed and arranged Where everything may grow and have its place. Thus nature of mind cannot arise alone Without the body, nor exist afar From thews and blood. But if 'twere possible, Much rather might this very power of mind Be in the head, the shoulders or the heels, And, born in any part soever, yet In the same man, in the same vessel abide. But since within this body even of ours Stands fixed and appears arranged sure Where soul and mind can each exist and grow, Deny we must the more that they can have Duration and birth, wholly outside the frame. For, verily, the mortal to conjoin With the eternal, and to feign they feel Together, and can function each with each, Is but to dote: for what can be conceived Of more unlike, discrepant, ill-assorted, Than something mortal in a union joined With an immortal and a secular To bear the outrageous tempests? Then, again, Whatever abides eternal must indeed Either repel all strokes, because 'tis made Of solid body, and permit no entrance Of aught with power to sunder from within The parts compact—as are those seeds of stuff Whose nature we've exhibited before; Or else be able to endure through time For this: because they are from blows exempt, As is the void, the which abides untouched, Unsmit by any stroke; or else because There is no room around, whereto things can, As 'twere, depart in dissolution all,— Even as the sum of sums eternal is, Without or place beyond whereto things may Asunder fly, or bodies which can smite, And thus dissolve them by the blows of might. But if perchance the soul's to be adjudged Immortal, mainly on ground 'tis kept secure In vital forces—either because there come Never at all things hostile to its weal, Or else because what come somehow retire, Repelled or ere we feel the harm they work,

Confused, he foams at the mouth, as if vomiting up his soul, as waves boil on the salty sea under the overwhelming power of the winds. Now a groan is forced out because his limbs are seized, but mainly because the seeds of his voice are driven together and carried in a mass out through his mouth, where they usually go and have a ready-made path. He becomes a fool, because the power of his mind and soul is confused and, as I have shown, split apart, scattered and torn to pieces by the same poison. But when the cause of that disease turns back, and the sharp poison of his corrupted body retreats into its dark hiding places, the man first rises unsteadily, then gradually returns to his senses and recovers his soul. Since, then, within the human body itself, the mind and soul are shaken by such terrible diseases and so miserably disturbed by their suffering, why believe that in the open air, without a body, they can live forever, battling the powerful winds? And since we see that the mind itself can be healed, like the sick body, and restored by medicine, this too warns us that the mind is mortal. For anyone who begins and undertakes to alter the mind, or plans to change any other nature whatsoever, must add new parts, or rearrange those already there, or remove at least a little from the whole. But what is immortal requires that its parts neither increase nor be rearranged, and that no part at all flow away. For when anything changes beyond its limits, what it was before dies at once. Therefore, whether the mind falls ill or is restored by medicine, it shows, as I have taught, that it is mortal. So surely does a true fact prevail against all theories of error, cut off every refuge of the opponent, and defeat error with a two-edged argument. And since the mind is one part of a person, remaining in one fixed place, like the ears, the eyes, and every sense that guides life, and just as a hand, an eye, or a nose, severed from us, can neither feel nor exist, but soon begins to rot, so the mind alone can never exist without the body and the person himself. The body seems to be its vessel, or whatever else you might imagine to be even more closely joined to it, since the body is bound to the mind by the strongest bonds. Again, the living powers of body and mind thrive and enjoy life only when united. For the nature of the mind, by itself, cannot produce the motions of life without the body. Nor can the body, without the soul, survive and use its senses. Indeed, just as the eye, torn from its roots and separated from the whole body, can see nothing, so soul and mind seem capable of nothing by themselves. This is no wonder. Their primal elements are mingled throughout the veins and organs, the bones and muscles, and are contained by the whole body. They have no freedom to leap about through great open spaces. Thus confined, they take on the motions of sensation. After death, when thrown beyond the body into the winds, they cannot take on those motions, because they are no longer confined in the same way. For air itself would be a body and alive if the soul could maintain itself in the air and contain there all the motions that it was making a little while ago in the muscles and the body itself. So, again and again, I say we must admit that when the body's coverings are stripped away and the breath of life is forced out, the soul and the senses of the mind dissolve. For the cause and basis of life for both lies in their being joined together. Again, since the body cannot endure separation from the soul without decay and a foul stench, how can you doubt that the soul, rising from deep within the body, has filtered away and dispersed like smoke? How can you doubt that the changed body has crumbled in such complete ruin because its deep foundations have been displaced, as the soul filters out through the body, through all its winding passages and openings? So, in many ways, you can learn that the nature of the soul has passed out in fragments through the body, and that it was shattered within the body before it slipped out and floated away into the winds. For no dying person seems to feel the soul leave the whole body at once, as a single whole, or rise first into the throat and mouth. Instead, he feels it fail in one place at a time, just as he knows the senses also fade, each in its own place in the body. But if our mind were immortal, a dying person would hardly lament its dissolution. He would lament instead its departure, its shedding of its covering, like a snake. Therefore, once the body has passed away, we must admit that the soul, shattered throughout the body, has perished too. Indeed, even within the course of life, the soul often falters for some reason and longs to go out and be released from the whole body. The face becomes slack, as if the final hour had come, and all the limbs fall limp against the bloodless trunk. This is the kind of case we see when we say in ordinary speech, "That man's quite gone," or "fainted dead away." Then there is a rush of alarm, and everyone is eager to grasp the man's last link to life. For then the mind and all the power of the soul are so badly shaken, and falter so much along with the whole body, that any slightly stronger cause might dissolve them altogether. Why, then, doubt that the soul, once thrust out of the body into the open, weakened and stripped of its coverings, cannot endure, not only for an everlasting age, but even for the shortest time? Then, too, why is the intellect, the reasoning mind, never produced in the head, the feet, or the hands? Why does it always remain in one seat, one fixed home, the breast? Is it not because fixed places are assigned for each thing to be born, where each, once created, can survive? And is it not because our bodies are so intricately arranged that no change in the order of our parts can occur? To that degree does effect follow cause. Flame is never produced in flowing streams, nor cold in fire. Besides, if the nature of the soul is immortal and can feel when separated from our body, then, I suppose, we must think it endowed with the five senses. There is no other way to imagine how souls might wander in Acheron. Thus painters and the poets of earlier times have pictured souls as having these senses. But neither eyes, nor nose, nor hand can exist for the soul apart from the body, nor can tongue or ears. So indeed souls alone can neither feel nor exist. And since we see that the sense of life is present throughout the body, one living whole, suppose a force should suddenly, with a swift stroke, cut the body down the middle and split it in two. Beyond doubt the soul itself would likewise be divided, severed, and scattered along with the body. But whatever is severed and divided into various parts shows that it has no everlasting nature. We hear how chariots of war, reeking with the tumult of slaughter, use flashing scythes to cut off limbs so suddenly that the limbs quiver on the ground after falling from the body, while the man's mind and powers feel no pain, because his wound came so quickly and because he is carried away by the excitement of battle. With what remains of his body, he seeks battle and slaughter again, unaware that the swift wheels and ravaging scythes have dragged his left arm and shield away with the horses. Another does not notice that his right arm has fallen, as he climbs up and presses on. A third tries to rise and stand after losing a leg, while nearby on the ground his dying foot twitches its spreading toes. Even a head, cut from the warm and living body, keeps on the ground its living expression and open eyes, until it has given up all remnants of the soul. And again: if, when a snake is darting its tongue and lashing its tail, you happen to chop its long body into many pieces with an ax, you will see each severed piece writhing with its fresh wound and spattering the ground. And the front part will seek the rear with its jaws, trying to stop the pain with a bite. Shall we say that each of these pieces has a whole soul? But that would mean one creature had many souls in its body. Therefore, the soul, which was only one, has also been divided along with the body. Each is mortal, since each can be cut into many parts. Again, how often do we see a fellow human gradually dying, losing the sense of life limb by limb? First the toenails and toes turn blue, then the feet and legs die. Next, over the rest of the body, the sure footsteps of cold death slowly creep. And since the nature of the soul is torn apart and does not rise away whole at one time, we must hold that it is mortal. But perhaps you suppose that the soul itself can draw inward through the body and bring its parts together in one place, and so withdraw sensation from every limb. In that case, the place where so much soul had gathered should show greater sensation. But since no such place exists, in fact, the soul, as I said before, is torn and scattered, and so perishes. Or again, suppose I choose to grant what is false and say that the soul can gather in a mass within the bodies of those who leave the sunlight, dying bit by bit. Even so, the soul must be admitted to be mortal. It does not matter whether it goes to ruin, scattered in the winds, or, gathered into a mass from all its parts, sinks into unfeeling death. For throughout the whole person, sensation fails more and more, and less and less life remains in every part. And besides, if the soul is immortal and makes its way into the body at a person's birth, why can we remember nothing of a life spent before? Why do we retain no traces of what we once did? But if the power of the mind has changed so much that every memory of past deeds has fallen away, that is not far, I think, from what we mean by death. Therefore, surely what existed before has died, and what exists now has now been created. Moreover, if the living powers of our mind are usually put in after the body has been formed, at the very moment we are born and cross the threshold of life, it would hardly make sense for them to live as though they grew along with the limbs and body, even in the blood. Instead, they would live alone, as if in a cave. (Yet the whole body is filled with sensation.) But the facts everyone can see contradict all this. For the soul is so entwined through the veins, the flesh, the muscles, and the bones that even the teeth share in sensation. This is proved by a dull ache, a twinge from icy water, or the grinding crunch of a stone that enters the mouth with bread. Therefore, again and again, we must think that souls have a birth and are not free from the law of death. If they entered from outside, we could not think that they could cling so closely to our bodies. And since they are so interwoven with them, it does not seem that they can come out unharmed and whole, freeing themselves unscathed from all the muscles, joints, and bones. But perhaps you think that the soul, entering from outside, usually seeps and soaks through our limbs. Then it will perish all the more surely, being thus fused with the body. For whatever seeps and soaks in will be dissolved and will therefore die. For just as food, dispersed through all the pores of the body and passed through the limbs and whole frame, perishes, supplying from itself the material for another nature, so the soul and mind, though they enter a body whole and new, are dissolved by seeping in, while particles pass, as if through pores, to the whole body. From these particles is created the nature of the mind, now ruler of our body. It is born from the soul that perished when divided throughout the body. Therefore, it seems that the soul has both a time of birth and a time of death. Besides, are seeds of the soul left behind in the breathless body, or not? If they are, the soul cannot rightly be judged immortal, since it has departed stripped of some lost parts. But if it has fled completely, carrying away all its parts intact, and has left no trace of itself behind in the body, then where do the worms come from that emerge from the body's rotting flesh? And where does that mass of living things, boneless and bloodless, come from, that bubbles and swarms over the bloated body? But perhaps you think that souls can enter the worms from outside, each coming into a separate body, and do not consider why many thousands of souls gather where only one has departed. Here, truly, is a question that seems to need investigation and testing: Do the souls hunt for the seeds of worms to build their homes with, or do they enter bodies already made? But it is hard to say why they should do and labor at this themselves. Free of the body, they fly about, troubled by no disease, cold, or hunger. For the body suffers more from these ills because it is more closely related to them, and the mind, through contact with the body, suffers so many troubles. But however useful it might be for souls to build a body to enter, clearly they cannot do it. So souls do not make frames or bodies for themselves, nor is there any way they could enter ready-made bodies. For they cannot be closely interwoven with them, and no shared exchange of sensation will arise between them. Again, why does fierce rage belong to the grim breed of lions, and cunning to foxes? Why are deer given their inherited fear and tendency to flee? And why, in short, do all the other traits arise from the very beginning of life in bodies and minds, if not because a particular power of mind, coming from its own seed and breed, grows with the whole body and remains true to its kind? But if the mind were immortal and used to changing bodies, how topsy-turvy the creatures of earth would behave! The Hyrcan hound would often flee the charge of an antlered stag. The swift hawk would tremble in the winds at the approach of a dove. Humans would be foolish, and wild beasts wise. For the reasoning is false of those who say that an immortal mind is changed by a change of body. What is changed dissolves and therefore dies. Its parts are rearranged and leave their former order. Therefore, they must also be capable of dissolving throughout the body at last, so that they all perish along with it. But if some say that human souls always enter human bodies, I will ask: How can a wise soul become a foolish one? And why is a child's soul never prudent? And why is a mare's filly not as well trained as a strong, sturdy horse? We may be sure they will take refuge in the idea that the mind becomes weak in a weak body. Yet if this is so, they must confess that the soul is mortal. For, so changed throughout the body, it loses the life and sensation it had before. Or how can the mind grow strong along with the body and reach the desired prime of life, unless it shares the body's origin? Or what is the purpose of its leaving aged limbs? Does it perhaps fear staying, shut up in a crumbling body? Or does it fear that its home, worn out by a venerable length of years, may collapse upon it? But indeed there are no dangers for an immortal being. Again, it seems ridiculous enough that souls should stand ready nearby when wild animals give birth and during the rites of Love. Countless immortals would be waiting for their mortal limbs, contending madly over which would be the first and foremost to enter! Unless perhaps the souls have made treaties saying that the first to come flying along shall enter first, and that they shall not compete in strength! Again, a tree cannot exist in the upper air, nor clouds in the ocean depths, nor fish live in fields, nor blood be in timber, nor sap in boulders. It is fixed and arranged where everything may grow and have its place. Thus the nature of the mind cannot arise alone without the body, or exist far from muscles and blood. But if that were possible, this very power of mind might much more easily exist in the head, the shoulders, or the heels. Born in any part whatever, it would still remain in the same person, in the same vessel. But since even within our body the place where soul and mind can each exist and grow is fixed and clearly determined, we must all the more deny that they can be born and endure wholly outside the body. For to join the mortal with the eternal, and imagine that they feel and function together, is truly foolish. What could be imagined more unlike, inconsistent, and ill matched than a mortal thing joined in union with an immortal and everlasting one, to endure life's outrageous storms together? Then again, whatever lasts forever must indeed either repel all blows because it is made of solid matter, allowing nothing to enter that could split apart from within its closely joined parts. Such are the seeds of matter whose nature we have shown before. Or else it must be able to endure through time because it is exempt from blows, like the void, which remains untouched and is struck by no blow. Or else it must endure because there is no space around it into which its parts can, as it were, disperse and dissolve. So the sum of all things is eternal, with no place beyond it into which things may fly apart, and no bodies that can strike it and dissolve it with powerful blows. But perhaps the soul is judged immortal mainly because it is kept safe in its vital powers. Perhaps nothing ever comes that is hostile to its well-being, or perhaps whatever does come somehow retreats, driven back before we feel the harm it causes,

For, lo, besides that, when the frame's diseased, Soul sickens too, there cometh, many a time, That which torments it with the things to be, Keeps it in dread, and wearies it with cares; And even when evil acts are of the past, Still gnaw the old transgressions bitterly. Add, too, that frenzy, peculiar to the mind, And that oblivion of the things that were; Add its submergence in the murky waves Of drowse and torpor.

For besides this, when the body is diseased, the soul also grows sick. Often, too, thoughts of the future torment the soul, keep it in dread, and wear it out with worry. Even when evil deeds are in the past, old sins still gnaw at the soul. Add to this the madness peculiar to the mind, and the forgetting of things past. Add the mind's sinking beneath the murky waves of drowsiness and numbness.

Therefore death to us Is nothing, nor concerns us in the least, Since nature of mind is mortal evermore. And just as in the ages gone before We felt no touch of ill, when all sides round To battle came the Carthaginian host, And the times, shaken by tumultuous war, Under the aery coasts of arching heaven Shuddered and trembled, and all humankind Doubted to which the empery should fall By land and sea, thus when we are no more, When comes that sundering of our body and soul Through which we're fashioned to a single state, Verily naught to us, us then no more, Can come to pass, naught move our senses then— No, not if earth confounded were with sea, And sea with heaven. But if indeed do feel The nature of mind and energy of soul, After their severance from this body of ours, Yet nothing 'tis to us who in the bonds And wedlock of the soul and body live, Through which we're fashioned to a single state. And, even if time collected after death The matter of our frames and set it all Again in place as now, and if again To us the light of life were given, O yet That process too would not concern us aught, When once the self-succession of our sense Has been asunder broken. And now and here, Little enough we're busied with the selves We were aforetime, nor, concerning them, Suffer a sore distress. For shouldst thou gaze Backwards across all yesterdays of time The immeasurable, thinking how manifold The motions of matter are, then couldst thou well Credit this too: often these very seeds (From which we are to-day) of old were set In the same order as they are to-day— Yet this we can't to consciousness recall Through the remembering mind. For there hath been An interposed pause of life, and wide Have all the motions wandered everywhere From these our senses. For if woe and ail Perchance are toward, then the man to whom The bane can happen must himself be there At that same time. But death precludeth this, Forbidding life to him on whom might crowd Such irk and care; and granted 'tis to know: Nothing for us there is to dread in death, No wretchedness for him who is no more, The same estate as if ne'er born before, When death immortal hath ta'en the mortal life. Hence, where thou seest a man to grieve because When dead he rots with body laid away, Or perishes in flames or jaws of beasts, Know well: he rings not true, and that beneath Still works an unseen sting upon his heart, However he deny that he believes. His shall be aught of feeling after death. For he, I fancy, grants not what he says, Nor what that presupposes, and he fails To pluck himself with all his roots from life And cast that self away, quite unawares Feigning that some remainder's left behind. For when in life one pictures to oneself His body dead by beasts and vultures torn, He pities his state, dividing not himself Therefrom, removing not the self enough From the body flung away, imagining Himself that body, and projecting there His own sense, as he stands beside it: hence He grieves that he is mortal born, nor marks That in true death there is no second self Alive and able to sorrow for self destroyed, Or stand lamenting that the self lies there Mangled or burning. For if it an evil is Dead to be jerked about by jaw and fang Of the wild brutes, I see not why 'twere not Bitter to lie on fires and roast in flames, Or suffocate in honey, and, reclined On the smooth oblong of an icy slab, Grow stiff in cold, or sink with load of earth Down-crushing from above. "Thee now no more The joyful house and best of wives shall welcome, Nor little sons run up to snatch their kisses And touch with silent happiness thy heart. Thou shalt not speed in undertakings more, Nor be the warder of thine own no more. Poor wretch," they say, "one hostile hour hath ta'en Wretchedly from thee all life's many guerdons," But add not, "yet no longer unto thee Remains a remnant of desire for them" If this they only well perceived with mind And followed up with maxims, they would free Their state of man from anguish and from fear. "O even as here thou art, aslumber in death, So shalt thou slumber down the rest of time, Released from every harrying pang. But we, We have bewept thee with insatiate woe, Standing beside whilst on the awful pyre Thou wert made ashes; and no day shall take For us the eternal sorrow from the breast." But ask the mourner what's the bitterness That man should waste in an eternal grief, If, after all, the thing's but sleep and rest? For when the soul and frame together are sunk In slumber, no one then demands his self Or being. Well, this sleep may be forever, Without desire of any selfhood more, For all it matters unto us asleep. Yet not at all do those primordial germs Roam round our members, at that time, afar From their own motions that produce our senses— Since, when he's startled from his sleep, a man Collects his senses. Death is, then, to us Much less—if there can be a less than that Which is itself a nothing: for there comes Hard upon death a scattering more great Of the throng of matter, and no man wakes up On whom once falls the icy pause of life. This too, O often from the soul men say, Along their couches holding of the cups, With faces shaded by fresh wreaths awry: "Brief is this fruit of joy to paltry man, Soon, soon departed, and thereafter, no, It may not be recalled."—As if, forsooth, It were their prime of evils in great death To parch, poor tongues, with thirst and arid drought, Or chafe for any lack. Once more, if Nature Should of a sudden send a voice abroad, And her own self inveigh against us so: "Mortal, what hast thou of such grave concern That thou indulgest in too sickly plaints? Why this bemoaning and beweeping death? For if thy life aforetime and behind To thee was grateful, and not all thy good Was heaped as in sieve to flow away And perish unavailingly, why not, Even like a banqueter, depart the halls, Laden with life? why not with mind content Take now, thou fool, thy unafflicted rest? But if whatever thou enjoyed hath been Lavished and lost, and life is now offence, Why seekest more to add—which in its turn Will perish foully and fall out in vain? O why not rather make an end of life, Of labour? For all I may devise or find To pleasure thee is nothing: all things are The same forever. Though not yet thy body Wrinkles with years, nor yet the frame exhausts Outworn, still things abide the same, even if Thou goest on to conquer all of time With length of days, yea, if thou never diest"— What were our answer, but that Nature here Urges just suit and in her words lays down True cause of action? Yet should one complain, Riper in years and elder, and lament, Poor devil, his death more sorely than is fit, Then would she not, with greater right, on him Cry out, inveighing with a voice more shrill: "Off with thy tears, and choke thy whines, buffoon! Thou wrinklest—after thou hast had the sum Of the guerdons of life; yet, since thou cravest ever What's not at hand, contemning present good, That life has slipped away, unperfected And unavailing unto thee. And now, Or ere thou guessed it, death beside thy head Stands—and before thou canst be going home Sated and laden with the goodly feast. But now yield all that's alien to thine age,— Up, with good grace! make room for sons: thou must." Justly, I fancy, would she reason thus, Justly inveigh and gird: since ever the old Outcrowded by the new gives way, and ever The one thing from the others is repaired. Nor no man is consigned to the abyss Of Tartarus, the black. For stuff must be, That thus the after-generations grow,— Though these, their life completed, follow thee; And thus like thee are generations all— Already fallen, or some time to fall. So one thing from another rises ever; And in fee-simple life is given to none, But unto all mere usufruct. Look back: Nothing to us was all fore-passed eld Of time the eternal, ere we had a birth. And Nature holds this like a mirror up Of time-to-be when we are dead and gone. And what is there so horrible appears? Now what is there so sad about it all? Is't not serener far than any sleep? And, verily, those tortures said to be In Acheron, the deep, they all are ours Here in this life. No Tantalus, benumbed With baseless terror, as the fables tell, Fears the huge boulder hanging in the air: But, rather, in life an empty dread of Gods Urges mortality, and each one fears Such fall of fortune as may chance to him. Nor eat the vultures into Tityus Prostrate in Acheron, nor can they find, Forsooth, throughout eternal ages, aught To pry around for in that mighty breast. However hugely he extend his bulk— Who hath for outspread limbs not acres nine, But the whole earth—he shall not able be To bear eternal pain nor furnish food From his own frame forever. But for us A Tityus is he whom vultures rend Prostrate in love, whom anxious anguish eats, Whom troubles of any unappeased desires Asunder rip. We have before our eyes Here in this life also a Sisyphus In him who seeketh of the populace The rods, the axes fell, and evermore Retires a beaten and a gloomy man. For to seek after power—an empty name, Nor given at all—and ever in the search To endure a world of toil, O this it is To shove with shoulder up the hill a stone Which yet comes rolling back from off the top, And headlong makes for levels of the plain. Then to be always feeding an ingrate mind, Filling with good things, satisfying never— As do the seasons of the year for us, When they return and bring their progenies And varied charms, and we are never filled With the fruits of life—O this, I fancy, 'tis To pour, like those young virgins in the tale, Waters into a sieve, unfilled forever.

Therefore death Is nothing to us and does not concern us at all, Since the mind is always mortal. Just as in ages past We felt no harm when, on every side, The Carthaginian armies came to battle, And the times were shaken by the chaos of war, Beneath the open reaches of the arched sky, And trembled and shook, while all humankind Wondered who would gain control Of land and sea, so too, when we are no more, When our body and soul are separated, Though together they make us one, Nothing can happen to us, for we will no longer exist. Nothing can stir our senses then, Not even if earth were mixed with sea, And sea with sky. But even if The mind and the power of the soul can feel After they have been separated from our body, That still means nothing to us. We live Through the union and marriage of soul and body, Which together make us one. And even if, after death, time gathered The matter of our bodies and put it all Back in place as it is now, and even if The light of life were given to us again, That would still not concern us, Once the continuity of our senses Had been broken. And here and now, We pay little attention to the selves We once were, and we feel No deep distress about them. For if you look Back over all the past days of immeasurable Time and consider the many ways Matter moves, you could easily Believe this too: that these very particles, Which make us who we are today, were often Arranged in the same order long ago. Yet our remembering minds cannot bring Those times back to consciousness. For a break In life has come between, and all The motions have wandered far and wide, Away from our senses. For if pain and suffering Are perhaps to come, the person Who can suffer them must be there At the same time. But death prevents this. It denies life to anyone upon whom Such troubles and cares might crowd. So we can know: There is nothing for us to fear in death, No misery for someone who no longer exists. That state is the same as if we had never been born, Once death, which is immortal, has taken mortal life. So when you see someone grieve because, After death, his buried body will rot, Or be destroyed by fire or the jaws of beasts, Know that he is not being honest. An unseen pain Still troubles his heart, However much he denies that he believes He will feel anything after death. For, I think, he does not accept what he says Or what it implies. He fails To pull himself up by all his roots from life And cast himself away. Without realizing it, He imagines that some part remains behind. For when a living person pictures His dead body torn by beasts and vultures, He pities himself. He does not separate himself From his body or move himself far enough Away from the body he has left behind. He imagines That he is that body and gives it His own feelings, as though he stood beside it. So He grieves that he was born mortal. He does not see That in real death there is no second self, Alive and able to mourn the self that has been destroyed, Or stand and lament that the self lies there, Mangled or burning. For if it is an evil For a dead body to be dragged around by the jaws and teeth Of wild beasts, I do not see why it would not be Painful to lie on a fire and roast in flames, Or be smothered in honey, or lie On the smooth oblong surface of an icy slab And grow stiff with cold, or sink beneath a weight of earth Pressing down from above. "No longer will a happy home And the best of wives welcome you. No longer will your little sons run up to snatch kisses And touch your heart with quiet happiness. You will no longer prosper in your work Or protect your family. Poor wretch," they say, "one cruel hour has miserably taken All life's many rewards from you." But they do not add, "Yet you no longer Have any desire for those things." If only they understood this clearly And followed the thought through, they would free Themselves from anguish and fear. "Oh, just as you now sleep in death, So you will sleep for the rest of time, Released from every tormenting pain. But we, We have wept for you with endless grief, Standing beside you as, on the dreadful funeral pyre, You were reduced to ashes. No day will ever take This lasting sorrow from our hearts." But ask the mourner what is so bitter That anyone should waste away in endless grief, If, after all, death is only sleep and rest. For when soul and body together sink Into sleep, no one asks to possess A self or an existence. This sleep could last forever, Without any further desire for selfhood, And it would make no difference to us as we slept. Yet in sleep the original particles Do not wander far from their movements Within our bodies that produce our senses. For when a person is startled awake, He gathers his senses again. Death, then, means Much less to us, if anything can mean less Than what is itself nothing. For immediately after death The mass of matter scatters much more widely, And no one wakes once the icy stillness of death Has fallen upon them. This too people often say from the heart, As they hold their cups on their couches, Their faces shaded by fresh wreaths set at an angle: "The fruit of joy is brief for poor human beings. Soon, so soon, it is gone, and after that, It cannot be brought back." They speak as if Their greatest suffering in death Would be parched tongues, thirst, and dryness, Or distress at lacking anything. Again, suppose Nature Suddenly spoke out, And addressed us in anger: "Mortal, what troubles you so deeply That you indulge in such unhealthy complaints? Why do you lament and weep over death? For if the life you have lived Was pleasing to you, and if your good things were not all Piled into a sieve, only to flow away And be wasted, why not, Like a guest at a banquet, leave the hall Satisfied with life? Why not, you fool, Take your painless rest with a contented mind? But if everything you enjoyed Has been squandered and lost, and life now offends you, Why do you seek to add more? That too Will be miserably lost and come to nothing. Why not instead bring life and labor To an end? For nothing I can devise or find Will please you. All things Remain the same forever. Though your body Is not yet wrinkled with age, nor your frame Worn out and exhausted, things still remain the same. They would remain so even if you lived Long enough to conquer all of time, even if you never died." What could we answer, except that Nature Makes a fair case and speaks With good reason? But suppose someone older, Well advanced in years, complained and lamented, Poor devil, over his death more than he should. Would Nature not have even more reason To cry out against him in a sharper voice: "Away with your tears, and stop your whining, fool! You are wrinkled, and you have had the full Rewards of life. Yet you always crave What you do not have and scorn the good you do have. So life has slipped away, incomplete And wasted as far as you are concerned. And now, Before you expected it, death stands beside your head, Before you can go home Satisfied and full from the splendid feast. But now give up everything that no longer suits your age. Come, do it gracefully! Make room for your children. You must." I think Nature would be right to reason this way, Right to scold and rebuke us. For the old Is always crowded out by the new, and always One thing is restored from the matter of others. No one is sent down into the dark abyss Of Tartarus. For matter must exist So that later generations can grow. Yet they too, when their lives are over, will follow you. So all generations, like you, Have already fallen or will fall someday. Thus one thing always rises from another. Life is given to no one as permanent property. It is given to everyone only for their use. Look back: All the past ages of eternal time Before we were born were nothing to us. And Nature holds those ages up like a mirror Of the time to come when we are dead and gone. What is so horrible about that? What is so sad about it all? Is it not far more peaceful than any sleep? And indeed, the tortures said to take place In deep Acheron are all ours Here in this life. No Tantalus, frozen By groundless terror, as the stories tell, Fears the huge boulder hanging in the air. Rather, in life, an empty dread of the gods Drives mortals, and each person fears Whatever stroke of fortune may happen to them. Nor do vultures eat into Tityus As he lies in Acheron. Surely they cannot find, Throughout eternal ages, anything To search for in that mighty chest. However vast his body might be, Even if his outstretched limbs covered not nine acres But the whole earth, he could not Bear pain forever or provide food From his own body forever. But for us, A Tityus is anyone torn by vultures As he lies helpless in love, eaten by anxious anguish, And ripped apart by the troubles of unsatisfied desires. We also have a Sisyphus before our eyes Here in this life. He is the person who seeks The rods and cruel axes of power from the people, And always goes away defeated and gloomy. For to seek power, an empty name That is never granted, and always, in the search, To endure a world of toil, is To push a stone uphill with your shoulder, Only for it to roll back from the top And rush headlong down to the level plain. And there is the task of always feeding an ungrateful mind, Filling it with good things, yet never satisfying it. The seasons do this for us, As they return and bring their offspring And varied delights, yet we are never filled With the fruits of life. This, I think, is Like the young women in the story pouring Water into a sieve that can never be filled.

Cerberus and Furies, and that Lack of Light

Cerberus, the Furies, and that darkness

Tartarus, out-belching from his mouth the surge Of horrible heat—the which are nowhere, nor Indeed can be: but in this life is fear Of retributions just and expiations For evil acts: the dungeon and the leap From that dread rock of infamy, the stripes, The executioners, the oaken rack, The iron plates, bitumen, and the torch. And even though these are absent, yet the mind, With a fore-fearing conscience, plies its goads And burns beneath the lash, nor sees meanwhile What terminus of ills, what end of pine Can ever be, and feareth lest the same But grow more heavy after death. Of truth, The life of fools is Acheron on earth. This also to thy very self sometimes Repeat thou mayst: "Lo, even good Ancus left The sunshine with his eyes, in divers things A better man than thou, O worthless hind; And many other kings and lords of rule Thereafter have gone under, once who swayed O'er mighty peoples. And he also, he— Who whilom paved a highway down the sea, And gave his legionaries thoroughfare Along the deep, and taught them how to cross The pools of brine afoot, and did contemn, Trampling upon it with his cavalry, The bellowings of ocean—poured his soul From dying body, as his light was ta'en. And Scipio's son, the thunderbolt of war, Horror of Carthage, gave his bones to earth, Like to the lowliest villein in the house. Add finders-out of sciences and arts; Add comrades of the Heliconian dames, Among whom Homer, sceptered o'er them all, Now lies in slumber sunken with the rest. Then, too, Democritus, when ripened eld Admonished him his memory waned away, Of own accord offered his head to death. Even Epicurus went, his light of life Run out, the man in genius who o'er-topped The human race, extinguishing all others, As sun, in ether arisen, all the stars. Wilt thou, then, dally, thou complain to go?— For whom already life's as good as dead, Whilst yet thou livest and lookest?—who in sleep Wastest thy life—time's major part, and snorest Even when awake, and ceasest not to see The stuff of dreams, and bearest a mind beset By baseless terror, nor discoverest oft What's wrong with thee, when, like a sotted wretch, Thou'rt jostled along by many crowding cares, And wanderest reeling round, with mind aswim." If men, in that same way as on the mind They feel the load that wearies with its weight, Could also know the causes whence it comes, And why so great the heap of ill on heart, O not in this sort would they live their life, As now so much we see them, knowing not What 'tis they want, and seeking ever and ever A change of place, as if to drop the burden. The man who sickens of his home goes out, Forth from his splendid halls, and straight—returns, Feeling i'faith no better off abroad. He races, driving his Gallic ponies along, Down to his villa, madly,—as in haste To hurry help to a house afire.—At once He yawns, as soon as foot has touched the threshold, Or drowsily goes off in sleep and seeks Forgetfulness, or maybe bustles about And makes for town again. In such a way Each human flees himself—a self in sooth, As happens, he by no means can escape; And willy-nilly he cleaves to it and loathes, Sick, sick, and guessing not the cause of ail. Yet should he see but that, O chiefly then, Leaving all else, he'd study to divine The nature of things, since here is in debate Eternal time and not the single hour, Mortal's estate in whatsoever remains After great death. And too, when all is said, What evil lust of life is this so great Subdues us to live, so dreadfully distraught In perils and alarms? one fixed end Of life abideth for mortality; Death's not to shun, and we must go to meet. Besides we're busied with the same devices, Ever and ever, and we are at them ever, And there's no new delight that may be forged By living on. But whilst the thing we long for Is lacking, that seems good above all else; Thereafter, when we've touched it, something else We long for; ever one equal thirst of life Grips us agape. And doubtful 'tis what fortune The future times may carry, or what be That chance may bring, or what the issue next Awaiting us. Nor by prolonging life Take we the least away from death's own time, Nor can we pluck one moment off, whereby To minish the aeons of our state of death. Therefore, O man, by living on, fulfil As many generations as thou may: Eternal death shall there be waiting still; And he who died with light of yesterday Shall be no briefer time in death's No-more Than he who perished months or years before.

Tartarus, belching from its mouth a flood of terrible heat. These things exist nowhere, and indeed cannot exist. But in this life we fear just punishment and atonement for evil deeds: the dungeon and the leap from that infamous, dreaded rock, the whips, the executioners, the oak rack, the iron plates, the pitch, and the torch. And even when these are absent, the mind, troubled by a guilty conscience, drives its own goads and burns beneath the lash. Meanwhile, it cannot see where its troubles will stop or its suffering will ever end. It fears that these will only grow worse after death. In truth, the life of fools is Acheron on earth. You can also say this to yourself from time to time: "Even good Ancus left the light of day, though in many ways he was a better man than you, you worthless peasant. And many other kings and rulers have since passed away, though they once held power over mighty peoples. And consider the man who once built a road across the sea and gave his soldiers a passage over the deep. He taught them to cross the salt waters on foot. With his cavalry, he rode over the waves and scorned the roar of the ocean. Yet his soul left his dying body when his light was taken away. And Scipio's son, the thunderbolt of war and terror of Carthage, gave his bones to the earth, like the lowest servant in his house. Add the discoverers of sciences and arts. Add the companions of the Heliconian Muses. Among them Homer, who ruled over them all, now lies in the sleep of death with the rest. Then there was Democritus. When old age warned him that his memory was failing, he willingly offered himself to death. Even Epicurus passed away when his life ran out. His genius rose above the human race and eclipsed all others, as the sun rises in the sky and outshines the stars. Will you, then, cling to life and complain that you must go? Your life is already almost dead, though you still live and see. In sleep, you waste the greater part of your life. You snore even when awake, and you never stop seeing the stuff of dreams. Your mind is beset by groundless terror. Often you cannot discover what is wrong with you. Like a drunk, you are jostled along by a crowd of worries and stagger about, your mind reeling." People feel the burden on their minds and the weariness of its weight. If they could also know where the burden comes from and why such a heap of trouble weighs on their hearts, they would not live as we so often see them now. They do not know what they want, and they keep seeking a change of place, as if they could leave the burden behind. A man grows sick of home and goes out. He leaves his splendid house, then returns at once, finding that he feels no better away from home. He races his Gallic ponies to his country house, as if rushing to help put out a fire. At once he yawns as soon as he reaches the door, or falls asleep and seeks forgetfulness. Or perhaps he hurries about and sets off for town again. In this way each person flees himself. Yet, as it happens, he can never escape himself. Whether he likes it or not, he stays with himself and hates himself. He is sick and has no idea what causes his illness. But if he could only see the cause, he would above all leave everything else and study the nature of things. For what is at stake here is eternity, not a single hour. It is the mortal's condition throughout whatever time remains after death. And, when all is said and done, what is this terrible craving for life that forces us to live so deeply troubled by dangers and fears? Mortals have one fixed end. Death cannot be avoided, and we must go to meet it. Besides, we are busy with the same pursuits again and again, always occupied with them. No new delight can be created simply by living longer. But while we lack what we long for, it seems better than anything else. Once we have it, we long for something else. The same thirst for life always grips us, and we gape with desire. We cannot know what fortune the future may hold, what chance may bring, or what outcome awaits us next. Nor does living longer take the least bit away from the time we will spend dead. We cannot remove a single moment or shorten the ages of our death. So, live on and see as many generations as you can. Eternal death will still be waiting. The person who died in yesterday's light will spend no less time in death's endless absence than someone who died months or years before.