<CHAPTER>
BOOK III. I.

She ceased, but I stood fixed by the sweetness of the song in wonderment
and eager expectation, my ears still strained to listen. And then after
a little I said: 'Thou sovereign solace of the stricken soul, what
refreshment hast thou brought me, no less by the sweetness of thy
singing than by the weightiness of thy discourse! Verily, I think not
that I shall hereafter be unequal to the blows of Fortune. Wherefore, I
no longer dread the remedies which thou saidst were something too severe
for my strength; nay, rather, I am eager to hear of them and call for
them with all vehemence.'

Then said she: 'I marked thee fastening upon my words silently and
intently, and I expected, or--to speak more truly--I myself brought
about in thee, this state of mind. What now remains is of such sort that
to the taste indeed it is biting, but when received within it turns to
sweetness. But whereas thou dost profess thyself desirous of hearing,
with what ardour wouldst thou not burn didst thou but perceive whither
it is my task to lead thee!'

'Whither?' said I.

'To true felicity,' said she, 'which even now thy spirit sees in dreams,
but cannot behold in very truth, while thine eyes are engrossed with
semblances.'

Then said I: 'I beseech thee, do thou show to me her true shape without
a moment's loss.'

'Gladly will I, for thy sake,' said she. 'But first I will try to sketch
in words, and describe a cause which is more familiar to thee, that,
when thou hast viewed this carefully, thou mayst turn thy eyes the other
way, and recognise the beauty of true happiness.'

SONG I. THE THORNS OF ERROR.

    Who fain would sow the fallow field,
      And see the growing corn,
    Must first remove the useless weeds,
      The bramble and the thorn.

    After ill savour, honey's taste
      Is to the mouth more sweet;
    After the storm, the twinkling stars
      The eyes more cheerly greet.

    When night hath past, the bright dawn comes
      In car of rosy hue;
    So drive the false bliss from thy mind,
      And thou shall see the true.

II.

For a little space she remained in a fixed gaze, withdrawn, as it were,
into the august chamber of her mind; then she thus began:

'All mortal creatures in those anxious aims which find employment in so
many varied pursuits, though they take many paths, yet strive to reach
one goal--the goal of happiness. Now, _the good_ is that which, when a
man hath got, he can lack nothing further. This it is which is the
supreme good of all, containing within itself all particular good; so
that if anything is still wanting thereto, this cannot be the supreme
good, since something would be left outside which might be desired. 'Tis
clear, then, that happiness is a state perfected by the assembling
together of all good things. To this state, as we have said, all men try
to attain, but by different paths. For the desire of the true good is
naturally implanted in the minds of men; only error leads them aside out
of the way in pursuit of the false. Some, deeming it the highest good to
want for nothing, spare no pains to attain affluence; others, judging
the good to be that to which respect is most worthily paid, strive to
win the reverence of their fellow-citizens by the attainment of official
dignity. Some there are who fix the chief good in supreme power; these
either wish themselves to enjoy sovereignty, or try to attach themselves
to those who have it. Those, again, who think renown to be something of
supreme excellence are in haste to spread abroad the glory of their name
either through the arts of war or of peace. A great many measure the
attainment of good by joy and gladness of heart; these think it the
height of happiness to give themselves over to pleasure. Others there
are, again, who interchange the ends and means one with the other in
their aims; for instance, some want riches for the sake of pleasure and
power, some covet power either for the sake of money or in order to
bring renown to their name. So it is on these ends, then, that the aim
of human acts and wishes is centred, and on others like to these--for
instance, noble birth and popularity, which seem to compass a certain
renown; wife and children, which are sought for the sweetness of their
possession; while as for friendship, the most sacred kind indeed is
counted in the category of virtue, not of fortune; but other kinds are
entered upon for the sake of power or of enjoyment. And as for bodily
excellences, it is obvious that they are to be ranged with the above.
For strength and stature surely manifest power; beauty and fleetness of
foot bring celebrity; health brings pleasure. It is plain, then, that
the only object sought for in all these ways is _happiness_. For that
which each seeks in preference to all else, that is in his judgment the
supreme good. And we have defined the supreme good to be happiness.
Therefore, that state which each wishes in preference to all others is
in his judgment happy.

'Thou hast, then, set before thine eyes something like a scheme of human
happiness--wealth, rank, power, glory, pleasure. Now Epicurus, from a
sole regard to these considerations, with some consistency concluded the
highest good to be pleasure, because all the other objects seem to bring
some delight to the soul. But to return to human pursuits and aims:
man's mind seeks to recover its proper good, in spite of the mistiness
of its recollection, but, like a drunken man, knows not by what path to
return home. Think you they are wrong who strive to escape want? Nay,
truly there is nothing which can so well complete happiness as a state
abounding in all good things, needing nothing from outside, but wholly
self-sufficing. Do they fall into error who deem that which is best to
be also best deserving to receive the homage of reverence? Not at all.
That cannot possibly be vile and contemptible, to attain which the
endeavours of nearly all mankind are directed. Then, is power not to be
reckoned in the category of good? Why, can that which is plainly more
efficacious than anything else be esteemed a thing feeble and void of
strength? Or is renown to be thought of no account? Nay, it cannot be
ignored that the highest renown is constantly associated with the
highest excellence. And what need is there to say that happiness is not
haunted by care and gloom, nor exposed to trouble and vexation, since
that is a condition we ask of the very least of things, from the
possession and enjoyment of which we expect delight? So, then, these are
the blessings men wish to win; they want riches, rank, sovereignty,
glory, pleasure, because they believe that by these means they will
secure independence, reverence, power, renown, and joy of heart.
Therefore, it is _the good_ which men seek by such divers courses; and
herein is easily shown the might of Nature's power, since, although
opinions are so various and discordant, yet they agree in cherishing
_good_ as the end.'

SONG II. THE BENT OF NATURE.

    How the might of Nature sways
    All the world in ordered ways,
    How resistless laws control
    Each least portion of the whole--
    Fain would I in sounding verse
    On my pliant strings rehearse.

    Lo, the lion captive ta'en
    Meekly wears his gilded chain;
    Yet though he by hand be fed,
    Though a master's whip he dread,
    If but once the taste of gore
    Whet his cruel lips once more,
    Straight his slumbering fierceness wakes,
    With one roar his bonds he breaks,
    And first wreaks his vengeful force
    On his trainer's mangled corse.

    And the woodland songster, pent
    In forlorn imprisonment,
    Though a mistress' lavish care
    Store of honeyed sweets prepare;
    Yet, if in his narrow cage,
    As he hops from bar to bar,
    He should spy the woods afar,
    Cool with sheltering foliage,
    All these dainties he will spurn,
    To the woods his heart will turn;
    Only for the woods he longs,
    Pipes the woods in all his songs.

    To rude force the sapling bends,
    While the hand its pressure lends;
    If the hand its pressure slack,
    Straight the supple wood springs back.
    Phoebus in the western main
    Sinks; but swift his car again
    By a secret path is borne
    To the wonted gates of morn.

    Thus are all things seen to yearn
    In due time for due return;
    And no order fixed may stay,
    Save which in th' appointed way
    Joins the end to the beginning
    In a steady cycle spinning.

III.

'Ye, too, creatures of earth, have some glimmering of your origin,
however faint, and though in a vision dim and clouded, yet in some wise,
notwithstanding, ye discern the true end of happiness, and so the aim of
nature leads you thither--to that true good--while error in many forms
leads you astray therefrom. For reflect whether men are able to win
happiness by those means through which they think to reach the proposed
end. Truly, if either wealth, rank, or any of the rest, bring with them
anything of such sort as seems to have nothing wanting to it that is
good, we, too, acknowledge that some are made happy by the acquisition
of these things. But if they are not able to fulfil their promises, and,
moreover, lack many good things, is not the happiness men seek in them
clearly discovered to be a false show? Therefore do I first ask thee
thyself, who but lately wert living in affluence, amid all that
abundance of wealth, was thy mind never troubled in consequence of some
wrong done to thee?'

'Nay,' said I, 'I cannot ever remember a time when my mind was so
completely at peace as not to feel the pang of some uneasiness.'

'Was it not because either something was absent which thou wouldst not
have absent, or present which thou wouldst have away?'

'Yes,' said I.

'Then, thou didst want the presence of the one, the absence of the
other?'

'Admitted.'

'But a man lacks that of which he is in want?'

'He does.'

'And he who lacks something is not in all points self-sufficing?'

'No; certainly not,' said I.

'So wert thou, then, in the plenitude of thy wealth, supporting this
insufficiency?'

'I must have been.'

'Wealth, then, cannot make its possessor independent and free from all
want, yet this was what it seemed to promise. Moreover, I think this
also well deserves to be considered--that there is nothing in the
special nature of money to hinder its being taken away from those who
possess it against their will.'

'I admit it.'

'Why, of course, when every day the stronger wrests it from the weaker
without his consent. Else, whence come lawsuits, except in seeking to
recover moneys which have been taken away against their owner's will by
force or fraud?'

'True,' said I.

'Then, everyone will need some extraneous means of protection to keep
his money safe.'

'Who can venture to deny it?'

'Yet he would not, unless he possessed the money which it is possible to
lose.'

'No; he certainly would not.'

'Then, we have worked round to an opposite conclusion: the wealth which
was thought to make a man independent rather puts him in need of further
protection. How in the world, then, can want be driven away by riches?
Cannot the rich feel hunger? Cannot they thirst? Are not the limbs of
the wealthy sensitive to the winter's cold? "But," thou wilt say, "the
rich have the wherewithal to sate their hunger, the means to get rid of
thirst and cold." True enough; want can thus be soothed by riches,
wholly removed it cannot be. For if this ever-gaping, ever-craving want
is glutted by wealth, it needs must be that the want itself which can be
so glutted still remains. I do not speak of how very little suffices for
nature, and how for avarice nothing is enough. Wherefore, if wealth
cannot get rid of want, and makes new wants of its own, how can ye
believe that it bestows independence?'

SONG III. THE INSATIABLENESS OF AVARICE.

    Though the covetous grown wealthy
      See his piles of gold rise high;
    Though he gather store of treasure
      That can never satisfy;
    Though with pearls his gorget blazes,
      Rarest that the ocean yields;
    Though a hundred head of oxen
      Travail in his ample fields;
    Ne'er shall carking care forsake him
      While he draws this vital breath,
    And his riches go not with him,
      When his eyes are closed in death.

IV.

'Well, but official dignity clothes him to whom it comes with honour and
reverence! Have, then, offices of state such power as to plant virtue in
the minds of their possessors, and drive out vice? Nay, they are rather
wont to signalize iniquity than to chase it away, and hence arises our
indignation that honours so often fall to the most iniquitous of men.
Accordingly, Catullus calls Nonius an "ulcer-spot," though "sitting in
the curule chair." Dost not see what infamy high position brings upon
the bad? Surely their unworthiness will be less conspicuous if their
rank does not draw upon them the public notice! In thy own case, wouldst
thou ever have been induced by all these perils to think of sharing
office with Decoratus, since thou hast discerned in him the spirit of a
rascally parasite and informer? No; we cannot deem men worthy of
reverence on account of their office, whom we deem unworthy of the
office itself. But didst thou see a man endued with wisdom, couldst thou
suppose him not worthy of reverence, nor of that wisdom with which he
was endued?'

'No; certainly not.'

'There is in Virtue a dignity of her own which she forthwith passes over
to those to whom she is united. And since public honours cannot do this,
it is clear that they do not possess the true beauty of dignity. And
here this well deserves to be noticed--that if a man is the more scorned
in proportion as he is despised by a greater number, high position not
only fails to win reverence for the wicked, but even loads them the more
with contempt by drawing more attention to them. But not without
retribution; for the wicked pay back a return in kind to the dignities
they put on by the pollution of their touch. Perhaps, too, another
consideration may teach thee to confess that true reverence cannot come
through these counterfeit dignities. It is this: If one who had been
many times consul chanced to visit barbaric lands, would his office win
him the reverence of the barbarians? And yet if reverence were the
natural effect of dignities, they would not forego their proper function
in any part of the world, even as fire never anywhere fails to give
forth heat. But since this effect is not due to their own efficacy, but
is attached to them by the mistaken opinion of mankind, they disappear
straightway when they are set before those who do not esteem them
dignities. Thus the case stands with foreign peoples. But does their
repute last for ever, even in the land of their origin? Why, the
prefecture, which was once a great power, is now an empty name--a burden
merely on the senator's fortune; the commissioner of the public corn
supply was once a personage--now what is more contemptible than this
office? For, as we said just now, that which hath no true comeliness of
its own now receives, now loses, lustre at the caprice of those who have
to do with it. So, then, if dignities cannot win men reverence, if they
are actually sullied by the contamination of the wicked, if they lose
their splendour through time's changes, if they come into contempt
merely for lack of public estimation, what precious beauty have they in
themselves, much less to give to others?'

SONG IV. DISGRACE OF HONOURS CONFERRED BY A TYRANT.

    Though royal purple soothes his pride,
      And snowy pearls his neck adorn,
    Nero in all his riot lives
      The mark of universal scorn.

    Yet he on reverend heads conferred
      Th' inglorious honours of the state.
    Shall we, then, deem them truly blessed
      Whom such preferment hath made great?

V.

'Well, then, does sovereignty and the intimacy of kings prove able to
confer power? Why, surely does not the happiness of kings endure for
ever? And yet antiquity is full of examples, and these days also, of
kings whose happiness has turned into calamity. How glorious a power,
which is not even found effectual for its own preservation! But if
happiness has its source in sovereign power, is not happiness
diminished, and misery inflicted in its stead, in so far as that power
falls short of completeness? Yet, however widely human sovereignty be
extended, there must still be more peoples left, over whom each several
king holds no sway. Now, at whatever point the power on which happiness
depends ceases, here powerlessness steals in and makes wretchedness; so,
by this way of reckoning, there must needs be a balance of wretchedness
in the lot of the king. The tyrant who had made trial of the perils of
his condition figured the fears that haunt a throne under the image of a
sword hanging over a man's head.[G] What sort of power, then, is this
which cannot drive away the gnawings of anxiety, or shun the stings of
terror? Fain would they themselves have lived secure, but they cannot;
then they boast about their power! Dost thou count him to possess power
whom thou seest to wish what he cannot bring to pass? Dost thou count
him to possess power who encompasses himself with a body-guard, who
fears those he terrifies more than they fear him, who, to keep up the
semblance of power, is himself at the mercy of his slaves? Need I say
anything of the friends of kings, when I show royal dominion itself so
utterly and miserably weak--why ofttimes the royal power in its
plenitude brings them low, ofttimes involves them in its fall? Nero
drove his friend and preceptor, Seneca, to the choice of the manner of
his death. Antoninus exposed Papinianus, who was long powerful at
court, to the swords of the soldiery. Yet each of these was willing to
renounce his power. Seneca tried to surrender his wealth also to Nero,
and go into retirement; but neither achieved his purpose. When they
tottered, their very greatness dragged them down. What manner of thing,
then, is this power which keeps men in fear while they possess it--which
when thou art fain to keep, thou art not safe, and when thou desirest to
lay it aside thou canst not rid thyself of? Are friends any protection
who have been attached by fortune, not by virtue? Nay; him whom good
fortune has made a friend, ill fortune will make an enemy. And what
plague is more effectual to do hurt than a foe of one's own household?'

FOOTNOTES:

[G] The sword of Damocles.

SONG V. SELF-MASTERY.

    Who on power sets his aim,
    First must his own spirit tame;
    He must shun his neck to thrust
    'Neath th' unholy yoke of lust.
    For, though India's far-off land
    Bow before his wide command,
    Utmost Thule homage pay--
    If he cannot drive away
    Haunting care and black distress,
    In his power, he's powerless.

VI.

'Again, how misleading, how base, a thing ofttimes is glory! Well does
the tragic poet exclaim:

    '"Oh, fond Repute, how many a time and oft
    Hast them raised high in pride the base-born churl!"

For many have won a great name through the mistaken beliefs of the
multitude--and what can be imagined more shameful than that? Nay, they
who are praised falsely must needs themselves blush at their own
praises! And even when praise is won by merit, still, how does it add to
the good conscience of the wise man who measures his good not by popular
repute, but by the truth of inner conviction? And if at all it does seem
a fair thing to get this same renown spread abroad, it follows that any
failure so to spread it is held foul. But if, as I set forth but now,
there must needs be many tribes and peoples whom the fame of any single
man cannot reach, it follows that he whom thou esteemest glorious seems
all inglorious in a neighbouring quarter of the globe. As to popular
favour, I do not think it even worthy of mention in this place, since it
never cometh of judgment, and never lasteth steadily.

'Then, again, who does not see how empty, how foolish, is the fame of
noble birth? Why, if the nobility is based on renown, the renown is
another's! For, truly, nobility seems to be a sort of reputation coming
from the merits of ancestors. But if it is the praise which brings
renown, of necessity it is they who are praised that are famous.
Wherefore, the fame of another clothes thee not with splendour if thou
hast none of thine own. So, if there is any excellence in nobility of
birth, methinks it is this alone--that it would seem to impose upon the
nobly born the obligation not to degenerate from the virtue of their
ancestors.'

SONG VI. TRUE NOBILITY.

    All men are of one kindred stock, though scattered far and wide;
    For one is Father of us all--one doth for all provide.
    He gave the sun his golden beams, the moon her silver horn;
    He set mankind upon the earth, as stars the heavens adorn.
    He shut a soul--a heaven-born soul--within the body's frame;
    The noble origin he gave each mortal wight may claim.
    Why boast ye, then, so loud of race and high ancestral line?
    If ye behold your being's source, and God's supreme design,
    None is degenerate, none base, unless by taint of sin
    And cherished vice he foully stain his heavenly origin.

VII.

'Then, what shall I say of the pleasures of the body? The lust thereof
is full of uneasiness; the sating, of repentance. What sicknesses, what
intolerable pains, are they wont to bring on the bodies of those who
enjoy them--the fruits of iniquity, as it were! Now, what sweetness the
stimulus of pleasure may have I do not know. But that the issues of
pleasure are painful everyone may understand who chooses to recall the
memory of his own fleshly lusts. Nay, if these can make happiness, there
is no reason why the beasts also should not be happy, since all their
efforts are eagerly set upon satisfying the bodily wants. I know,
indeed, that the sweetness of wife and children should be right comely,
yet only too true to nature is what was said of one--that he found in
his sons his tormentors. And how galling such a contingency would be, I
must needs put thee in mind, since thou hast never in any wise suffered
such experiences, nor art thou now under any uneasiness. In such a case,
I agree with my servant Euripides, who said that a man without children
was fortunate in his misfortune.'[H]

FOOTNOTES:

[H] Paley translates the lines in Euripides' 'Andromache': 'They [the
childless] are indeed spared from much pain and sorrow, but their
supposed happiness is after all but wretchedness.' Euripides' meaning is
therefore really just the reverse of that which Boethius makes it. See
Euripides, 'Andromache,' Il. 418-420.

SONG VII. PLEASURE'S STING.

        This is the way of Pleasure:
    She stings them that despoil her;
    And, like the winged toiler
        Who's lost her honeyed treasure,
      She flies, but leaves her smart
      Deep-rankling in the heart.

VIII.

'It is beyond doubt, then, that these paths do not lead to happiness;
they cannot guide anyone to the promised goal. Now, I will very briefly
show what serious evils are involved in following them. Just consider.
Is it thy endeavour to heap up money? Why, thou must wrest it from its
present possessor! Art thou minded to put on the splendour of official
dignity? Thou must beg from those who have the giving of it; thou who
covetest to outvie others in honour must lower thyself to the humble
posture of petition. Dost thou long for power? Thou must face perils,
for thou wilt be at the mercy of thy subjects' plots. Is glory thy aim?
Thou art lured on through all manner of hardships, and there is an end
to thy peace of mind. Art fain to lead a life of pleasure? Yet who does
not scorn and contemn one who is the slave of the weakest and vilest of
things--the body? Again, on how slight and perishable a possession do
they rely who set before themselves bodily excellences! Can ye ever
surpass the elephant in bulk or the bull in strength? Can ye excel the
tiger in swiftness? Look upon the infinitude, the solidity, the swift
motion, of the heavens, and for once cease to admire things mean and
worthless. And yet the heavens are not so much to be admired on this
account as for the reason which guides them. Then, how transient is the
lustre of beauty! how soon gone!--more fleeting than the fading bloom of
spring flowers. And yet if, as Aristotle says, men should see with the
eyes of Lynceus, so that their sight might pierce through obstructions,
would not that body of Alcibiades, so gloriously fair in outward
seeming, appear altogether loathsome when all its inward parts lay open
to the view? Therefore, it is not thy own nature that makes thee seem
beautiful, but the weakness of the eyes that see thee. Yet prize as
unduly as ye will that body's excellences; so long as ye know that this
that ye admire, whatever its worth, can be dissolved away by the feeble
flame of a three days' fever. From all which considerations we may
conclude as a whole, that these things which cannot make good the
advantages they promise, which are never made perfect by the assemblage
of all good things--these neither lead as by-ways to happiness, nor
themselves make men completely happy.'

SONG VIII. HUMAN FOLLY.

      Alas! how wide astray
    Doth Ignorance these wretched mortals lead
      From Truth's own way!
      For not on leafy stems
    Do ye within the green wood look for gold,
      Nor strip the vine for gems;

      Your nets ye do not spread
    Upon the hill-tops, that the groaning board
      With fish be furnished;
      If ye are fain to chase
    The bounding goat, ye sweep not in vain search
      The ocean's ruffled face.

      The sea's far depths they know,
    Each hidden nook, wherein the waves o'erwash
      The pearl as white as snow;
      Where lurks the Tyrian shell,
    Where fish and prickly urchins do abound,
      All this they know full well.

      But not to know or care
    Where hidden lies the good all hearts desire--
      This blindness they can bear;
      With gaze on earth low-bent,
    They seek for that which reacheth far beyond
      The starry firmament.

      What curse shall I call down
    On hearts so dull? May they the race still run
      For wealth and high renown!
      And when with much ado
    The false good they have grasped--ah, then too late!--
      May they discern the true!

IX.

'This much may well suffice to set forth the form of false happiness; if
this is now clear to thine eyes, the next step is to show what true
happiness is.'

'Indeed,' said I, 'I see clearly enough that neither is independence to
be found in wealth, nor power in sovereignty, nor reverence in
dignities, nor fame in glory, nor true joy in pleasures.'

'Hast thou discerned also the causes why this is so?'

'I seem to have some inkling, but I should like to learn more at large
from thee.'

'Why, truly the reason is hard at hand. _That which is simple and
indivisible by nature human error separates_, and transforms from the
true and perfect to the false and imperfect. Dost thou imagine that
which lacketh nothing can want power?'

'Certainly not.'

'Right; for if there is any feebleness of strength in anything, in this
there must necessarily be need of external protection.'

'That is so.'

'Accordingly, the nature of independence and power is one and the same.'

'It seems so.'

'Well, but dost think that anything of such a nature as this can be
looked upon with contempt, or is it rather of all things most worthy of
veneration?'

'Nay; there can be no doubt as to that.'

'Let us, then, add reverence to independence and power, and conclude
these three to be one.'

'We must if we will acknowledge the truth.'

'Thinkest thou, then, this combination of qualities to be obscure and
without distinction, or rather famous in all renown? Just consider: can
that want renown which has been agreed to be lacking in nothing, to be
supreme in power, and right worthy of honour, for the reason that it
cannot bestow this upon itself, and so comes to appear somewhat poor in
esteem?'

'I cannot but acknowledge that, being what it is, this union of
qualities is also right famous.'

'It follows, then, that we must admit that renown is not different from
the other three.'

'It does,' said I.

'That, then, which needs nothing outside itself, which can accomplish
all things in its own strength, which enjoys fame and compels reverence,
must not this evidently be also fully crowned with joy?'

'In sooth, I cannot conceive,' said I, 'how any sadness can find
entrance into such a state; wherefore I must needs acknowledge it full
of joy--at least, if our former conclusions are to hold.'

'Then, for the same reasons, this also is necessary--that independence,
power, renown, reverence, and sweetness of delight, are different only
in name, but in substance differ no wise one from the other.'

'It is,' said I.

'This, then, which is one, and simple by nature, human perversity
separates, and, in trying to win a part of that which has no parts,
fails to attain not only that portion (since there are no portions), but
also the whole, to which it does not dream of aspiring.'

'How so?' said I.

'He who, to escape want, seeks riches, gives himself no concern about
power; he prefers a mean and low estate, and also denies himself many
pleasures dear to nature to avoid losing the money which he has gained.
But at this rate he does not even attain to independence--a weakling
void of strength, vexed by distresses, mean and despised, and buried in
obscurity. He, again, who thirsts alone for power squanders his wealth,
despises pleasure, and thinks fame and rank alike worthless without
power. But thou seest in how many ways his state also is defective.
Sometimes it happens that he lacks necessaries, that he is gnawed by
anxieties, and, since he cannot rid himself of these inconveniences,
even ceases to have that power which was his whole end and aim. In like
manner may we cast up the reckoning in case of rank, of glory, or of
pleasure. For since each one of these severally is identical with the
rest, whosoever seeks any one of them without the others does not even
lay hold of that one which he makes his aim.'

'Well,' said I, 'what then?'

'Suppose anyone desire to obtain them together, he does indeed wish for
happiness as a whole; but will he find it in these things which, as we
have proved, are unable to bestow what they promise?'

'Nay; by no means,' said I.

'Then, happiness must certainly not be sought in these things which
severally are believed to afford some one of the blessings most to be
desired.'

'They must not, I admit. No conclusion could be more true.'

'So, then, the form and the causes of false happiness are set before
thine eyes. Now turn thy gaze to the other side; there thou wilt
straightway see the true happiness I promised.'

'Yea, indeed, 'tis plain to the blind.' said I. 'Thou didst point it out
even now in seeking to unfold the causes of the false. For, unless I am
mistaken, that is true and perfect happiness which crowns one with the
union of independence, power, reverence, renown, and joy. And to prove
to thee with how deep an insight I have listened--since all these are
the same--that which can truly bestow one of them I know to be without
doubt full and complete happiness.'

'Happy art thou, my scholar, in this thy conviction; only one thing
shouldst thou add.'

'What is that?' said I.

'Is there aught, thinkest thou, amid these mortal and perishable things
which can produce a state such as this?'

'Nay, surely not; and this thou hast so amply demonstrated that no word
more is needed.'

'Well, then, these things seem to give to mortals shadows of the true
good, or some kind of imperfect good; but the true and perfect good they
cannot bestow.'

'Even so,' said I.

'Since, then, thou hast learnt what that true happiness is, and what men
falsely call happiness, it now remains that thou shouldst learn from
what source to seek this.'

'Yes; to this I have long been eagerly looking forward.'

'Well, since, as Plato maintains in the "Timaeus," we ought even in the
most trivial matters to implore the Divine protection, what thinkest
thou should we now do in order to deserve to find the seat of that
highest good?'

'We must invoke the Father of all things,' said I; 'for without this no
enterprise sets out from a right beginning.'

'Thou sayest well,' said she; and forthwith lifted up her voice and
sang:

SONG IX. INVOCATION.

[I]

    Maker of earth and sky, from age to age
    Who rul'st the world by reason; at whose word
    Time issues from Eternity's abyss:
    To all that moves the source of movement, fixed
    Thyself and moveless. Thee no cause impelled
    Extrinsic this proportioned frame to shape
    From shapeless matter; but, deep-set within
    Thy inmost being, the form of perfect good,
    From envy free; and Thou didst mould the whole
    To that supernal pattern. Beauteous
    The world in Thee thus imaged, being Thyself

    Most beautiful. So Thou the work didst fashion
    In that fair likeness, bidding it put on
    Perfection through the exquisite perfectness
    Of every part's contrivance. Thou dost bind
    The elements in balanced harmony,
    So that the hot and cold, the moist and dry,
    Contend not; nor the pure fire leaping up
    Escape, or weight of waters whelm the earth.

    Thou joinest and diffusest through the whole,
    Linking accordantly its several parts,
    A soul of threefold nature, moving all.
    This, cleft in twain, and in two circles gathered,
    Speeds in a path that on itself returns,
    Encompassing mind's limits, and conforms
    The heavens to her true semblance. Lesser souls
    And lesser lives by a like ordinance
    Thou sendest forth, each to its starry car
    Affixing, and dost strew them far and wide
    O'er earth and heaven. These by a law benign
    Thou biddest turn again, and render back
    To thee their fires. Oh, grant, almighty Father,
    Grant us on reason's wing to soar aloft
    To heaven's exalted height; grant us to see
    The fount of good; grant us, the true light found,
    To fix our steadfast eyes in vision clear
    On Thee. Disperse the heavy mists of earth,
    And shine in Thine own splendour. For Thou art
    The true serenity and perfect rest
    Of every pious soul--to see Thy face,
    The end and the beginning--One the guide,
    The traveller, the pathway, and the goal.

FOOTNOTES:

[I] The substance of this poem is taken from Plato's 'Timaeus,' 29-42.
See Jowett, vol. iii., pp. 448-462 (third edition).

X.

'Since now thou hast seen what is the form of the imperfect good, and
what the form of the perfect also, methinks I should next show in what
manner this perfection of felicity is built up. And here I conceive it
proper to inquire, first, whether any excellence, such as thou hast
lately defined, can exist in the nature of things, lest we be deceived
by an empty fiction of thought to which no true reality answers. But it
cannot be denied that such does exist, and is, as it were, the source of
all things good. For everything which is called imperfect is spoken of
as imperfect by reason of the privation of some perfection; so it comes
to pass that, whenever imperfection is found in any particular, there
must necessarily be a perfection in respect of that particular also. For
were there no such perfection, it is utterly inconceivable how that
so-called _im_perfection should come into existence. Nature does not
make a beginning with things mutilated and imperfect; she starts with
what is whole and perfect, and falls away later to these feeble and
inferior productions. So if there is, as we showed before, a happiness
of a frail and imperfect kind, it cannot be doubted but there is also a
happiness substantial and perfect.'

'Most true is thy conclusion, and most sure,' said I.

'Next to consider where the dwelling-place of this happiness may be. The
common belief of all mankind agrees that God, the supreme of all things,
is good. For since nothing can be imagined better than God, how can we
doubt Him to be good than whom there is nothing better? Now, reason
shows God to be good in such wise as to prove that in Him is perfect
good. For were it not so, He would not be supreme of all things; for
there would be something else more excellent, possessed of perfect good,
which would seem to have the advantage in priority and dignity, since it
has clearly appeared that all perfect things are prior to those less
complete. Wherefore, lest we fall into an infinite regression, we must
acknowledge the supreme God to be full of supreme and perfect good. But
we have determined that true happiness is the perfect good; therefore
true happiness must dwell in the supreme Deity.'

'I accept thy reasonings,' said I; 'they cannot in any wise be
disputed.'

'But, come, see how strictly and incontrovertibly thou mayst prove this
our assertion that the supreme Godhead hath fullest possession of the
highest good.'

'In what way, pray?' said I.

'Do not rashly suppose that He who is the Father of all things hath
received that highest good of which He is said to be possessed either
from some external source, or hath it as a natural endowment in such
sort that thou mightest consider the essence of the happiness possessed,
and of the God who possesses it, distinct and different. For if thou
deemest it received from without, thou mayst esteem that which gives
more excellent than that which has received. But Him we most worthily
acknowledge to be the most supremely excellent of all things. If,
however, it is in Him by nature, yet is logically distinct, the thought
is inconceivable, since we are speaking of God, who is supreme of all
things. Who was there to join these distinct essences? Finally, when one
thing is different from another, the things so conceived as distinct
cannot be identical. Therefore that which of its own nature is distinct
from the highest good is not itself the highest good--an impious thought
of Him than whom, 'tis plain, nothing can be more excellent. For
universally nothing can be better in nature than the source from which
it has come; therefore on most true grounds of reason would I conclude
that which is the source of all things to be in its own essence the
highest good.'

'And most justly,' said I.

'But the highest good has been admitted to be happiness.'

'Yes.'

'Then,' said she, 'it is necessary to acknowledge that God is very
happiness.'

'Yes,' said I; 'I cannot gainsay my former admissions, and I see clearly
that this is a necessary inference therefrom.'

'Reflect, also,' said she, 'whether the same conclusion is not further
confirmed by considering that there cannot be two supreme goods distinct
one from the other. For the goods which are different clearly cannot be
severally each what the other is: wherefore neither of the two can be
perfect, since to either the other is wanting; but since it is not
perfect, it cannot manifestly be the supreme good. By no means, then,
can goods which are supreme be different one from the other. But we have
concluded that both happiness and God are the supreme good; wherefore
that which is highest Divinity must also itself necessarily be supreme
happiness.'

'No conclusion,' said I, 'could be truer to fact, nor more soundly
reasoned out, nor more worthy of God.'

'Then, further,' said she, 'just as geometricians are wont to draw
inferences from their demonstrations to which they give the name
"deductions," so will I add here a sort of corollary. For since men
become happy by the acquisition of happiness, while happiness is very
Godship, it is manifest that they become happy by the acquisition of
Godship. But as by the acquisition of justice men become just, and wise
by the acquisition of wisdom, so by parity of reasoning by acquiring
Godship they must of necessity become gods. So every man who is happy is
a god; and though in nature God is One only, yet there is nothing to
hinder that very many should be gods by participation in that nature.'

'A fair conclusion, and a precious,' said I, 'deduction or corollary, by
whichever name thou wilt call it.'

'And yet,' said she, 'not one whit fairer than this which reason
persuades us to add.'

'Why, what?' said I.

'Why, seeing happiness has many particulars included under it, should
all these be regarded as forming one body of happiness, as it were, made
up of various parts, or is there some one of them which forms the full
essence of happiness, while all the rest are relative to this?'

'I would thou wouldst unfold the whole matter to me at large.'

'We judge happiness to be good, do we not?'

'Yea, the supreme good.'

'And this superlative applies to all; for this same happiness is
adjudged to be the completest independence, the highest power,
reverence, renown, and pleasure.'

'What then?'

'Are all these goods--independence, power, and the rest--to be deemed
members of happiness, as it were, or are they all relative to good as to
their summit and crown?'

'I understand the problem, but I desire to hear how thou wouldst solve
it.'

'Well, then, listen to the determination of the matter. Were all these
members composing happiness, they would differ severally one from the
other. For this is the nature of parts--that by their difference they
compose one body. All these, however, have been proved to be the same;
therefore they cannot possibly be members, otherwise happiness will seem
to be built up out of one member, which cannot be.'

'There can be no doubt as to that,' said I; 'but I am impatient to hear
what remains.'

'Why, it is manifest that all the others are relative to the good. For
the very reason why independence is sought is that it is judged good,
and so power also, because it is believed to be good. The same, too, may
be supposed of reverence, of renown, and of pleasant delight. Good,
then, is the sum and source of all desirable things. That which has not
in itself any good, either in reality or in semblance, can in no wise be
desired. Contrariwise, even things which by nature are not good are
desired as if they were truly good, if they seem to be so. Whereby it
comes to pass that goodness is rightly believed to be the sum and hinge
and cause of all things desirable. Now, that for the sake of which
anything is desired itself seems to be most wished for. For instance, if
anyone wishes to ride for the sake of health, he does not so much wish
for the exercise of riding as the benefit of his health. Since, then,
all things are sought for the sake of the good, it is not these so much
as good itself that is sought by all. But that on account of which all
other things are wished for was, we agreed, happiness; wherefore thus
also it appears that it is happiness alone which is sought. From all
which it is transparently clear that the essence of absolute good and of
happiness is one and the same.'

'I cannot see how anyone can dissent from these conclusions.'

'But we have also proved that God and true happiness are one and the
same.'

'Yes,' said I.

'Then we can safely conclude, also, that God's essence is seated in
absolute good, and nowhere else.'

SONG X. THE TRUE LIGHT.

    Hither come, all ye whose minds
    Lust with rosy fetters binds--
    Lust to bondage hard compelling
    Th' earthy souls that are his dwelling--
    Here shall be your labour's close;
    Here your haven of repose.
    Come, to your one refuge press;
    Wide it stands to all distress!

    Not the glint of yellow gold
    Down bright Hermus' current rolled;
    Not the Tagus' precious sands,
    Nor in far-off scorching lands
    All the radiant gems that hide
    Under Indus' storied tide--
    Emerald green and glistering white--
    Can illume our feeble sight;
    But they rather leave the mind
    In its native darkness blind.
    For the fairest beams they shed
    In earth's lowest depths were fed;
    But the splendour that supplies
    Strength and vigour to the skies,
    And the universe controls,
    Shunneth dark and ruined souls.
    He who once hath seen _this_ light
    Will not call the sunbeam bright.

XI.

'I quite agree,' said I, 'truly all thy reasonings hold admirably
together.'

Then said she: 'What value wouldst thou put upon the boon shouldst thou
come to the knowledge of the absolute good?'

'Oh, an infinite,' said I, 'if only I were so blest as to learn to know
God also who is the good.'

'Yet this will I make clear to thee on truest grounds of reason, if only
our recent conclusions stand fast.'

'They will.'

'Have we not shown that those things which most men desire are not true
and perfect good precisely for this cause--that they differ severally
one from another, and, seeing that one is wanting to another, they
cannot bestow full and absolute good; but that they become the true good
when they are gathered, as it were, into one form and agency, so that
that which is independence is likewise power, reverence, renown, and
pleasant delight, and unless they are all one and the same, they have no
claim to be counted among things desirable?'

'Yes; this was clearly proved, and cannot in any wise be doubted.'

'Now, when things are far from being good while they are different, but
become good as soon as they are one, is it not true that these become
good by acquiring unity?'

'It seems so,' said I.

'But dost not thou allow that all which is good is good by participation
in goodness?'

'It is.'

'Then, thou must on similar grounds admit that unity and goodness are
the same; for when the effects of things in their natural working differ
not, their essence is one and the same.'

'There is no denying it.'

'Now, dost thou know,' said she, 'that all which is abides and subsists
so long as it continues one, but so soon as it ceases to be one it
perishes and falls to pieces?'

'In what way?'

'Why, take animals, for example. When soul and body come together, and
continue in one, this is, we say, a living creature; but when this unity
is broken by the separation of these two, the creature dies, and is
clearly no longer living. The body also, while it remains in one form by
the joining together of its members, presents a human appearance; but if
the separation and dispersal of the parts break up the body's unity, it
ceases to be what it was. And if we extend our survey to all other
things, without doubt it will manifestly appear that each several thing
subsists while it is one, but when it ceases to be one perishes.'

'Yes; when I consider further, I see it to be even as thou sayest.'

'Well, is there aught,' said she, 'which, in so far as it acts
conformably to nature, abandons the wish for life, and desires to come
to death and corruption?'

'Looking to living creatures, which have some faults of choice, I find
none that, without external compulsion, forego the will to live, and of
their own accord hasten to destruction. For every creature diligently
pursues the end of self-preservation, and shuns death and destruction!
As to herbs and trees, and inanimate things generally, I am altogether
in doubt what to think.'

'And yet there is no possibility of question about this either, since
thou seest how herbs and trees grow in places suitable for them, where,
as far as their nature admits, they cannot quickly wither and die. Some
spring up in the plains, others in the mountains; some grow in marshes,
others cling to rocks; and others, again, find a fertile soil in the
barren sands; and if you try to transplant these elsewhere, they wither
away. Nature gives to each the soil that suits it, and uses her
diligence to prevent any of them dying, so long as it is possible for
them to continue alive. Why do they all draw their nourishment from
roots as from a mouth dipped into the earth, and distribute the strong
bark over the pith? Why are all the softer parts like the pith deeply
encased within, while the external parts have the strong texture of
wood, and outside of all is the bark to resist the weather's
inclemency, like a champion stout in endurance? Again, how great is
nature's diligence to secure universal propagation by multiplying seed!
Who does not know all these to be contrivances, not only for the present
maintenance of a species, but for its lasting continuance, generation
after generation, for ever? And do not also the things believed
inanimate on like grounds of reason seek each what is proper to itself?
Why do the flames shoot lightly upward, while the earth presses downward
with its weight, if it is not that these motions and situations are
suitable to their respective natures? Moreover, each several thing is
preserved by that which is agreeable to its nature, even as it is
destroyed by things inimical. Things solid like stones resist
disintegration by the close adhesion of their parts. Things fluid like
air and water yield easily to what divides them, but swiftly flow back
and mingle with those parts from which they have been severed, while
fire, again, refuses to be cut at all. And we are not now treating of
the voluntary motions of an intelligent soul, but of the drift of
nature. Even so is it that we digest our food without thinking about it,
and draw our breath unconsciously in sleep; nay, even in living
creatures the love of life cometh not of conscious will, but from the
principles of nature. For oftentimes in the stress of circumstances will
chooses the death which nature shrinks from; and contrarily, in spite of
natural appetite, will restrains that work of reproduction by which
alone the persistence of perishable creatures is maintained. So entirely
does this love of self come from drift of nature, not from animal
impulse. Providence has furnished things with this most cogent reason
for continuance: they must desire life, so long as it is naturally
possible for them to continue living. Wherefore in no way mayst thou
doubt but that things naturally aim at continuance of existence, and
shun destruction.'

'I confess,' said I, 'that what I lately thought uncertain, I now
perceive to be indubitably clear.'

'Now, that which seeks to subsist and continue desires to be one; for if
its oneness be gone, its very existence cannot continue.'

'True,' said I.

'All things, then, desire to be one.'

'I agree.'

'But we have proved that one is the very same thing as good.'

'We have.'

'All things, then, seek the good; indeed, you may express the fact by
defining good as that which all desire.'

'Nothing could be more truly thought out. Either there is no single end
to which all things are relative, or else the end to which all things
universally hasten must be the highest good of all.'

Then she: 'Exceedingly do I rejoice, dear pupil; thine eye is now fixed
on the very central mark of truth. Moreover, herein is revealed that of
which thou didst erstwhile profess thyself ignorant.'

'What is that?' said I.

'The end and aim of the whole universe. Surely it is that which is
desired of all; and, since we have concluded the good to be such, we
ought to acknowledge the end and aim of the whole universe to be "the
good."'

SONG XI. REMINISCENCE.

[J]

    Who truth pursues, who from false ways
      His heedful steps would keep,
    By inward light must search within
      In meditation deep;
    All outward bent he must repress
    His soul's true treasure to possess.

    Then all that error's mists obscured
      Shall shine more clear than light,
    This fleshly frame's oblivious weight
      Hath quenched not reason quite;
    The germs of truth still lie within,
    Whence we by learning all may win.

    Else how could ye the answer due
      Untaught to questions give,
    Were't not that deep within the soul
      Truth's secret sparks do live?
    If Plato's teaching erreth not,
    We learn but that we have forgot.

FOOTNOTES:

[J] The doctrine of Reminiscence--_i.e._, that all learning is really
recollection--is set forth at length by Plato in the 'Meno,' 81-86, and
the 'Phaedo,' 72-76. See Jowett, vol. ii., pp. 40-47 and 213-218.

XII.

Then said I: 'With all my heart I agree with Plato; indeed, this is now
the second time that these things have been brought back to my
mind--first I lost them through the clogging contact of the body; then
after through the stress of heavy grief.'

Then she continued: 'If thou wilt reflect upon thy former admissions, it
will not be long before thou dost also recollect that of which erstwhile
thou didst confess thyself ignorant.'

'What is that?' said I.

'The principles of the world's government,' said she.

'Yes; I remember my confession, and, although I now anticipate what thou
intendest, I have a desire to hear the argument plainly set forth.'

'Awhile ago thou deemedst it beyond all doubt that God doth govern the
world.'

'I do not think it doubtful now, nor shall I ever; and by what reasons
I am brought to this assurance I will briefly set forth. This world
could never have taken shape as a single system out of parts so diverse
and opposite were it not that there is One who joins together these so
diverse things. And when it had once come together, the very diversity
of natures would have dissevered it and torn it asunder in universal
discord were there not One who keeps together what He has joined. Nor
would the order of nature proceed so regularly, nor could its course
exhibit motions so fixed in respect of position, time, range, efficacy,
and character, unless there were One who, Himself abiding, disposed
these various vicissitudes of change. This power, whatsoever it be,
whereby they remain as they were created, and are kept in motion, I call
by the name which all recognise--God.'

Then said she: 'Seeing that such is thy belief, it will cost me little
trouble, I think, to enable thee to win happiness, and return in safety
to thy own country. But let us give our attention to the task that we
have set before ourselves. Have we not counted independence in the
category of happiness, and agreed that God is absolute happiness?'

'Truly, we have.'

'Then, He will need no external assistance for the ruling of the world.
Otherwise, if He stands in need of aught, He will not possess complete
independence.'

'That is necessarily so,' said I.

'Then, by His own power alone He disposes all things.'

'It cannot be denied.'

'Now, God was proved to be absolute good.'

'Yes; I remember.'

'Then, He disposes all things by the agency of good, if it be true that
_He_ rules all things by His own power whom we have agreed to be good;
and He is, as it were, the rudder and helm by which the world's
mechanism is kept steady and in order.'

'Heartily do I agree; and, indeed, I anticipated what thou wouldst say,
though it may be in feeble surmise only.'

'I well believe it,' said she; 'for, as I think, thou now bringest to
the search eyes quicker in discerning truth; but what I shall say next
is no less plain and easy to see.'

'What is it?' said I.

'Why,' said she, 'since God is rightly believed to govern all things
with the rudder of goodness, and since all things do likewise, as I have
taught, haste towards good by the very aim of nature, can it be doubted
that His governance is willingly accepted, and that all submit
themselves to the sway of the Disposer as conformed and attempered to
His rule?'

'Necessarily so,' said I; 'no rule would seem happy if it were a yoke
imposed on reluctant wills, and not the safe-keeping of obedient
subjects.'

'There is nothing, then, which, while it follows nature, endeavours to
resist good.'

'No; nothing.'

'But if anything should, will it have the least success against Him whom
we rightly agreed to be supreme Lord of happiness?'

'It would be utterly impotent.'

'There is nothing, then, which has either the will or the power to
oppose this supreme good.'

'No; I think not.'

'So, then,' said she, 'it is the supreme good which rules in strength,
and graciously disposes all things.'

Then said I: 'How delighted am I at thy reasonings, and the conclusion
to which thou hast brought them, but most of all at these very words
which thou usest! I am now at last ashamed of the folly that so sorely
vexed me.'

'Thou hast heard the story of the giants assailing heaven; but a
beneficent strength disposed of them also, as they deserved. But shall
we submit our arguments to the shock of mutual collision?--it may be
from the impact some fair spark of truth may be struck out.'

'If it be thy good pleasure,' said I.

'No one can doubt that God is all-powerful.'

'No one at all can question it who thinks consistently.'

'Now, there is nothing which One who is all-powerful cannot do.'

'Nothing.'

'But can God do evil, then?'

'Nay; by no means.'

'Then, evil is nothing,' said she, 'since He to whom nothing is
impossible is unable to do evil.'

'Art thou mocking me,' said I, 'weaving a labyrinth of tangled
arguments, now seeming to begin where thou didst end, and now to end
where thou didst begin, or dost thou build up some wondrous circle of
Divine simplicity? For, truly, a little before thou didst begin with
happiness, and say it was the supreme good, and didst declare it to be
seated in the supreme Godhead. God Himself, too, thou didst affirm to be
supreme good and all-complete happiness; and from this thou didst go on
to add, as by the way, the proof that no one would be happy unless he
were likewise God. Again, thou didst say that the very form of good was
the essence both of God and of happiness, and didst teach that the
absolute One was the absolute good which was sought by universal nature.
Thou didst maintain, also, that God rules the universe by the governance
of goodness, that all things obey Him willingly, and that evil has no
existence in nature. And all this thou didst unfold without the help of
assumptions from without, but by inherent and proper proofs, drawing
credence one from the other.'

Then answered she: 'Far is it from me to mock thee; nay, by the blessing
of God, whom we lately addressed in prayer, we have achieved the most
important of all objects. For such is the form of the Divine essence,
that neither can it pass into things external, nor take up anything
external into itself; but, as Parmenides says of it,

    '"In body like to a sphere on all sides perfectly rounded,"

it rolls the restless orb of the universe, keeping itself motionless the
while. And if I have also employed reasonings not drawn from without,
but lying within the compass of our subject, there is no cause for thee
to marvel, since thou hast learnt on Plato's authority that words ought
to be akin to the matter of which they treat.'

SONG XII. ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE.

    Blest he whose feet have stood
    Beside the fount of good;
    Blest he whose will could break
    Earth's chains for wisdom's sake!

    The Thracian bard, 'tis said,
    Mourned his dear consort dead;
    To hear the plaintive strain
    The woods moved in his train,
    And the stream ceased to flow,
    Held by so soft a woe;
    The deer without dismay
    Beside the lion lay;
    The hound, by song subdued,
    No more the hare pursued,
    But the pang unassuaged
    In his own bosom raged.
    The music that could calm
    All else brought him no balm.
    Chiding the powers immortal,
    He came unto Hell's portal;
    There breathed all tender things
    Upon his sounding strings,
    Each rhapsody high-wrought
    His goddess-mother taught--
    All he from grief could borrow
    And love redoubling sorrow,
    Till, as the echoes waken,
    All Taenarus is shaken;
    Whilst he to ruth persuades
    The monarch of the shades
    With dulcet prayer. Spell-bound,
    The triple-headed hound
    At sounds so strangely sweet
    Falls crouching at his feet.
    The dread Avengers, too,
    That guilty minds pursue
    With ever-haunting fears,
    Are all dissolved in tears.
    Ixion, on his wheel,
    A respite brief doth feel;
    For, lo! the wheel stands still.
    And, while those sad notes thrill,
    Thirst-maddened Tantalus
    Listens, oblivious
    Of the stream's mockery
    And his long agony.
    The vulture, too, doth spare
    Some little while to tear
    At Tityus' rent side,
    Sated and pacified.

    At length the shadowy king,
    His sorrows pitying,
    'He hath prevailed!' cried;
    'We give him back his bride!
    To him she shall belong,
    As guerdon of his song.
    One sole condition yet
    Upon the boon is set:
    Let him not turn his eyes
    To view his hard-won prize,
    Till they securely pass
    The gates of Hell.' Alas!
    What law can lovers move?
    A higher law is love!
    For Orpheus--woe is me!--
    On his Eurydice--
    Day's threshold all but won--
    Looked, lost, and was undone!

    Ye who the light pursue,
    This story is for you,
    Who seek to find a way
    Unto the clearer day.
    If on the darkness past
    One backward look ye cast,
    Your weak and wandering eyes
    Have lost the matchless prize.

</CHAPTER>
BOOK IV.

GOOD AND ILL FORTUNE.

     SUMMARY.

     CH. I. The mystery of the seeming moral confusion. Philosophy
     engages to make this plain, and to fulfil her former promise to the
     full.--CH. II. Accordingly, (a) she first expounds the paradox that
     the good alone have power, the bad are altogether powerless.--CH.
     III. (b) The righteous never lack their reward, nor the wicked
     their punishment.--CH. IV. (c) The wicked are more unhappy when
     they accomplish their desires than when they fail to attain them.
     (d) Evil-doers are more fortunate when they expiate their crimes by
     suffering punishment than when they escape unpunished. (e) The
     wrong-doer is more wretched than he who suffers injury.--CH. V.
     Boethius still cannot understand why the distribution of happiness
     and misery to the righteous and the wicked seems the result of
     chance. Philosophy replies that this only seems so because we do
     not understand the principles of God's moral governance.--CH. VI.
     The distinction of Fate and Providence. The apparent moral
     confusion is due to our ignorance of the secret counsels of God's
     providence. If we possessed the key, we should see how all things
     are guided to good.--CH. VII. Thus all fortune is good fortune; for
     it either rewards, disciplines, amends, or punishes, and so is
     either useful or just.

Book III, the central Book and the longest of the five, opens with Boethius enchanted by Philosophy's final song of Book II. Throughout The Consolation of Philosophy, Boethius tells us, Philosophy's songs have been accompanied by the most beautiful music, for music is Philosophy's "handmaid" Boethius has become refreshed, and the compelling arguments of Book II have made him ready for more "cures" and "capable of facing the blows of Fortune." Philosophy then informs Boethius that the object of her next lecture will be true happiness. True and perfect happiness can only be achieved by the possession of the supreme good in which all goods are possessed. All human beings desire true happiness, but most are lead into error by desiring false, or temporal, goods. Philosophy goes on to explain that what many in the world think of as good; freedom from want , respect , power, or fame, or simply pleasure, or those with confused or combined desires, such as the desire for wealth for the sake of power and pleasure, or power for the sake of money and fame, and even those who desire a spouse and children for the pleasure they bring. Beauty and strength of the body confer power and renown, and is a form of those desires. All of these desires are for happiness, however. The problem arises when humanity treats these goods as the ultimate good or the path to happiness. The fallen state of man is such that he seeks happiness in these inferior, exterior, multiple goods, rather than the one supreme good of God. Before, however, Boethius and Philosophy sing their closing hymn to God, the source of all happiness, Philosophy goes through each of the supposed goods of earth. Wealth, once attained, is a source of worry. Physical beauty and strength is an illusion, created by the other people's desire to see beauty in the body. Furthermore, physical beauty and strength are easily and quickly lost, by time and illness. A man in high office receives honor and respect, but the office does not confer wisdom or virtue on the holder. Often, Philosophy says, high office creates corruption and degrades rather than elevates the officeholder. Virtue has intrinsic value, which, once achieved, confers its worth to those who possess it, but the same is not true of high office. If a king or official has power, the constant acquisition of more power would bring more happiness. But there is no empire on earth which rules all of humanity, so the inherent lack of power in power itself confers unhappiness on those with power. Philosophy begins Part VI of Book III with the admonition, "Fame, in fact, is a shameful thing, and so often deceptive." She argues that nothing is more shameful than unjust fame. Also, the fame of a human being can never be spread to all the people of the world, just as power can't be over all people. Nobility of family doesn't confer virtue, either, except in the negative sense it may incite the noble to not disgrace the memory of their ancestors. Bodily pleasure is of the least concern to Philosophy. She views it with contempt, and says that its "pursuit is full of anxiety and its fulfillment full of remorse." It is unhealthful, and even the worthy pleasure of a spouse and children can also bring many woes. Because these goods are not perfect, they are unable to give perfect happiness to any human being. Boethius and Lady Philosophy agree that any or all of these earthly goods cannot bring any measure of true happiness to anyone, and therefore continue their inquiry after the "sufficiency" which would satisfy humanity's desire for true happiness. Here begins Boethius's partial proof for the existence of God. Since Boethius and Philosophy agree that humanity desires true happiness, that standard means that a supreme good exists. Since Lady Philosophy has shown that none of the earthly goods are the supreme good, nor are all of them together the supreme good, something outside of the earth must be the supreme good. Sufficiency is linked by Lady Philosophy to power, since the being who was sufficient in all things would be powerful enough to live apart from earthly concerns. Therefore, something that is sufficient would need nothing, want nothing, exhibit supreme powerful, and thus would be worthy of reverence. This being would be happy. Therefore, Lady Philosophy concludes, this being would be wholly sufficient, powerful, glorious, and would be revered. All of these conditions for pure happiness go by various names, but they consist of the same substance. This one happy, sufficient being, Boethius implies, is God. The unity that God fulfills is the essence of the desire of all things. Boethius and Philosophy end Book III with a song asking for help in finding the true nature of happiness and God.

The "lack of completeness" argument for fame and power may seem flimsy to some modern readers.  Where is the gratitude for what one has?  Why, according to Boethius and Lady Philosophy, can't we be happy with some power and some fame, or, by extension some physical beauty or strength, or some wealth, even though we may not possess all of these things or for eternity or in their completeness.  Why is not a measure of good things enough? Boethius would argue that the incompleteness of these goods shows how imperfect as "goods" they really are.  The attainment of any of these desires is merely a misdirected desire for true happiness in God, which is attainable in its complete and whole form.  There are some holes in this argument, but, again, it is necessary to consider Boethius's dialogue within the context of his Christianity. Why, for example, couldn't the attainment of some of the goods  be a source of lasting or real happiness on earth, at least until death and the communion with God?  Boethius sees that no human being is without further desires, and any acquisition of these earthly goods only incites people to want more of them.  While some people may be "content" with the satisfaction of their basic needs, they are not made happy by the attainment of these earthly goods, but only by some spiritual source of happiness.  So even those who are not particularly greedy or acquisitive are still not able to access happiness here on earth. To some this may seem a pessimistic argument, and particularly damning of human nature.  However, Boethius also considered that any happiness on earth would represent a denial of God, an idea he was unwilling to contemplate because he was a Christian - the suggestion that human beings can be fulfilled and happy apart from God is tantamount to blasphemy for Boethius. The proof of God in this Book is considered partial by most theologians, and wasn't the focus of the book.  Boethius takes for granted that there is a God, and that his readers  agree with him.  But the proof is based on the inadequacy of temporal desires, and is really a negative proof; because it is not earthly, it must be spiritual.  It is carefully constructed, however, and beautifully executed.  And, certainly, just because it is negative doesn't mean it is necessarily wrong.  Certain aspects of the arguments about physical beauty and bodily pleasure would be refuted by many readers, and, since Boethius doesn't consider them to be all that important, are not as carefully addressed as the desires for fame or power.  His overall argument, however, is carefully balanced on the inadequacy of earthly desires and attainments, and its structure is sound. The leap from the desire for true happiness to the existence of God is not as abrupt as it sounds.  It is carefully built up throughout Book III, and lays carefully on the refutation of each kind of happiness possible, according to Boethius, on earth.  An atheist, animist, or other spiritual type of happiness is not discussed here - the existence of God is not really in question, it is rather the logical conclusion between two speakers who already agree that God exists.  The focus is on the logical argument about the folly of earthly desires.