I wander afield, thriving in sturdy thought,Through unpathed haunts of the Pierides,Trodden by step of none before. I joyTo come on undefiled fountains there,To drain them deep; I joy to pluck new flowers,To seek for this my head a signal crownFrom regions where the Muses never yetHave garlanded the temples of a man:First, since I teach concerning mighty things,And go right on to loose from round the mindThe tightened coils of dread religion;Next, since, concerning themes so dark, I frameSong so pellucid, touching all throughoutEven with the Muses' charm--which, as 'twould seem,Is not without a reasonable ground:For as physicians, when they seek to giveYoung boys the nauseous wormwood, first do touchThe brim around the cup with the sweet juiceAnd yellow of the honey, in order thatThe thoughtless age of boyhood be cajoledAs far as the lips, and meanwhile swallow downThe wormwood's bitter draught, and, though befooled,Be yet not merely duped, but rather thusGrow strong again with recreated health:So now I too (since this my doctrine seemsIn general somewhat woeful unto thoseWho've had it not in hand, and since the crowdStarts back from it in horror) have desiredTo expound our doctrine unto thee in songSoft-speaking and Pierian, and, as 'twere,To touch it with sweet honey of the Muse--If by such method haply I might holdThe mind of thee upon these lines of ours,Till thou dost learn the nature of all thingsAnd understandest their utility.
EXISTENCE AND CHARACTER OF THE IMAGES
But since I've taught already of what sortThe seeds of all things are, and how distinctIn 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 knitAnd thrives in strength, and by what mode uptornThat 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 callThe images of things: these, like to filmsScaled 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 shapesAnd images of people lorn of light,Which oft have horribly roused us when we layIn slumber--that haply nevermore may weSuppose 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, eachBack 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 formWith whatso body has shed it fluttering forth--A fact thou mayst, however dull thy wits,Well learn from this: mainly, because we seeEven 'mongst visible objects many beThat 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 summertimePut off their glossy tunics, or when calvesAt birth drop membranes from their body's surface,Or when, again, the slippery serpent doffsIts vestments 'mongst the thorns--for oft we seeThe breres augmented with their flying spoils:Since such takes place, 'tis likewise certain tooThat 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 thingsAre 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 dischargeTheir stuff at large, not only from their coresDeep-set within, as we have said above,But from their surfaces at times no less--Their very colours too. And commonlyThe 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 dyeAnd make to undulate with their every hueThe circled throng below, and all the stage,And rich attire in the patrician seats.And ever the more the theatre's dark wallsAround them shut, the more all things withinLaugh in the bright suffusion of strange glints,The daylight being withdrawn. And therefore, sinceThe canvas hangings thus discharge their dyeFrom off their surface, things in general mustLikewise their tenuous effigies discharge,Because in either case they are off-thrownFrom off the surface. So there are indeedSuch certain prints and vestiges of formsWhich flit around, of subtlest texture made,Invisible, when separate, each and one.Again, all odour, smoke, and heat, and suchStreams out of things diffusedly, because,Whilst coming from the deeps of body forthAnd rising out, along their bending pathThey're torn asunder, nor have gateways straightWherethrough to mass themselves and struggle abroad.But contrariwise, when such a tenuous filmOf outside colour is thrown off, there's naughtCan rend it, since 'tis placed along the frontReady to hand. Lastly those imagesWhich 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 divineWhen taken singly, which do yet give back,When by continued and recurrent dischargeExpelled, a picture from the mirrors' plane.Nor otherwise, it seems, can they be keptSo well conserved that thus be given backFigures so like each object.
Now then, learnHow tenuous is the nature of an image.And in the first place, since primordials beSo far beneath our senses, and much lessE'en than those objects which begin to growToo small for eyes to note, learn now in fewHow nice are the beginnings of all things--That this, too, I may yet confirm in proof:First, living creatures are sometimes so smallThat 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 particlesWhence soul and mind must fashioned be?--Seest notHow nice and how minute? Besides, whateverExhales 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] twainPerchance [thou touch] a one of them
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Then why not rather know that imagesFlit hither and thither, many, in many modes,Bodiless and invisible?
But lestHaply thou holdest that those imagesWhich come from objects are the sole that flit,Others indeed there be of own accordBegot, 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 turnInto new outlines of all sorts of forms;As we behold the clouds grow thick on highAnd smirch the serene vision of the world,Stroking the air with motions. For oft are seenThe giants' faces flying far alongAnd trailing a spread of shadow; and at timesThe mighty mountains and mountain-sundered rocksGoing before and crossing on the sun,Whereafter a monstrous beast dragging amainAnd leading in the other thunderheads.Now [hear] how easy and how swift they beEngendered, and perpetually flow offFrom things and gliding pass away....
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For ever every outside streams awayFrom off all objects, since discharge they may;And when this outside reaches other things,As chiefly glass, it passes through; but whereIt reaches the rough rocks or stuff of wood,There 'tis so rent that it cannot give backAn image. But when gleaming objects dense,As chiefly mirrors, have been set before it,Nothing of this sort happens. For it can'tGo, as through glass, nor yet be rent--its safety,By virtue of that smoothness, being sure.'Tis therefore that from them the imagesStream back to us; and howso suddenlyThou place, at any instant, anythingBefore a mirror, there an image shows;Proving that ever from a body's surfaceFlow off thin textures and thin shapes of things.Thus many images in little timeAre gendered; so their origin is namedRightly a speedy. And even as the sunMust send below, in little time, to earthSo many beams to keep all things so fullOf 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; becauseUnto whatever face of things we turnThe mirror, things of form and hue the sameRespond. Besides, though but a moment sinceSerenest was the weather of the sky,So fiercely sudden is it foully thickThat ye might think that round about all murkHad parted forth from Acheron and filledThe 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 isThere's none to tell or reckon out in words.
Now come; with what swift motion they are borne,These images, and what the speed assignedTo them across the breezes swimming on--So that o'er lengths of space a little hourAlone is wasted, toward whatever regionEach with its divers impulse tends--I'll tellIn verses sweeter than they many are;Even as the swan's slight note is better farThan that dispersed clamour of the cranesAmong the southwind's aery clouds. And first,One oft may see that objects which are lightAnd made of tiny bodies are the swift;In which class is the sun's light and his heat,Since made from small primordial elementsWhich, as it were, are forward knocked alongAnd through the interspaces of the airTo pass delay not, urged by blows behind;For light by light is instantly suppliedAnd gleam by following gleam is spurred and driven.Thus likewise must the images have powerThrough unimaginable space to speedWithin a point of time,--first, since a causeExceeding small there is, which at their backFar 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 canThrough objects whatsoever penetrateAnd ooze, as 'twere, through intervening air.Besides, if those fine particles of thingsWhich from so deep within are sent abroad,As light and heat of sun, are seen to glideAnd spread themselves through all the space of heavenUpon one instant of the day, and flyO'er sea and lands and flood the heaven, what thenOf those which on the outside stand prepared,When they're hurled off with not a thing to checkTheir going out? Dost thou not see indeedHow swifter and how farther must they goAnd speed through manifold the length of spaceIn time the same that from the sun the raysO'erspread the heaven? This also seems to beExample chief and true with what swift speedThe images of things are borne about:That soon as ever under open skiesIs 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 timeAn image from the shores of ether fallsUnto the shores of earth? Wherefore, again,And yet again, 'tis needful to confessWith wondrous...
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THE SENSES AND MENTAL PICTURES
Bodies that strike the eyes, awaking sight.From certain things flow odours evermore,As cold from rivers, heat from sun, and sprayFrom waves of ocean, eater-out of wallsAround the coasts. Nor ever cease to flitThe varied voices, sounds athrough the air.Then too there comes into the mouth at timesThe wet of a salt taste, when by the seaWe roam about; and so, whene'er we watchThe wormword being mixed, its bitter stings.To such degree from all things is each thingBorne streamingly along, and sent aboutTo every region round; and nature grantsNor rest nor respite of the onward flow,Since 'tis incessantly we feeling have,And all the time are suffered to descryAnd smell all things at hand, and hear them sound.Besides, since shape examined by our handsWithin the dark is known to be the sameAs that by eyes perceived within the lightAnd lustrous day, both touch and sight must beBy one like cause aroused. So, if we testA square and get its stimulus on usWithin the dark, within the light what squareCan fall upon our sight, except a squareThat images the things? Wherefore it seemsThe source of seeing is in images,Nor without these can anything be viewed.
Now these same films I name are borne aboutAnd tossed and scattered into regions all.But since we do perceive alone through eyes,It follows hence that whitherso we turnOur sight, all things do strike against it thereWith form and hue. And just how far from usEach thing may be away, the image yieldsTo us the power to see and chance to tell:For when 'tis sent, at once it shoves aheadAnd drives along the air that's in the spaceBetwixt it and our eyes. And thus this airAll glides athrough our eyeballs, and, as 'twere,Brushes athrough our pupils and thuswisePasses across. Therefore it comes we seeHow 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 breezeAgainst our eyes, the farther off removedEach thing is seen to be: forsooth, this workWith mightily swift order all goes on,So that upon one instant we may seeWhat kind the object and how far away.
Nor over-marvellous must this be deemedIn these affairs that, though the films which strikeUpon the eyes cannot be singly seen,The things themselves may be perceived. For thusWhen the wind beats upon us stroke by strokeAnd when the sharp cold streams, 'tis not our wontTo feel each private particle of windOr 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 sameAnd giving us the feel of its own bodyOutside of us. Again, whene'er we thumpWith finger-tip upon a stone, we touchBut the rock's surface and the outer hue,Nor feel that hue by contact--rather feelThe very hardness deep within the rock.
Now come, and why beyond a looking-glassAn image may be seen, perceive. For seenIt soothly is, removed far within.'Tis the same sort as objects peered uponOutside in their true shape, whene'er a doorYields through itself an open peering-place,And lets us see so many things outsideBeyond the house. Also that sight is madeBy a twofold twin air: for first is seenThe air inside the door-posts; next the doors,The twain to left and right; and afterwardsA light beyond comes brushing through our eyes,Then other air, then objects peered uponOutside in their true shape. And thus, when firstThe image of the glass projects itself,As to our gaze it comes, it shoves aheadAnd drives along the air that's in the spaceBetwixt it and our eyes, and brings to passThat we perceive the air ere yet the glass.But when we've also seen the glass itself,Forthwith that image which from us is borneReaches the glass, and there thrown back againComes back unto our eyes, and driving rollsAhead of itself another air, that then'Tis this we see before itself, and thusIt looks so far removed behind the glass.Wherefore again, again, there's naught for wonder
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In those which render from the mirror's planeA vision back, since each thing comes to passBy means of the two airs. Now, in the glassThe right part of our members is observedUpon the left, because, when comes the imageHitting against the level of the glass,'Tis not returned unshifted; but forced offBackwards in line direct and not oblique,--Exactly as whoso his plaster-maskShould 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 beFrom mirror into mirror handed on,Until of idol-films even five or sixHave thus been gendered. For whatever thingsShall hide back yonder in the house, the same,However far removed in twisting ways,May still be all brought forth through bending pathsAnd by these several mirrors seen to beWithin the house, since nature so compelsAll things to be borne backward and spring offAt equal angles from all other things.To such degree the image gleams acrossFrom mirror unto mirror; where 'twas leftIt comes to be the right, and then againReturns and changes round unto the left.Again, those little sides of mirrors curvedProportionate to the bulge of our own flankSend back to us their idols with the rightUpon the right; and this is so becauseEither the image is passed on alongFrom 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 turnTo usward. Further, thou might'st well believeThat these film-idols step along with usAnd set their feet in unison with oursAnd imitate our carriage, since from thatPart of a mirror whence thou hast withdrawnStraightway no images can be returned.
Further, our eye-balls tend to flee the brightAnd shun to gaze thereon; the sun even blinds,If thou goest on to strain them unto him,Because his strength is mighty, and the filmsHeavily downward from on high are borneThrough 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 fireWhich, working into eyes, engender pain.Again, whatever jaundiced people viewBecomes wan-yellow, since from out their bodiesFlow many seeds wan-yellow forth to meetThe films of things, and many too are mixedWithin their eye, which by contagion paintAll things with sallowness. Again, we viewFrom dark recesses things that stand in light,Because, when first has entered and possessedThe open eyes this nearer darkling air,Swiftly the shining air and luminousFolloweth in, which purges then the eyesAnd scatters asunder of that other airThe sable shadows, for in large degreesThis air is nimbler, nicer, and more strong.And soon as ever 'thas filled and oped with lightThe pathways of the eyeballs, which beforeBlack air had blocked, there follow straightawayThose films of things out-standing in the light,Provoking vision--what we cannot doFrom out the light with objects in the dark,Because that denser darkling air behindFolloweth in, and fills each apertureAnd thus blockades the pathways of the eyesThat there no images of any thingsCan be thrown in and agitate the eyes.
And when from far away we do beholdThe squared towers of a city, oftRounded they seem,--on this account becauseEach distant angle is perceived obtuse,Or rather it is not perceived at all;And perishes its blow nor to our gazeArrives its stroke, since through such length of airAre borne along the idols that the airMakes blunt the idol of the angle's pointBy numerous collidings. When thuswiseThe angles of the tower each and allHave quite escaped the sense, the stones appearAs 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 appearsTo move along and follow our own stepsAnd imitate our carriage--if thou thinkestAir that is thus bereft of light can walk,Following the gait and motion of mankind.For what we use to name a shadow, sureIs naught but air deprived of light. No marvel:Because the earth from spot to spot is reftProgressively of light of sun, wheneverIn moving round we get within its way,While any spot of earth by us abandonedIs filled with light again, on this accountIt comes to pass that what was body's shadowSeems still the same to follow after usIn one straight course. Since, evermore pour inNew 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 lightAnd easily refilled and from herselfWasheth the black shadows quite away.
And yet in this we don't at all concedeThat eyes be cheated. For their task it isTo note in whatsoever place be light,In what be shadow: whether or no the gleamsBe still the same, and whether the shadow whichJust now was here is that one passing thither,Or whether the facts be what we said above,'Tis after all the reasoning of mindThat must decide; nor can our eyeballs knowThe nature of reality. And soAttach thou not this fault of mind to eyes,Nor lightly think our senses everywhereAre tottering. The ship in which we sailIs borne along, although it seems to stand;The ship that bides in roadstead is supposedThere to be passing by. And hills and fieldsSeem fleeing fast astern, past which we urgeThe ship and fly under the bellying sails.The stars, each one, do seem to pause, affixedTo the ethereal caverns, though they allForever are in motion, rising outAnd thence revisiting their far descentsWhen they have measured with their bodies brightThe span of heaven. And likewise sun and moonSeem biding in a roadstead,--objects which,As plain fact proves, are really borne along.Between two mountains far away aloftFrom midst the whirl of waters open liesA gaping exit for the fleet, and yetThey 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 roofsThreaten to ruin down upon their heads.And now, when nature begins to lift on highThe 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 themWith his own fire--are yet away from usScarcely two thousand arrow-shots, indeedOft scarce five hundred courses of a dart;Although between those mountains and the sunLie the huge plains of ocean spread beneathThe vasty shores of ether, and interveneA thousand lands, possessed by many a folkAnd 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 earthAs far, as from the earth o'erspread on highThe gulfs of heaven; that thus thou seemest to viewClouds down below and heavenly bodies plungedWondrously in heaven under earth.Then too, when in the middle of the streamSticks fast our dashing horse, and down we gazeInto the river's rapid waves, some forceSeems then to bear the body of the horse,Though standing still, reversely from his course,And swiftly push up-stream. And wheresoe'erWe cast our eyes across, all objects seemThus to be onward borne and flow alongIn the same way as we. A portico,Albeit it stands well propped from end to endOn 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 drawsTogether to a cone's nigh-viewless point.To sailors on the main the sun he seemsFrom out the waves to rise, and in the wavesTo set and bury his light--because indeedThey 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 raisedAbove the briny spray is straight, and straightThe rudders from above. But other parts,Those sunk, immersed below the water-line,Seem broken all and bended and inclinedSloping to upwards, and turned back to floatAlmost atop the water. And when the windsCarry the scattered drifts along the skyIn the night-time, then seem to glide alongThe radiant constellations 'gainst the cloudsAnd there on high to take far other courseFrom that whereon in truth they're borne. And then,If haply our hand be set beneath one eyeAnd press below thereon, then to our gazeEach object which we gaze on seems to be,By some sensation twain--then twain the lightsOf 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 sleepHas bound our members down in slumber softAnd all the body lies in deep repose,Yet then we seem to self to be awakeAnd move our members; and in night's blind gloomWe think to mark the daylight and the sun;And, shut within a room, yet still we seemTo change our skies, our oceans, rivers, hills,To cross the plains afoot, and hear new sounds,Though still the austere silence of the nightAbides around us, and to speak replies,Though voiceless. Other cases of the sortWondrously many do we see, which allSeek, so to say, to injure faith in sense--In vain, because the largest part of theseDeceives through mere opinions of the mind,Which we do add ourselves, feigning to seeWhat by the senses are not seen at all.For naught is harder than to separatePlain facts from dubious, which the mind forthwithAdds by itself.
Again, if one supposeThat naught is known, he knows not whether thisItself is able to be known, since heConfesses naught to know. Therefore with himI waive discussion--who has set his headEven where his feet should be. But let me grantThat this he knows,--I question: whence he knowsWhat 'tis to know and not-to-know in turn,And what created concept of the truth,And what device has proved the dubiousTo differ from the certain?--since in thingsHe's heretofore seen naught of true. Thou'lt findThat from the senses first hath been createConcept of truth, nor can the senses beRebutted. For criterion must be foundWorthy of greater trust, which shall defeatThrough own authority the false by true;What, then, than these our senses must there beWorthy a greater trust? Shall reason, sprungFrom some false sense, prevail to contradictThose senses, sprung as reason wholly isFrom 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 tasteAccuse this touch or shall the nose confuteOr eyes defeat it? Methinks not so it is:For unto each has been divided offIts function quite apart, its power to each;And thus we're still constrained to perceiveThe soft, the cold, the hot apart, apartAll divers hues and whatso things there beConjoined with hues. Likewise the tasting tongueHas its own power apart, and smells apartAnd sounds apart are known. And thus it isThat 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 whatAt any time unto these senses showed,The same is true. And if the reason beUnable to unravel us the causeWhy objects, which at hand were square, afarSeemed rounded, yet it more availeth us,Lacking the reason, to pretend a causeFor each configuration, than to letFrom out our hands escape the obvious thingsAnd injure primal faith in sense, and wreckAll those foundations upon which do restOur life and safety. For not only reasonWould topple down; but even our very lifeWould straightaway collapse, unless we daredTo trust our senses and to keep awayFrom headlong heights and places to be shunnedOf a like peril, and to seek with speedTheir opposites! Again, as in a building,If the first plumb-line be askew, and ifThe square deceiving swerve from lines exact,And if the level waver but the leastIn any part, the whole construction thenMust 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 indeedBy first deceiving estimates: so tooThy calculations in affairs of lifeMust be askew and false, if sprung for theeFrom senses false. So all that troop of wordsMarshalled against the senses is quite vain.
And now remains to demonstrate with easeHow other senses each their things perceive.
Firstly, a sound and every voice is heard,When, getting into ears, they strike the senseWith their own body. For confess we mustEven 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 roughThe wind-pipe--naturally enough, methinks,When, through the narrow exit rising upIn larger throng, these primal germs of voiceHave thus begun to issue forth. In sooth,Also the door of the mouth is scraped against[By air blown outward] from distended [cheeks].
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And thus no doubt there is, that voice and wordsConsist of elements corporeal,With power to pain. Nor art thou unawareLikewise how much of body's ta'en away,How much from very thews and powers of menMay be withdrawn by steady talk, prolongedEven from the rising splendour of the mornTo shadows of black evening,--above allIf 't be outpoured with most exceeding shouts.Therefore the voice must be corporeal,Since the long talker loses from his frameA part.
Moreover, roughness in the soundComes from the roughness in the primal germs,As a smooth sound from smooth ones is create;Nor have these elements a form the sameWhen the trump rumbles with a hollow roar,As when barbaric Berecynthian pipeBuzzes with raucous boomings, or when swansBy night from icy shores of HeliconWith wailing voices raise their liquid dirge.
Thus, when from deep within our frame we forceThese voices, and at mouth expel them forth,The mobile tongue, artificer of words,Makes them articulate, and too the lipsBy their formations share in shaping them.Hence when the space is short from starting-pointTo where that voice arrives, the very wordsMust too be plainly heard, distinctly marked.For then the voice conserves its own formation,Conserves its shape. But if the space betweenBe longer than is fit, the words must beThrough the much air confounded, and the voiceDisordered 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 encumberedThe voice approaches us. Again, one word,Sent from the crier's mouth, may rouse all earsAmong the populace. And thus one voiceScatters 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 hitThe ears themselves perishes, borne beyond,Idly diffused among the winds. A part,Beating on solid porticoes, tossed backReturns a sound; and sometimes mocks the earWith a mere phantom of a word. When thisThou well hast noted, thou canst render countUnto thyself and others why it isAlong the lonely places that the rocksGive back like shapes of words in order like,When search we after comrades wanderingAmong the shady mountains, and aloudCall unto them, the scattered. I have seenSpots that gave back even voices six or sevenFor one thrown forth--for so the very hills,Dashing them back against the hills, kept onWith their reverberations. And these spotsThe neighbouring country-side doth feign to beHaunts of the goat-foot satyrs and the nymphs;And tells ye there be fauns, by whose night noiseAnd antic revels yonder they declareThe voiceless silences are broken oft,And tones of strings are made and wailings sweetWhich the pipe, beat by players' finger-tips,Pours out; and far and wide the farmer-raceBegins to hear, when, shaking the garmentingsOf pine upon his half-beast head, god-PanWith puckered lip oft runneth o'er and o'erThe open reeds,--lest flute should cease to pourThe woodland music! Other prodigiesAnd wonders of this ilk they love to tell,Lest they be thought to dwell in lonely spotsAnd even by gods deserted. This is whyThey 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 aboutThat through those places (through which eyes cannotView objects manifest) sounds yet may passAnd assail the ears. For often we observePeople conversing, though the doors be closed;No marvel either, since all voice unharmedCan 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 imagesDo 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 directionsDivided up, since off from one anotherNew voices are engendered, when one voiceHath once leapt forth, outstarting into many--As oft a spark of fire is wont to sprinkleItself 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 squeezeWith hand and dry a sponge with water soaked.Next, all which forth we squeeze is spread aboutAlong the pores and intertwined pathsOf the loose-textured tongue. And so, when smoothThe bodies of the oozy flavour, thenDelightfully they touch, delightfullyThey treat all spots, around the wet and tricklingEnclosures 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 pleasureComing 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 fedThe body, if only what thou take thou canstDistribute well digested to the frameAnd keep the stomach in a moist career.
Now, how it is we see some food for some,Others for others....
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I will unfold, or wherefore what to someIs foul and bitter, yet the same to othersCan seem delectable to eat,--why hereSo great the distance and the difference isThat what is food to one to some becomesFierce poison, as a certain snake there isWhich, touched by spittle of a man, will wasteAnd end itself by gnawing up its coil.Again, fierce poison is the helleboreTo us, but puts the fat on goats and quails.That thou mayst know by what devices thisIs brought about, in chief thou must recallWhat we have said before, that seeds are keptCommixed in things in divers modes. Again,As all the breathing creatures which take foodAre outwardly unlike, and outer cutAnd contour of their members bounds them round,Each differing kind by kind, they thus consistOf seeds of varying shape. And furthermore,Since seeds do differ, divers too must beThe interstices and paths (which we do callThe apertures) in all the members, evenIn mouth and palate too. Thus some must beMore small or yet more large, three-cornered someAnd others squared, and many others round,And certain of them many-angled tooIn many modes. For, as the combinationAnd motion of their divers shapes demand,The shapes of apertures must be diverseAnd paths must vary according to their wallsThat bound them. Hence when what is sweet to some,Becomes to others bitter, for him to whom'Tis sweet, the smoothest particles must needsHave entered caressingly the palate's pores.And, contrariwise, with those to whom that sweetIs sour within the mouth, beyond a doubtThe rough and barbed particles have gotInto the narrows of the apertures.Now easy it is from these affairs to knowWhatever...
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Indeed, where one from o'er-abundant bileIs stricken with fever, or in other wiseFeels the roused violence of some malady,There the whole frame is now upset, and thereAll the positions of the seeds are changed,--So that the bodies which before were fitTo cause the savour, now are fit no more,And now more apt are others which be ableTo 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 wiseImpact of odour on the nostrils touches.And first, 'tis needful there be many thingsFrom whence the streaming flow of varied odoursMay roll along, and we're constrained to thinkThey stream and dart and sprinkle themselves aboutImpartially. But for some breathing creaturesOne odour is more apt, to others another--Because of differing forms of seeds and pores.Thus on and on along the zephyrs beesAre led by odour of honey, vultures tooBy carcasses. Again, the forward powerOf scent in dogs doth lead the hunter onWhithersoever the splay-foot of wild beastHath 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 givenPeculiar smell that leadeth each alongTo his own food or makes him start abackFrom loathsome poison, and in this wise areThe generations of the wild preserved.
Yet is this pungence not alone in odoursOr in the class of flavours; but, likewise,The look of things and hues agree not allSo well with senses unto all, but thatSome unto some will be, to gaze upon,More keen and painful. Lo, the raving lions,They dare not face and gaze upon the cockWho's wont with wings to flap away the nightFrom off the stage, and call the beaming mornWith clarion voice--and lions straightway thusBethink themselves of flight, because, ye see,Within the body of the cocks there beSome certain seeds, which, into lions' eyesInjected, bore into the pupils deepAnd yield such piercing pain they can't hold outAgainst 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 eyesAs soon as penetrating, so that thusThey cannot hurt our eyes in any partBy there remaining.
To speak once more of odour;Whatever assail the nostrils, some can travelA longer way than others. None of them,However, 's borne so far as sound or voice--While I omit all mention of such thingsAs hit the eyesight and assail the vision.For slowly on a wandering course it comesAnd perishes sooner, by degrees absorbedEasily into all the winds of air;--And first, because from deep inside the thingIt is discharged with labour (for the factThat every object, when 'tis shivered, ground,Or crumbled by the fire, will smell the strongerIs sign that odours flow and part awayFrom inner regions of the things). And next,Thou mayest see that odour is createOf larger primal germs than voice, becauseIt enters not through stony walls, wherethroughUnfailingly the voice and sound are borne;Wherefore, besides, thou wilt observe 'tis notSo easy to trace out in whatso placeThe smelling object is. For, dallying onAlong the winds, the particles cool off,And then the scurrying messengers of thingsArrive 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 intellectDo come what come. And first I tell thee this:That many images of objects roveIn 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 thanThose images which take a hold on eyesAnd smite the vision, since through body's poresThey penetrate, and inwardly stir upThe subtle nature of mind and smite the sense.Thus, Centaurs and the limbs of Scyllas, thusThe 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 kindAre everywhere about us borne--in partThose which are gendered in the very airOf own accord, in part those others whichFrom divers things do part away, and thoseWhich are compounded, made from out their shapes.For soothly from no living Centaur isThat phantom gendered, since no breed of beastLike him was ever; but, when imagesOf 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 ilkCreated are. And when they're quickly borneIn 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 eyesMust come to pass in fashion not unlike.Well, now, since I have shown that I perceiveHaply a lion through those idol-filmsSuch as assail my eyes, 'tis thine to knowAlso 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 indeedThat we do seem to see for sure the manWhom, void of life, now death and earth have gainedDominion over. And nature forces thisTo come to pass because the body's sensesAre resting, thwarted through the members all,Unable now to conquer false with true;And memory lies prone and languishesIn slumber, nor protests that he, the manWhom the mind feigns to see alive, long sinceHath been the gain of death and dissolution.
And further, 'tis no marvel idols moveAnd toss their arms and other members roundIn rhythmic time--and often in men's sleepsIt 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 storeOf idol-things, and (in an instant briefAs mind can mark) so great, again, the storeOf separate idol-parts to bring supplies.
It happens also that there is suppliedSometimes an image not of kind the same;But what before was woman, now at handIs seen to stand there, altered into male;Or other visage, other age succeeds;But slumber and oblivion take careThat we shall feel no wonder at the thing.
And much in these affairs demands inquiry,And much, illumination--if we craveWith plainness to exhibit facts. And first,Why doth the mind of one to whom the whimTo 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 preferThe 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 spotAnother's mind is meditating thingsAll 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 turnWith speedy motion, and with eyeing headsRepeat 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 nightTo 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 reasonDiscovers to exist, therefore it comesThat, in a moment how so brief ye will,The divers idols are hard by, and readyEach 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 markSharply 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 observedHow eyes, essaying to perceive the fine,Will strain in preparation, otherwiseUnable sharply to perceive at all?Yet know thou canst that, even in objects plain,If thou attendest not, 'tis just the sameAs 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 signsThings wide and weighty, and involve ourselvesIn snarls of self-deceit.
SOME VITAL FUNCTIONS
In these affairsWe crave that thou wilt passionately fleeThe one offence, and anxiously wilt shunThe error of presuming the clear lightsOf eyes created were that we might see;Or thighs and knees, aprop upon the feet,Thuswise can bended be, that we might stepWith goodly strides ahead; or forearms joinedUnto the sturdy uppers, or serving handsOn either side were given, that we might doLife's own demands. All such interpretationIs aft-for-fore with inverse reasoning,Since naught is born in body so that weMay 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 beforeDiscourse of words, and ears created wereMuch earlier than any sound was heard;And all the members, so meseems, were thereBefore they got their use: and therefore, theyCould not be gendered for the sake of use.But contrariwise, contending in the fightWith 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 artOpposed 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 lifeHave been devised, can be conceived as foundFor sake of using. But apart from suchAre all which first were born and afterwardsGave knowledge of their own utility--Chief in which sort we note the senses, limbs:Wherefore, again, 'tis quite beyond thy powerTo hold that these could thus have been createFor office of utility.
Likewise,'Tis nothing strange that all the breathing creaturesSeek, even by nature of their frame, their food.Yes, since I've taught thee that from off the thingsStream and depart innumerable bodiesIn modes innumerable too; but mostMust 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 sweatSqueezed forth innumerable from deep within.Thus body rarefies, so underminedIn all its nature, and pain attends its state.And so the food is taken to underpropThe tottering joints, and by its interfusionTo re-create their powers, and there stop upThe longing, open-mouthed through limbs and veins,For eating. And the moist no less departsInto 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 dissipatesAnd quenches like a fire, that parching heatNo longer now can scorch the frame. And so,Thou seest how panting thirst is washed awayFrom off our body, how the hunger-pangIt, 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 aheadThis 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 walkingInto our mind do fall and smite the mind,As said before. Thereafter will arises;For no one starts to do a thing, beforeThe intellect previsions what it wills;And what it there pre-visioneth dependsOn what that image is. When, therefore, mindDoth so bestir itself that it doth willTo go and step along, it strikes at onceThat energy of soul that's sown aboutIn all the body through the limbs and frame--And this is easy of performance, sinceThe soul is close conjoined with the mind.Next, soul in turn strikes body, and by degreesThus 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 aboundinglyThrough opened pores, and thus is sprinkled roundUnto 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 wonderThat particles so fine can whirl aroundSo great a body and turn this weight of ours;For wind, so tenuous with its subtle body,Yet pushes, driving on the mighty shipOf mighty bulk; one hand directs the same,Whatever its momentum, and one helmWhirls it around, whither ye please; and loads,Many and huge, are moved and hoisted highBy enginery of pulley-blocks and wheels,With but light strain.
Now, by what modes this sleepPours through our members waters of reposeAnd frees the breast from cares of mind, I'll tellIn verses sweeter than they many are;Even as the swan's slight note is better farThan that dispersed clamour of the cranesAmong the southwind's aery clouds. Do thouGive me sharp ears and a sagacious mind,--That thou mayst not deny the things to beWhereof I'm speaking, nor depart awayWith bosom scorning these the spoken truths,Thyself at fault unable to perceive.Sleep chiefly comes when energy of soulHath now been scattered through the frame, and partExpelled abroad and gone away, and partCrammed back and settling deep within the frame--Whereafter then our loosened members droop.For doubt is none that by the work of soulExist in us this sense, and when by slumberThat sense is thwarted, we are bound to thinkThe soul confounded and expelled abroad--Yet not entirely, else the frame would lieDrenched in the everlasting cold of death.In sooth, where no one part of soul remainedLurking among the members, even as fireLurks buried under many ashes, whenceCould sense amain rekindled be in members,As flame can rise anew from unseen fire?
By what devices this strange state and newMay be occasioned, and by what the soulCan be confounded and the frame grow faint,I will untangle: see to it, thou, that IPour 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 airRepeatedly. And therefore almost allAre 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 alikeUpon the inside and the out, and blowsCome in upon us through the little poresEven inward to our body's primal partsAnd primal elements, there comes to passBy slow degrees, along our members then,A kind of overthrow; for then confoundedAre those arrangements of the primal germsOf body and of mind. It comes to passThat 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 engageIn interchange of motion. Nature nowSo 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 armsAnd eyelids fall, and, as ye lie abed,Even there the houghs will sag and loose their powers.Again, sleep follows after food, becauseThe 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 thenThat the most bodies disarrange themselves,Bruised by labours hard. And in same wise,This three-fold change: a forcing of the soulDown deeper, more a casting-forth of it,A moving more divided in its partsAnd scattered more.
And to whate'er pursuitA man most clings absorbed, or what the affairsOn which we theretofore have tarried much,And mind hath strained upon the more, we seemIn 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 worldAnd set it down, when once discovered, hereIn these my country's leaves. Thus all pursuits,All arts in general seem in sleeps to mockAnd master the minds of men. And whosoeverDay after day for long to games have givenAttention undivided, still they keep(As oft we note), even when they've ceased to graspThose games with their own senses, open pathsWithin the mind wherethrough the idol-filmsOf just those games can come. And thus it isFor many a day thereafter those appearFloating before the eyes, that even awakeThey think they view the dancers moving roundTheir supple limbs, and catch with both the earsThe 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 wontOf 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 reposeYet toss asudden all their legs about,And growl and bark, and with their nostrils sniffThe winds again, again, as though indeedThey'd caught the scented foot-prints of wild beasts,And, even when wakened, often they pursueThe phantom images of stags, as thoughThey did perceive them fleeing on before,Until the illusion's shaken off and dogsCome to themselves again. And fawning breedOf house-bred whelps do feel the sudden urgeTo shake their bodies and start from off the ground,As if beholding stranger-visages.And ever the fiercer be the stock, the moreIn sleep the same is ever bound to rage.But flee the divers tribes of birds and vexWith sudden wings by night the groves of gods,When in their gentle slumbers they have dreamedOf hawks in chase, aswooping on for fight.Again, the minds of mortals which performWith mighty motions mighty enterprises,Often in sleep will do and dare the sameIn manner like. Kings take the towns by storm,Succumb to capture, battle on the field,Raise a wild cry as if their throats were cutEven then and there. And many wrestle onAnd groan with pains, and fill all regions roundWith mighty cries and wild, as if then gnawedBy fangs of panther or of lion fierce.Many amid their slumbers talk aboutTheir mighty enterprises, and have oftenEnough become the proof of their own crimes.Many meet death; many, as if headlongFrom lofty mountains tumbling down to earthWith all their frame, are frenzied in their fright;And after sleep, as if still mad in mind,They scarce come to, confounded as they areBy ferment of their frame. The thirsty man,Likewise, he sits beside delightful springOr river and gulpeth down with gaping throatNigh the whole stream. And oft the innocent young,By sleep o'ermastered, think they lift their dressBy pail or public jordan and then voidThe water filtered down their frame entireAnd drench the Babylonian coverlets,Magnificently bright. Again, those malesInto the surging channels of whose yearsNow first has passed the seed (engenderedWithin their members by the ripened days)Are in their sleep confronted from withoutBy idol-images of some fair form--Tidings of glorious face and lovely bloom,Which stir and goad the regions turgid nowWith seed abundant; so that, as it wereWith all the matter acted duly out,They pour the billows of a potent streamAnd stain their garment.
And as said before,That seed is roused in us when once ripe ageHas made our body strong...As divers causes give to divers thingsImpulse and irritation, so one forceIn human kind rouses the human seedTo spurt from man. As soon as ever it issues,Forced from its first abodes, it passes downIn 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 thenComes the delight to dart the same at whatThe mad desire so yearns, and body seeksThat 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 whenceThe stroke wherewith we are strook, and if indeedThe foe be close, the red jet reaches him.Thus, one who gets a stroke from Venus' shafts--Whether a boy with limbs effeminateAssault him, or a woman darting loveFrom all her body--that one strains to getEven to the thing whereby he's hit, and longsTo join with it and cast into its frameThe fluid drawn even from within its own.For the mute craving doth presage delight.
THE PASSION OF LOVE
This craving 'tis that's Venus unto us:From this, engender all the lures of love,From this, O first hath into human heartsTrickled that drop of joyance which ere longIs by chill care succeeded. Since, indeed,Though she thou lovest now be far away,Yet idol-images of her are nearAnd 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 upCare for thyself and pain inevitable.For, lo, the ulcer just by nourishingGrows 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 blowsThe former wounds of love, and curest themWhile yet they're fresh, by wandering freely roundAfter the freely-wandering Venus, orCanst lead elsewhere the tumults of thy mind.
Nor doth that man who keeps away from loveYet lack the fruits of Venus; rather takesThose pleasures which are free of penalties.For the delights of Venus, verily,Are more unmixed for mortals sane-of-soulThan 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 fixOn 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 teethOften against her lips, and smite with kissMouth into mouth,--because this same delightIs not unmixed; and underneath are stingsWhich goad a man to hurt the very thing,Whate'er it be, from whence arise for himThose germs of madness. But with gentle touchVenus subdues the pangs in midst of love,And the admixture of a fondling joyDoth curb the bites of passion. For they hopeThat by the very body whence they caughtThe 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 thingOf which, the more we have, the fiercer burnsThe breast with fell desire. For food and drinkAre taken within our members; and, since theyCan stop up certain parts, thus, easilyDesire of water is glutted and of bread.But, lo, from human face and lovely bloomNaught penetrates our frame to be enjoyedSave flimsy idol-images and vain--A sorry hope which oft the winds disperse.As when the thirsty man in slumber seeksTo drink, and water ne'er is granted himWherewith to quench the heat within his members,But after idols of the liquids strivesAnd toils in vain, and thirsts even whilst he gulpsIn middle of the torrent, thus in loveVenus deludes with idol-imagesThe lovers. Nor they cannot sate their lustBy merely gazing on the bodies, norThey cannot with their palms and fingers rubAught from each tender limb, the while they strayUncertain over all the body. Then,At last, with members intertwined, when theyEnjoy the flower of their age, when nowTheir bodies have sweet presage of keen joys,And Venus is about to sow the fieldsOf woman, greedily their frames they lock,And mingle the slaver of their mouths, and breatheInto each other, pressing teeth on mouths--Yet to no purpose, since they're powerlessTo rub off aught, or penetrate and passWith body entire into body--for oftThey seem to strive and struggle thus to do;So eagerly they cling in Venus' bonds,Whilst melt away their members, overcomeBy violence of delight. But when at lastLust, gathered in the thews, hath spent itself,There come a brief pause in the raging heat--But then a madness just the same returnsAnd that old fury visits them again,When once again they seek and crave to reachThey know not what, all powerless to findThe artifice to subjugate the bane.In such uncertain state they waste awayWith unseen wound.
To which be added too,They squander powers and with the travail wane;Be added too, they spend their futile yearsUnder another's beck and call; their dutiesNeglected languish and their honest nameReeleth sick, sick; and meantime their estatesAre lost in Babylonian tapestries;And unguents and dainty Sicyonian shoesLaugh 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 wearGrows shabby and all soaked with Venus' sweat;And the well-earned ancestral propertyBecometh head-bands, coifs, and many a timeThe cloaks, or garments AlidensianOr of the Cean isle. And banquets, setWith 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 delightsBubbles some drop of bitter to tormentAmong the very flowers--when haply mindGnaws into self, now stricken with remorseFor slothful years and ruin in baudels,Or else because she's left him all in doubtBy launching some sly word, which still like fireLives wildly, cleaving to his eager heart;Or else because he thinks she darts her eyesToo 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 suchAs through shut eyelids thou canst still take in--Uncounted ills; so that 'tis better farTo watch beforehand, in the way I've shown,And guard against enticements. For to shunA fall into the hunting-snares of loveIs not so hard, as to get out again,When tangled in the very nets, and burstThe stoutly-knotted cords of Aphrodite.Yet even when there enmeshed with tangled feet,Still canst thou scape the danger-lest indeedThou standest in the way of thine own good,And overlookest first all blemishesOf mind and body of thy much preferred,Desirable dame. For so men do,Eyeless with passion, and assign to themGraces not theirs in fact. And thus we seeCreatures in many a wise crooked and uglyThe prosperous sweethearts in a high esteem;And lovers gird each other and adviseTo placate Venus, since their friends are smitWith a base passion--miserable dupesWho 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 bulkyO 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 scrawninessBecomes "a slender darling"; "delicate"Is she who's nearly dead of coughing-fit;The pursy female with protuberant breastsShe is "like Ceres when the goddess gaveYoung 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 forsoothWe lived before without her; and forsoothShe 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 atBehind her back. But he, the lover, in tearsBecause shut out, covers her threshold o'erOften with flowers and garlands, and anointsHer haughty door-posts with the marjoram,And prints, poor fellow, kisses on the doors--Admitted at last, if haply but one whiffGot to him on approaching, he would seekDecent excuses to go out forthwith;And his lament, long pondered, then would fallDown at his heels; and there he'd damn himselfFor his fatuity, observing howHe 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 hideAll the-behind-the-scenes of life from thoseWhom they desire to keep in bonds of love--In vain, since ne'ertheless thou canst by thoughtDrag all the matter forth into the lightAnd 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 lockedAnd holds him fast, making his kisses wetWith lips sucked into lips; for oft she actsEven 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 takesOnce more the Venus of the mounting males.And seest thou not how those whom mutual pleasureHath bound are tortured in their common bonds?How often in the cross-roads dogs that pantTo get apart strain eagerly asunderWith utmost might?--When all the while they're fastIn the stout links of Venus. But they'd ne'erSo pull, except they knew those mutual joys--So powerful to cast them unto snaresAnd 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 maleAnd 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 bePartakers of each shape, one equal blendOf parents' features, these are generateFrom fathers' body and from mothers' blood,When mutual and harmonious heat hath dashedTogether seeds, aroused along their framesBy Venus' goads, and neither of the twainMastereth or is mastered. Happens tooThat sometimes offspring can to being comeIn likeness of their grandsires, and bring backOften the shapes of grandsires' sires, becauseTheir parents in their bodies oft retainConcealed many primal germs, commixedIn many modes, which, starting with the stock,Sire handeth down to son, himself a sire;Whence Venus by a variable chanceEngenders shapes, and diversely brings backAncestral features, voices too, and hair.A female generation rises forthFrom seed paternal, and from mother's bodyExist created males: since sex proceedsNo more from singleness of seed than facesOr bodies or limbs of ours: for every birthIs from a twofold seed; and what's createdHath, 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 manThe fruits of his seed-sowing, so that neverHe be called "father" by sweet children his,And end his days in sterile love forever.What many men suppose; and gloomilyThey 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 cleaveFast to the proper places, straightawayIt trickles from them, and, returned again,Retires abortively. And then since seedMore gross and solid than will suit is spentBy some men, either it flies not forth amainWith spurt prolonged enough, or else it failsTo enter suitably the proper places,Or, having entered, the seed is weakly mixedWith seed of the woman: harmonies of VenusAre seen to matter vastly here; and someImpregnate some more readily, and from someSome women conceive more readily and becomePregnant. And many women, sterile beforeIn several marriage-beds, have yet thereafterObtained the mates from whom they could conceiveThe baby-boys, and with sweet progenyGrow rich. And even for husbands (whose own wives,Although of fertile wombs, have borne for themNo babies in the house) are also foundConcordant natures so that they at lastCan bulwark their old age with goodly sons.A matter of great moment 'tis in truth,That seeds may mingle readily with seedsSuited for procreation, and that thickShould mix with fluid seeds, with thick the fluid.And in this business 'tis of some importUpon 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 itselfIs carried on--this too importeth vastly.For commonly 'tis thought that wives conceiveMore readily in manner of wild-beasts,After the custom of the four-foot breeds,Because so postured, with the breasts beneathAnd buttocks then upreared, the seeds can takeTheir proper places. Nor is need the leastFor wives to use the motions of blandishment;For thus the woman hinders and resistsHer own conception, if too joyouslyHerself she treats the Venus of the manWith haunches heaving, and with all her bosomNow yielding like the billows of the sea--Aye, from the ploughshare's even course and trackShe throws the furrow, and from proper placesDeflects the spurt of seed. And courtesansAre thuswise wont to move for their own ends,To keep from pregnancy and lying in,And all the while to render Venus moreA pleasure for the men--the which meseemsOur wives have never need of.
Sometimes tooIt happens--and through no divinityNor arrows of Venus--that a sorry chitOf 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 passWith her thy life-time--and, moreover, lo,Long habitude can gender human love,Even as an object smitten o'er and o'erBy blows, however lightly, yet at lastIs overcome and wavers. Seest thou not,Besides, how drops of water falling downAgainst the stones at last bore through the stones?