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The Consolation of Philosophy - Anicius Manlius Severinus Boethius
THE CONSOLATION OF PHILOSOPHY
By BOETHIUS
The Consolation of Philosophy
By Boethius
Print ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-5879-9
eBook ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-5880-5
This edition copyright © 2018. Digireads.com Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Cover Image: a detail of an illustration from Ms 3045 fol. 40v Dialogue between Boethius and Philosophy
, from ‘Consolation de la Philosophie", translated by Jean de Meung (vellum), French School, (15th century) / Bibliotheque Municipale, Rouen, France / Bridgeman Images.
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CONTENTS
Book I.
Song I.
I.
Song II.
II.
Song III.
III.
Song IV.
IV.
Song V.
V.
Song VI.
VI.
Song VII.
Book II.
I.
Song I.
II.
Song II.
III.
Song III.
IV.
Song IV.
V.
Song V.
VI.
Song VI.
VII.
Song VII.
VIII.
Song VIII.
Book III.
I.
Song I.
II.
Song II.
III.
Song III.
IV.
Song IV.
V.
Song V.
VI.
Song VI.
VII.
Song VII.
VIII.
Song VIII.
IX.
Song IX.
X.
Song X.
XI.
Song XI.
XII.
Song XII.
Book IV.
I.
Song I.
II.
Song II.
III.
Song III.
IV.
Song IV.
V.
Song V.
VI.
Song VI.
VII.
Song VII.
Book V.
I.
Song I.
II.
Song II.
III.
Song III.
IV.
Song IV.
V.
Song V.
VI.
Epigram by Symmachus.
Biographical Afterword
THE CONSOLATION OF PHILOSOPHY
Book I.
CONTAINING HIS COMPLAINT AND MISERIES.
Song I.
I that with youthful heat did verses write,
Must now my woes in doleful tunes indite.
My work is framed by Muses torn and rude,
And my sad cheeks are with true tears bedewed:
For these alone no terror could affray
From being partners of my weary way.
The art that was my young life’s joy and glory
Becomes my solace now I’m old and sorry;
Sorrow has filched my youth from me, the thief!
My days are numbered not by time but Grief.{1}
Untimely hoary hairs cover my head,
And my loose skin quakes on my flesh half dead.
O happy death, that spareth sweetest years,
And comes in sorrow often called with tears.
Alas, how deaf is he to wretch’s cries;
And loath he is to close up weeping eyes;
While trustless chance me with vain favours crowned,
That saddest hour my life had almost drowned:
Now she hath clouded her deceitful face,
My spiteful days prolong their weary race.
My friends, why did you count me fortunate?
He that is fallen, ne’er stood in settled state.
I.
While I ruminated these things with myself, and determined to set forth my woful complaint in writing, methought I saw a woman stand above my head, having a grave countenance, glistening clear eye, and of quicker sight than commonly Nature doth afford; her colour fresh and bespeaking unabated vigour, and yet discovering so many years, that she could not at all be thought to belong to our times; her stature uncertain and doubtful, for sometime she exceeded not the common height of men, and sometime she seemed to touch the heavens with her head, and if she lifted it up to the highest, she pierced the very heavens, so that she could not be seen by the beholders; her garments were made of most fine threads with cunning workmanship into an ever-during stuff, which (as I knew afterward by her own report) she had woven with her own hands. A certain duskishness caused by negligence and time had darkened their colour, as it is wont to happen when pictures stand in a smoky room. In the lower part of them was placed the Greek letter Π, and in the upper Θ,{2} and betwixt the two letters, in the manner of stairs, there were certain degrees made, by which there was a passage from the lower to the higher letter: this her garment had been cut by the violence of some, who had taken away such pieces as they could get. In her right hand she had certain books, and in her left hand she held a sceptre.
This woman, seeing the poetical Muses standing about my bed, and suggesting words to my tears, being moved for a little space, and inflamed with angry looks: Who,
saith she, "hath permitted these tragical harlots to have access to this sick man, which will not only not comfort his grief with wholesome remedies, but also nourish them with sugared poison? For these be they which with the fruitless thorns of affections do kill the fruitful crop of reason, and do accustom men’s minds to sickness, instead of curing them. But if your flattery did deprive us of some profane fellow,{3} as commonly it happeneth, I should think that it were not so grievously to be taken, for in him our labours should receive no harm. But now have you laid hold of him who hath been brought up in Eleatical and Academical studies?{4} Rather get you gone, you Sirens pleasant even to destruction, and leave him to my Muses to be cured and healed."
That company being thus checked, overcome with grief, casting their eyes upon the ground, and betraying their bashfulness with blushing, went sadly away. But I, whose sight was dimmed with tears, so that I could not discern what this woman might be, so imperious, and of such authority, was astonished, and, fixing my countenance upon the earth, began to expect with silence what she would do afterward. Then she coming nigher, sat down at my bed’s feet, and beholding my countenance sad with mourning, and cast upon the ground with grief, complained of the perturbation of my mind with these verses.
Song II.
Alas, how thy dull mind is headlong cast
In depths of woe, where, all her light once lost,
She doth to walk in utter darkness haste,
While cares grow great with earthly tempests tost.
He that through the opened heavens did freely run,
And used to travel the celestial ways,
Marking the rosy splendour of the sun,
And noting Cynthia’s cold and watery rays;
He that did bravely comprehend in verse
The different spheres and wandering course of stars,
He that was wont the causes to rehearse
Why sounding winds do with the seas make wars,
What spirit moves the world’s well-settled frame,
And why the sun, whom forth the east doth bring,
In western waves doth hide his falling flame,
Searching what power tempers the pleasing Spring
Which makes the earth her rosy flowers to bear,
Whose gift it is that Autumn’s fruitful season
Should with full grapes flow in a plenteous year,
Telling of secret Nature every reason,
Now having lost the beauty of his mind
Lies with his neck compassed in ponderous chains;
His countenance with heavy weight declined,
Him to behold the sullen earth constrains.
II.
But it is rather time,
saith she, to apply remedies, than to make complaints.
And then looking wistfully upon me: Art thou he,
saith she, which, being long since nursed with our milk, and brought up with our nourishments, wert come to man’s estate? But we had given thee such weapons as, if thou hadst not cast them away, would have made thee invincible. Dost thou not know me? Why dost thou not speak? Is it shamefastness or insensibleness that makes thee silent? I had rather it were shamefastness, but I perceive thou art become insensible.
And seeing me not only silent but altogether mute and dumb, fair and easily she laid her hand upon my breast saying: There is no danger; he is in a lethargy, the common disease of deceived minds; he hath a little forgot himself, but he will easily remember himself again, if he be brought to know us first. To which end, let us a little wipe his eyes, dimmed with the cloud of mortal things.
And having thus said, with a corner of her garment she dried my eyes which were wet with tears.
Song III.
Then fled the night and darkness did me leave.
Mine eyes their wonted strength receive,
As when swift Corus spreads the stars with clouds
And the clear sky a veil of tempest shrouds
The sun doth lurk, the earth receiveth night.
Lacking the boon of starry light;
But if fierce Boreas, sent from Thrace, make way
For the restoring of the day,
Phoebus with fresh and sudden beams doth rise,
Striking with light our wondering eyes.
III.
In like manner, the mists of sadness dissolved, I came to myself and recovered my judgment, so that I knew my Physician’s face; wherefore casting mine eyes upon her somewhat stedfastly, I beheld my nurse Philosophy, in whose house I had remained from my youth, and I said: O Mistress of all virtues, for what cause art thou come from heaven into this our solitary banishment? Art thou come to bear me company in being falsely accused?
Should I,
saith she, "forsake thee, my disciple, and not divide the burden, which thou bearest through hatred of my name, by partaking of thy labour? But Philosophy never thought it lawful to forsake the innocent in his trouble. Should I fear any accusations, as though this were any new matter? For dost thou think that this is the first time that Wisdom hath been exposed to danger by wicked men? Have we not in ancient times before our Plato’s age had oftentimes great conflicts with the rashness of folly? And while he lived, had not his master Socrates the victory of an unjust death in my presence, whose inheritance, when afterward the mob of Epicures, Stoics, and others (every one for his own sect) endeavoured to usurp, and as it were in part of their prey, sought to draw me to them, exclaiming and striving against them; they tore the garment which I had woven with my own hands, and having gotten some little pieces of it, thinking me to be wholly in their possession, departed. Some of whom, because certain signs of my apparel appeared upon them, were rashly supposed to be my familiar friends, and condemned accordingly through the error of the profane multitude.
But if thou hast not heard of the flight of Anaxagoras, the poison of Socrates, nor the torments of Zeno, because they are foreign examples; yet thou mayst have heard of Canius, of Seneca, of Soranus,{5} whose memory is both fresh and famous, whom nothing else brought to their overthrow but that they had been instructed in our school and were altogether disliking to the humours of wicked men; wherefore thou hast no cause to marvel, if in the sea of this life we be tossed with boisterous storms, whose chiefest purpose is to displease the wicked; of which though there be an huge army, yet it is to be despised, because it is not governed by any captain, but is carried up and down by fantastical error without any order at all. And if at any time they assail us with great force, our captain retireth her band into a castle,{6} leaving them occupied in sacking unprofitable baggage. And from above we laugh them to scorn for seeking so greedily after most vile things, being safe from all their furious assault, and fortified with that defence which aspiring folly cannot prevail against.
Song IV.
Who mildly can his age dispose,
And at his feet proud destiny throws:
Who stoutly doth each chance behold,
Keeping his countenance uncontrolled:
Not him the ocean’s rage and threat,
Stirring the waves with angry heat,
Nor hot Vesuvius when he casts
From broken hills enflaméd blasts,
Nor fiery thunder can dismay,
Which takes the tops of towers away.
Why do fierce tyrants us affright,
Whose rage is far beyond their might?
For nothing hope, nor fear thou harm,
So their weak wrath thou shalt disarm.
But he whom hope or terror takes,
Being a slave, his shield forsakes,
And leaves his place, and doth provide
A chain wherewith his hands are tied.
IV.
Understandest thou these things,
saith she, "and do they make impression