LUCRETUS
(99-55 B.C.)
On the Nature of Things (De rerum natura)
[Mans Progress from
Savagery to Civilization]*

| But the race of men at that time was
much hardier on the land, as was fitting inasmuch as the hard earth had made it;
built up within it was with bones larger and more solid, fitted with strong sinews
throughout the flesh, not such as easily to be mastered by heat or cold or strange
food or any ailment of the body. Though many luster's of the sun rolling through
the sky they passed their lives after the curved plough was there, none knew how
to work the fields with iron, to dig new shoots into the ground, to prune off
old branches from the tall trees with a sickle. What sun and rain had given, what
the earth had produced of her own accord, that was a gift enough to content their
minds. Amidst the acorn-laden oaks they refreshed themselves for the most part;
and the arbute-berries which in winter time you now see ripen with crimson colour,
then the earth bore in abundance and even larger than now. Many another kind of
food besides the flowering infancy of the world then produced, hard but amply
sufficient for poor mortals. But to quench thirst, rivers and springs invited
them, as now the rushing of water down from the great mountains calls loud and
far to the thirsting hordes of beast. Next as they roamed abroad they dwelt in
familiar woodland precincts of the Nymphs, whence they knew that some running
rivulet issued rippling over the wet rocks, rippling over the rocks in abundant
flow and dripping upon the green moss, with plenty left to splash and bubble over
the level plain. Not yet did they know how to work things with fire, nor to use
skins and to clothe themselves in the stripping of beast; but they dwelt in the
woods and the forests and mountain caves, and hid their rough bodies in the underwoods
when they had to escape the beating of winds and rain. They could not look to
the common good, they knew not how to govern their intercourse by custom and law.
Whatever price fortune gave to each, that he carried off, every man taught to
live and be strong for himself at his own will. And Venus joined the bodies of
lovers in the woods; for either the woman was attracted by some mutual desire,
or caught by mans violent force and vehement lust, or by a bribe-acorns
and arbute-berries or choice pears. And by the aid of their wonderful powers of
hand and foot, they would hunt the woodland tribes of beast with volleys of stones
and ponderous clubs, overpowering many, shunning but a few in their lairs; and
when night overtook them, like so many bristly hogs they just cast them savage
bodies naked upon the ground, rolling themselves in leaves and boughs. Nor did
they go seeking the day and the sun with great outery over the countryside, wandering
panic-stricken in the sun with rosy torch spread his light over the heavens. For
since they had been accustomed from childhood always to see darkness and light
return in alternate sequence, it was impossible that they should ever feel wonder,
or fear lest everlasting night should possess the world, the suns light
being withdrawn for ever. Rather what trouble them was that the hordes of beast
often made their rest dangerous to them: and driven from their shelter, they would
flee to the rocks and caves when a foaming boar appeared or a mighty lion, and
at dead of night in terror would yield their leaf-strewn beds to the savage guests... So men grew tired
of acorns, so were deserted that old beds strewn with herbage and leaves piled
up. The garment also of wild-beast pelt fell into contempt; which I can imagine
must have excited such envy in those days when discovered, that he who first wore
one was done to death by treachery, and even then that is was torn to pieces amongst
them with much bloodshed and was lost and could not be turned to use. Then therefore
pelts, now gold and purple trouble mens life with cares and weary it with
war; in which as I think the greater fault rests upon us. For without the pelts
cold tormented the naked sons of earth; but we take no harm to be without a vestment
of purple or worked with gold and great figures, so long as there is the poor
mans cloak to protect us. Therefore mankind labors always in vain and to
no purpose, consuming their days in empty cares, plainly because they know not
the limit of possession, and how far it is ever possible for real pleasure to
grow: and this little by little has carried life out into the deep sea, and has
stirred up from the bottom the great billows of war. |


| [Against
the Fear of Death] What has this bugbear death to frighten man, If souls can die, as well as bodies can? For, as before our birth we felt no pain, When Punic arms infested land and main, When heaven and earth were in confusion hurled, For the debated empire of the world, Which awd with dreadful expectation lay, Sure to be slaves, uncertain who should sway: So, when our mortal frame shall be disjoind, The lifeless lump uncoupled from the mind, From sense of grief and pain we shall be free; We shall not feel, because we shall not be. Tho earth in seas, and seas in heavn were lost, We should not move, we only should be tossd. Nay, evn suppose when we have sufferd fate, The soul could feel in her divided state, Whats that to us? for we are only we While souls and bodies in one frame agree. Nay, tho our atoms should revolve by chance, And matter leap into the former dance; Tho time our life and motion could restore, And make our bodies what they were before, What gain to us would all this bustle bring? The new-made man would be another thing. When once an interrupting pause is made, That individual being is decayd. We, who are dead and gone, shall bear no part In all the pleasures, nor shall feel the smart Which to that other mortal shall accrue, Whom of our matter time shall mold anew. For backward if you look on that long space Of ages past, and view the changing face Of matter, tossd and various combined In sundry shapes, it is easy for the mind From thence to infer, that seeds of things have been In the same order as they now are seen: Which yet our dark remembrance cannot trace, Because of pause of life, a gaping space, Has come betwixt, where memory lies dead, And all the wandring motions from the sense are fled. For whosoeer shall in misfortunes live, Must be, when those misfortunes shall arrive; And since the man who is not, feels not woe, (For death exempts him, and wards off the blow, Which we, the living, only feel and bear,) What is there left for us in death to fear? When once that pause of life has come between, "T is just the same as we had never been. And therefore if a man bemoan his lot, That after death his moldering limbs shall rot, Or flames, or jaws of beasts devour his mass, Know, hes an insincere, unthinking ass, A secret sting remains within his mind; The fool is to his own cast offals kind. He boasts no sense can after death remain, Yet makes himself a part of life again, As if some other He could feel the pain. If, while he live, this thought molest his head, What wolf or vulture shall devour me dead? He wastes his days in idle grief, nor can Distinguish twixt the body and the man But thinks himself can still himself survive; And, what when dead he feels not, feels alive. Then he repines that he was born to die, Nor knows in death there is no other He, No living He remains his grief to vent, And oer his senseless carcass to lament. If after death t is painful to be torn By birds, and beasts, then why not so to burn; Or, drenched in floods of honey, to be soaked; Embalmed, to be at once preservd and chokd; Or on an airy mountains top to lie, Exposd to cold and heavns inclemency; Or crowded in a tomb to be oppressd With monumental marble on thy breast? But to be snatchd from all thy household joys, From thy chaste wife, and thy dear prattling boys, Whose little arms about thy legs are cast, And climbing for a kiss prevent their mothers haste, Inspiring secret pleasure thro thy breast- All these shall be no more: thy friends oppressd Thy care and courage now no more shall free; "Ah! wretch!" thou cryst, ah! miserable me! One woeful day sweeps children, friends and wife, And all the brittle blessings of my life!" Add one thing more, and all thou sayst is true; Thy want and wish of them is vanishd too: Which, well considerd, were a quick relief To all thy vain imaginary grief. For thou shalt sleep, and never wake again, And, quitting life, shalt quit thy living pain. But we, thy friends, shall all those sorrows find, Which in forgetful death thou leavst behind: No time shall dry our tears, nor drive thee from our mind. The worst that can befall thee, measurd right, Is a sound slumber, and a long good-night. Yet thus the fools, that would be thought the wits, Disturb their mirth with melancholy fits: When healths go round, and kindly brimmers flow, Till the fresh garlands on their foreheads glow, They whine, and cry: "Let us make haste to live. Short are the joys that human life can give." Eternal preachers, that corrupt the draught, And pall the god, that never thinks, with thought; Idiots with all that thought, to whom the worst Of death is want of drink, and endless thirst, Or any fond desire as vain as these. For evn in sleep, the body, wrappd in ease, Supinely lies, as in the peaceful grave; And, wanting nothing, nothing can it crave. Were that sound sleep eternal, it were death; yet the first atoms then, the seeds of breath, Are moving near to sense; we do but shake And rouse that sense, and straight we are awake. Then death to us, and deaths anxiety, Is less than nothing, if a less could be. For then our atoms, which in order lay, Are scatterd from their heap, and puffd away. And never can return into their place, When once the pause of life has left an empty space. And last, suppose great Natures voice should call To thee, or me, or any of us all: "What dost thou mean, ungrateful wretch, thou vain, Thou mortal thing, thus idly to complain, And sigh and sob that thou shalt be no more? For if thy life were pleasant heretofore, If all the bounteous blessings, I could give, Thou hast enjoyd; if thou hast known to live, And pleasure not leakd through thee like a sieve; Why dost thou not give thanks as at a plenteous feast, Crammd to the throat with life, and rise and take thy rest? But if my blesssings thou hast thrown away. If indigested joys passd through and would not stay, Why dost thou wish for more to squander still? If life be grown a load, a real ill, And I would all thy cares and labors end, Lay down thy burden, fool, and know thy friend. To please thee, I have emptied all my store; I can invent and can supply no more, But run the round again, the round I ran before. Suppose thou art not broken yet with years, Yet still the selfsame scene of things appears, And would be ever, couldst thou ever live; For life is still but life, theres nothing new to give." What can we plead against so just a bill? We stand convicted, and our cause goes ill. But if a wretch, a man oppressd by fate, Should beg of Nature to prolong his date, She speaks aloud to him with more disdain: "Be still, thou martyr fool, thou covetous of pain." But if an old decrepit sot lament; "What, thou, she cries, "who hast outlivd content! Dost thou complain, who hast enjoyd my store? But this is still th effect of wishing more. Unsatisfied with all that Nature brings; Loathing the present, liking absent things; From hence it comes, thy vain desires, at strife Within themselves, have tantalizd thy life; And ghastly death appeard before thy sight, Ere thou hadst gorged thy soul and senses with delight. Now leave those joys, unsuiting to thy age, To a fresh comer, and resign the stag ." Is Nature to be blamd if thus she chide? No, sure; for t is her business to provide, Against this ever-changing frames decay, New things to come, and old to pass away. One being, worn, another being makes; Changd, but not lost; for Nature gives and takes: New matter must be found for things to come, And these must waste like those, and follow Natures doom. All things, like thee, have time to rise and rot; And from each others ruin are begot: For life is not confind to him or thee; T is given to all for use, to none for property. Consider former ages past and gone, Whose circles ended long ere thine begun, Then tell me, fool, what part in them thou hast. Thus mayst thou judge the future by the past. What horror seest thou in that quiet state? What bugbear dreams to fright thee after fate? No ghost, no goblins, that still passage keep; But all is there serene, in that eternal sleep. For all the dismal tales that poets tell Are verified on earth, and not in hell. No Tantalus looks up with fearful eye, Or dreads th impending rock to crush him from on high; But fear of chance on earth disturbs our easy hours, Or vain imagind wrath of vain imagind powrs. No Tityus torn by vultures lies in hell; Nor could the lobes of his rank liver swell To that prodigious mass for their eternal meal: Not tho his monstrous bulk had coverd oer Nine spreading acres, or nine thousand more; Not tho the globe of earth had been the giants floor: Nor in eternal torments could he lie, Nor could his corpse sufficient food supply. But hes the Tityus, who by love oppressd, Or tyrant passion preying on his breast, And ever-anxious thoughts, is robbd of rest. The Sisyphus is he, whom noise and strife Seduce from all the soft retreats of life, To vex the government, disturb the laws" Drunk with the fumes of popular applause, He courts the giddy crowd to make him great, And sweats and toils in vain, to mount the sovereign seat. For still to aim at pow, and still to fail, Ever to strive, and never to prevail, What is it, but, in reasons true account, To heave the stone against the rising mount? Which urgd, and labord, and forcd up with pain, Recoils, and rolls impetuous down, and smokes along the plain. Then still to treat thy ever-craving mind With evry blessing, and of evry kind, Yet never fill thy raving appetite; Tho years and seasons vary thy delight, Yet nothing to be seen of all the store, But still the wolf within thee barks for more; This is the fables moral, which they tell Or fifty foolish virgins damnd in hell To leaky vessels, which the liquor spill; As for the Dog, the Furies, and their snakes, The gloomy caverns, and the burning lakes, And all the vain infernal trupery, They neither are, nor were, no eer can be. But here one earth the guilty have in view The mighty pains to mighty mischiefs due; Racks, prisons, poisons, the Tarpeian rock, Stripes, hangmen, pitch, and suffocating smoke; And last, and most, if these were cast behind, Th avenging horror of a conscious mind, Whose deadly fear anticipates the blow, And sees no end of punishment and woe; But looks for more, at the last gasp of breath: This makes a hell on earth, and life a death. Meantime, when thoughts of death disturb thy head; Consider, Ancus, great and good, is dead; Ancus, thy better far, was born to die; And thou, dost thou bewail mortality? So many monarchs with their mighty state, Who ruld the world, were overruld by fate. That haughty king, who lorded oer the main, And whose stupendous bridge did the wild waves restrain, (In vain they foamd, in vain they threatend wreck, While his proud legions marchd upon their back,) Him death, a greater monarch, overcame; Nor spared his guards the more, for their immortal name. The Roman chief, the Carthaginian dread, Scipio, the thunderbolt of war, is dead, And, like a common slave, by fate in triump led. The founders of invented arts are lost; And wits, who made eternity their boast. Where now is Homer, who possessd the throne? The immortal work remains, the mortal authors gone. Democritus, perceiving age invade, His body weakend, and his mind decayd, Obeyd the summons with a cheerful face; Made haste to welcome death, and met him half the race. That stroke evn Epicurus could not bar, Tho he in wit surpassd mankind, as far As does the midday sun the midnight star. And thou, dost thou disdain to yield thy breath, Whose very life is little more than death? More than one half by lazy sleep possessd; And when awake, thy soul but nods at best, Day-dreams and sickly thoughts revolving in thy breast. Eternal troubles haunt thy anxious mind, Whose cause and cure thou never hopst to find; But still uncertain, with thyself at strife, Thou wanderst in the labyrinth of life. O, if the foolish race of man, who find A weight of cares still pressing on their mind, Could find as well the cause of the unrest, And all this burden lodged within the breast; Sure they would change their course, nor live as now, Uncertain what to wish or what to vow. Uneasy both in country and in town, They search a place to lay their burden down. One, restless in his palace, walks abroad, And vainly thinks to leave behind the load; But straight returns, for hes as restless there, And finds theres no relief in open air. Another to his villa would retire, And spurs as hard as if it were on fire; So sooner enterd at his country door, But he begins to stretch, and yawn, and snore; Or seeks the city which he left before. Thus every man oerworks his weary will, To shun himself, and to shake off his ill The shaking fit returns, and hangs upon him still. No prospect of repose, nor hope of ease; The wretch is ignorant of his disease; Which known would all his fruitless trouble spare, For he would know the world not worth his care; Then would he search more deeply for the cause; And study nature well, and natures laws: For in this moment lies not the debate, But our future, fixd, eternal state; That never-changing state, which all must keep, Whom death has doomd to everlasting sleep. Why are we then so fond of mortal life, Beset with dangers, and maintaind with strife? A life which all our care can never save; One fate attends us, and one common grave. Besides, we tread but a perpetual round; We neer strike out, but beat the former ground, And the same mawkish joys in the same track are found. For still we think an absent blessing best, Which cloys, and is no blessing when possessd; A new arising with expels it from the breast. The fevrish thirst of life increases still; We call for more and more, and never have our fill, Yet know not what tomorrow we shall try, What dregs of life in the last draught may lie: Nor, by the longest life we can attain, One moment from the length of death we gain; For all behind belongs to his eternal reign. When once the Fates have cut their mortal thread, The man as much to all intents is dead, Who dies to-day, and will as long be so, As he who died a thousand years ago. |

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