Book 4

I wander afield, thriving in sturdy thought, Through unpathed haunts of the Pierides, Trodden by step of none before. I joy To come on undefiled fountains there, To drain them deep; I joy to pluck new flowers, To seek for this my head a signal crown From regions where the Muses never yet Have garlanded the temples of a man: First, since I teach concerning mighty things, And go right on to loose from round the mind The tightened coils of dread religion; Next, since, concerning themes so dark, I frame Song so pellucid, touching all throughout Even with the Muses' charm—which, as 'twould seem, Is not without a reasonable ground: For as physicians, when they seek to give Young boys the nauseous wormwood, first do touch The brim around the cup with the sweet juice And yellow of the honey, in order that The thoughtless age of boyhood be cajoled As far as the lips, and meanwhile swallow down The wormwood's bitter draught, and, though befooled, Be yet not merely duped, but rather thus Grow strong again with recreated health: So now I too (since this my doctrine seems In general somewhat woeful unto those Who've had it not in hand, and since the crowd Starts back from it in horror) have desired To expound our doctrine unto thee in song Soft-speaking and Pierian, and, as 'twere, To touch it with sweet honey of the Muse— If by such method haply I might hold The mind of thee upon these lines of ours, Till thou dost learn the nature of all things And understandest their utility.

I wander far, strong in thought, Through the pathless haunts of the Pierides, Where no one has walked before. I rejoice To find untouched springs there And drink deeply from them. I rejoice to pick new flowers And seek a remarkable crown for my head From places where the Muses have never yet Crowned anyone: First, because I teach about great things And set out to free the mind From the tight grip of fearful religion. Second, because I make such dark subjects Clear in song, touching every part With the Muses' charm. And this, it seems, Is not without good reason. When doctors want to give Young boys bitter wormwood, they first coat The rim of the cup with the sweet, Golden juice of honey, so that The unsuspecting boys will be tempted To put their lips to it and meanwhile swallow The bitter wormwood. Though deceived, They are not merely tricked. Instead, they Become strong again, their health restored. So now I too have wished to explain Our teaching to you in song. For this teaching generally seems rather troubling to those Who have not encountered it, and the crowd Recoils from it in horror. I have wished To explain our teaching in gentle, Pierian song and, as it were, Coat it with the Muse's sweet honey. Perhaps in this way I might keep Your mind on these lines Until you learn the nature of all things And understand their usefulness.

But 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, And since I've taught what the mind's nature is, And of what things 'tis with the body knit And thrives in strength, and by what mode uptorn That mind returns to its primordials, Now will I undertake an argument— One for these matters of supreme concern— That there exist those somewhats which we call The images of things: these, like to films Scaled off the utmost outside of the things, Flit hither and thither through the atmosphere, And the same terrify our intellects, Coming upon us waking or in sleep, When oft we peer at wonderful strange shapes And images of people lorn of light, Which oft have horribly roused us when we lay In slumber—that haply nevermore may we Suppose that souls get loose from Acheron, Or shades go floating in among the living, Or aught of us is left behind at death, When body and mind, destroyed together, each Back to its own primordials goes away. And thus I say that effigies of things, And tenuous shapes from off the things are sent, From off the utmost outside of the things, Which are like films or may be named a rind, Because the image bears like look and form With whatso body has shed it fluttering forth— A fact thou mayst, however dull thy wits, Well learn from this: mainly, because we see Even 'mongst visible objects many be That send forth bodies, loosely some diffused— Like smoke from oaken logs and heat from fires— And some more interwoven and condensed— As when the locusts in the summertime Put off their glossy tunics, or when calves At birth drop membranes from their body's surface, Or when, again, the slippery serpent doffs Its vestments 'mongst the thorns—for oft we see The breres augmented with their flying spoils: Since such takes place, 'tis likewise certain too That tenuous images from things are sent, From off the utmost outside of the things. For why those kinds should drop and part from things, Rather than others tenuous and thin, No power has man to open mouth to tell; Especially, since on outsides of things Are bodies many and minute which could, In the same order which they had before, And with the figure of their form preserved, Be thrown abroad, and much more swiftly too, Being less subject to impediments, As few in number and placed along the front. For truly many things we see discharge Their stuff at large, not only from their cores Deep-set within, as we have said above, But from their surfaces at times no less— Their very colours too. And commonly The awnings, saffron, red and dusky blue, Stretched overhead in mighty theatres, Upon their poles and cross-beams fluttering, Have such an action quite; for there they dye And make to undulate with their every hue The circled throng below, and all the stage, And rich attire in the patrician seats. And ever the more the theatre's dark walls Around them shut, the more all things within Laugh in the bright suffusion of strange glints, The daylight being withdrawn. And therefore, since The canvas hangings thus discharge their dye From off their surface, things in general must Likewise their tenuous effigies discharge, Because in either case they are off-thrown From off the surface. So there are indeed Such certain prints and vestiges of forms Which flit around, of subtlest texture made, Invisible, when separate, each and one. Again, all odour, smoke, and heat, and such Streams out of things diffusedly, because, Whilst coming from the deeps of body forth And rising out, along their bending path They're torn asunder, nor have gateways straight Wherethrough to mass themselves and struggle abroad. But contrariwise, when such a tenuous film Of outside colour is thrown off, there's naught Can rend it, since 'tis placed along the front Ready to hand. Lastly those images Which to our eyes in mirrors do appear, In water, or in any shining surface, Must be, since furnished with like look of things, Fashioned from images of things sent out. There are, then, tenuous effigies of forms, Like unto them, which no one can divine When taken singly, which do yet give back, When by continued and recurrent discharge Expelled, a picture from the mirrors' plane. Nor otherwise, it seems, can they be kept So well conserved that thus be given back Figures so like each object. Now then, learn How tenuous is the nature of an image. And in the first place, since primordials be So far beneath our senses, and much less E'en than those objects which begin to grow Too small for eyes to note, learn now in few How nice are the beginnings of all things— That this, too, I may yet confirm in proof: First, living creatures are sometimes so small That even their third part can nowise be seen; Judge, then, the size of any inward organ— What of their sphered heart, their eyes, their limbs, The skeleton?—How tiny thus they are! And what besides of those first particles Whence soul and mind must fashioned be?—Seest not How nice and how minute? Besides, whatever Exhales from out its body a sharp smell— The nauseous absinth, or the panacea, Strong southernwood, or bitter centaury— If never so lightly with thy [fingers] twain Perchance [thou touch] a one of them

But I have already taught what kind of things the seeds of all things are, and how they differ in form and fly about of their own accord, stirred by everlasting motion. I have taught how things are made from them, and what the nature of the mind is, what things bind it to the body and make it grow strong, and how, when torn apart, the mind returns to its original elements. Now I will take up an argument of supreme importance to these matters. There are things we call the images of things. Like thin films shed from the outermost surface of things, they fly here and there through the air. These images terrify our minds when they come to us awake or asleep. We often see wonderfully strange shapes and images of people deprived of life, which have often roused us in terror as we lay asleep. I make this argument so that we may never again suppose that souls escape from Acheron, or that shades float among the living, or that anything of us remains after death. For body and mind are destroyed together, and each returns to its own original elements. So I say that likenesses of things, thin shapes, are sent out from things, from their outermost surfaces. They are like films and may be called a skin, because each image has the same appearance and shape as the body that shed it and sent it fluttering away. You can learn this, however dull your wits, mainly because we see that even among visible objects many send out matter. Some send it out loosely dispersed, like smoke from oak logs and heat from fires. Others send it out more tightly woven and compact, as when locusts in summer shed their glossy coats, or when calves at birth shed membranes from their bodies, or when the slippery serpent casts off its clothing among the thorns. We often see the brambles hung with the serpent's discarded covering. Since this happens, it is also certain that thin images are sent out from things, from their outermost surfaces. For no one can explain why those other things should fall away from objects, but not thin and delicate images. This is especially so because the surfaces of things contain many tiny particles. These could be thrown outward in the same order they had before, with their original shape preserved. They could also be thrown out much more swiftly, because they would meet fewer obstacles. For they are few in number and lie at the surface. Indeed, we see many things give off their substance, not only from their cores deep inside them, as I said above, but sometimes from their surfaces as well. They even give off their colors. This commonly happens with the saffron, red, and dark blue awnings stretched overhead in great theaters, fluttering on their poles and crossbeams. For the awnings color everything below and make their various hues ripple over the gathered crowd, the whole stage, and the rich clothing in the patrician seats. And the more the theater's dark walls enclose them, the more everything inside glows cheerfully with a bright wash of strange colors, as the daylight is shut out. Therefore, since the canvas awnings give off their color from their surfaces, things in general must likewise give off their thin likenesses. For in either case, what is thrown off comes from the surface. So there are indeed such impressions and traces of shapes. They fly about, made of the finest substance, each one invisible on its own. Again, all odor, smoke, heat, and the like stream out of things in a dispersed state. For they come from deep inside a body and rise outward along a winding path. On the way they are torn apart, and they have no straight passages through which to gather and force their way out. But when a thin film of surface color is thrown off, nothing can tear it apart. It lies at the surface, ready to leave. Finally, the images that appear to our eyes in mirrors, in water, or on any shining surface must be formed from images sent out by things, since they have the same appearance as those things. So there are thin likenesses of shapes, resembling the things themselves. No one can detect one of them on its own, yet they produce a picture on the surface of a mirror when they are sent out again and again in a continuous stream. And it seems there is no other way for them to remain so well preserved that they can reproduce shapes so like each object. Now learn how thin an image is. First, original elements are far beyond the reach of our senses. They are much smaller than objects that are just beginning to grow too small for our eyes to see. So let me briefly show how fine the first elements of all things are, so that I may also establish this by proof. First, living creatures are sometimes so small that even a third of one cannot be seen. Then consider the size of any internal organ. What about their round hearts, eyes, limbs, and skeletons? How tiny they are! And what of the first particles from which soul and mind must be made? Can you not see how fine and minute they are? Besides, consider anything that gives off a sharp smell from its body, such as the nauseating absinth, the panacea, strong southernwood, or bitter centaury. If you happen to [touch] one of them ever so lightly with two [fingers]

Then why not rather know that images Flit hither and thither, many, in many modes, Bodiless and invisible? But lest Haply thou holdest that those images Which come from objects are the sole that flit, Others indeed there be of own accord Begot, self-formed in earth's aery skies, Which, moulded to innumerable shapes, Are borne aloft, and, fluid as they are, Cease not to change appearance and to turn Into new outlines of all sorts of forms; As we behold the clouds grow thick on high And smirch the serene vision of the world, Stroking the air with motions. For oft are seen The giants' faces flying far along And trailing a spread of shadow; and at times The mighty mountains and mountain-sundered rocks Going before and crossing on the sun, Whereafter a monstrous beast dragging amain And leading in the other thunderheads. Now [hear] how easy and how swift they be Engendered, and perpetually flow off From things and gliding pass away....

Then why not recognize that images flit here and there, in many forms, bodiless and invisible? But perhaps you think that only images coming from objects flit about. Others are formed spontaneously in the air above the earth. Shaped into countless forms, they are carried aloft. Fluid as they are, they never stop changing their appearance and taking on new outlines of every kind. We see clouds gather high above and dim the clear view of the world, sweeping through the air as they move. Often we see giants' faces flying far across the sky and trailing a spread of shadow. At times, we see mighty mountains and rocks split from mountains moving ahead and crossing the sun. Then a monstrous beast follows close behind, leading the other thunderclouds. Now [hear] how easily and swiftly images are formed, and how they continually flow off things and glide away....

For ever every outside streams away From off all objects, since discharge they may; And when this outside reaches other things, As chiefly glass, it passes through; but where It reaches the rough rocks or stuff of wood, There 'tis so rent that it cannot give back An image. But when gleaming objects dense, As chiefly mirrors, have been set before it, Nothing of this sort happens. For it can't Go, as through glass, nor yet be rent—its safety, By virtue of that smoothness, being sure. 'Tis therefore that from them the images Stream back to us; and howso suddenly Thou place, at any instant, anything Before a mirror, there an image shows; Proving that ever from a body's surface Flow off thin textures and thin shapes of things. Thus many images in little time Are gendered; so their origin is named Rightly a speedy. And even as the sun Must send below, in little time, to earth So many beams to keep all things so full Of light incessant; thus, on grounds the same, From things there must be borne, in many modes, To every quarter round, upon the moment, The many images of things; because Unto whatever face of things we turn The mirror, things of form and hue the same Respond. Besides, though but a moment since Serenest was the weather of the sky, So fiercely sudden is it foully thick That ye might think that round about all murk Had parted forth from Acheron and filled The mighty vaults of sky—so grievously, As gathers thus the storm-clouds' gruesome night, Do faces of black horror hang on high— Of which how small a part an image is There's none to tell or reckon out in words. Now come; with what swift motion they are borne, These images, and what the speed assigned To them across the breezes swimming on— So that o'er lengths of space a little hour Alone is wasted, toward whatever region Each with its divers impulse tends—I'll tell In verses sweeter than they many are; Even as the swan's slight note is better far Than that dispersed clamour of the cranes Among the southwind's aery clouds. And first, One oft may see that objects which are light And made of tiny bodies are the swift; In which class is the sun's light and his heat, Since made from small primordial elements Which, as it were, are forward knocked along And through the interspaces of the air To pass delay not, urged by blows behind; For light by light is instantly supplied And gleam by following gleam is spurred and driven. Thus likewise must the images have power Through unimaginable space to speed Within a point of time,—first, since a cause Exceeding small there is, which at their back Far forward drives them and propels, where, too, They're carried with such winged lightness on; And, secondly, since furnished, when sent off, With texture of such rareness that they can Through objects whatsoever penetrate And ooze, as 'twere, through intervening air. Besides, if those fine particles of things Which from so deep within are sent abroad, As light and heat of sun, are seen to glide And spread themselves through all the space of heaven Upon one instant of the day, and fly O'er sea and lands and flood the heaven, what then Of those which on the outside stand prepared, When they're hurled off with not a thing to check Their going out? Dost thou not see indeed How swifter and how farther must they go And speed through manifold the length of space In time the same that from the sun the rays O'erspread the heaven? This also seems to be Example chief and true with what swift speed The images of things are borne about: That soon as ever under open skies Is spread the shining water, all at once, If stars be out in heaven, upgleam from earth, Serene and radiant in the water there, The constellations of the universe— Now seest thou not in what a point of time An image from the shores of ether falls Unto the shores of earth? Wherefore, again, And yet again, 'tis needful to confess With wondrous...

The outer surface of every object constantly streams away from it, since objects can shed it. When this surface reaches other things, especially glass, it passes through. But when it reaches rough rocks or wood, it is torn apart and cannot give back an image. But when dense, gleaming objects, especially mirrors, are placed before it, nothing like this happens. The surface cannot pass through, as it does through glass, nor is it torn. The mirror's smoothness keeps it safe. That is why images stream back to us from mirrors. However suddenly you place anything before a mirror, an image appears there at once. This proves that thin layers and shapes constantly flow from the surface of a body. So many images are produced in a short time, and their formation is rightly called swift. The sun, too, must send so many beams down to earth in a short time to keep everything constantly filled with light. For the same reason, many images must be carried from things, in many ways, at every moment, in every direction. For whichever side of an object we turn the mirror toward, images of the same shape and color appear in response. Besides, though only a moment ago the sky was perfectly clear, it can so suddenly grow thick and dark that you might think all the darkness around it had come from Acheron and filled the great vault of the sky. So terribly, as the dreadful night of storm clouds gathers, do faces of black horror hang overhead. How small a part of that darkness an image is, no one can calculate or express in words. Now come. I will tell you how swiftly these images move, and how fast they travel as they swim through the air. They spend only a little time crossing great distances, whatever region each image heads toward, driven by its own impulse. I will tell you in verses sweeter than they are many, just as the swan's soft note is far better than the scattered clamor of cranes among the clouds in the south wind's sky. First, we can often see that light objects made of tiny particles move swiftly. Sunlight and heat belong to this class, since they are made of small primordial elements that are, as it were, knocked forward and pass without delay through the spaces in the air, driven by blows from behind. For light is instantly followed by more light, and each ray is pushed and driven by the next. In the same way, images must be able to speed through unimaginable distances in an instant. First, a very slight force behind them drives and propels them far forward, and they travel with such winged lightness. Second, when images are sent out, their texture is so fine that they can penetrate anything and seep, as it were, through the air in between. Besides, consider those fine particles of things that are sent out from deep within, such as the sun's light and heat. We see them glide and spread through all the space of heaven in a single moment of the day, flying over sea and land and flooding the sky. What, then, of the particles ready on the very surface, when they are thrown off with nothing to check their departure? Surely you can see how much faster and farther they must travel, covering many times the distance in the same time that the sun's rays spread across the sky. This also seems to be a chief and true example of the speed at which images travel: as soon as shining water lies beneath the open sky, if stars are out in heaven, the constellations of the universe shine up from the earth at once, calm and radiant in the water. Now do you see how instantly an image falls from the shores of the upper sky to the shores of earth? So, again and again, we must admit that with wondrous...

Bodies that strike the eyes, awaking sight. From certain things flow odours evermore, As cold from rivers, heat from sun, and spray From waves of ocean, eater-out of walls Around the coasts. Nor ever cease to flit The varied voices, sounds athrough the air. Then too there comes into the mouth at times The wet of a salt taste, when by the sea We roam about; and so, whene'er we watch The wormword being mixed, its bitter stings. To such degree from all things is each thing Borne streamingly along, and sent about To every region round; and nature grants Nor rest nor respite of the onward flow, Since 'tis incessantly we feeling have, And all the time are suffered to descry And smell all things at hand, and hear them sound. Besides, since shape examined by our hands Within the dark is known to be the same As that by eyes perceived within the light And lustrous day, both touch and sight must be By one like cause aroused. So, if we test A square and get its stimulus on us Within the dark, within the light what square Can fall upon our sight, except a square That images the things? Wherefore it seems The source of seeing is in images, Nor without these can anything be viewed. Now these same films I name are borne about And tossed and scattered into regions all. But since we do perceive alone through eyes, It follows hence that whitherso we turn Our sight, all things do strike against it there With form and hue. And just how far from us Each thing may be away, the image yields To us the power to see and chance to tell: For when 'tis sent, at once it shoves ahead And drives along the air that's in the space Betwixt it and our eyes. And thus this air All glides athrough our eyeballs, and, as 'twere, Brushes athrough our pupils and thuswise Passes across. Therefore it comes we see How far from us each thing may be away, And the more air there be that's driven before, And too the longer be the brushing breeze Against our eyes, the farther off removed Each thing is seen to be: forsooth, this work With mightily swift order all goes on, So that upon one instant we may see What kind the object and how far away. Nor over-marvellous must this be deemed In these affairs that, though the films which strike Upon the eyes cannot be singly seen, The things themselves may be perceived. For thus When the wind beats upon us stroke by stroke And when the sharp cold streams, 'tis not our wont To feel each private particle of wind Or of that cold, but rather all at once; And so we see how blows affect our body, As if one thing were beating on the same And giving us the feel of its own body Outside of us. Again, whene'er we thump With finger-tip upon a stone, we touch But the rock's surface and the outer hue, Nor feel that hue by contact—rather feel The very hardness deep within the rock. Now come, and why beyond a looking-glass An image may be seen, perceive. For seen It soothly is, removed far within. 'Tis the same sort as objects peered upon Outside in their true shape, whene'er a door Yields through itself an open peering-place, And lets us see so many things outside Beyond the house. Also that sight is made By a twofold twin air: for first is seen The air inside the door-posts; next the doors, The twain to left and right; and afterwards A light beyond comes brushing through our eyes, Then other air, then objects peered upon Outside in their true shape. And thus, when first The image of the glass projects itself, As to our gaze it comes, it shoves ahead And drives along the air that's in the space Betwixt it and our eyes, and brings to pass That we perceive the air ere yet the glass. But when we've also seen the glass itself, Forthwith that image which from us is borne Reaches the glass, and there thrown back again Comes back unto our eyes, and driving rolls Ahead of itself another air, that then 'Tis this we see before itself, and thus It looks so far removed behind the glass. Wherefore again, again, there's naught for wonder

Bodies strike the eyes and awaken sight. Odors flow continually from certain things, As cold flows from rivers, heat from the sun, and spray From ocean waves, which wear away walls Along the coasts. Nor do the many voices And sounds ever cease to move through the air. At times a wet, salty taste comes into our mouths When we walk by the sea. And whenever we watch Wormwood being mixed, its bitterness stings us. To such a degree, streams of particles flow From all things and travel outward In every direction. Nature grants No rest or pause in this onward flow, Since we constantly feel things, And at all times can see And smell everything nearby, and hear its sounds. Besides, a shape that our hands examine In the dark is known to be the same As the shape our eyes see in the light Of bright day. So both touch and sight must be Aroused by the same kind of cause. If we examine A square in the dark and feel its effect, Then in the light, what square Can reach our sight except a square That images the thing? So it seems That images are the source of sight, And without them nothing can be seen. Now these films, as I call them, are carried about, Tossed and scattered in every direction. But since we see only through our eyes, It follows that wherever we turn Our gaze, all things there strike our eyes With their shape and color. An image also gives us The power to see and judge How far away each thing is. For when an image is sent out, it immediately pushes And drives ahead of it the air in the space Between it and our eyes. And so this air Glides through our eyes and, as it were, Brushes through our pupils And passes across them. This is why we see How far away each thing is. The more air the image drives ahead of it, And the longer the breeze brushes Against our eyes, the farther away The thing appears to be. For this process Happens in an exceedingly swift sequence, So that in a single instant we can see What an object is like and how far away it is. Nor should we think it too remarkable That we can see things themselves, Though we cannot see the individual films That strike our eyes. For in the same way, When the wind beats against us stroke by stroke, And sharp cold streams over us, we do not usually Feel each separate particle of wind Or cold. Instead, we feel them all at once. And so we see how these blows affect our bodies, As if one thing were striking us And letting us feel its own body Outside us. Again, whenever we tap A stone with a fingertip, we touch Only the rock's surface and outer color. Yet we do not feel that color by touch. Rather, we feel The hardness deep within the rock. Now consider why an image may be seen Beyond a mirror. For it truly appears Some distance behind the glass. It is like seeing objects Outside in their true shape, when a door Provides an open view And lets us see so many things outside, Beyond the house. This sight too is produced By two stretches of air. First we see The air between the doorposts, then the two doors, One on the left and one on the right. Afterward, Light from beyond brushes through our eyes, Then other air, and then we see the objects Outside in their true shape. In the same way, When the image of the mirror first comes Toward our eyes, it pushes And drives ahead of it the air in the space Between the mirror and our eyes. This causes Us to perceive the air before the mirror. But once we have also seen the mirror itself, The image that travels from us At once reaches the mirror. There it is thrown back And returns to our eyes, driving Another stretch of air ahead of it. We then See this air before the image, and so The image seems to be far behind the mirror. So, once again, there is nothing to wonder at.

In those which render from the mirror's plane A vision back, since each thing comes to pass By means of the two airs. Now, in the glass The right part of our members is observed Upon the left, because, when comes the image Hitting against the level of the glass, 'Tis not returned unshifted; but forced off Backwards in line direct and not oblique,— Exactly as whoso his plaster-mask Should dash, before 'twere dry, on post or beam, And it should straightway keep, at clinging there, Its shape, reversed, facing him who threw, And so remould the features it gives back: It comes that now the right eye is the left, The left the right. An image too may be From mirror into mirror handed on, Until of idol-films even five or six Have thus been gendered. For whatever things Shall hide back yonder in the house, the same, However far removed in twisting ways, May still be all brought forth through bending paths And by these several mirrors seen to be Within the house, since nature so compels All things to be borne backward and spring off At equal angles from all other things. To such degree the image gleams across From mirror unto mirror; where 'twas left It comes to be the right, and then again Returns and changes round unto the left. Again, those little sides of mirrors curved Proportionate to the bulge of our own flank Send back to us their idols with the right Upon the right; and this is so because Either the image is passed on along From mirror unto mirror, and thereafter, When twice dashed off, flies back unto ourselves; Or else the image wheels itself around, When once unto the mirror it has come, Since the curved surface teaches it to turn To usward. Further, thou might'st well believe That these film-idols step along with us And set their feet in unison with ours And imitate our carriage, since from that Part of a mirror whence thou hast withdrawn Straightway no images can be returned. Further, our eye-balls tend to flee the bright And shun to gaze thereon; the sun even blinds, If thou goest on to strain them unto him, Because his strength is mighty, and the films Heavily downward from on high are borne Through the pure ether and the viewless winds, And strike the eyes, disordering their joints. So piecing lustre often burns the eyes, Because it holdeth many seeds of fire Which, working into eyes, engender pain. Again, whatever jaundiced people view Becomes wan-yellow, since from out their bodies Flow many seeds wan-yellow forth to meet The films of things, and many too are mixed Within their eye, which by contagion paint All things with sallowness. Again, we view From dark recesses things that stand in light, Because, when first has entered and possessed The open eyes this nearer darkling air, Swiftly the shining air and luminous Followeth in, which purges then the eyes And scatters asunder of that other air The sable shadows, for in large degrees This air is nimbler, nicer, and more strong. And soon as ever 'thas filled and oped with light The pathways of the eyeballs, which before Black air had blocked, there follow straightaway Those films of things out-standing in the light, Provoking vision—what we cannot do From out the light with objects in the dark, Because that denser darkling air behind Followeth in, and fills each aperture And thus blockades the pathways of the eyes That there no images of any things Can be thrown in and agitate the eyes. And when from far away we do behold The squared towers of a city, oft Rounded they seem,—on this account because Each distant angle is perceived obtuse, Or rather it is not perceived at all; And perishes its blow nor to our gaze Arrives its stroke, since through such length of air Are borne along the idols that the air Makes blunt the idol of the angle's point By numerous collidings. When thuswise The angles of the tower each and all Have quite escaped the sense, the stones appear As rubbed and rounded on a turner's wheel— Yet not like objects near and truly round, But with a semblance to them, shadowily. Likewise, our shadow in the sun appears To move along and follow our own steps And imitate our carriage—if thou thinkest Air that is thus bereft of light can walk, Following the gait and motion of mankind. For what we use to name a shadow, sure Is naught but air deprived of light. No marvel: Because the earth from spot to spot is reft Progressively of light of sun, whenever In moving round we get within its way, While any spot of earth by us abandoned Is filled with light again, on this account It comes to pass that what was body's shadow Seems still the same to follow after us In one straight course. Since, evermore pour in New lights of rays, and perish then the old, Just like the wool that's drawn into the flame. Therefore the earth is easily spoiled of light And easily refilled and from herself Washeth the black shadows quite away. And yet in this we don't at all concede That eyes be cheated. For their task it is To note in whatsoever place be light, In what be shadow: whether or no the gleams Be still the same, and whether the shadow which Just now was here is that one passing thither, Or whether the facts be what we said above, 'Tis after all the reasoning of mind That must decide; nor can our eyeballs know The nature of reality. And so Attach thou not this fault of mind to eyes, Nor lightly think our senses everywhere Are tottering. The ship in which we sail Is borne along, although it seems to stand; The ship that bides in roadstead is supposed There to be passing by. And hills and fields Seem fleeing fast astern, past which we urge The ship and fly under the bellying sails. The stars, each one, do seem to pause, affixed To the ethereal caverns, though they all Forever are in motion, rising out And thence revisiting their far descents When they have measured with their bodies bright The span of heaven. And likewise sun and moon Seem biding in a roadstead,—objects which, As plain fact proves, are really borne along. Between two mountains far away aloft From midst the whirl of waters open lies A gaping exit for the fleet, and yet They seem conjoined in a single isle. When boys themselves have stopped their spinning round, The halls still seem to whirl and posts to reel, Until they now must almost think the roofs Threaten to ruin down upon their heads. And now, when nature begins to lift on high The sun's red splendour and the tremulous fires, And raise him o'er the mountain-tops, those mountains— O'er which he seemeth then to thee to be, His glowing self hard by atingeing them With his own fire—are yet away from us Scarcely two thousand arrow-shots, indeed Oft scarce five hundred courses of a dart; Although between those mountains and the sun Lie the huge plains of ocean spread beneath The vasty shores of ether, and intervene A thousand lands, possessed by many a folk And generations of wild beasts. Again, A pool of water of but a finger's depth, Which lies between the stones along the pave, Offers a vision downward into earth As far, as from the earth o'erspread on high The gulfs of heaven; that thus thou seemest to view Clouds down below and heavenly bodies plunged Wondrously in heaven under earth. Then too, when in the middle of the stream Sticks fast our dashing horse, and down we gaze Into the river's rapid waves, some force Seems then to bear the body of the horse, Though standing still, reversely from his course, And swiftly push up-stream. And wheresoe'er We cast our eyes across, all objects seem Thus to be onward borne and flow along In the same way as we. A portico, Albeit it stands well propped from end to end On equal columns, parallel and big, Contracts by stages in a narrow cone, When from one end the long, long whole is seen,— Until, conjoining ceiling with the floor, And the whole right side with the left, it draws Together to a cone's nigh-viewless point. To sailors on the main the sun he seems From out the waves to rise, and in the waves To set and bury his light—because indeed They gaze on naught but water and the sky. Again, to gazers ignorant of the sea, Vessels in port seem, as with broken poops, To lean upon the water, quite agog; For any portion of the oars that's raised Above the briny spray is straight, and straight The rudders from above. But other parts, Those sunk, immersed below the water-line, Seem broken all and bended and inclined Sloping to upwards, and turned back to float Almost atop the water. And when the winds Carry the scattered drifts along the sky In the night-time, then seem to glide along The radiant constellations 'gainst the clouds And there on high to take far other course From that whereon in truth they're borne. And then, If haply our hand be set beneath one eye And press below thereon, then to our gaze Each object which we gaze on seems to be, By some sensation twain—then twain the lights Of lampions burgeoning in flowers of flame, And twain the furniture in all the house, Two-fold the visages of fellow-men, And twain their bodies. And again, when sleep Has bound our members down in slumber soft And all the body lies in deep repose, Yet then we seem to self to be awake And move our members; and in night's blind gloom We think to mark the daylight and the sun; And, shut within a room, yet still we seem To change our skies, our oceans, rivers, hills, To cross the plains afoot, and hear new sounds, Though still the austere silence of the night Abides around us, and to speak replies, Though voiceless. Other cases of the sort Wondrously many do we see, which all Seek, so to say, to injure faith in sense— In vain, because the largest part of these Deceives through mere opinions of the mind, Which we do add ourselves, feigning to see What by the senses are not seen at all. For naught is harder than to separate Plain facts from dubious, which the mind forthwith Adds by itself. Again, if one suppose That naught is known, he knows not whether this Itself is able to be known, since he Confesses naught to know. Therefore with him I waive discussion—who has set his head Even where his feet should be. But let me grant That this he knows,—I question: whence he knows What 'tis to know and not-to-know in turn, And what created concept of the truth, And what device has proved the dubious To differ from the certain?—since in things He's heretofore seen naught of true. Thou'lt find That from the senses first hath been create Concept of truth, nor can the senses be Rebutted. For criterion must be found Worthy of greater trust, which shall defeat Through own authority the false by true; What, then, than these our senses must there be Worthy a greater trust? Shall reason, sprung From some false sense, prevail to contradict Those senses, sprung as reason wholly is From out the senses?—For lest these be true, All reason also then is falsified. Or shall the ears have power to blame the eyes, Or yet the touch the ears? Again, shall taste Accuse this touch or shall the nose confute Or eyes defeat it? Methinks not so it is: For unto each has been divided off Its function quite apart, its power to each; And thus we're still constrained to perceive The soft, the cold, the hot apart, apart All divers hues and whatso things there be Conjoined with hues. Likewise the tasting tongue Has its own power apart, and smells apart And sounds apart are known. And thus it is That no one sense can e'er convict another. Nor shall one sense have power to blame itself, Because it always must be deemed the same, Worthy of equal trust. And therefore what At any time unto these senses showed, The same is true. And if the reason be Unable to unravel us the cause Why objects, which at hand were square, afar Seemed rounded, yet it more availeth us, Lacking the reason, to pretend a cause For each configuration, than to let From out our hands escape the obvious things And injure primal faith in sense, and wreck All those foundations upon which do rest Our life and safety. For not only reason Would topple down; but even our very life Would straightaway collapse, unless we dared To trust our senses and to keep away From headlong heights and places to be shunned Of a like peril, and to seek with speed Their opposites! Again, as in a building, If the first plumb-line be askew, and if The square deceiving swerve from lines exact, And if the level waver but the least In any part, the whole construction then Must turn out faulty—shelving and askew, Leaning to back and front, incongruous, That now some portions seem about to fall, And falls the whole ere long—betrayed indeed By first deceiving estimates: so too Thy calculations in affairs of life Must be askew and false, if sprung for thee From senses false. So all that troop of words Marshalled against the senses is quite vain. And now remains to demonstrate with ease How other senses each their things perceive. Firstly, a sound and every voice is heard, When, getting into ears, they strike the sense With their own body. For confess we must Even voice and sound to be corporeal, Because they're able on the sense to strike. Besides voice often scrapes against the throat, And screams in going out do make more rough The wind-pipe—naturally enough, methinks, When, through the narrow exit rising up In larger throng, these primal germs of voice Have thus begun to issue forth. In sooth, Also the door of the mouth is scraped against [By air blown outward] from distended [cheeks].

In mirrors that reflect an image back from their surface, each thing happens by means of the two airs. Now, in the mirror, the right side of our body appears on the left. This is because, when the image strikes the flat surface of the mirror, it is not returned unchanged, but is driven straight back rather than at an angle. Imagine someone throwing a plaster mask against a post or beam before it dries. It would stick there and keep its shape, reversed, facing the person who threw it, and so reshape the features it shows back. The right eye would now be the left, and the left the right. An image may also be passed from mirror to mirror, until as many as five or six image films have been produced. For whatever things lie hidden back in the house, however far away along winding passages, may still be brought to view along a bending path. Through these several mirrors they may be seen inside the house, since nature compels all things to bounce back and spring off other things at equal angles. Thus the image shines across from mirror to mirror. Where it was left, it becomes right, and then again it turns back and changes to left. Again, the small sides of mirrors curved to match the bulge of our own flank send their images back to us with the right on the right. This happens because either the image passes along from mirror to mirror and then, after bouncing twice, flies back to us, or else the image turns around once it has reached the mirror, since the curved surface makes it turn toward us. Further, you might well believe that these image films walk along with us, move their feet in step with ours, and copy our bearing. For the part of a mirror that you have moved away from can no longer return images at once. Further, our eyes tend to turn from brightness and avoid looking at it. The sun even blinds us if we keep straining our eyes to look at it. For its power is mighty, and its films are carried heavily down from above, through the clear upper air and the invisible winds. They strike the eyes and disrupt their structure. So piercing brightness often burns the eyes because it contains many seeds of fire. These work their way into the eyes and cause pain. Again, everything people with jaundice see turns pale yellow. Many pale yellow seeds flow from their bodies and meet the films of things. Many seeds are also mixed within their eyes, where they spread their color and paint everything yellow. Again, we can see things standing in the light from a dark recess. This is because the nearer, dark air first enters and fills the open eyes. The bright, shining air quickly follows. It then cleanses the eyes and scatters the black shadows of the other air. For in many ways the bright air is quicker, finer, and stronger. As soon as it fills and opens with light the passages of the eyes, which the black air had blocked before, there follow at once the films of things standing in the light. These films produce sight. We cannot do the same from the light with objects in the dark. For the denser dark air behind them follows in and fills every opening. It blocks the passages of the eyes, so that no images of anything can enter and move the eyes. And when we look from far away at a city's square towers, they often seem round. This is because each distant corner appears blunt, or rather is not seen at all. Its impact dies away and its stroke does not reach our sight. For the images travel through such a length of air that the air blunts the image of each sharp corner through many collisions. When all the tower's corners have escaped our senses, the stones appear worn smooth and rounded on a lathe. Yet they do not look like nearby objects that are truly round. They bear only a shadowy resemblance to them. Likewise, our shadow in the sun appears to move along, follow our steps, and copy our bearing. That is, if you think air deprived of light can walk, following the steps and movements of a person. For what we call a shadow is surely nothing but air deprived of light. No wonder: the earth is deprived of sunlight from place to place whenever we move into the sun's path. Meanwhile, any spot of earth we leave is filled with light again. For this reason, what was the body's shadow seems to remain the same and follow us in one straight course. For new rays of light pour in continually, and the old ones perish, just like wool drawn into a flame. So the earth is easily deprived of light and easily filled with it again. In this way it washes the black shadows completely away. Yet we do not at all admit that the eyes are deceived in this. Their task is to notice wherever there is light and wherever there is shadow. But are the rays still the same? Is the shadow that was here just now the same one passing there? Or are the facts as we have described them above? In the end, the mind's reasoning must decide. Our eyes cannot know the nature of reality. So do not blame the eyes for this fault of the mind, or lightly think our senses are unreliable in every case. The ship we sail in moves along, though it seems to stand still. A ship anchored in the harbor seems to be passing by. Hills and fields seem to hurry away behind us as we drive our ship past them and fly along under swelling sails. Every star seems to remain fixed in the vaults of the heavens, though all are forever moving. They rise and then return to their distant setting places after measuring with their bright bodies the span of the sky. The sun and moon likewise seem to stand still, though plain fact shows that they are really moving. Far away, between two mountains rising high above the swirling waters, a wide passage lies open for a fleet. Yet the mountains seem joined in a single island. When boys stop spinning around, the halls still seem to whirl and the pillars to sway. They almost have to think the roofs threaten to collapse on their heads. And now, when nature begins to lift high the sun's red splendor and flickering fires, and raise him above the mountaintops, those mountains above which he seems to you to stand, glowing close beside them and coloring them with his own fire, are still barely two thousand arrow shots away from us. Indeed, they are often scarcely five hundred spear throws away. Yet between those mountains and the sun lie the great plains of the ocean, spread beneath the vast shores of the upper air. Between them also lie a thousand lands, inhabited by many peoples and generations of wild beasts. Again, a pool of water only a finger deep, lying between the stones of a paved road, offers a view down into the earth as far as the vast sky stretches above the earth. You seem to see clouds below and heavenly bodies plunged wonderfully into a sky beneath the earth. Then too, when our galloping horse stops in the middle of a stream, and we look down into the river's swift waves, some force seems to carry the horse's body, though it stands still, backward from its course, and swiftly push it upstream. And wherever we look across the water, all objects seem to be carried onward and flow along in the same way as we do. A portico, though well supported from end to end by large, equal columns in parallel rows, narrows gradually into a cone when its great length is seen from one end. Its ceiling seems to meet the floor, and its whole right side the left, until it draws together at the almost invisible point of a cone. To sailors on the open sea, the sun seems to rise from the waves, and in the waves to set and bury his light. This is because they see nothing but water and sky. Again, to people unfamiliar with the sea, ships in port seem to lean on the water, as if their sterns were broken, and tilt upward. For every part of the oars raised above the salty spray is straight, and so are the rudders above the water. But the other parts, those submerged below the waterline, all seem broken, bent, and sloping upward. They seem turned back to float almost on top of the water. And when winds carry scattered clouds across the sky at night, the shining constellations seem to glide against the clouds high above, taking a very different course from the one they truly follow. And then, if we happen to put a hand beneath one eye and press it from below, everything we look at seems to become two through some sensation. Then the lamps' lights with their flowering flames are doubled, as is the furniture throughout the house. The faces of other people appear doubled, and so do their bodies. Again, when sleep has bound our limbs in gentle slumber and the whole body lies in deep rest, we still seem to ourselves to be awake and moving our limbs. In the blind darkness of night we think we see daylight and the sun. Though shut inside a room, we still seem to travel through different skies, seas, rivers, and hills, to cross plains on foot and hear new sounds, though the severe silence of the night remains around us. We seem to speak in reply, though we make no sound. We see a wonderfully great many other cases like these. All seem to challenge our trust in the senses, but in vain. For most of them deceive us through opinions of the mind, which we add ourselves, imagining that we see what the senses do not see at all. For nothing is harder than separating plain facts from doubtful ideas the mind immediately adds on its own. Again, if someone supposes that nothing is known, he does not know whether even this can be known, since he admits that he knows nothing. So I will not argue with him. He has put his head where his feet should be. But let me grant that he knows this. I ask how he knows what it is to know and what it is not to know. What gave him his concept of truth? What means has proved that the doubtful differs from the certain? For until now he has seen nothing true in anything. You will find that the concept of truth first came from the senses, and that the senses cannot be refuted. For we must find a standard worthy of greater trust, one that can defeat falsehood with truth by its own authority. What, then, is more worthy of trust than our senses? Can reason, if it springs from false senses, prevail against those senses, when all reason springs from them? For unless the senses are true, all reason is also false. Or can the ears accuse the eyes, or touch accuse the ears? Again, can taste accuse touch, or can the nose disprove it, or the eyes defeat it? I think not. For each sense has been assigned its own separate function and power. So we must perceive separately what is soft, cold, or hot, and separately all the different colors and whatever things are associated with colors. Likewise, the tongue has its own separate power of tasting. Smells and sounds too are known separately. So no sense can ever disprove another. Nor can a sense accuse itself, because it must always be regarded as the same and worthy of equal trust. Therefore, whatever the senses show at any time is true. And if reason cannot explain to us why objects that were square nearby seemed round from a distance, it is still better, when we lack an explanation, to invent a cause for each appearance than to let obvious facts slip from our grasp, damage our basic trust in the senses, and destroy all the foundations on which our life and safety rest. For not only reason would fall. Our very life would immediately collapse unless we dared to trust our senses, avoid steep drops and other places of similar danger, and hurry toward their opposites. Again, in a building, if the first plumb line is crooked, if the square is faulty and strays from true lines, and if the level wavers even a little at any point, then the whole building must turn out faulty, sloping and crooked, leaning backward and forward, out of alignment. Some parts will seem ready to fall, and before long the whole building will fall. The first misleading measurements will have betrayed it. So too your calculations in the affairs of life must be crooked and false if they come from false senses. So that whole army of words drawn up against the senses is quite useless. Now it remains to show easily how each of the other senses perceives its own objects. First, we hear a sound or a voice when it enters the ears and strikes the sense with its own body. For we must admit that even voices and sounds are bodily, because they can strike the senses. Besides, a voice often scrapes the throat, and screams make the windpipe rougher as they come out. This seems natural enough to me, when the first particles of voice rise through the narrow passage in greater numbers and begin to come out in this way. Indeed, the opening of the mouth is also scraped [by air blown outward] from swollen [cheeks].

And thus no doubt there is, that voice and words Consist of elements corporeal, With power to pain. Nor art thou unaware Likewise how much of body's ta'en away, How much from very thews and powers of men May be withdrawn by steady talk, prolonged Even from the rising splendour of the morn To shadows of black evening,—above all If 't be outpoured with most exceeding shouts. Therefore the voice must be corporeal, Since the long talker loses from his frame A part. Moreover, roughness in the sound Comes from the roughness in the primal germs, As a smooth sound from smooth ones is create; Nor have these elements a form the same When the trump rumbles with a hollow roar, As when barbaric Berecynthian pipe Buzzes with raucous boomings, or when swans By night from icy shores of Helicon With wailing voices raise their liquid dirge. Thus, when from deep within our frame we force These voices, and at mouth expel them forth, The mobile tongue, artificer of words, Makes them articulate, and too the lips By their formations share in shaping them. Hence when the space is short from starting-point To where that voice arrives, the very words Must too be plainly heard, distinctly marked. For then the voice conserves its own formation, Conserves its shape. But if the space between Be longer than is fit, the words must be Through the much air confounded, and the voice Disordered in its flight across the winds— And so it haps, that thou canst sound perceive, Yet not determine what the words may mean; To such degree confounded and encumbered The voice approaches us. Again, one word, Sent from the crier's mouth, may rouse all ears Among the populace. And thus one voice Scatters asunder into many voices, Since it divides itself for separate ears, Imprinting form of word and a clear tone. But whatso part of voices fails to hit The ears themselves perishes, borne beyond, Idly diffused among the winds. A part, Beating on solid porticoes, tossed back Returns a sound; and sometimes mocks the ear With a mere phantom of a word. When this Thou well hast noted, thou canst render count Unto thyself and others why it is Along the lonely places that the rocks Give back like shapes of words in order like, When search we after comrades wandering Among the shady mountains, and aloud Call unto them, the scattered. I have seen Spots that gave back even voices six or seven For one thrown forth—for so the very hills, Dashing them back against the hills, kept on With their reverberations. And these spots The neighbouring country-side doth feign to be Haunts of the goat-foot satyrs and the nymphs; And tells ye there be fauns, by whose night noise And antic revels yonder they declare The voiceless silences are broken oft, And tones of strings are made and wailings sweet Which the pipe, beat by players' finger-tips, Pours out; and far and wide the farmer-race Begins to hear, when, shaking the garmentings Of pine upon his half-beast head, god-Pan With puckered lip oft runneth o'er and o'er The open reeds,—lest flute should cease to pour The woodland music! Other prodigies And wonders of this ilk they love to tell, Lest they be thought to dwell in lonely spots And even by gods deserted. This is why They boast of marvels in their story-tellings; Or by some other reason are led on— Greedy, as all mankind hath ever been, To prattle fables into ears. Again, One need not wonder how it comes about That through those places (through which eyes cannot View objects manifest) sounds yet may pass And assail the ears. For often we observe People conversing, though the doors be closed; No marvel either, since all voice unharmed Can wind through bended apertures of things, While idol-films decline to—for they're rent, Unless along straight apertures they swim, Like those in glass, through which all images Do fly across. And yet this voice itself, In passing through shut chambers of a house, Is dulled, and in a jumble enters ears, And sound we seem to hear far more than words. Moreover, a voice is into all directions Divided up, since off from one another New voices are engendered, when one voice Hath once leapt forth, outstarting into many— As oft a spark of fire is wont to sprinkle Itself into its several fires. And so, Voices do fill those places hid behind, Which all are in a hubbub round about, Astir with sound. But idol-films do tend, As once sent forth, in straight directions all; Wherefore one can inside a wall see naught, Yet catch the voices from beyond the same. Nor tongue and palate, whereby we flavour feel, Present more problems for more work of thought. Firstly, we feel a flavour in the mouth, When forth we squeeze it, in chewing up our food,— As any one perchance begins to squeeze With hand and dry a sponge with water soaked. Next, all which forth we squeeze is spread about Along the pores and intertwined paths Of the loose-textured tongue. And so, when smooth The bodies of the oozy flavour, then Delightfully they touch, delightfully They treat all spots, around the wet and trickling Enclosures of the tongue. And contrariwise, They sting and pain the sense with their assault, According as with roughness they're supplied. Next, only up to palate is the pleasure Coming from flavour; for in truth when down 'Thas plunged along the throat, no pleasure is, Whilst into all the frame it spreads around; Nor aught it matters with what food is fed The body, if only what thou take thou canst Distribute well digested to the frame And keep the stomach in a moist career. Now, how it is we see some food for some, Others for others....

And so there is no doubt that voice and words Are made of physical particles That can cause pain. You also know How much of the body is used up, How much strength and energy a person Can lose through constant, prolonged speech, From the bright rise of morning To the darkness of evening, especially If the words are poured out in very loud shouts. Therefore, the voice must be physical, Since someone who talks at length loses Part of the body. Moreover, a rough sound Comes from rough particles, Just as a smooth sound comes from smooth ones. Nor are these particles the same shape When a trumpet rumbles with a hollow roar As when the foreign Berecynthian pipe Buzzes with harsh, booming sounds, or when swans At night, from the icy shores of Helicon, Raise their flowing lament in mournful voices. So, when we force these sounds from deep Within our bodies and send them out through the mouth, The moving tongue, the maker of words, Makes them distinct. The lips also Help shape them by the forms they take. So when the distance is short between the source And the place where the voice arrives, the words Must be heard plainly and distinctly. For then the voice keeps its original form, And holds its shape. But if the distance Is too great, the words must become Confused by all the air, and the voice Disordered as it travels through the winds. So you can hear a sound, Yet cannot tell what the words mean. The voice reaches us so confused And obstructed. Again, one word, Sent from a caller's mouth, may reach every ear In a crowd. And so one voice Scatters into many voices, Since it divides itself among separate ears, Imprinting the form and clear sound of the word. But any part of the voices that misses The ears passes beyond them and dies away, Scattered uselessly among the winds. Another part Strikes solid porticoes and bounces back, Returning a sound. Sometimes it fools the ear With a mere ghost of a word. Once you Have noted this, you can explain To yourself and others why Rocks in lonely places echo words In the same order and form, When we search for companions wandering Among the shady mountains and call aloud To those who have scattered. I have seen Places that returned as many as six or seven voices For one sent out. The hills Kept throwing the sounds back against one another, Repeating the echoes. And the people Of the surrounding countryside imagine these places As homes of goat-footed satyrs and nymphs. They say that fauns live there, and declare that their nighttime noise And wild revelry often break The wordless silence. They speak of stringed instruments And sweet, plaintive notes Poured out by pipes played with the fingertips. They say that farmers hear these sounds far and wide When the god Pan, shaking the covering Of pine on his half-beast head, Often plays again and again with puckered lips On his open reeds, so that the flute will never cease To pour out its woodland music. They love to tell Other wonders and marvels of this kind, So that no one will think they live in lonely places Deserted even by the gods. That is why They boast of marvels in their stories, Or perhaps some other reason leads them on. For all people have always been eager To chatter fables into others' ears. Again, There is no need to wonder why Sounds can pass through places where our eyes Cannot see objects clearly And reach our ears. For we often hear People talking even when doors are closed. That is no wonder, since any voice can pass unharmed Through winding openings in things, While image-films cannot. For they are torn apart Unless they travel through straight openings, Like those in glass, through which all images Pass. Yet the voice itself, As it passes through the closed rooms of a house, Is dulled and reaches the ears in a jumble. We seem to hear sounds rather than words. Moreover, a voice spreads in all directions. For new voices are produced from one another Once a voice has leapt out and divided into many. A spark of fire often scatters Itself into separate fires in the same way. And so Voices fill the places hidden behind things. All these places are filled with a hubbub, Alive with sound. But image-films tend To travel straight once they are sent out. That is why no one can see through a wall, Yet can hear voices from the other side. Nor do the tongue and palate, through which we taste, Present harder problems for thought. First, we taste a flavor in the mouth When we squeeze it out by chewing our food. It is like squeezing the water out of A soaked sponge with your hand. Next, everything we squeeze out spreads Through the pores and winding passages Of the loosely textured tongue. So when the particles Of the liquid flavor are smooth, They touch pleasantly and treat pleasantly Every part of the wet, flowing Recesses of the tongue. On the other hand, They sting and hurt the sense of taste when they strike, In proportion to their roughness. Next, the pleasure of flavor goes no farther Than the palate. Once the food has passed down The throat, there is no pleasure from it As it spreads throughout the body. Nor does it matter what food the body receives, As long as you can digest what you eat And distribute it throughout the body And keep the stomach moist and working. Now, why do we see that some foods suit some people, And other foods suit others....

I will unfold, or wherefore what to some Is foul and bitter, yet the same to others Can seem delectable to eat,—why here So great the distance and the difference is That what is food to one to some becomes Fierce poison, as a certain snake there is Which, touched by spittle of a man, will waste And end itself by gnawing up its coil. Again, fierce poison is the hellebore To us, but puts the fat on goats and quails. That thou mayst know by what devices this Is brought about, in chief thou must recall What we have said before, that seeds are kept Commixed in things in divers modes. Again, As all the breathing creatures which take food Are outwardly unlike, and outer cut And contour of their members bounds them round, Each differing kind by kind, they thus consist Of seeds of varying shape. And furthermore, Since seeds do differ, divers too must be The interstices and paths (which we do call The apertures) in all the members, even In mouth and palate too. Thus some must be More small or yet more large, three-cornered some And others squared, and many others round, And certain of them many-angled too In many modes. For, as the combination And motion of their divers shapes demand, The shapes of apertures must be diverse And paths must vary according to their walls That bound them. Hence when what is sweet to some, Becomes to others bitter, for him to whom 'Tis sweet, the smoothest particles must needs Have entered caressingly the palate's pores. And, contrariwise, with those to whom that sweet Is sour within the mouth, beyond a doubt The rough and barbed particles have got Into the narrows of the apertures. Now easy it is from these affairs to know Whatever...

I will explain why what some find Foul and bitter can seem delicious To others. I will explain why The difference is so great That what is food to one is Fierce poison to another. One snake, When touched by human saliva, will waste away And die by gnawing its own coils. Again, hellebore is a fierce poison To us, but it makes goats and quails fat. To understand how this happens, You must first recall What I said before: the seeds of things Are mixed together in different ways. Again, All breathing creatures that eat Differ in outward appearance. The shape And outline of their limbs give each Kind its own form. So they consist Of seeds of different shapes. Furthermore, Because the seeds differ, so must The spaces and passages, which we call The openings, in all their limbs, even In the mouth and palate. Some must be Smaller or larger, some triangular, Others square, and many others round. Still others must have many angles, Arranged in many ways. For the combination And movement of the different shapes require The openings to have different shapes, And the passages to vary according to the walls That enclose them. So when what is sweet to some Becomes bitter to others, the person who finds It sweet must have the smoothest particles Entering and gently touching the pores of the palate. By contrast, in those who find that sweetness Sour in the mouth, the rough and barbed particles Have undoubtedly entered the narrow openings. From these things, it is now easy to understand Whatever...

Indeed, where one from o'er-abundant bile Is stricken with fever, or in other wise Feels the roused violence of some malady, There the whole frame is now upset, and there All the positions of the seeds are changed,— So that the bodies which before were fit To cause the savour, now are fit no more, And now more apt are others which be able To get within the pores and gender sour. Both sorts, in sooth, are intermixed in honey— What oft we've proved above to thee before. Now come, and I will indicate what wise Impact of odour on the nostrils touches. And first, 'tis needful there be many things From whence the streaming flow of varied odours May roll along, and we're constrained to think They stream and dart and sprinkle themselves about Impartially. But for some breathing creatures One odour is more apt, to others another— Because of differing forms of seeds and pores. Thus on and on along the zephyrs bees Are led by odour of honey, vultures too By carcasses. Again, the forward power Of scent in dogs doth lead the hunter on Whithersoever the splay-foot of wild beast Hath hastened its career; and the white goose, The saviour of the Roman citadel, Forescents afar the odour of mankind. Thus, diversly to divers ones is given Peculiar smell that leadeth each along To his own food or makes him start aback From loathsome poison, and in this wise are The generations of the wild preserved. Yet is this pungence not alone in odours Or in the class of flavours; but, likewise, The look of things and hues agree not all So well with senses unto all, but that Some unto some will be, to gaze upon, More keen and painful. Lo, the raving lions, They dare not face and gaze upon the cock Who's wont with wings to flap away the night From off the stage, and call the beaming morn With clarion voice—and lions straightway thus Bethink themselves of flight, because, ye see, Within the body of the cocks there be Some certain seeds, which, into lions' eyes Injected, bore into the pupils deep And yield such piercing pain they can't hold out Against the cocks, however fierce they be— Whilst yet these seeds can't hurt our gaze the least, Either because they do not penetrate, Or since they have free exit from the eyes As soon as penetrating, so that thus They cannot hurt our eyes in any part By there remaining. To speak once more of odour; Whatever assail the nostrils, some can travel A longer way than others. None of them, However, 's borne so far as sound or voice— While I omit all mention of such things As hit the eyesight and assail the vision. For slowly on a wandering course it comes And perishes sooner, by degrees absorbed Easily into all the winds of air;— And first, because from deep inside the thing It is discharged with labour (for the fact That every object, when 'tis shivered, ground, Or crumbled by the fire, will smell the stronger Is sign that odours flow and part away From inner regions of the things). And next, Thou mayest see that odour is create Of larger primal germs than voice, because It enters not through stony walls, wherethrough Unfailingly the voice and sound are borne; Wherefore, besides, thou wilt observe 'tis not So easy to trace out in whatso place The smelling object is. For, dallying on Along the winds, the particles cool off, And then the scurrying messengers of things Arrive our senses, when no longer hot. So dogs oft wander astray, and hunt the scent. Now mark, and hear what objects move the mind, And learn, in few, whence unto intellect Do come what come. And first I tell thee this: That many images of objects rove In many modes to every region round— So thin that easily the one with other, When once they meet, uniteth in mid-air, Like gossamer or gold-leaf. For, indeed, Far thinner are they in their fabric than Those images which take a hold on eyes And smite the vision, since through body's pores They penetrate, and inwardly stir up The subtle nature of mind and smite the sense. Thus, Centaurs and the limbs of Scyllas, thus The Cerberus-visages of dogs we see, And images of people gone before— Dead men whose bones earth bosomed long ago; Because the images of every kind Are everywhere about us borne—in part Those which are gendered in the very air Of own accord, in part those others which From divers things do part away, and those Which are compounded, made from out their shapes. For soothly from no living Centaur is That phantom gendered, since no breed of beast Like him was ever; but, when images Of horse and man by chance have come together, They easily cohere, as aforesaid, At once, through subtle nature and fabric thin. In the same fashion others of this ilk Created are. And when they're quickly borne In their exceeding lightness, easily (As earlier I showed) one subtle image, Compounded, moves by its one blow the mind, Itself so subtle and so strangely quick. That these things come to pass as I record, From this thou easily canst understand: So far as one is unto other like, Seeing with mind as well as with the eyes Must come to pass in fashion not unlike. Well, now, since I have shown that I perceive Haply a lion through those idol-films Such as assail my eyes, 'tis thine to know Also the mind is in like manner moved, And sees, nor more nor less than eyes do see (Except that it perceives more subtle films) The lion and aught else through idol-films. And when the sleep has overset our frame, The mind's intelligence is now awake, Still for no other reason, save that these— The self-same films as when we are awake— Assail our minds, to such degree indeed That we do seem to see for sure the man Whom, void of life, now death and earth have gained Dominion over. And nature forces this To come to pass because the body's senses Are resting, thwarted through the members all, Unable now to conquer false with true; And memory lies prone and languishes In slumber, nor protests that he, the man Whom the mind feigns to see alive, long since Hath been the gain of death and dissolution. And further, 'tis no marvel idols move And toss their arms and other members round In rhythmic time—and often in men's sleeps It haps an image this is seen to do; In sooth, when perishes the former image, And other is gendered of another pose, That former seemeth to have changed its gestures. Of course the change must be conceived as speedy; So great the swiftness and so great the store Of idol-things, and (in an instant brief As mind can mark) so great, again, the store Of separate idol-parts to bring supplies. It happens also that there is supplied Sometimes an image not of kind the same; But what before was woman, now at hand Is seen to stand there, altered into male; Or other visage, other age succeeds; But slumber and oblivion take care That we shall feel no wonder at the thing. And much in these affairs demands inquiry, And much, illumination—if we crave With plainness to exhibit facts. And first, Why doth the mind of one to whom the whim To think has come behold forthwith that thing? Or do the idols watch upon our will, And doth an image unto us occur, Directly we desire—if heart prefer The sea, the land, or after all the sky? Assemblies of the citizens, parades, Banquets, and battles, these and all doth she, Nature, create and furnish at our word?— Maugre the fact that in same place and spot Another's mind is meditating things All far unlike. And what, again, of this: When we in sleep behold the idols step, In measure, forward, moving supple limbs, Whilst forth they put each supple arm in turn With speedy motion, and with eyeing heads Repeat the movement, as the foot keeps time? Forsooth, the idols they are steeped in art, And wander to and fro well taught indeed,— Thus to be able in the time of night To make such games! Or will the truth be this: Because in one least moment that we mark— That is, the uttering of a single sound— There lurk yet many moments, which the reason Discovers to exist, therefore it comes That, in a moment how so brief ye will, The divers idols are hard by, and ready Each in its place diverse? So great the swiftness, So great, again, the store of idol-things, And so, when perishes the former image, And other is gendered of another pose, The former seemeth to have changed its gestures. And since they be so tenuous, mind can mark Sharply alone the ones it strains to see; And thus the rest do perish one and all, Save those for which the mind prepares itself. Further, it doth prepare itself indeed, And hopes to see what follows after each— Hence this result. For hast thou not observed How eyes, essaying to perceive the fine, Will strain in preparation, otherwise Unable sharply to perceive at all? Yet know thou canst that, even in objects plain, If thou attendest not, 'tis just the same As if 'twere all the time removed and far. What marvel, then, that mind doth lose the rest, Save those to which 'thas given up itself? So 'tis that we conjecture from small signs Things wide and weighty, and involve ourselves In snarls of self-deceit.

Indeed, when someone is struck by fever from too much bile, or otherwise feels the sudden force of some disease, the whole body is thrown into disorder, and all the positions of its seeds are changed. The particles that once could produce a pleasant taste can no longer do so. Other particles are now better suited to enter the pores and produce a sour taste. Both kinds, in fact, are mixed in honey, as I have often shown you before. Now I will explain how smells strike and affect the nostrils. First, there must be many things from which a stream of different smells can flow. We must suppose that these smells stream and dart and scatter in every direction. But for some breathing creatures one smell is better suited, and another for others, because their seeds and pores differ in shape. Thus bees follow the scent of honey on and on through the breezes, and vultures follow the scent of carcasses. Again, the keen sense of smell in dogs leads the hunter wherever the wide-footed wild beast has hurried on its way. And the white goose, the savior of the Roman citadel, smells human beings from far away. Thus different creatures are given their own particular sense of smell. It guides each one to its own food or makes it recoil from a disgusting poison. In this way the generations of wild creatures are preserved. Yet this sharp effect is not found only in smells or in tastes. The appearance of things and their colors also do not agree equally well with the senses of all creatures. Some things are sharper and more painful for some creatures to look at. See how raging lions dare not face or look at the rooster. With his wings he usually beats the night from the stage and calls the shining morning with his trumpet-like voice. And lions at once think of flight. For, you see, there are certain seeds in the bodies of roosters. These enter the lions' eyes, bore deep into their pupils, and cause such piercing pain that the lions cannot stand against roosters, however fierce they may be. Yet these seeds cannot harm our sight at all. Either they do not enter our eyes, or they pass freely out again as soon as they enter. So they cannot remain there and harm any part of our eyes. To return to smell: Of the things that strike the nostrils, some can travel farther than others. None of them, however, travels as far as sound or voice. I leave out any mention of the things that strike the eyes and affect our sight. For a smell comes slowly, wandering on its way, and dies away sooner, as it is gradually and easily absorbed by all the moving air. First, this is because it is released with difficulty from deep inside the object. The fact that every object smells stronger when it is shattered, ground up, or crumbled by fire shows that smells flow and escape from the inner parts of things. Next, you can see that smell is made of larger basic particles than voice. For smell does not pass through stone walls, though voice and sound always do. For this reason, too, you will notice that it is not so easy to discover where a smelling object is. As the particles linger on their way through the air, they cool. These swift messengers of things then reach our senses when they are no longer hot. So dogs often go astray while tracking a scent. Now pay attention and hear what moves the mind. Learn, briefly, where the things that reach the intellect come from. First, I tell you this: many images of objects wander in many ways through every region around us. They are so thin that they easily join together when they meet in midair, like cobwebs or gold leaf. Indeed, their substance is much thinner than that of the images that reach the eyes and strike our sight. For they penetrate through the body's pores, stir the subtle nature of the mind within us, and strike our senses. Thus we see Centaurs and the limbs of Scyllas, the dog faces of Cerberus, and images of people who have gone before, dead people whose bones the earth embraced long ago. For images of every kind are carried everywhere around us. Some arise spontaneously in the air itself. Others come away from different things, and still others are made by combining their shapes. For surely that phantom does not come from a living Centaur. No race of beasts like him has ever existed. But when images of a horse and a human happen to meet, they readily cling together, as I said, at once, because of their subtle nature and thin substance. Others of this kind are created in the same way. Their extreme lightness carries them along quickly, and a single subtle image formed in this way easily moves the mind with one impact, as I showed earlier. For the mind itself is so subtle and remarkably quick. You can easily understand from this that these things happen as I describe: insofar as the two are alike, seeing with the mind and seeing with the eyes must happen in much the same way. Now I have shown that I perceive a lion, for example, through those image films that strike my eyes. So you should understand that the mind is moved in the same way. Like the eyes, it sees the lion and anything else through image films. The only difference is that the mind perceives subtler films. And when sleep has overcome our bodies, the mind's intelligence remains awake for no other reason than that these films, the very same ones as when we are awake, strike our minds. Indeed, they do so to such a degree that we seem to see a man who is lifeless, now that death and the earth have claimed him. Nature makes this happen because the body's senses are resting, inactive throughout the body. They cannot now overcome false impressions with true ones. Memory, too, lies still and weak in sleep. It does not object that the man whom the mind imagines it sees alive has long since been claimed by death and dissolution. Further, it is no wonder that images move and wave their arms and other limbs in rhythm. And in people's sleep an image is often seen to do this. In fact, when the first image vanishes and another appears in a different pose, the first seems to have changed its gestures. Of course, we must think of the change as swift. For the speed and the supply of images are so great. And in an instant as brief as the mind can notice, the supply of separate image particles is also great enough to replenish them. Sometimes, too, an image appears that is not of the same kind. What was a woman before now appears to stand there changed into a man. Or a different face or a different age follows. But sleep and forgetfulness ensure that we feel no wonder at the change. Much in these matters calls for inquiry, and much needs to be explained, if we wish to set out the facts clearly. First, why does the mind, when it takes a fancy to think of something, see that thing at once? Do images watch for our wishes? Does an image appear to us the moment we want it, whether our hearts desire the sea, the land, or perhaps the sky? Does Nature create and supply gatherings of citizens, parades, banquets, battles, and all such things at our command? Even though, in the very same place, another person's mind is thinking of entirely different things? And what about this? In sleep we see images step forward in time, moving their supple limbs. They quickly extend each supple arm in turn and move their attentive heads in the same rhythm, while their feet keep time. Surely these images are steeped in art and wander about thoroughly trained, so that they can put on such performances at night! Or is the truth this: in the smallest moment we can notice, the time it takes to utter a single sound, many moments are hidden within it, as reason discovers. And so, however brief a moment you choose, different images are close at hand and ready, each in its different position. Their speed is so great, and the supply of images is so great. So when the first image vanishes and another appears in a different pose, the first seems to have changed its gestures. And because the images are so thin, the mind can clearly notice only those it strains to see. All the rest therefore vanish, except those for which the mind prepares itself. Indeed, the mind does prepare itself and expects to see what follows each image. That is why this happens. Have you not noticed how the eyes, when trying to see something fine, strain in preparation? Otherwise they cannot see it clearly at all. Yet you can see that even with objects in plain view, if you do not pay attention, the effect is the same as if the object had been removed and were far away. What wonder, then, that the mind loses sight of the rest, except those images to which it has devoted itself? Thus we guess at great and important things from small signs, and entangle ourselves in knots of self-deception.

In these affairs We crave that thou wilt passionately flee The one offence, and anxiously wilt shun The error of presuming the clear lights Of eyes created were that we might see; Or thighs and knees, aprop upon the feet, Thuswise can bended be, that we might step With goodly strides ahead; or forearms joined Unto the sturdy uppers, or serving hands On either side were given, that we might do Life's own demands. All such interpretation Is aft-for-fore with inverse reasoning, Since naught is born in body so that we May use the same, but birth engenders use: No seeing ere the lights of eyes were born, No speaking ere the tongue created was; But origin of tongue came long before Discourse of words, and ears created were Much earlier than any sound was heard; And all the members, so meseems, were there Before they got their use: and therefore, they Could not be gendered for the sake of use. But contrariwise, contending in the fight With hand to hand, and rending of the joints, And fouling of the limbs with gore, was there, O long before the gleaming spears ere flew; And nature prompted man to shun a wound, Before the left arm by the aid of art Opposed the shielding targe. And, verily, Yielding the weary body to repose, Far ancienter than cushions of soft beds, And quenching thirst is earlier than cups. These objects, therefore, which for use and life Have been devised, can be conceived as found For sake of using. But apart from such Are all which first were born and afterwards Gave knowledge of their own utility— Chief in which sort we note the senses, limbs: Wherefore, again, 'tis quite beyond thy power To hold that these could thus have been create For office of utility. Likewise, 'Tis nothing strange that all the breathing creatures Seek, even by nature of their frame, their food. Yes, since I've taught thee that from off the things Stream and depart innumerable bodies In modes innumerable too; but most Must be the bodies streaming from the living— Which bodies, vexed by motion evermore, Are through the mouth exhaled innumerable, When weary creatures pant, or through the sweat Squeezed forth innumerable from deep within. Thus body rarefies, so undermined In all its nature, and pain attends its state. And so the food is taken to underprop The tottering joints, and by its interfusion To re-create their powers, and there stop up The longing, open-mouthed through limbs and veins, For eating. And the moist no less departs Into all regions that demand the moist; And many heaped-up particles of hot, Which cause such burnings in these bellies of ours, The liquid on arriving dissipates And quenches like a fire, that parching heat No longer now can scorch the frame. And so, Thou seest how panting thirst is washed away From off our body, how the hunger-pang It, too, appeased. Now, how it comes that we, Whene'er we wish, can step with strides ahead, And how 'tis given to move our limbs about, And what device is wont to push ahead This the big load of our corporeal frame, I'll say to thee—do thou attend what's said. I say that first some idol-films of walking Into our mind do fall and smite the mind, As said before. Thereafter will arises; For no one starts to do a thing, before The intellect previsions what it wills; And what it there pre-visioneth depends On what that image is. When, therefore, mind Doth so bestir itself that it doth will To go and step along, it strikes at once That energy of soul that's sown about In all the body through the limbs and frame— And this is easy of performance, since The soul is close conjoined with the mind. Next, soul in turn strikes body, and by degrees Thus the whole mass is pushed along and moved. Then too the body rarefies, and air, Forsooth as ever of such nimbleness, Comes on and penetrates aboundingly Through opened pores, and thus is sprinkled round Unto all smallest places in our frame. Thus then by these twain factors, severally, Body is borne like ship with oars and wind. Nor yet in these affairs is aught for wonder That particles so fine can whirl around So great a body and turn this weight of ours; For wind, so tenuous with its subtle body, Yet pushes, driving on the mighty ship Of mighty bulk; one hand directs the same, Whatever its momentum, and one helm Whirls it around, whither ye please; and loads, Many and huge, are moved and hoisted high By enginery of pulley-blocks and wheels, With but light strain. Now, by what modes this sleep Pours through our members waters of repose And frees the breast from cares of mind, I'll tell In verses sweeter than they many are; Even as the swan's slight note is better far Than that dispersed clamour of the cranes Among the southwind's aery clouds. Do thou Give me sharp ears and a sagacious mind,— That thou mayst not deny the things to be Whereof I'm speaking, nor depart away With bosom scorning these the spoken truths, Thyself at fault unable to perceive. Sleep chiefly comes when energy of soul Hath now been scattered through the frame, and part Expelled abroad and gone away, and part Crammed back and settling deep within the frame— Whereafter then our loosened members droop. For doubt is none that by the work of soul Exist in us this sense, and when by slumber That sense is thwarted, we are bound to think The soul confounded and expelled abroad— Yet not entirely, else the frame would lie Drenched in the everlasting cold of death. In sooth, where no one part of soul remained Lurking among the members, even as fire Lurks buried under many ashes, whence Could sense amain rekindled be in members, As flame can rise anew from unseen fire? By what devices this strange state and new May be occasioned, and by what the soul Can be confounded and the frame grow faint, I will untangle: see to it, thou, that I Pour forth my words not unto empty winds. In first place, body on its outer parts— Since these are touched by neighbouring aery gusts— Must there be thumped and strook by blows of air Repeatedly. And therefore almost all Are covered either with hides, or else with shells, Or with the horny callus, or with bark. Yet this same air lashes their inner parts, When creatures draw a breath or blow it out. Wherefore, since body thus is flogged alike Upon the inside and the out, and blows Come in upon us through the little pores Even inward to our body's primal parts And primal elements, there comes to pass By slow degrees, along our members then, A kind of overthrow; for then confounded Are those arrangements of the primal germs Of body and of mind. It comes to pass That next a part of soul's expelled abroad, A part retreateth in recesses hid, A part, too, scattered all about the frame, Cannot become united nor engage In interchange of motion. Nature now So hedges off approaches and the paths; And thus the sense, its motions all deranged, Retires down deep within; and since there's naught, As 'twere, to prop the frame, the body weakens, And all the members languish, and the arms And eyelids fall, and, as ye lie abed, Even there the houghs will sag and loose their powers. Again, sleep follows after food, because The food produces same result as air, Whilst being scattered round through all the veins; And much the heaviest is that slumber which, Full or fatigued, thou takest; since 'tis then That the most bodies disarrange themselves, Bruised by labours hard. And in same wise, This three-fold change: a forcing of the soul Down deeper, more a casting-forth of it, A moving more divided in its parts And scattered more. And to whate'er pursuit A man most clings absorbed, or what the affairs On which we theretofore have tarried much, And mind hath strained upon the more, we seem In sleep not rarely to go at the same. The lawyers seem to plead and cite decrees, Commanders they to fight and go at frays, Sailors to live in combat with the winds, And we ourselves indeed to make this book, And still to seek the nature of the world And set it down, when once discovered, here In these my country's leaves. Thus all pursuits, All arts in general seem in sleeps to mock And master the minds of men. And whosoever Day after day for long to games have given Attention undivided, still they keep (As oft we note), even when they've ceased to grasp Those games with their own senses, open paths Within the mind wherethrough the idol-films Of just those games can come. And thus it is For many a day thereafter those appear Floating before the eyes, that even awake They think they view the dancers moving round Their supple limbs, and catch with both the ears The liquid song of harp and speaking chords, And view the same assembly on the seats, And manifold bright glories of the stage— So great the influence of pursuit and zest, And of the affairs wherein 'thas been the wont Of men to be engaged-nor only men, But soothly all the animals. Behold, Thou'lt see the sturdy horses, though outstretched, Yet sweating in their sleep, and panting ever, And straining utmost strength, as if for prize, As if, with barriers opened now... And hounds of huntsmen oft in soft repose Yet toss asudden all their legs about, And growl and bark, and with their nostrils sniff The winds again, again, as though indeed They'd caught the scented foot-prints of wild beasts, And, even when wakened, often they pursue The phantom images of stags, as though They did perceive them fleeing on before, Until the illusion's shaken off and dogs Come to themselves again. And fawning breed Of house-bred whelps do feel the sudden urge To shake their bodies and start from off the ground, As if beholding stranger-visages. And ever the fiercer be the stock, the more In sleep the same is ever bound to rage. But flee the divers tribes of birds and vex With sudden wings by night the groves of gods, When in their gentle slumbers they have dreamed Of hawks in chase, aswooping on for fight. Again, the minds of mortals which perform With mighty motions mighty enterprises, Often in sleep will do and dare the same In manner like. Kings take the towns by storm, Succumb to capture, battle on the field, Raise a wild cry as if their throats were cut Even then and there. And many wrestle on And groan with pains, and fill all regions round With mighty cries and wild, as if then gnawed By fangs of panther or of lion fierce. Many amid their slumbers talk about Their mighty enterprises, and have often Enough become the proof of their own crimes. Many meet death; many, as if headlong From lofty mountains tumbling down to earth With all their frame, are frenzied in their fright; And after sleep, as if still mad in mind, They scarce come to, confounded as they are By ferment of their frame. The thirsty man, Likewise, he sits beside delightful spring Or river and gulpeth down with gaping throat Nigh the whole stream. And oft the innocent young, By sleep o'ermastered, think they lift their dress By pail or public jordan and then void The water filtered down their frame entire And drench the Babylonian coverlets, Magnificently bright. Again, those males Into the surging channels of whose years Now first has passed the seed (engendered Within their members by the ripened days) Are in their sleep confronted from without By idol-images of some fair form— Tidings of glorious face and lovely bloom, Which stir and goad the regions turgid now With seed abundant; so that, as it were With all the matter acted duly out, They pour the billows of a potent stream And stain their garment. And as said before, That seed is roused in us when once ripe age Has made our body strong... As divers causes give to divers things Impulse and irritation, so one force In human kind rouses the human seed To spurt from man. As soon as ever it issues, Forced from its first abodes, it passes down In the whole body through the limbs and frame, Meeting in certain regions of our thews, And stirs amain the genitals of man. The goaded regions swell with seed, and then Comes the delight to dart the same at what The mad desire so yearns, and body seeks That object, whence the mind by love is pierced. For well-nigh each man falleth toward his wound, And our blood spurts even toward the spot from whence The stroke wherewith we are strook, and if indeed The foe be close, the red jet reaches him. Thus, one who gets a stroke from Venus' shafts— Whether a boy with limbs effeminate Assault him, or a woman darting love From all her body—that one strains to get Even to the thing whereby he's hit, and longs To join with it and cast into its frame The fluid drawn even from within its own. For the mute craving doth presage delight.

In these matters I urge you passionately to avoid one mistake, And take care to reject the error Of assuming that the bright lights Of the eyes were made so that we could see, Or that thighs and knees, supported by the feet, Can bend as they do so that we can walk With long strides forward, or that forearms joined To strong upper arms, or helpful hands On either side, were given so that we could do What life demands. All such explanations Put the cart before the horse, reversing the reasoning. For nothing in the body is born so that we Can use it. Rather, birth gives rise to use. There was no sight before the eyes were born, No speech before the tongue was created. But the tongue came into being long before Words were spoken, and ears were created Much earlier than any sound was heard. And all the limbs, it seems to me, existed Before they had a use. Therefore, they Could not have been born for the sake of their use. On the contrary, fighting in battle Hand to hand, tearing at joints, And staining limbs with blood existed Long before shining spears ever flew. And nature prompted people to avoid wounds Before skill taught the left arm To hold a shield against them. And certainly, Resting a weary body Is far older than soft mattresses, And quenching thirst is older than cups. These things, then, which were devised For use in life, can be understood as inventions Made for the sake of use. But different from them Are all the things that were born first and afterward Made their usefulness known to us. Foremost among these are the senses and limbs. Therefore, once again, you cannot possibly Maintain that they were created For the purpose of being useful. Likewise, It is no wonder that all breathing creatures Seek food because of the very nature of their bodies. For I have taught you that countless particles Stream away from things In countless ways. But most of all, Particles must stream away from living creatures. They are constantly shaken by movement, And countless particles are breathed out through the mouth When weary creatures pant, or are squeezed out In countless numbers through sweat from deep within. The body is thus made less dense, undermined Throughout its whole nature, and pain accompanies this state. So food is taken in to support The faltering limbs. By spreading through them, It restores their strength and closes up The open-mouthed hunger throughout the limbs and veins That longs for food. Liquid also passes Into every part that needs moisture. And liquid disperses the many particles of heat That have gathered and cause such burning In our bellies. When it arrives, It quenches them like a fire, so that the parching heat Can no longer scorch the body. And so You see how panting thirst is washed away From our bodies, and how the pang of hunger Is also relieved. Now I will tell you how we, Whenever we wish, can walk forward, How we are able to move our limbs, And what means normally pushes forward The great weight of our bodies. Pay attention to what I say. First, I say that certain image-films of walking Enter our minds and strike them, As I said before. Then the will arises. For no one begins to do anything before The mind has foreseen what it wills. And what the mind foresees depends On the nature of the image. So when the mind Stirs itself and wills To go and walk, it immediately strikes The energy of the soul, which is spread Throughout the body, in its limbs and frame. This is easy to do, because The soul is closely joined to the mind. Next, the soul in turn strikes the body. Gradually, The whole mass is pushed forward and moved. Then, too, the body becomes less dense, and air, Which is always so nimble, Comes in and penetrates abundantly Through the opened pores. It spreads Into all the smallest spaces in our bodies. Thus, by these two forces working separately, The body is carried along like a ship with oars and wind. Nor is there anything surprising in these matters, That particles so fine can move So great a body and turn our weight about. For the wind, though made of such fine, thin substance, Drives a mighty ship forward, Despite its great bulk. One hand steers the ship, Whatever its momentum, and one rudder Turns it wherever you please. And many Huge loads are moved and lifted high By machines with pulleys and wheels, With only a little effort. Now I will tell you how sleep Pours the waters of rest through our limbs And frees the heart from the mind's cares. My verses will be sweeter than they are many, Just as the swan's soft song is far better Than the scattered clamor of cranes Among the airy clouds of the south wind. Give me Attentive ears and a discerning mind, So that you do not deny the things Of which I speak, or turn away Scornful of these truths I have spoken. The fault would be yours, because you could not perceive them. Sleep comes chiefly when the soul's energy Has been scattered throughout the body. Part Has been driven out and carried away, and part Has been pushed back and settled deep within the body. Then our loosened limbs droop. For there is no doubt that sensation Exists in us through the work of the soul. When sleep Hinders sensation, we must think That the soul has been thrown into disorder and driven out. Yet not entirely, or the body would lie Soaked in the everlasting cold of death. For if no part of the soul remained Hidden among the limbs, as fire Lies hidden beneath deep ashes, how Could sensation quickly be rekindled in the limbs, As flame can rise again from unseen fire? I will explain how this strange new state Can come about, and how the soul Can be thrown into disorder and the body grow weak. See that I do not pour out my words to empty winds. First, the body's outer parts, Since they are touched by the surrounding currents of air, Must be struck and battered by blows of air Again and again. That is why almost all creatures Are covered with hides or shells, Or with hard calluses or bark. Yet this same air lashes their inner parts When creatures breathe in or out. So the body is battered both Inside and outside. Blows Enter us through the tiny pores, Reaching even the body's first particles And its basic elements. As a result, Gradually, throughout our limbs, A kind of collapse occurs. For the arrangements Of the first particles of body and mind Are thrown into disorder. Then Part of the soul is driven out, Part retreats into hidden recesses, and part, Scattered throughout the body, Cannot unite or share its movements. Nature now blocks its approaches and paths. And so sensation, with all its movements disrupted, Withdraws deep within. Since there is nothing To support the body, as it were, the body weakens, All the limbs grow slack, the arms And eyelids fall, and, as you lie in bed, Even there the knees sag and lose their strength. Again, sleep follows food because Food produces the same effect as air While it spreads through all the veins. And the heaviest sleep by far is the sleep You take when full or tired. For then The greatest number of particles are thrown out of order, Battered by hard work. And in the same way, The threefold change occurs: more of the soul is forced Deep inside, more is cast out, And its parts move more separately And are more scattered. Whatever pursuit A person is most absorbed in, or whatever matters We have spent much time on before, And have strained our minds over, we often seem To take up again in sleep. Lawyers seem to plead cases and cite decrees, Commanders to fight and enter battles, Sailors to struggle with the winds, And I myself to compose this book, Still seeking the nature of the world And setting it down, once discovered, here In these pages written in my country's language. Thus all pursuits, All arts in general, seem in sleep to play with And master people's minds. And those who Day after day have long given the games Their undivided attention still keep, As we often see, even after they have stopped perceiving Those games with their senses, open paths In their minds through which the image-films Of those very games can come. And so For many days afterward those images appear, Floating before their eyes. Even when awake, They think they see the dancers moving Their supple limbs, and hear with both ears The flowing song of the harp and its expressive chords. They see the same audience in their seats And the many bright splendors of the stage. Such is the influence of devotion and enthusiasm, And of the matters in which people Are accustomed to be engaged. And not only people, But indeed all animals. Look, And you will see strong horses, though lying down, Still sweating in their sleep and constantly panting, Straining with all their strength, as if for a prize, As if the starting gates had now opened... And hunters' hounds, often resting peacefully, Suddenly toss all their legs about, Growl and bark, and sniff the air Again and again, as though They had caught the scent of wild beasts' tracks. Even when awakened, they often pursue The phantom images of stags, as though They saw them fleeing ahead, Until the illusion is shaken off and the dogs Come to themselves again. And affectionate Household puppies feel a sudden urge To shake their bodies and leap up from the ground, As if they saw the faces of strangers. And the fiercer the breed, the more It is bound to rage in sleep. But birds of many kinds flee and disturb The sacred groves with sudden wingbeats at night, When in their gentle sleep they have dreamed Of hawks pursuing them and swooping down to fight. Again, the minds of mortals who carry out Great enterprises with great effort Often do and dare the same things In much the same way in sleep. Kings storm cities, Are captured, fight on the battlefield, And raise a wild cry as if their throats were being cut Even then and there. And many struggle on And groan in pain, filling all the space around them With loud, wild cries, as if they were being gnawed By the teeth of a panther or a fierce lion. Many speak in their sleep about Their great enterprises, and often enough Have provided evidence of their own crimes. Many meet death. Many, as if falling headlong From high mountains down to earth With their whole bodies, are frantic with fear. And after sleep, as if still out of their minds, They can scarcely recover, so confused are they By the turmoil in their bodies. Likewise, a thirsty person Sits beside a lovely spring Or river and gulps down, with open throat, Almost the whole stream. And often innocent children, Overcome by sleep, think they lift their clothes Beside a pail or public urinal and then release The water filtered down through their whole bodies, Soaking the magnificent, brightly colored Babylonian bedcovers. Again, those males In whose surging years Seed has now first appeared, produced Within their bodies as the days brought them to maturity, Are confronted in sleep by image-films from outside Of some beautiful figure. These bring news of a glorious face and lovely bloom, Which stir and excite the parts now swollen With abundant seed. Then, as if The whole act had been duly performed, They pour out the waves of a powerful stream And stain their clothing. And as I said before, That seed is stirred in us once mature age Has made our bodies strong... Just as different causes give different things Their impulse and stimulation, so one force In humankind stirs the human seed To spurt from a man. As soon as it emerges, Forced from its first dwelling places, it passes down Through the whole body, through its limbs and frame. It gathers in certain regions of the muscles And strongly stirs the man's genitals. The excited parts swell with seed, and then Comes the pleasure of shooting it toward the object For which mad desire longs. The body seeks That object by which the mind is pierced with love. For almost everyone falls toward their wound, And our blood spurts toward the very place from which The blow that struck us came. And if The enemy is close, the red jet reaches him. So a person struck by Venus' arrows, Whether attacked by a boy with feminine limbs Or by a woman who sends love from her whole body, Strains to reach the very thing that struck him. He longs To join with it and cast into its body The fluid drawn from deep within his own. For that unspoken craving foretells delight.

This craving 'tis that's Venus unto us: From this, engender all the lures of love, From this, O first hath into human hearts Trickled that drop of joyance which ere long Is by chill care succeeded. Since, indeed, Though she thou lovest now be far away, Yet idol-images of her are near And the sweet name is floating in thy ear. But it behooves to flee those images; And scare afar whatever feeds thy love; And turn elsewhere thy mind; and vent the sperm, Within thee gathered, into sundry bodies, Nor, with thy thoughts still busied with one love, Keep it for one delight, and so store up Care for thyself and pain inevitable. For, lo, the ulcer just by nourishing Grows to more life with deep inveteracy, And day by day the fury swells aflame, And the woe waxes heavier day by day— Unless thou dost destroy even by new blows The former wounds of love, and curest them While yet they're fresh, by wandering freely round After the freely-wandering Venus, or Canst lead elsewhere the tumults of thy mind. Nor doth that man who keeps away from love Yet lack the fruits of Venus; rather takes Those pleasures which are free of penalties. For the delights of Venus, verily, Are more unmixed for mortals sane-of-soul Than for those sick-at-heart with love-pining. Yea, in the very moment of possessing, Surges the heat of lovers to and fro, Restive, uncertain; and they cannot fix On what to first enjoy with eyes and hands. The parts they sought for, those they squeeze so tight, And pain the creature's body, close their teeth Often against her lips, and smite with kiss Mouth into mouth,—because this same delight Is not unmixed; and underneath are stings Which goad a man to hurt the very thing, Whate'er it be, from whence arise for him Those germs of madness. But with gentle touch Venus subdues the pangs in midst of love, And the admixture of a fondling joy Doth curb the bites of passion. For they hope That by the very body whence they caught The heats of love their flames can be put out. But nature protests 'tis all quite otherwise; For this same love it is the one sole thing Of which, the more we have, the fiercer burns The breast with fell desire. For food and drink Are taken within our members; and, since they Can stop up certain parts, thus, easily Desire of water is glutted and of bread. But, lo, from human face and lovely bloom Naught penetrates our frame to be enjoyed Save flimsy idol-images and vain— A sorry hope which oft the winds disperse. As when the thirsty man in slumber seeks To drink, and water ne'er is granted him Wherewith to quench the heat within his members, But after idols of the liquids strives And toils in vain, and thirsts even whilst he gulps In middle of the torrent, thus in love Venus deludes with idol-images The lovers. Nor they cannot sate their lust By merely gazing on the bodies, nor They cannot with their palms and fingers rub Aught from each tender limb, the while they stray Uncertain over all the body. Then, At last, with members intertwined, when they Enjoy the flower of their age, when now Their bodies have sweet presage of keen joys, And Venus is about to sow the fields Of woman, greedily their frames they lock, And mingle the slaver of their mouths, and breathe Into each other, pressing teeth on mouths— Yet to no purpose, since they're powerless To rub off aught, or penetrate and pass With body entire into body—for oft They seem to strive and struggle thus to do; So eagerly they cling in Venus' bonds, Whilst melt away their members, overcome By violence of delight. But when at last Lust, gathered in the thews, hath spent itself, There come a brief pause in the raging heat— But then a madness just the same returns And that old fury visits them again, When once again they seek and crave to reach They know not what, all powerless to find The artifice to subjugate the bane. In such uncertain state they waste away With unseen wound. To which be added too, They squander powers and with the travail wane; Be added too, they spend their futile years Under another's beck and call; their duties Neglected languish and their honest name Reeleth sick, sick; and meantime their estates Are lost in Babylonian tapestries; And unguents and dainty Sicyonian shoes Laugh on her feet; and (as ye may be sure) Big emeralds of green light are set in gold; And rich sea-purple dress by constant wear Grows shabby and all soaked with Venus' sweat; And the well-earned ancestral property Becometh head-bands, coifs, and many a time The cloaks, or garments Alidensian Or of the Cean isle. And banquets, set With rarest cloth and viands, are prepared— And games of chance, and many a drinking cup, And unguents, crowns and garlands. All in vain, Since from amid the well-spring of delights Bubbles some drop of bitter to torment Among the very flowers—when haply mind Gnaws into self, now stricken with remorse For slothful years and ruin in baudels, Or else because she's left him all in doubt By launching some sly word, which still like fire Lives wildly, cleaving to his eager heart; Or else because he thinks she darts her eyes Too much about and gazes at another,— And in her face sees traces of a laugh. These ills are found in prospering love and true; But in crossed love and helpless there be such As through shut eyelids thou canst still take in— Uncounted ills; so that 'tis better far To watch beforehand, in the way I've shown, And guard against enticements. For to shun A fall into the hunting-snares of love Is not so hard, as to get out again, When tangled in the very nets, and burst The stoutly-knotted cords of Aphrodite. Yet even when there enmeshed with tangled feet, Still canst thou scape the danger-lest indeed Thou standest in the way of thine own good, And overlookest first all blemishes Of mind and body of thy much preferred, Desirable dame. For so men do, Eyeless with passion, and assign to them Graces not theirs in fact. And thus we see Creatures in many a wise crooked and ugly The prosperous sweethearts in a high esteem; And lovers gird each other and advise To placate Venus, since their friends are smit With a base passion—miserable dupes Who seldom mark their own worst bane of all. The black-skinned girl is "tawny like the honey"; The filthy and the fetid's "negligee"; The cat-eyed she's "a little Pallas," she; The sinewy and wizened's "a gazelle"; The pudgy and the pigmy is "piquant, One of the Graces sure"; the big and bulky O she's "an Admiration, imposante"; The stuttering and tongue-tied "sweetly lisps"; The mute girl's "modest"; and the garrulous, The spiteful spit-fire, is "a sparkling wit"; And she who scarcely lives for scrawniness Becomes "a slender darling"; "delicate" Is she who's nearly dead of coughing-fit; The pursy female with protuberant breasts She is "like Ceres when the goddess gave Young Bacchus suck"; the pug-nosed lady-love "A Satyress, a feminine Silenus"; The blubber-lipped is "all one luscious kiss"— A weary while it were to tell the whole. But let her face possess what charm ye will, Let Venus' glory rise from all her limbs,— Forsooth there still are others; and forsooth We lived before without her; and forsooth She does the same things—and we know she does— All, as the ugly creature, and she scents, Yes she, her wretched self with vile perfumes; Whom even her handmaids flee and giggle at Behind her back. But he, the lover, in tears Because shut out, covers her threshold o'er Often with flowers and garlands, and anoints Her haughty door-posts with the marjoram, And prints, poor fellow, kisses on the doors— Admitted at last, if haply but one whiff Got to him on approaching, he would seek Decent excuses to go out forthwith; And his lament, long pondered, then would fall Down at his heels; and there he'd damn himself For his fatuity, observing how He had assigned to that same lady more— Than it is proper to concede to mortals. And these our Venuses are 'ware of this. Wherefore the more are they at pains to hide All the-behind-the-scenes of life from those Whom they desire to keep in bonds of love— In vain, since ne'ertheless thou canst by thought Drag all the matter forth into the light And well search out the cause of all these smiles; And if of graceful mind she be and kind, Do thou, in thy turn, overlook the same, And thus allow for poor mortality. Nor sighs the woman always with feigned love, Who links her body round man's body locked And holds him fast, making his kisses wet With lips sucked into lips; for oft she acts Even from desire, and, seeking mutual joys, Incites him there to run love's race-course through. Nor otherwise can cattle, birds, wild beasts, And sheep and mares submit unto the males, Except that their own nature is in heat, And burns abounding and with gladness takes Once more the Venus of the mounting males. And seest thou not how those whom mutual pleasure Hath bound are tortured in their common bonds? How often in the cross-roads dogs that pant To get apart strain eagerly asunder With utmost might?—When all the while they're fast In the stout links of Venus. But they'd ne'er So pull, except they knew those mutual joys— So powerful to cast them unto snares And hold them bound. Wherefore again, again, Even as I say, there is a joint delight. And when perchance, in mingling seed with his, The female hath o'erpowered the force of male And by a sudden fling hath seized it fast, Then are the offspring, more from mothers' seed, More like their mothers; as, from fathers' seed, They're like to fathers. But whom seest to be Partakers of each shape, one equal blend Of parents' features, these are generate From fathers' body and from mothers' blood, When mutual and harmonious heat hath dashed Together seeds, aroused along their frames By Venus' goads, and neither of the twain Mastereth or is mastered. Happens too That sometimes offspring can to being come In likeness of their grandsires, and bring back Often the shapes of grandsires' sires, because Their parents in their bodies oft retain Concealed many primal germs, commixed In many modes, which, starting with the stock, Sire handeth down to son, himself a sire; Whence Venus by a variable chance Engenders shapes, and diversely brings back Ancestral features, voices too, and hair. A female generation rises forth From seed paternal, and from mother's body Exist created males: since sex proceeds No more from singleness of seed than faces Or bodies or limbs of ours: for every birth Is from a twofold seed; and what's created Hath, of that parent which it is more like, More than its equal share; as thou canst mark,— Whether the breed be male or female stock. Nor do the powers divine grudge any man The fruits of his seed-sowing, so that never He be called "father" by sweet children his, And end his days in sterile love forever. What many men suppose; and gloomily They sprinkle the altars with abundant blood, And make the high platforms odorous with burnt gifts, To render big by plenteous seed their wives— And plague in vain godheads and sacred lots. For sterile are these men by seed too thick, Or else by far too watery and thin. Because the thin is powerless to cleave Fast to the proper places, straightaway It trickles from them, and, returned again, Retires abortively. And then since seed More gross and solid than will suit is spent By some men, either it flies not forth amain With spurt prolonged enough, or else it fails To enter suitably the proper places, Or, having entered, the seed is weakly mixed With seed of the woman: harmonies of Venus Are seen to matter vastly here; and some Impregnate some more readily, and from some Some women conceive more readily and become Pregnant. And many women, sterile before In several marriage-beds, have yet thereafter Obtained the mates from whom they could conceive The baby-boys, and with sweet progeny Grow rich. And even for husbands (whose own wives, Although of fertile wombs, have borne for them No babies in the house) are also found Concordant natures so that they at last Can bulwark their old age with goodly sons. A matter of great moment 'tis in truth, That seeds may mingle readily with seeds Suited for procreation, and that thick Should mix with fluid seeds, with thick the fluid. And in this business 'tis of some import Upon what diet life is nourished: For some foods thicken seeds within our members, And others thin them out and waste away. And in what modes the fond delight itself Is carried on—this too importeth vastly. For commonly 'tis thought that wives conceive More readily in manner of wild-beasts, After the custom of the four-foot breeds, Because so postured, with the breasts beneath And buttocks then upreared, the seeds can take Their proper places. Nor is need the least For wives to use the motions of blandishment; For thus the woman hinders and resists Her own conception, if too joyously Herself she treats the Venus of the man With haunches heaving, and with all her bosom Now yielding like the billows of the sea— Aye, from the ploughshare's even course and track She throws the furrow, and from proper places Deflects the spurt of seed. And courtesans Are thuswise wont to move for their own ends, To keep from pregnancy and lying in, And all the while to render Venus more A pleasure for the men—the which meseems Our wives have never need of. Sometimes too It happens—and through no divinity Nor arrows of Venus—that a sorry chit Of scanty grace will be beloved by man; For sometimes she herself by very deeds, By her complying ways, and tidy habits, Will easily accustom thee to pass With her thy life-time—and, moreover, lo, Long habitude can gender human love, Even as an object smitten o'er and o'er By blows, however lightly, yet at last Is overcome and wavers. Seest thou not, Besides, how drops of water falling down Against the stones at last bore through the stones?

This craving is what we call Venus: From it come all the attractions of love, And from it that first drop of joy Trickles into human hearts, only soon To be followed by chilling anxiety. For Though the woman you love may now be far away, Images of her remain close by, And her sweet name floats in your ear. But you must flee those images, Drive away whatever feeds your love, Turn your mind elsewhere, and release the sperm Gathered within you into various bodies. Do not, with your thoughts fixed on one love, Save it for one pleasure and so store up Anxiety and inevitable pain for yourself. For look, the sore grows more alive And deeply rooted when you feed it. Day by day the passion flares higher, And day by day the misery grows heavier, Unless you strike new blows against Love's old wounds and heal them While they are fresh, by roaming freely In pursuit of freely roaming Venus, or By turning the turmoil of your mind elsewhere. A man who keeps away from love Does not forfeit the fruits of Venus. Rather, he takes Those pleasures that carry no penalty. For the pleasures of Venus are indeed Less mixed with pain for people of sound mind Than for those whose hearts are sick with longing. Even at the very moment of possession, The lovers' passion surges back and forth, Restless and uncertain. They cannot decide What to enjoy first with eyes and hands. They squeeze the parts they sought so tightly That they hurt the other's body. Often they bite Her lips and press their mouths together In fierce kisses, because this pleasure Is not pure. Beneath it are stings That drive a man to hurt the very thing, Whatever it is, that gives rise in him To those seeds of madness. But with a gentle touch Venus calms the pain amid lovemaking, And the tender pleasure mingled with it Restrains passion's bites. For lovers hope That the very body that kindled Their passion can put out its flames. But nature declares that the truth is otherwise. For love is the one thing That makes the heart burn more fiercely With cruel desire the more we have of it. Food and drink Enter our bodies, and because They can fill certain parts, our desire For water and bread is easily satisfied. But from a human face and lovely beauty Nothing enters our bodies for us to enjoy Except thin and fleeting images. They offer a sorry hope, often scattered by the wind. A thirsty man may seek in sleep To drink, but no water is given him To quench the heat within his body. Instead, he struggles after images of liquid, Toiling in vain and thirsting even as he gulps In the middle of a stream. So in love Venus deceives lovers with images. They cannot satisfy their desire Just by gazing at bodies, nor Can they rub anything off a tender limb With palms and fingers, though their hands wander Uncertainly over the whole body. Then, At last, with their limbs intertwined, when they Enjoy the flower of their youth, when Their bodies have a sweet foretaste of intense pleasure, And Venus is about to sow the woman's Fields, they greedily lock their bodies together, Mingle the saliva of their mouths, and breathe Into each other, pressing teeth against lips. Yet it is useless, because they cannot Rub anything off or enter and pass Entirely into each other's bodies. Often They seem to struggle and strive to do just that. So eagerly do they cling in Venus' bonds, While their limbs melt away, overcome By the violence of pleasure. But when at last The lust gathered in their bodies has spent itself, The raging heat briefly pauses. Then the same madness returns, And the old passion visits them again. Once more they seek and long to reach Something they cannot name, unable to find A way to overcome their affliction. In this uncertain state they waste away From an unseen wound. To this add that They squander their strength and wear themselves out. Add, too, that they spend their useless years At another's beck and call. Their duties Lie neglected, and their good name Sickens and reels. Meanwhile, their estates Are spent on Babylonian tapestries. Perfumes and delicate Sicyonian shoes Adorn her feet, and, you may be sure, Large, green, gleaming emeralds are set in gold. A rich sea-purple dress, worn constantly, Grows shabby and soaked with the sweat of Venus. Their hard-earned ancestral property Becomes headbands and headdresses, and often Cloaks or garments from Alidensian lands Or the island of Cean. Banquets are prepared With the finest cloths and foods, Along with games of chance, many cups of wine, Perfumes, crowns, and garlands. All in vain, For from the very spring of pleasure A drop of bitterness bubbles up to torment them Amid the flowers. Perhaps the mind Gnaws at itself, stricken with remorse For years of idleness and ruin in brothels. Or perhaps she has left him in doubt With some sly remark that still burns And clings wildly to his anxious heart. Or perhaps he thinks her eyes wander Too often and settle on another man, And he sees traces of a laugh on her face. These troubles occur even when love prospers and is true. But when love is thwarted and hopeless, its troubles Are so numerous that you can see them Even with your eyes shut. So it is far better To watch in advance, as I have shown, And guard against temptation. For avoiding A fall into love's hunting snares Is not as hard as getting out again Once caught in the nets and breaking Aphrodite's tightly knotted cords. Yet even when your feet are tangled in them, You can still escape the danger, unless You stand in the way of your own good And ignore all the flaws Of mind and body in the woman You desire and prize above all others. For men do this. Blinded by passion, they assign women Graces they do not actually possess. So we see Women flawed and ugly in many ways Highly prized as successful lovers. And lovers mock one another and advise Their friends to appease Venus, since those friends are struck By a low passion. Miserable fools, They seldom notice their own worst affliction. The black-skinned girl is "honey-colored". The filthy, foul-smelling one is "carelessly dressed". The cat-eyed one is "a little Pallas". The sinewy, shriveled one is "a gazelle". The plump little dwarf is "charming, Surely one of the Graces". The big, bulky one Is "an admirable, imposing woman". The one who stammers and cannot speak clearly "has a sweet lisp". The silent girl is "modest", and the talkative, Spiteful firebrand has "a sparkling wit". She who barely lives because she is so thin Becomes "a slender darling". "Delicate" Is the one nearly dead from coughing. The fat woman with prominent breasts Is "like Ceres when the goddess nursed Young Bacchus". The snub-nosed sweetheart is "A Satyress, a female Silenus". The thick-lipped one is "one luscious kiss". It would take too long to tell the whole list. But grant her face whatever charm you like, And let the glory of Venus shine from every limb. There are still other women, after all. And we lived without her before, after all. And she does the same things, we know she does, As the ugly woman. She, yes, she herself, Covers her wretched self with foul perfumes. Even her maids flee from her and giggle Behind her back. But the lover, in tears Because he has been shut out, often covers her threshold With flowers and garlands, anoints Her proud doorposts with marjoram, And, poor fellow, presses kisses on the doors. If at last he were admitted and happened to catch one whiff As he approached, he would at once look For a decent excuse to leave. His long-prepared lament would then fall At his feet, and he would curse himself For his foolishness, seeing how He had granted that same lady more Than it is right to grant a mortal. And our Venuses know this. That is why they take all the more care to hide The messy realities of life from those They wish to keep in love's bonds. But they do so in vain. You can still use your mind To drag the whole matter into the light And examine carefully the cause of all those smiles. And if she is gracious and kind, You, in turn, should overlook those realities And make allowances for poor mortals. Nor does a woman always pretend to love When she wraps her body around a man's And holds him fast, wetting his kisses As she draws his lips between hers. Often she acts Out of desire and, seeking mutual pleasure, Urges him to run love's whole race. Nor could cattle, birds, wild beasts, Sheep, and mares submit to males Unless their own nature were in heat, Burning abundantly and gladly welcoming Once more the Venus of the mounting males. And do you not see how those bound By mutual pleasure suffer in their shared bonds? How often, at crossroads, do dogs panting To part pull eagerly away from each other With all their strength? Yet all the while they are held fast In Venus' strong bonds. They would never Pull so if they did not know those mutual pleasures, So powerful that they cast them into snares And hold them bound. So once again, As I say, the pleasure is shared. Sometimes, when a woman mixes her seed with a man's, Her force overcomes his And suddenly seizes it fast. Then, having more of their mother's seed, The children are more like their mother. Likewise, with more Of their father's seed, they resemble their father. But those you see Sharing both forms, an equal mixture Of their parents' features, are generated From their father's body and their mother's blood When mutual, harmonious passion has brought Their seeds together. Venus' goads stir the seeds Through their bodies, and neither parent Overpowers the other. It also happens That children sometimes come into being Resembling their grandparents, and often bring back The forms of their grandparents' parents. For parents often carry Hidden within their bodies many first seeds, mixed In many ways. Beginning with the family line, A father passes these to his son, himself a father. From these, Venus produces forms by varying chance And brings back ancestral features in different ways, Along with voices and hair. A female child comes from her father's seed, And males are created from their mother's body. For sex comes from no single parent's seed, any more than our faces, Bodies, or limbs do. Every birth Comes from two seeds, and the child Has more than an equal share of the parent It resembles more. You can see this Whether the child is male or female. Nor do the divine powers deny any man The fruits of his sowing, so that he is never Called "father" by his sweet children And ends his days forever in childless love. Many men think this, and in their gloom They sprinkle altars with abundant blood And make the high platforms fragrant with burnt offerings. They hope to make their wives pregnant with abundant seed, But trouble the gods and sacred lots in vain. For these men are sterile because their seed is too thick, Or else much too watery and thin. The thin seed cannot cling To the proper places, so it at once Trickles away and, flowing back, Leaves without producing a child. And because some men release seed That is coarser and thicker than is suitable, It either does not shoot out strongly Enough in a prolonged spurt, or fails To enter the proper places as it should. Or, having entered, it mixes poorly With the woman's seed. Harmony in Venus Clearly matters greatly here. Some men Impregnate some women more readily, and some women Conceive more readily by some men and become Pregnant. Many women, previously barren In several marriages, have afterwards Found partners by whom they could conceive Baby boys and become rich in sweet children. And husbands whose own wives, Though fertile, have borne them No children at home, also find Compatible partners. At last they can then Fortify their old age with fine sons. It is truly a matter of great importance That seeds suited for procreation Should mingle readily with each other, and that thick Seed should mix with fluid seed, and fluid with thick. In this matter, the food that sustains life Is also of some importance. For some foods thicken seed within our bodies, While others thin and weaken it. And the way the loving pleasure itself Is carried out also matters greatly. For it is commonly thought that wives conceive More readily in the manner of wild beasts, Following the custom of four-footed animals. In that position, with breasts lowered And buttocks raised, the seed can reach Its proper place. Wives have no need at all To use seductive movements. For a woman hinders and prevents Her own conception if she takes too much pleasure In the man's Venus, heaving her hips And letting her whole body Sway like the waves of the sea. She throws the furrow out of the plow's Straight course and track, and turns the spurt of seed Away from its proper place. Courtesans Are accustomed to move this way for their own purposes, To avoid pregnancy and childbirth, While making Venus more pleasurable For men. Our wives, it seems to me, Have no need for this. Sometimes, too, It happens, without divine intervention Or Venus' arrows, that a man loves A plain girl with few charms. For sometimes her own actions, Her agreeable ways and neat habits, Easily accustom you to spending Your life with her. And, besides, Long familiarity can give rise to human love. An object struck again and again By blows, however light, is at last Overcome and gives way. Do you not see, Besides, how drops of water falling Against stones at last bore through them?