On Contempt for the World 1 part 2/3

In you are lilies, the pure couches of virginity; there is the rose by its blood, the purple by the light of sobriety. The choir of the fathers adorns you, and the marriage-bed is undefiled, the holy victim and the holy tear, the penalty for guilt. The King presides over you, and the Great One possesses your courts—he who is the Father's only-begotten, the mystic lion, and yet the lamb. The King is your Son, that only Son of Mary, the holy stock of the Virgin, the author of all beginning, the very mouth of Wisdom. He is wisdom and the Father's own tongue, the Father's right hand. As arbiter he holds all things, below, above, within, and without; God rules the stars, and my dust dares in him who, as if his own work, holds all things in his fist. With the Father the Son, and the Paraclete equal to both, contains all things, surpasses all, is all and everywhere.

Him we rightly seek, therefore we shall see him—nay, even now we see him. Him we shall behold, with him be satisfied, for him we shall thirst. To gaze unceasingly and everlastingly on the face of the Thunderer gives to the saints unending gains, perpetual gains, gives them lasting gains. O without revelries, O without mournings, O without strife, splendid court, flowery homeland, homeland of life, illustrious city of Zion, homeland founded on a safe shore, I seek you, I cherish you, I burn for you, I long for you, I sing, I salute. Not by my merits do I seek, for by my merits I earn to perish in death; nor do I hide in silence that by my merits I am a son of wrath. My life indeed, a life too guilty, a life dead though living, overwhelmed and worn down by deadly offenses. Yet in hope I walk; I beg for rewards by hope and by faith. Those everlasting rewards I beg for, night and day.

That best and most loving Father created me, bore with me in my corruption, lifted me out of corruption, washed me from corruption. My hope is abundant, my hope stands most firm—let it stand in him alone, who after your crimes offers his light to the abyss. While I supply his strength, I rejoice; while I dwell on my own, I weep. When I rejoice in him, then I bewail myself, I labor to weep. While I ponder his tender mercies, I stir up the joys of the heart; while I ponder my own filth, my mind lies cold, aware of its defilement. May great power and supreme grace loose for the sinner the great expiations, the mighty chains, when the demon is conquered. The heavenly grace alone sustains the whole world's sparing of inward filth; the anointing cures diseases. Heavenly grace washes away all things, David's overflowing fountain washes all, flows out to all, cleansing all.

O loving grace, grant me to behold the lofty palaces, that I may see the good and harmonious feasts, the heavenly festivals. Let me not be inflamed in spirit, nor follow, nor speak any profane thing; let me be joined to the citizens who possess the heavens, and let me follow the Lamb. Let me be free within of the heart's corruption, free without of the enemy, of toil, of cold, of hail, of flesh, of lust, of death, of fear. O homeland of heaven without crime or tumult, guilty as I am I burn for you—I dare speak more with a faithful mind—O my hope, you, my golden Zion, brighter than gold, splendid in your host, standing fast in your leader, flowering with the unfading laurel. O good homeland, shall I behold your joys and you? O good homeland, shall I hold your full rewards? Tell me, I implore, give me a word, and say, 'You shall see.' I bear a solid hope; shall I be one holding the prize? Say:

'You shall hold it.' Rejoice, my dust: God is your portion; you are his—and may you be his. Your King is your portion, you are his; do not fail him. My mind, my guilty mind, that portion shall not now be snatched from you; the tear is yours, the best part shall be yours; ask, and it shall be granted—the best portion, full refreshment, the established peace of the mind, the vision of the Deity and the face of the Almighty's light. For this the inmost thirst and the holy tear breathe and pant; in weeping the soul becomes a sacrifice, weeps its own offenses, and weeping veils them, burdening it presses on the limbs, washes and lifts up deeds, heart, and mouth alike; it despises outward things, knocks at the inmost, night and day weeps over itself and condemns itself, torments, drives, tests itself, is its own furnace; weeping it rouses the heart and cries out again:

'O Zion, O Peace.' To those who weep, who hunger, who faint away, there is the Spirit, refreshment, quickening, the vision of the Father. O holy, O loving, O thrice and more than thrice blessed is he whose portion is God; O wretched, O guilty is he who is bereft of this. He is every and the one heavenly glory, the one Creator, the giver of the gift, the very sower of heaven and the gift himself. He cherishes the heart to see his face, his alone, to behold the hosts, to receive the rewards, to possess the light. O people pious in your voices but impious in your steps, envious in your ways, why do you live so ill and lose those good things of the good? O adamantine race, stony shoots, hard shoots, why do you despise good things and seek out things doomed to perish?

O race ill-provident, a turbulent crowd in the whirlwind of death, a people empty without in your deeds, within in your twisted hearts—why do you fall back and despise those inmost gifts? You forsake the manna and run back to Pharaoh. Why do you seek those things by which you shall perish, by which you shall fall? Why hold to things passing away at last, things rushing to death? Theatrical crowd, frenzied crowd, where do you hasten? Whither do you hurl your guilty breasts, your guilty bodies? Why, I ask, do you despise what is before you and choose to go backward? Race utterly lost, you give your mouth to wickedness and your back to good things. With things fleeting for things abiding, things ruined for things that stand, last things for first, why, O man, do you prefer them and despise the heights, wholly sunk in the lowest? Rise, turn back, strive to rise again, strive to return, lay bare your guilt, guilty one;

God the avenger is at hand, the avenger of what is hidden. Uncover your wounds, uncover your four-days-dead corpses; uncover your wounds, and by weeping cover them again, strike and heal. O guilty race of Babylon, rise up to weep over your noxious joys, by weeping to drive them away, to wipe away what was struck, and when wiped away, to beware. The last hour comes, the final light dawns, scorching crimes—welcome yet fierce, alluring yet harsh, bright yet dreadful. Vengeance threatens, death, tribulation—of what sort? Bitter; and a light dreadful to those lying low, bright to those who keep watch. He who now bears all, that Judge, draws near—but he is set forth in verses and recounted by the Sibyl's mouth. O what trembling for all who rush into the fire, and for these heavens too! The King comes swiftly; at him both the wicked and the faithful shall tremble. With him as leader the rewards, with him as judge the glory, shall be received;

with him too as avenger, fraud shall fall; with him as accuser, guilt shall be known. The Gentle One more terrible, the Lamb more fierce, another yet the same—he himself shall be seen, and the heaven shall serve him. The hosts of heaven and the highest summits shall be shaken; then heaven, earth, and sea shall be seen to give forth a sound. The lofty peaks, together with the lofty hosts, are to fall; highest and lowest, sun, sea, and stars, are to be shaken. He who now keeps silent, that he may judge well, shall thunder; against the wicked he shall roar, against the wicked rage, against the wicked stand fast. Gentle to those who love him, fierce to his foes, he shall be seen; on this side recallable, on that side intolerable, he shall be borne. Of one and the same—grievous to these, loving to those (O immense wonder)—his countenance shall be held; on these he shall have mercy, shattering those others.

Long-suffering, good, here bearing the burden of the reprobate, he shall then punish evils and himself fortify the deeds of the good. Merit shall grind this man down; the singular mercy of the Father shall bear that man up, grace given freely—not owed to him, but bestowed upon him. Since the way of two men is foul, since the deed of both is languid, this one shall be reprobated, that one shall earn the heights of heaven. Though the way be slippery, though the cause of both be one and the same, the one shall be loved, the other shall be held an enemy and bereft. Here for many—nay, for very many or for all—an abyss arises; what is rightly taken up is here rightly driven away, that one set free, this one impenetrable, unopenable, a labyrinth. We look upon the good things of the body outwardly; but the Author is within. God knows pious hearts, denies the impious, just toward both.

Let each man tremble for himself, and let each rejoice for you, O Grace. Let each weep for his sin and go trembling, yes trembling all over. Tomorrow he falls from the ranks who stands now in the host as though clean. The Almighty King who rules all things presses these down and gathers those. The way of man is now evil, tomorrow pious; now a rose, tomorrow dregs. Soon the rose becomes a bramble, and tomorrow the very man, a wolf, clings to the sheepfold. Man looks on the mouth, God on the heart; guilty to this One, good to that one. Let each man tremble at his own deeds; O God, let him trust your tender mercies—let him trust, and by weeping cast back his impious and filthy joys. Play on, play on, while the body is safe, O people of Babylon; play on, with hearts slow to good, prone to evil. The last light comes, which from afar shall put your 'best' to flight, and shall burn up your palaces and your treasuries.

The loving King shall come, and his wrath—without wrath (O inmost trembling)—most rigid to these, loving of mouth to those. As a rod to minds falling in their ranks the King shall come; gentler to those standing in order, a Judge without an avenger. He bore judgment and endured to be such before Pilate; the Just One shall put it forth, he bore it, he shall bring in what he endured. Begotten of a Virgin, the King, himself the Giver given, shall himself appear. Why do I prepare delays? All flesh shall see him born of flesh. The wicked and impious crowd shall behold him whom it crucified, whom—alas!—it cursed with reproaching voices. He shall gather his fruit into the granaries, and the threshing-floor shall be sifted; he for whom now there is weeping shall take up joys for all ages. The impious race shall fall, the Babylonian portion born to perish; the son of grace shall pass to the heavens, the son of wrath to the depths below.

Then that Gehenna shall be heaped up and filled, full with the throng of crime and the throng of lust. To this one it shall be milder, to that one sharper; from there is no flight. Thereafter there shall be no remission or redemption at all. Here bewail your evils, seek the rest, you race of Eve; here grief is profitable, the order attainable here—there, 'Woe, woe.' There fraud is flogged and pride wails, but without fruit. Wantonness weeps, sloth mourns, in unending lamentation. The fickle heart grieves, useless, weeps bitterly; the race of darkness becomes without itself, without hope, without a name. Those whom the flame of Venus now scorches, afterward the worst flame of Gehenna scorches, drives, grinds; against these it rages, these it strikes—the vengeance of punishment.

It scorches breasts burning with crime, limbs burning with lust; it crushes the liars, roars against the proud, and bristles against all. It renews and slays, restores and cuts, so that bodies may die that do not die, that things standing may not be set fast, that cold may burn, that fire may grow icy—and this is sought by those fleeing this and shunned by those seeking it again. There death is in plenty, the blackest flame, a darkened light; I cannot touch each thing one by one, neither with a poor foot nor in prose; as the voice cannot bring forth, nor man set out, the joys of the good, so the voice cannot bring forth, nor man set out, the woes of the wicked.

To him whose now is deceit, afterward is the hard torment of pain; the torment shall punish the mind's foul things and the mouth's impious things, so that vengeance may double the lashes upon evils done, may devour the breasts and pierce the bones within and without. Let the pious hear this, that he may stand fast, and the impious, that he may quickly rise. Fear creates standing fast, and blesses this man in his standing, purges that man of corruption. Punishment shall bring its final meaning to the ears of those lying low, and the true tear shall strike to the utmost the heart that is reproved. Those whom sin binds here, vengeance, smiting, gathers there, binding soft things to the soft, vile things to the viler. Now the action is light; then vengeance binds the filthier to the filthier, the viler to the viler. As the throngs of crime are bound tight like a bundle, and, because they are without fruit-bearing, the logs are burned.

They are without inward fruits, a withered fig-tree, a useless branch—nay, fit for burning, since it is dry. They are flesh of earth and earth of flesh, the flock of the reprobate, a depraved creation, a mingled binding of faggots, who afterward are received with weepings, here for the present with laughter. In the fires of death and in pains they do not die. As great as are their crimes, so great are the torments for the wicked; among many evils, two are the worst—cold and fire—yet neither is lighter or milder than the other. The cross presses bodies and hearts alike, both with Christ as avenger. Here the hearth of time is, compared to that, called a jest and a shadow. That fire of the eternal flames is light, and as if painted, beside it.

So very great, so very mighty is the fire held there, that it could not be quenched by all the waves of the sea. So great is the cold that a fiery mass of a mountain would freeze thereby; these evils the deed of the guilty shall endure. Eyes, temples, brow, lips, breast, entrails, breasts, mouth, throat, member, and legs—these are there the fuel of the flame. There the eyes weep, weep their crimes long since past, and there is foul stench, and a heavy, fetid horror in that place. The vision of the demon and the face of the Gorgon there grow rigid; to all are laid bare all the foul and impious deeds. The evil race is goaded by worms that do not die, and is tortured by dragons blazing with fire.

That worm in the real fires lives in such a way as a fish in the deep; and that these things shall be so, I read as I write. The cross, the lashes, the hammer, the fire, and a fiery torrent are there. O flesh, there a thick night abides for you, a light abhorring you. Night is at once upon all who dwell in the region of death. O man, groan, lament, grieve, tremble, lay aside earthly things. Fiery chains at last fetter every single limb; chains bridle the slippery bodies and the theatrical limbs. The guilty race stands upon a threefold cross, plunged head downward; its faces are turned, and its backs likewise turned backward, for above are the legs and feet, dreadful and filthy with corruption, the head below. These evils surely belong to the regions beneath. Guilty race, lament! I do not, believe me, invent such things.

These few things I note (I do not know every one); many I leave aside. My word is sure: that God shall set the wicked as a furnace of fire; this David affirms, this he intimates—those friends of the world. Gather, my mind, how grievous is that flame of fury: this furnace glows hot, yet a furnace is not wont to be of such heat. Ponder in your breast why the fire is said to be a furnace. Sluggish mind, vain mind, learn in fear the lashes prepared for the wicked. If you suggest evils here, there you yourself shall be rendered a torch; you yourself shall be burning, you yourself shall be burned, a fiery furnace. Alas, woe to be wept! Woe, miserable! O my mind, cry out: not a bright flame there—believe it—but dreadful, but a black flame, which nevertheless flashes and doubles the evils with its gleaming fire; for your punishment lies open to it, while its light blackens for you.

Vengeance burns up the breasts with cold, the bodies with fire; each part rushes into wickedness, and each part justly pays for it, since this one is tortured for graver guilt—so says the God-man, and that Job of mine, that proven one. He who unworthily lords it over others and willfully oppresses his inferiors rushes, as God affirms, into the outer darkness. Unless you weep here, there shall be weeping for you and gnashing of teeth. The smoke sent forth from the fires burns this man, a heavy chill burns that one. It is a sound proof that the torment of cold and of fire is a deed wrought upon the wicked who perish and pay the penalty. The page of Job too—if you mark well Job's sacred verses—says, roused, that a passage drives men from the snow to the fires. And this witness is sure here;

therefore the side of my pen is roofed over, well hedged about by King, attendant, prince, and soldier. As are the rewards, so are the unceasing lashes: the kingdoms of the pious are everlasting, the lashes of the wicked perpetual and lasting forever. For these the beauty is ampler, for those the grief is the greater, without end. One part holds the heavens; the other is lost, laid low in ruin. The slippery bodies and tyrannical hearts are racked through; these are burned with the cold of hail, those with the brand of lightning. That Gehenna confines, plows, grinds, torments, drives, strikes, with force, with cross, with weight, with cold, with scourge, with perpetual punishment. There, believe it, is a cross without a stake, death without death, a voice without song, light without brightness, night without night. No public arbiter Aeacus or Rhadamanthus is there;

no Cerberus there, nor infernal fury, vengeance, lamentation. No boatman there, nor a skiff endowed with the voice of Maro; but what? Burning, night, torment, the death of Babylon. The law given to Typheus does not hold Orpheus' strong reins there, no heavy stone is here, nor bird tearing the inward parts. The blackest pain, the heaviest pain, the pain of the wicked—the evil-conscious mind and the noxious hearts—is their worm. The envious mind is smitten, the filthy flesh, the seductive limbs, with perpetual wound, perpetual sulphur, perpetual punishment. There Assur trembles and his people groan, the food of the dragon; after her lilies are lost, the daughter of Babylon weeps. As ill flowering, as glittering to herself, as exalted she stood, so now she is withered, so she lies dreadful, so cast down.

She has become a harlot, a goddess to herself, full of poisons; she has stood subjected to filth, and is subjected too to every punishment. They drank from her mouth her sweet honey—nay, her very gall—who now seek the slippery and flighty joys, who wickedly prefer the perishing gains, the falling kingdoms, to the eternal, who are full of foolish salt within themselves. The wines of her desire and lust the wicked crowd has drunk, for whom Babylon has shut up the stars. The die is cast: as delighted as she was before, so now she is laid low with harsher torments. What is she now known or seen to be? That ash? She has utterly dried up, has utterly fallen, and is utterly ruined. And that Jezebel, that Babel thundering with rebellious mouth, has gone down to the depths below; clap your hands, you stars, sing psalms, you heavens!

She who had grown wickedly, and, magnified, had said, 'The world is mine!'—she has lost herself, has fallen, has fallen into the place of death. That land is deeper and more darksome than earth; there the guilty race weeps, but its tear is far too late. A land covered with the blackness and the whirlwind of death; there death is in plenty, the tear is sure, the suffering sure. That tragedy lasts unto all ages, lasts on, while grief burns the breasts, torment the entrails, the flame the heart. There the cry falls silent, there horror lies, and the shadow of death; there the strong man bears his crimes, bears his mighty torments. Mighty hearts are mighty in enduring the lashes. The devouring gluttony, the babbling tongue, the surfeit, the belly, burn. There is exceeding torment and inmost punishment for the wicked—exceeding torment, exceeding suffering, exceeding fire.

There the black fire surges, tireless to torment, to burn up the wicked hearts and the wanton limbs. The evil night doubles, and the steaming cauldron of Styx flashes out, the blackest flame scorches even the inmost parts, with nothing there to give dew. The wave of the furnace resounds with lamentations, thunders with fires; nor are those griefs, nor that complaint, subject to an end. The flame whirls back fiery rivers, black coils; the scorching frost and the freezing flame rack the breasts. The devouring worm teems, and the deep pit of the abyss lies open. There are all who were lax, lax in heart, lax in body. Play on, live on, with rich usury, you alien race! The flesh deceives you here; there that Gehenna receives you. There is no vision there, no mansion filled with light, no place of order, no hall of light, no glad fields.

O Maro, you are deceived here, where you sow the fields of the pious; you find no Elysium there for yourself, you who wrote of them. The poetic Muse, the scholastic tongue, the theatrical voice—because you treat of these and are badly deceived, you also badly deceive. That Gehenna flashes with fires that give no light; full of blackness, full of whirlwind, full of punishment, full of lust and of vice it is, with its handmaids—the souls leaping out from here, falling back to here. Those whom it vomits up it devours, on every side it pierces them through, plagues on every side; and one life survives the deaths that come. The fire of the loins and of lust burns within the fire, it burns, it burns; that vengeance is repaid as it deserves. He who is wickedly exalted here is there cast down, driven to the lowest; then he holds the worst places, holds the lowest, who now holds the first.

He who tears, seizes, tortures, snatches—here he shall himself be snatched, shall be torn to pieces, shall be tortured, shall be carried off. Those whom feigning now grips, then vengeance shall grip; those whom reproaches grip with grief, whom Venus with burning, whom gluttony with torment, whom gains with terror. While it is still permitted, take these things in with watchful ears, you who hoard gains, who run after gains, who stand at gains. O race swift to feed your flesh with flesh and flesh with flesh, who to the bloated give enough, yet to the needy—alas!—give not even bread. Here is Lazarus, there is Tartarus; and gluttony, long since drunk with drinks, drunk with feastings, there burns in that very place. The rich man dies without hope, without a name—the rich man (the needy one named Lazarus)—whence the underworld weeps; it is now full.

The rich man asks for water; the hungry one reaps the full breasts. Grace by weepings, punishment by drunkennesses, is now his portion. After their funerals, the rich man goes to the depths below, the poor man to the stars. He who weeps in his sore rejoices in the heavens; gluttony, once fed, weeps. A little drop is sought, and gluttony bewails it, and the mouths are dry. No little drop is given. Why? Because the little crumb was not given. He who gave less returns to begging for the least. He stood at the wine-cups, and now seeks a stream that is not to be granted. Pleasing himself with bees' wine, with banquet upon banquet, with robes upon robes, he now bears his crimes, bears his torments, bears his plagues. The flower has fallen, and its glory into the Stygian cave, into the black cave. The flower was like a flower; it shone, and fell to torment. To him who had less belongs Abraham's bosom, to him paradise; to him who had more, burning, the tear, torment, punishment—and laughter. Now where are the robes? Now where the dinners? Now where the supper?

The robes, the dinners are fleeting; for him the punishment stands fast. The purple has passed, the food has ended; vengeance remains. It remains, and bitterly—nay, perpetually—it torments. Flame, hunger, thirst, the vengeance of the rich man, the lack of the needy, stand fast in place of crane, of pig, of feast, of luxury, of the brand of the belly. Crane, hare, oyster, or bull-beef joined to pork, the brand of desire, the dice of crime, and that jesting, and the morning's dinners, the evening's victuals—they have passed away; by the tyrannical light and the slippery night these deeds have come to ruin. That overflowing man, that fierce man, that man of many things, is buried in the depths below—so sacred Scripture bears witness. Take in with your ears, lay up in your minds such things, you rich:

Lift up the wounded, carry the fallen, feed the meek. Feed with your alms these who with rich prayer may feed you well, lest the needy or thirsting limbs grow faint. Lay up in your minds, bring forth in your conduct, bring forth in your deeds whatever pious faith proclaims and the way of sobriety loves. Lay up in mind, bring forth in voice, give in deed what is right: be food to the needy, courts to the wayfarers, a roof. Give yourselves and your goods; God wills both, rejoices in both; let each man well give his own gains to the Lord, his own to the poor. Why do I build up much? Now I instruct you all together with myself. Let us give to the needy who bear the lowest, the best things along with them. Christ, who gave all things, groans at our doors; he is in want, he wails, he asks for the last, he says, 'Give here.' No one gives, he is in want. What then? He himself shall exact what was denied.

We take up joys now, drunken race—after them, torment. Behold, you hoard up wealth and great gains here, O miser, nor do you keep count here, since to count belongs to the poor man. O impious beast, you see Christ lament at your doors, mingled here with the hungering and the thirsting. From this side Lazarus is yours, from that side Tartarus; here you flee that one. Feed him, carry him, behold him; lest, made guilty, you cast away the little one from your heart. Earthly things you furnish him; the poor man furnishes you heavenly things. By a loaf he will give you God; here he dies, here he departs, here he remains for you. Earthly glory, earthly abundance, are full of ashes. The glory has fallen, and that man's estate has dried up. Let him hear with inward ears, let the world hear. As a wheel's rim the world is turned, driven by the whirlwind of death; it passes and perishes, and the pleasant world bears but a mist.

Swiftly the world itself, or all its calm, is taken away. The world's honor is light, a brief atom, and a short feast; it gives nothing lovely, loves nothing useful, mocks at what is honorable. By the enemy of the breast and the enemy of the body, within and without, it grew rough and dry, it withered, horrid, and so did its festivals. The world's love perishes, and the world wears down its own lovers, who reckon its joys, sad joys, to be true joys. Shall we awake, or shall we remain in the corruption of the world, which plainly is to be beaten down by fires, by floods, by the foe? Why do wandering, guilty hearts cherish those things that are nothing, that grant brief applause but no brief lament, after a brief while? Why is the fire so near to the flesh and the inmost enemy loved? The love of flesh perishes; it is a rose, it will be dregs—therefore let it be spat upon.

O fair flesh, after a brief while foul and full of dross, now a flower, soon dung, and the lowest dung—whence do you swell? O fleshly flesh, now gravel, afterward a worm; now a man, tomorrow earth—for that is what we are. Whence are you proud? O feeble flesh, O quickly perishing, O evilly soft, why do you seek lofty things, why do you raise iron horns for yourself? Why for you the surfeit, the thousand dishes, the thousand feedings? A thing flowing out with corruption, a living dead thing—why your haughtiness? Whence your pride? Dross is your glory; with death it is forgiven. Dross your dinners, dross your joys, dross you are yourself. Why for you the baths, the garments, the golden robe? Why for you the belly? Though the flesh be cultivated, you shall always be flesh, yet not always flesh. After being a man you are ash; you cease to be flesh, you rot.

How small your worth is, the little urn and the mass of dross teach you. O milk-white flesh, now a rose, afterward a vile burden, your flower shall fall, and this youthful rose shall waste away. What is now flowery shall tomorrow be dreadful—I say more: a horror, a horror to those who love, a horror to enemies, a horror to all. Tomorrow you shall be dreadful, tomorrow you shall be parched, vile, bitter—you who are now fair, you who are now flowery, you, dear flesh. Sad things I repeat: that beauty's form shall flow away at once, at once it shall flow away, at once it shall fall, this radiance of the face. Why pursue many things? That flesh, that beauty shall perish; this Venus, this warmth, that art or worth shall go, shall die. What is the perishable flesh, or what is useless man? Mire. What, I ask, is fleshly glory? Gravel. What is the rose? Hay.

Fleshly glory and all things of the flesh, while the flesh flourishes, are as it were standing—failing when it fails. Why is man born or a boy brought forth? That he may die. He comes out into the air, endures hardships, departs, is buried. Slippery gravel, fleeting breeze, is man new-born. In the morning he stands on the mound; and without delay, in the evening he is borne to burial. He who was just now a flower falls in the space of a single hour. Soon he is snatched away, though he shine with genius and with beauty. He becomes the lowest ash, that most upright and precious man—irreparable, irrevocable, full of duty. The clod is hidden away and shut up, the tomb its host. The praise of his image stands, and the shadow of his name—nay, not even a shadow. The man rises to the heavens, if he did well; to Tartarus, if he did ill. The body lies in the ground, the art perishes, the mouth is silent, the breath has departed.

He becomes dross who was a man; even the one who loves him spits upon him, the beloved shudders at him, and denies that he knows him, hastens that he may quickly cover the limbs over, hastens to carry him out, and weeps and commands and prepares the urn—nor does he groan three days; alas! he presses out a single day's tear with his nail. Soon he bears the bier, or goes before the bier, or follows praying; at last with funeral lamentations he goes as if mourning. Weeping he goes, exulting he returns; once he gave the bones to the tomb, he withdrew. The loving affection departed, as that man's open-handed gift departed. He died, he died—here where he lost his money and his friend, who had smiled upon himself; he was a lover of money, O wicked heart! That most upright, that most mighty, that man, he—what is he, I pray, and his beauty? An urn of ashes.