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For ever every outside streams away From off all objects, since discharge they may; And when this outside reaches other things, As chiefly glass, it passes through; but where It reaches the rough rocks or stuff of wood, There 'tis so rent that it cannot give back An image. But when gleaming objects dense, As chiefly mirrors, have been set before it, Nothing of this sort happens. For it can't Go, as through glass, nor yet be rent—its safety, By virtue of that smoothness, being sure. 'Tis therefore that from them the images Stream back to us; and howso suddenly Thou place, at any instant, anything Before a mirror, there an image shows; Proving that ever from a body's surface Flow off thin textures and thin shapes of things. Thus many images in little time Are gendered; so their origin is named Rightly a speedy. And even as the sun Must send below, in little time, to earth So many beams to keep all things so full Of light incessant; thus, on grounds the same, From things there must be borne, in many modes, To every quarter round, upon the moment, The many images of things; because Unto whatever face of things we turn The mirror, things of form and hue the same Respond. Besides, though but a moment since Serenest was the weather of the sky, So fiercely sudden is it foully thick That ye might think that round about all murk Had parted forth from Acheron and filled The mighty vaults of sky—so grievously, As gathers thus the storm-clouds' gruesome night, Do faces of black horror hang on high— Of which how small a part an image is There's none to tell or reckon out in words.

Now come; with what swift motion they are borne, These images, and what the speed assigned To them across the breezes swimming on— So that o'er lengths of space a little hour Alone is wasted, toward whatever region Each with its divers impulse tends—I'll tell In verses sweeter than they many are; Even as the swan's slight note is better far Than that dispersed clamour of the cranes Among the southwind's aery clouds. And first, One oft may see that objects which are light And made of tiny bodies are the swift; In which class is the sun's light and his heat, Since made from small primordial elements Which, as it were, are forward knocked along And through the interspaces of the air To pass delay not, urged by blows behind; For light by light is instantly supplied And gleam by following gleam is spurred and driven. Thus likewise must the images have power Through unimaginable space to speed Within a point of time,—first, since a cause Exceeding small there is, which at their back Far forward drives them and propels, where, too, They're carried with such winged lightness on; And, secondly, since furnished, when sent off, With texture of such rareness that they can Through objects whatsoever penetrate And ooze, as 'twere, through intervening air. Besides, if those fine particles of things Which from so deep within are sent abroad, As light and heat of sun, are seen to glide And spread themselves through all the space of heaven Upon one instant of the day, and fly O'er sea and lands and flood the heaven, what then Of those which on the outside stand prepared, When they're hurled off with not a thing to check Their going out? Dost thou not see indeed How swifter and how farther must they go And speed through manifold the length of space In time the same that from the sun the rays O'erspread the heaven? This also seems to be Example chief and true with what swift speed The images of things are borne about: That soon as ever under open skies Is spread the shining water, all at once, If stars be out in heaven, upgleam from earth, Serene and radiant in the water there, The constellations of the universe— Now seest thou not in what a point of time An image from the shores of ether falls Unto the shores of earth? Wherefore, again, And yet again, 'tis needful to confess With wondrous...

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THE SENSES AND MENTAL PICTURES

Bodies that strike the eyes, awaking sight. From certain things flow odours evermore, As cold from rivers, heat from sun, and spray From waves of ocean, eater-out of walls Around the coasts. Nor ever cease to flit The varied voices, sounds athrough the air. Then too there comes into the mouth at times The wet of a salt taste, when by the sea We roam about; and so, whene'er we watch The wormword being mixed, its bitter stings. To such degree from all things is each thing Borne streamingly along, and sent about To every region round; and nature grants Nor rest nor respite of the onward flow, Since 'tis incessantly we feeling have, And all the time are suffered to descry And smell all things at hand, and hear them sound. Besides, since shape examined by our hands Within the dark is known to be the same As that by eyes perceived within the light And lustrous day, both touch and sight must be By one like cause aroused. So, if we test A square and get its stimulus on us Within the dark, within the light what square Can fall upon our sight, except a square That images the things? Wherefore it seems The source of seeing is in images, Nor without these can anything be viewed.

Now these same films I name are borne about And tossed and scattered into regions all. But since we do perceive alone through eyes, It follows hence that whitherso we turn Our sight, all things do strike against it there With form and hue. And just how far from us Each thing may be away, the image yields To us the power to see and chance to tell: For when 'tis sent, at once it shoves ahead And drives along the air that's in the space Betwixt it and our eyes. And thus this air All glides athrough our eyeballs, and, as 'twere, Brushes athrough our pupils and thuswise Passes across. Therefore it comes we see How far from us each thing may be away, And the more air there be that's driven before, And too the longer be the brushing breeze Against our eyes, the farther off removed Each thing is seen to be: forsooth, this work With mightily swift order all goes on, So that upon one instant we may see What kind the object and how far away.

Nor over-marvellous must this be deemed In these affairs that, though the films which strike Upon the eyes cannot be singly seen, The things themselves may be perceived. For thus When the wind beats upon us stroke by stroke And when the sharp cold streams, 'tis not our wont To feel each private particle of wind Or of that cold, but rather all at once; And so we see how blows affect our body, As if one thing were beating on the same And giving us the feel of its own body Outside of us. Again, whene'er we thump With finger-tip upon a stone, we touch But the rock's surface and the outer hue, Nor feel that hue by contact—rather feel The very hardness deep within the rock.

Now come, and why beyond a looking-glass An image may be seen, perceive. For seen It soothly is, removed far within. 'Tis the same sort as objects peered upon Outside in their true shape, whene'er a door Yields through itself an open peering-place, And lets us see so many things outside Beyond the house. Also that sight is made By a twofold twin air: for first is seen The air inside the door-posts; next the doors, The twain to left and right; and afterwards A light beyond comes brushing through our eyes, Then other air, then objects peered upon Outside in their true shape. And thus, when first The image of the glass projects itself, As to our gaze it comes, it shoves ahead And drives along the air that's in the space Betwixt it and our eyes, and brings to pass That we perceive the air ere yet the glass. But when we've also seen the glass itself, Forthwith that image which from us is borne Reaches the glass, and there thrown back again Comes back unto our eyes, and driving rolls Ahead of itself another air, that then 'Tis this we see before itself, and thus It looks so far removed behind the glass. Wherefore again, again, there's naught for wonder

*****

In those which render from the mirror's plane A vision back, since each thing comes to pass By means of the two airs. Now, in the glass The right part of our members is observed Upon the left, because, when comes the image Hitting against the level of the glass, 'Tis not returned unshifted; but forced off Backwards in line direct and not oblique,— Exactly as whoso his plaster-mask Should dash, before 'twere dry, on post or beam, And it should straightway keep, at clinging there, Its shape, reversed, facing him who threw, And so remould the features it gives back: It comes that now the right eye is the left, The left the right. An image too may be From mirror into mirror handed on, Until of idol-films even five or six Have thus been gendered. For whatever things Shall hide back yonder in the house, the same, However far removed in twisting ways, May still be all brought forth through bending paths And by these several mirrors seen to be Within the house, since nature so compels All things to be borne backward and spring off At equal angles from all other things. To such degree the image gleams across From mirror unto mirror; where 'twas left It comes to be the right, and then again Returns and changes round unto the left. Again, those little sides of mirrors curved Proportionate to the bulge of our own flank Send back to us their idols with the right Upon the right; and this is so because Either the image is passed on along From mirror unto mirror, and thereafter, When twice dashed off, flies back unto ourselves; Or else the image wheels itself around, When once unto the mirror it has come, Since the curved surface teaches it to turn To usward. Further, thou might'st well believe That these film-idols step along with us And set their feet in unison with ours And imitate our carriage, since from that Part of a mirror whence thou hast withdrawn Straightway no images can be returned.

Further, our eye-balls tend to flee the bright And shun to gaze thereon; the sun even blinds, If thou goest on to strain them unto him, Because his strength is mighty, and the films Heavily downward from on high are borne Through the pure ether and the viewless winds, And strike the eyes, disordering their joints. So piecing lustre often burns the eyes, Because it holdeth many seeds of fire Which, working into eyes, engender pain. Again, whatever jaundiced people view Becomes wan-yellow, since from out their bodies Flow many seeds wan-yellow forth to meet The films of things, and many too are mixed Within their eye, which by contagion paint All things with sallowness. Again, we view From dark recesses things that stand in light, Because, when first has entered and possessed The open eyes this nearer darkling air, Swiftly the shining air and luminous Followeth in, which purges then the eyes And scatters asunder of that other air The sable shadows, for in large degrees This air is nimbler, nicer, and more strong. And soon as ever 'thas filled and oped with light The pathways of the eyeballs, which before Black air had blocked, there follow straightaway Those films of things out-standing in the light, Provoking vision—what we cannot do From out the light with objects in the dark, Because that denser darkling air behind Followeth in, and fills each aperture And thus blockades the pathways of the eyes That there no images of any things Can be thrown in and agitate the eyes.

And when from far away we do behold The squared towers of a city, oft Rounded they seem,—on this account because Each distant angle is perceived obtuse, Or rather it is not perceived at all; And perishes its blow nor to our gaze Arrives its stroke, since through such length of air Are borne along the idols that the air Makes blunt the idol of the angle's point By numerous collidings. When thuswise The angles of the tower each and all Have quite escaped the sense, the stones appear As rubbed and rounded on a turner's wheel— Yet not like objects near and truly round, But with a semblance to them, shadowily. Likewise, our shadow in the sun appears To move along and follow our own steps And imitate our carriage—if thou thinkest Air that is thus bereft of light can walk, Following the gait and motion of mankind. For what we use to name a shadow, sure Is naught but air deprived of light. No marvel: Because the earth from spot to spot is reft Progressively of light of sun, whenever In moving round we get within its way, While any spot of earth by us abandoned Is filled with light again, on this account It comes to pass that what was body's shadow Seems still the same to follow after us In one straight course. Since, evermore pour in New lights of rays, and perish then the old, Just like the wool that's drawn into the flame. Therefore the earth is easily spoiled of light And easily refilled and from herself Washeth the black shadows quite away.

And yet in this we don't at all concede That eyes be cheated. For their task it is To note in whatsoever place be light, In what be shadow: whether or no the gleams Be still the same, and whether the shadow which Just now was here is that one passing thither, Or whether the facts be what we said above, 'Tis after all the reasoning of mind That must decide; nor can our eyeballs know The nature of reality. And so Attach thou not this fault of mind to eyes, Nor lightly think our senses everywhere Are tottering. The ship in which we sail Is borne along, although it seems to stand; The ship that bides in roadstead is supposed There to be passing by. And hills and fields Seem fleeing fast astern, past which we urge The ship and fly under the bellying sails. The stars, each one, do seem to pause, affixed To the ethereal caverns, though they all Forever are in motion, rising out And thence revisiting their far descents When they have measured with their bodies bright The span of heaven. And likewise sun and moon Seem biding in a roadstead,—objects which, As plain fact proves, are really borne along. Between two mountains far away aloft From midst the whirl of waters open lies A gaping exit for the fleet, and yet They seem conjoined in a single isle. When boys themselves have stopped their spinning round, The halls still seem to whirl and posts to reel, Until they now must almost think the roofs Threaten to ruin down upon their heads. And now, when nature begins to lift on high The sun's red splendour and the tremulous fires, And raise him o'er the mountain-tops, those mountains— O'er which he seemeth then to thee to be, His glowing self hard by atingeing them With his own fire—are yet away from us Scarcely two thousand arrow-shots, indeed Oft scarce five hundred courses of a dart; Although between those mountains and the sun Lie the huge plains of ocean spread beneath The vasty shores of ether, and intervene A thousand lands, possessed by many a folk And generations of wild beasts. Again, A pool of water of but a finger's depth, Which lies between the stones along the pave, Offers a vision downward into earth As far, as from the earth o'erspread on high The gulfs of heaven; that thus thou seemest to view Clouds down below and heavenly bodies plunged Wondrously in heaven under earth. Then too, when in the middle of the stream Sticks fast our dashing horse, and down we gaze Into the river's rapid waves, some force Seems then to bear the body of the horse, Though standing still, reversely from his course, And swiftly push up-stream. And wheresoe'er We cast our eyes across, all objects seem Thus to be onward borne and flow along In the same way as we. A portico, Albeit it stands well propped from end to end On equal columns, parallel and big, Contracts by stages in a narrow cone, When from one end the long, long whole is seen,— Until, conjoining ceiling with the floor, And the whole right side with the left, it draws Together to a cone's nigh-viewless point. To sailors on the main the sun he seems From out the waves to rise, and in the waves To set and bury his light—because indeed They gaze on naught but water and the sky. Again, to gazers ignorant of the sea, Vessels in port seem, as with broken poops, To lean upon the water, quite agog; For any portion of the oars that's raised Above the briny spray is straight, and straight The rudders from above. But other parts, Those sunk, immersed below the water-line, Seem broken all and bended and inclined Sloping to upwards, and turned back to float Almost atop the water. And when the winds Carry the scattered drifts along the sky In the night-time, then seem to glide along The radiant constellations 'gainst the clouds And there on high to take far other course From that whereon in truth they're borne. And then, If haply our hand be set beneath one eye And press below thereon, then to our gaze Each object which we gaze on seems to be, By some sensation twain—then twain the lights Of lampions burgeoning in flowers of flame, And twain the furniture in all the house, Two-fold the visages of fellow-men, And twain their bodies. And again, when sleep Has bound our members down in slumber soft And all the body lies in deep repose, Yet then we seem to self to be awake And move our members; and in night's blind gloom We think to mark the daylight and the sun; And, shut within a room, yet still we seem To change our skies, our oceans, rivers, hills, To cross the plains afoot, and hear new sounds, Though still the austere silence of the night Abides around us, and to speak replies, Though voiceless. Other cases of the sort Wondrously many do we see, which all Seek, so to say, to injure faith in sense— In vain, because the largest part of these Deceives through mere opinions of the mind, Which we do add ourselves, feigning to see What by the senses are not seen at all. For naught is harder than to separate Plain facts from dubious, which the mind forthwith Adds by itself.

Again, if one suppose That naught is known, he knows not whether this Itself is able to be known, since he Confesses naught to know. Therefore with him I waive discussion—who has set his head Even where his feet should be. But let me grant That this he knows,—I question: whence he knows What 'tis to know and not-to-know in turn, And what created concept of the truth, And what device has proved the dubious To differ from the certain?—since in things He's heretofore seen naught of true. Thou'lt find That from the senses first hath been create Concept of truth, nor can the senses be Rebutted. For criterion must be found Worthy of greater trust, which shall defeat Through own authority the false by true; What, then, than these our senses must there be Worthy a greater trust? Shall reason, sprung From some false sense, prevail to contradict Those senses, sprung as reason wholly is From out the senses?—For lest these be true, All reason also then is falsified. Or shall the ears have power to blame the eyes, Or yet the touch the ears? Again, shall taste Accuse this touch or shall the nose confute Or eyes defeat it? Methinks not so it is: For unto each has been divided off Its function quite apart, its power to each; And thus we're still constrained to perceive The soft, the cold, the hot apart, apart All divers hues and whatso things there be Conjoined with hues. Likewise the tasting tongue Has its own power apart, and smells apart And sounds apart are known. And thus it is That no one sense can e'er convict another. Nor shall one sense have power to blame itself, Because it always must be deemed the same, Worthy of equal trust. And therefore what At any time unto these senses showed, The same is true. And if the reason be Unable to unravel us the cause Why objects, which at hand were square, afar Seemed rounded, yet it more availeth us, Lacking the reason, to pretend a cause For each configuration, than to let From out our hands escape the obvious things And injure primal faith in sense, and wreck All those foundations upon which do rest Our life and safety. For not only reason Would topple down; but even our very life Would straightaway collapse, unless we dared To trust our senses and to keep away From headlong heights and places to be shunned Of a like peril, and to seek with speed Their opposites! Again, as in a building, If the first plumb-line be askew, and if The square deceiving swerve from lines exact, And if the level waver but the least In any part, the whole construction then Must turn out faulty—shelving and askew, Leaning to back and front, incongruous, That now some portions seem about to fall, And falls the whole ere long—betrayed indeed By first deceiving estimates: so too Thy calculations in affairs of life Must be askew and false, if sprung for thee From senses false. So all that troop of words Marshalled against the senses is quite vain.

And now remains to demonstrate with ease How other senses each their things perceive.

Firstly, a sound and every voice is heard, When, getting into ears, they strike the sense With their own body. For confess we must Even voice and sound to be corporeal, Because they're able on the sense to strike. Besides voice often scrapes against the throat, And screams in going out do make more rough The wind-pipe—naturally enough, methinks, When, through the narrow exit rising up In larger throng, these primal germs of voice Have thus begun to issue forth. In sooth, Also the door of the mouth is scraped against [By air blown outward] from distended [cheeks].

*****

And thus no doubt there is, that voice and words Consist of elements corporeal, With power to pain. Nor art thou unaware Likewise how much of body's ta'en away, How much from very thews and powers of men May be withdrawn by steady talk, prolonged Even from the rising splendour of the morn To shadows of black evening,—above all If 't be outpoured with most exceeding shouts. Therefore the voice must be corporeal, Since the long talker loses from his frame A part.

Moreover, roughness in the sound Comes from the roughness in the primal germs, As a smooth sound from smooth ones is create; Nor have these elements a form the same When the trump rumbles with a hollow roar, As when barbaric Berecynthian pipe Buzzes with raucous boomings, or when swans By night from icy shores of Helicon With wailing voices raise their liquid dirge.

Thus, when from deep within our frame we force These voices, and at mouth expel them forth, The mobile tongue, artificer of words, Makes them articulate, and too the lips By their formations share in shaping them. Hence when the space is short from starting-point To where that voice arrives, the very words Must too be plainly heard, distinctly marked. For then the voice conserves its own formation, Conserves its shape. But if the space between Be longer than is fit, the words must be Through the much air confounded, and the voice Disordered in its flight across the winds— And so it haps, that thou canst sound perceive, Yet not determine what the words may mean; To such degree confounded and encumbered The voice approaches us. Again, one word, Sent from the crier's mouth, may rouse all ears Among the populace. And thus one voice Scatters asunder into many voices, Since it divides itself for separate ears, Imprinting form of word and a clear tone. But whatso part of voices fails to hit The ears themselves perishes, borne beyond, Idly diffused among the winds. A part, Beating on solid porticoes, tossed back Returns a sound; and sometimes mocks the ear With a mere phantom of a word. When this Thou well hast noted, thou canst render count Unto thyself and others why it is Along the lonely places that the rocks Give back like shapes of words in order like, When search we after comrades wandering Among the shady mountains, and aloud Call unto them, the scattered. I have seen Spots that gave back even voices six or seven For one thrown forth—for so the very hills, Dashing them back against the hills, kept on With their reverberations. And these spots The neighbouring country-side doth feign to be Haunts of the goat-foot satyrs and the nymphs; And tells ye there be fauns, by whose night noise And antic revels yonder they declare The voiceless silences are broken oft, And tones of strings are made and wailings sweet Which the pipe, beat by players' finger-tips, Pours out; and far and wide the farmer-race Begins to hear, when, shaking the garmentings Of pine upon his half-beast head, god-Pan With puckered lip oft runneth o'er and o'er The open reeds,—lest flute should cease to pour The woodland music! Other prodigies And wonders of this ilk they love to tell, Lest they be thought to dwell in lonely spots And even by gods deserted. This is why They boast of marvels in their story-tellings; Or by some other reason are led on— Greedy, as all mankind hath ever been, To prattle fables into ears.

Again, One need not wonder how it comes about That through those places (through which eyes cannot View objects manifest) sounds yet may pass And assail the ears. For often we observe People conversing, though the doors be closed; No marvel either, since all voice unharmed Can wind through bended apertures of things, While idol-films decline to—for they're rent, Unless along straight apertures they swim, Like those in glass, through which all images Do fly across. And yet this voice itself, In passing through shut chambers of a house, Is dulled, and in a jumble enters ears, And sound we seem to hear far more than words. Moreover, a voice is into all directions Divided up, since off from one another New voices are engendered, when one voice Hath once leapt forth, outstarting into many— As oft a spark of fire is wont to sprinkle Itself into its several fires. And so, Voices do fill those places hid behind, Which all are in a hubbub round about, Astir with sound. But idol-films do tend, As once sent forth, in straight directions all; Wherefore one can inside a wall see naught, Yet catch the voices from beyond the same.

Nor tongue and palate, whereby we flavour feel, Present more problems for more work of thought. Firstly, we feel a flavour in the mouth, When forth we squeeze it, in chewing up our food,— As any one perchance begins to squeeze With hand and dry a sponge with water soaked. Next, all which forth we squeeze is spread about Along the pores and intertwined paths Of the loose-textured tongue. And so, when smooth The bodies of the oozy flavour, then Delightfully they touch, delightfully They treat all spots, around the wet and trickling Enclosures of the tongue. And contrariwise, They sting and pain the sense with their assault, According as with roughness they're supplied. Next, only up to palate is the pleasure Coming from flavour; for in truth when down 'Thas plunged along the throat, no pleasure is, Whilst into all the frame it spreads around; Nor aught it matters with what food is fed The body, if only what thou take thou canst Distribute well digested to the frame And keep the stomach in a moist career.

Now, how it is we see some food for some, Others for others....

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I will unfold, or wherefore what to some Is foul and bitter, yet the same to others Can seem delectable to eat,—why here So great the distance and the difference is That what is food to one to some becomes Fierce poison, as a certain snake there is Which, touched by spittle of a man, will waste And end itself by gnawing up its coil. Again, fierce poison is the hellebore To us, but puts the fat on goats and quails. That thou mayst know by what devices this Is brought about, in chief thou must recall What we have said before, that seeds are kept Commixed in things in divers modes. Again, As all the breathing creatures which take food Are outwardly unlike, and outer cut And contour of their members bounds them round, Each differing kind by kind, they thus consist Of seeds of varying shape. And furthermore, Since seeds do differ, divers too must be The interstices and paths (which we do call The apertures) in all the members, even In mouth and palate too. Thus some must be More small or yet more large, three-cornered some And others squared, and many others round, And certain of them many-angled too In many modes. For, as the combination And motion of their divers shapes demand, The shapes of apertures must be diverse And paths must vary according to their walls That bound them. Hence when what is sweet to some, Becomes to others bitter, for him to whom 'Tis sweet, the smoothest particles must needs Have entered caressingly the palate's pores. And, contrariwise, with those to whom that sweet Is sour within the mouth, beyond a doubt The rough and barbed particles have got Into the narrows of the apertures. Now easy it is from these affairs to know Whatever...

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Indeed, where one from o'er-abundant bile Is stricken with fever, or in other wise Feels the roused violence of some malady, There the whole frame is now upset, and there All the positions of the seeds are changed,— So that the bodies which before were fit To cause the savour, now are fit no more, And now more apt are others which be able To get within the pores and gender sour. Both sorts, in sooth, are intermixed in honey— What oft we've proved above to thee before. Now come, and I will indicate what wise Impact of odour on the nostrils touches. And first, 'tis needful there be many things From whence the streaming flow of varied odours May roll along, and we're constrained to think They stream and dart and sprinkle themselves about Impartially. But for some breathing creatures One odour is more apt, to others another— Because of differing forms of seeds and pores. Thus on and on along the zephyrs bees Are led by odour of honey, vultures too By carcasses. Again, the forward power Of scent in dogs doth lead the hunter on Whithersoever the splay-foot of wild beast Hath hastened its career; and the white goose, The saviour of the Roman citadel, Forescents afar the odour of mankind. Thus, diversly to divers ones is given Peculiar smell that leadeth each along To his own food or makes him start aback From loathsome poison, and in this wise are The generations of the wild preserved.

Yet is this pungence not alone in odours Or in the class of flavours; but, likewise, The look of things and hues agree not all So well with senses unto all, but that Some unto some will be, to gaze upon, More keen and painful. Lo, the raving lions, They dare not face and gaze upon the cock Who's wont with wings to flap away the night From off the stage, and call the beaming morn With clarion voice—and lions straightway thus Bethink themselves of flight, because, ye see, Within the body of the cocks there be Some certain seeds, which, into lions' eyes Injected, bore into the pupils deep And yield such piercing pain they can't hold out Against the cocks, however fierce they be— Whilst yet these seeds can't hurt our gaze the least, Either because they do not penetrate, Or since they have free exit from the eyes As soon as penetrating, so that thus They cannot hurt our eyes in any part By there remaining.

To speak once more of odour; Whatever assail the nostrils, some can travel A longer way than others. None of them, However, 's borne so far as sound or voice— While I omit all mention of such things As hit the eyesight and assail the vision. For slowly on a wandering course it comes And perishes sooner, by degrees absorbed Easily into all the winds of air;— And first, because from deep inside the thing It is discharged with labour (for the fact That every object, when 'tis shivered, ground, Or crumbled by the fire, will smell the stronger Is sign that odours flow and part away From inner regions of the things). And next, Thou mayest see that odour is create Of larger primal germs than voice, because It enters not through stony walls, wherethrough Unfailingly the voice and sound are borne; Wherefore, besides, thou wilt observe 'tis not So easy to trace out in whatso place The smelling object is. For, dallying on Along the winds, the particles cool off, And then the scurrying messengers of things Arrive our senses, when no longer hot. So dogs oft wander astray, and hunt the scent.

Now mark, and hear what objects move the mind, And learn, in few, whence unto intellect Do come what come. And first I tell thee this: That many images of objects rove In many modes to every region round— So thin that easily the one with other, When once they meet, uniteth in mid-air, Like gossamer or gold-leaf. For, indeed, Far thinner are they in their fabric than Those images which take a hold on eyes And smite the vision, since through body's pores They penetrate, and inwardly stir up The subtle nature of mind and smite the sense. Thus, Centaurs and the limbs of Scyllas, thus The Cerberus-visages of dogs we see, And images of people gone before— Dead men whose bones earth bosomed long ago; Because the images of every kind Are everywhere about us borne—in part Those which are gendered in the very air Of own accord, in part those others which From divers things do part away, and those Which are compounded, made from out their shapes. For soothly from no living Centaur is That phantom gendered, since no breed of beast Like him was ever; but, when images Of horse and man by chance have come together, They easily cohere, as aforesaid, At once, through subtle nature and fabric thin. In the same fashion others of this ilk Created are. And when they're quickly borne In their exceeding lightness, easily (As earlier I showed) one subtle image, Compounded, moves by its one blow the mind, Itself so subtle and so strangely quick.

That these things come to pass as I record, From this thou easily canst understand: So far as one is unto other like, Seeing with mind as well as with the eyes Must come to pass in fashion not unlike. Well, now, since I have shown that I perceive Haply a lion through those idol-films Such as assail my eyes, 'tis thine to know Also the mind is in like manner moved, And sees, nor more nor less than eyes do see (Except that it perceives more subtle films) The lion and aught else through idol-films. And when the sleep has overset our frame, The mind's intelligence is now awake, Still for no other reason, save that these— The self-same films as when we are awake— Assail our minds, to such degree indeed That we do seem to see for sure the man Whom, void of life, now death and earth have gained Dominion over. And nature forces this To come to pass because the body's senses Are resting, thwarted through the members all, Unable now to conquer false with true; And memory lies prone and languishes In slumber, nor protests that he, the man Whom the mind feigns to see alive, long since Hath been the gain of death and dissolution.

And further, 'tis no marvel idols move And toss their arms and other members round In rhythmic time—and often in men's sleeps It haps an image this is seen to do; In sooth, when perishes the former image, And other is gendered of another pose, That former seemeth to have changed its gestures. Of course the change must be conceived as speedy; So great the swiftness and so great the store Of idol-things, and (in an instant brief As mind can mark) so great, again, the store Of separate idol-parts to bring supplies.

It happens also that there is supplied Sometimes an image not of kind the same; But what before was woman, now at hand Is seen to stand there, altered into male; Or other visage, other age succeeds; But slumber and oblivion take care That we shall feel no wonder at the thing.

And much in these affairs demands inquiry, And much, illumination—if we crave With plainness to exhibit facts. And first, Why doth the mind of one to whom the whim To think has come behold forthwith that thing? Or do the idols watch upon our will, And doth an image unto us occur, Directly we desire—if heart prefer The sea, the land, or after all the sky? Assemblies of the citizens, parades, Banquets, and battles, these and all doth she, Nature, create and furnish at our word?— Maugre the fact that in same place and spot Another's mind is meditating things All far unlike. And what, again, of this: When we in sleep behold the idols step, In measure, forward, moving supple limbs, Whilst forth they put each supple arm in turn With speedy motion, and with eyeing heads Repeat the movement, as the foot keeps time? Forsooth, the idols they are steeped in art, And wander to and fro well taught indeed,— Thus to be able in the time of night To make such games! Or will the truth be this: Because in one least moment that we mark— That is, the uttering of a single sound— There lurk yet many moments, which the reason Discovers to exist, therefore it comes That, in a moment how so brief ye will, The divers idols are hard by, and ready Each in its place diverse? So great the swiftness, So great, again, the store of idol-things, And so, when perishes the former image, And other is gendered of another pose, The former seemeth to have changed its gestures. And since they be so tenuous, mind can mark Sharply alone the ones it strains to see; And thus the rest do perish one and all, Save those for which the mind prepares itself. Further, it doth prepare itself indeed, And hopes to see what follows after each— Hence this result. For hast thou not observed How eyes, essaying to perceive the fine, Will strain in preparation, otherwise Unable sharply to perceive at all? Yet know thou canst that, even in objects plain, If thou attendest not, 'tis just the same As if 'twere all the time removed and far. What marvel, then, that mind doth lose the rest, Save those to which 'thas given up itself? So 'tis that we conjecture from small signs Things wide and weighty, and involve ourselves In snarls of self-deceit.



SOME VITAL FUNCTIONS

In these affairs We crave that thou wilt passionately flee The one offence, and anxiously wilt shun The error of presuming the clear lights Of eyes created were that we might see; Or thighs and knees, aprop upon the feet, Thuswise can bended be, that we might step With goodly strides ahead; or forearms joined Unto the sturdy uppers, or serving hands On either side were given, that we might do Life's own demands. All such interpretation Is aft-for-fore with inverse reasoning, Since naught is born in body so that we May use the same, but birth engenders use: No seeing ere the lights of eyes were born, No speaking ere the tongue created was; But origin of tongue came long before Discourse of words, and ears created were Much earlier than any sound was heard; And all the members, so meseems, were there Before they got their use: and therefore, they Could not be gendered for the sake of use. But contrariwise, contending in the fight With hand to hand, and rending of the joints, And fouling of the limbs with gore, was there, O long before the gleaming spears ere flew; And nature prompted man to shun a wound, Before the left arm by the aid of art Opposed the shielding targe. And, verily, Yielding the weary body to repose, Far ancienter than cushions of soft beds, And quenching thirst is earlier than cups. These objects, therefore, which for use and life Have been devised, can be conceived as found For sake of using. But apart from such Are all which first were born and afterwards Gave knowledge of their own utility— Chief in which sort we note the senses, limbs: Wherefore, again, 'tis quite beyond thy power To hold that these could thus have been create For office of utility.

Likewise, 'Tis nothing strange that all the breathing creatures Seek, even by nature of their frame, their food. Yes, since I've taught thee that from off the things Stream and depart innumerable bodies In modes innumerable too; but most Must be the bodies streaming from the living— Which bodies, vexed by motion evermore, Are through the mouth exhaled innumerable, When weary creatures pant, or through the sweat Squeezed forth innumerable from deep within. Thus body rarefies, so undermined In all its nature, and pain attends its state. And so the food is taken to underprop The tottering joints, and by its interfusion To re-create their powers, and there stop up The longing, open-mouthed through limbs and veins, For eating. And the moist no less departs Into all regions that demand the moist; And many heaped-up particles of hot, Which cause such burnings in these bellies of ours, The liquid on arriving dissipates And quenches like a fire, that parching heat No longer now can scorch the frame. And so, Thou seest how panting thirst is washed away From off our body, how the hunger-pang It, too, appeased.

Now, how it comes that we, Whene'er we wish, can step with strides ahead, And how 'tis given to move our limbs about, And what device is wont to push ahead This the big load of our corporeal frame, I'll say to thee—do thou attend what's said. I say that first some idol-films of walking Into our mind do fall and smite the mind, As said before. Thereafter will arises; For no one starts to do a thing, before The intellect previsions what it wills; And what it there pre-visioneth depends On what that image is. When, therefore, mind Doth so bestir itself that it doth will To go and step along, it strikes at once That energy of soul that's sown about In all the body through the limbs and frame— And this is easy of performance, since The soul is close conjoined with the mind. Next, soul in turn strikes body, and by degrees Thus the whole mass is pushed along and moved. Then too the body rarefies, and air, Forsooth as ever of such nimbleness, Comes on and penetrates aboundingly Through opened pores, and thus is sprinkled round Unto all smallest places in our frame. Thus then by these twain factors, severally, Body is borne like ship with oars and wind. Nor yet in these affairs is aught for wonder That particles so fine can whirl around So great a body and turn this weight of ours; For wind, so tenuous with its subtle body, Yet pushes, driving on the mighty ship Of mighty bulk; one hand directs the same, Whatever its momentum, and one helm Whirls it around, whither ye please; and loads, Many and huge, are moved and hoisted high By enginery of pulley-blocks and wheels, With but light strain.

Now, by what modes this sleep Pours through our members waters of repose And frees the breast from cares of mind, I'll tell In verses sweeter than they many are; Even as the swan's slight note is better far Than that dispersed clamour of the cranes Among the southwind's aery clouds. Do thou Give me sharp ears and a sagacious mind,— That thou mayst not deny the things to be Whereof I'm speaking, nor depart away With bosom scorning these the spoken truths, Thyself at fault unable to perceive. Sleep chiefly comes when energy of soul Hath now been scattered through the frame, and part Expelled abroad and gone away, and part Crammed back and settling deep within the frame— Whereafter then our loosened members droop. For doubt is none that by the work of soul Exist in us this sense, and when by slumber That sense is thwarted, we are bound to think The soul confounded and expelled abroad— Yet not entirely, else the frame would lie Drenched in the everlasting cold of death. In sooth, where no one part of soul remained Lurking among the members, even as fire Lurks buried under many ashes, whence Could sense amain rekindled be in members, As flame can rise anew from unseen fire?

By what devices this strange state and new May be occasioned, and by what the soul Can be confounded and the frame grow faint, I will untangle: see to it, thou, that I Pour forth my words not unto empty winds. In first place, body on its outer parts— Since these are touched by neighbouring aery gusts— Must there be thumped and strook by blows of air Repeatedly. And therefore almost all Are covered either with hides, or else with shells, Or with the horny callus, or with bark. Yet this same air lashes their inner parts, When creatures draw a breath or blow it out. Wherefore, since body thus is flogged alike Upon the inside and the out, and blows Come in upon us through the little pores Even inward to our body's primal parts And primal elements, there comes to pass By slow degrees, along our members then, A kind of overthrow; for then confounded Are those arrangements of the primal germs Of body and of mind. It comes to pass That next a part of soul's expelled abroad, A part retreateth in recesses hid, A part, too, scattered all about the frame, Cannot become united nor engage In interchange of motion. Nature now So hedges off approaches and the paths; And thus the sense, its motions all deranged, Retires down deep within; and since there's naught, As 'twere, to prop the frame, the body weakens, And all the members languish, and the arms And eyelids fall, and, as ye lie abed, Even there the houghs will sag and loose their powers. Again, sleep follows after food, because The food produces same result as air, Whilst being scattered round through all the veins; And much the heaviest is that slumber which, Full or fatigued, thou takest; since 'tis then That the most bodies disarrange themselves, Bruised by labours hard. And in same wise, This three-fold change: a forcing of the soul Down deeper, more a casting-forth of it, A moving more divided in its parts And scattered more.

And to whate'er pursuit A man most clings absorbed, or what the affairs On which we theretofore have tarried much, And mind hath strained upon the more, we seem In sleep not rarely to go at the same. The lawyers seem to plead and cite decrees, Commanders they to fight and go at frays, Sailors to live in combat with the winds, And we ourselves indeed to make this book, And still to seek the nature of the world And set it down, when once discovered, here In these my country's leaves. Thus all pursuits, All arts in general seem in sleeps to mock And master the minds of men. And whosoever Day after day for long to games have given Attention undivided, still they keep (As oft we note), even when they've ceased to grasp Those games with their own senses, open paths Within the mind wherethrough the idol-films Of just those games can come. And thus it is For many a day thereafter those appear Floating before the eyes, that even awake They think they view the dancers moving round Their supple limbs, and catch with both the ears The liquid song of harp and speaking chords, And view the same assembly on the seats, And manifold bright glories of the stage— So great the influence of pursuit and zest, And of the affairs wherein 'thas been the wont Of men to be engaged-nor only men, But soothly all the animals. Behold, Thou'lt see the sturdy horses, though outstretched, Yet sweating in their sleep, and panting ever, And straining utmost strength, as if for prize, As if, with barriers opened now... And hounds of huntsmen oft in soft repose Yet toss asudden all their legs about, And growl and bark, and with their nostrils sniff The winds again, again, as though indeed They'd caught the scented foot-prints of wild beasts, And, even when wakened, often they pursue The phantom images of stags, as though They did perceive them fleeing on before, Until the illusion's shaken off and dogs Come to themselves again. And fawning breed Of house-bred whelps do feel the sudden urge To shake their bodies and start from off the ground, As if beholding stranger-visages. And ever the fiercer be the stock, the more In sleep the same is ever bound to rage. But flee the divers tribes of birds and vex With sudden wings by night the groves of gods, When in their gentle slumbers they have dreamed Of hawks in chase, aswooping on for fight. Again, the minds of mortals which perform With mighty motions mighty enterprises, Often in sleep will do and dare the same In manner like. Kings take the towns by storm, Succumb to capture, battle on the field, Raise a wild cry as if their throats were cut Even then and there. And many wrestle on And groan with pains, and fill all regions round With mighty cries and wild, as if then gnawed By fangs of panther or of lion fierce. Many amid their slumbers talk about Their mighty enterprises, and have often Enough become the proof of their own crimes. Many meet death; many, as if headlong From lofty mountains tumbling down to earth With all their frame, are frenzied in their fright; And after sleep, as if still mad in mind, They scarce come to, confounded as they are By ferment of their frame. The thirsty man, Likewise, he sits beside delightful spring Or river and gulpeth down with gaping throat Nigh the whole stream. And oft the innocent young, By sleep o'ermastered, think they lift their dress By pail or public jordan and then void The water filtered down their frame entire And drench the Babylonian coverlets, Magnificently bright. Again, those males Into the surging channels of whose years Now first has passed the seed (engendered Within their members by the ripened days) Are in their sleep confronted from without By idol-images of some fair form— Tidings of glorious face and lovely bloom, Which stir and goad the regions turgid now With seed abundant; so that, as it were With all the matter acted duly out, They pour the billows of a potent stream And stain their garment.

And as said before, That seed is roused in us when once ripe age Has made our body strong... As divers causes give to divers things Impulse and irritation, so one force In human kind rouses the human seed To spurt from man. As soon as ever it issues, Forced from its first abodes, it passes down In the whole body through the limbs and frame, Meeting in certain regions of our thews, And stirs amain the genitals of man. The goaded regions swell with seed, and then Comes the delight to dart the same at what The mad desire so yearns, and body seeks That object, whence the mind by love is pierced. For well-nigh each man falleth toward his wound, And our blood spurts even toward the spot from whence The stroke wherewith we are strook, and if indeed The foe be close, the red jet reaches him. Thus, one who gets a stroke from Venus' shafts— Whether a boy with limbs effeminate Assault him, or a woman darting love From all her body—that one strains to get Even to the thing whereby he's hit, and longs To join with it and cast into its frame The fluid drawn even from within its own. For the mute craving doth presage delight.



THE PASSION OF LOVE

This craving 'tis that's Venus unto us: From this, engender all the lures of love, From this, O first hath into human hearts Trickled that drop of joyance which ere long Is by chill care succeeded. Since, indeed, Though she thou lovest now be far away, Yet idol-images of her are near And the sweet name is floating in thy ear. But it behooves to flee those images; And scare afar whatever feeds thy love; And turn elsewhere thy mind; and vent the sperm, Within thee gathered, into sundry bodies, Nor, with thy thoughts still busied with one love, Keep it for one delight, and so store up Care for thyself and pain inevitable. For, lo, the ulcer just by nourishing Grows to more life with deep inveteracy, And day by day the fury swells aflame, And the woe waxes heavier day by day— Unless thou dost destroy even by new blows The former wounds of love, and curest them While yet they're fresh, by wandering freely round After the freely-wandering Venus, or Canst lead elsewhere the tumults of thy mind.

Nor doth that man who keeps away from love Yet lack the fruits of Venus; rather takes Those pleasures which are free of penalties. For the delights of Venus, verily, Are more unmixed for mortals sane-of-soul Than for those sick-at-heart with love-pining. Yea, in the very moment of possessing, Surges the heat of lovers to and fro, Restive, uncertain; and they cannot fix On what to first enjoy with eyes and hands. The parts they sought for, those they squeeze so tight, And pain the creature's body, close their teeth Often against her lips, and smite with kiss Mouth into mouth,—because this same delight Is not unmixed; and underneath are stings Which goad a man to hurt the very thing, Whate'er it be, from whence arise for him Those germs of madness. But with gentle touch Venus subdues the pangs in midst of love, And the admixture of a fondling joy Doth curb the bites of passion. For they hope That by the very body whence they caught The heats of love their flames can be put out. But nature protests 'tis all quite otherwise; For this same love it is the one sole thing Of which, the more we have, the fiercer burns The breast with fell desire. For food and drink Are taken within our members; and, since they Can stop up certain parts, thus, easily Desire of water is glutted and of bread. But, lo, from human face and lovely bloom Naught penetrates our frame to be enjoyed Save flimsy idol-images and vain— A sorry hope which oft the winds disperse. As when the thirsty man in slumber seeks To drink, and water ne'er is granted him Wherewith to quench the heat within his members, But after idols of the liquids strives And toils in vain, and thirsts even whilst he gulps In middle of the torrent, thus in love Venus deludes with idol-images The lovers. Nor they cannot sate their lust By merely gazing on the bodies, nor They cannot with their palms and fingers rub Aught from each tender limb, the while they stray Uncertain over all the body. Then, At last, with members intertwined, when they Enjoy the flower of their age, when now Their bodies have sweet presage of keen joys, And Venus is about to sow the fields Of woman, greedily their frames they lock, And mingle the slaver of their mouths, and breathe Into each other, pressing teeth on mouths— Yet to no purpose, since they're powerless To rub off aught, or penetrate and pass With body entire into body—for oft They seem to strive and struggle thus to do; So eagerly they cling in Venus' bonds, Whilst melt away their members, overcome By violence of delight. But when at last Lust, gathered in the thews, hath spent itself, There come a brief pause in the raging heat— But then a madness just the same returns And that old fury visits them again, When once again they seek and crave to reach They know not what, all powerless to find The artifice to subjugate the bane. In such uncertain state they waste away With unseen wound.

To which be added too, They squander powers and with the travail wane; Be added too, they spend their futile years Under another's beck and call; their duties Neglected languish and their honest name Reeleth sick, sick; and meantime their estates Are lost in Babylonian tapestries; And unguents and dainty Sicyonian shoes Laugh on her feet; and (as ye may be sure) Big emeralds of green light are set in gold; And rich sea-purple dress by constant wear Grows shabby and all soaked with Venus' sweat; And the well-earned ancestral property Becometh head-bands, coifs, and many a time The cloaks, or garments Alidensian Or of the Cean isle. And banquets, set With rarest cloth and viands, are prepared— And games of chance, and many a drinking cup, And unguents, crowns and garlands. All in vain, Since from amid the well-spring of delights Bubbles some drop of bitter to torment Among the very flowers—when haply mind Gnaws into self, now stricken with remorse For slothful years and ruin in baudels, Or else because she's left him all in doubt By launching some sly word, which still like fire Lives wildly, cleaving to his eager heart; Or else because he thinks she darts her eyes Too much about and gazes at another,— And in her face sees traces of a laugh.

These ills are found in prospering love and true; But in crossed love and helpless there be such As through shut eyelids thou canst still take in— Uncounted ills; so that 'tis better far To watch beforehand, in the way I've shown, And guard against enticements. For to shun A fall into the hunting-snares of love Is not so hard, as to get out again, When tangled in the very nets, and burst The stoutly-knotted cords of Aphrodite. Yet even when there enmeshed with tangled feet, Still canst thou scape the danger-lest indeed Thou standest in the way of thine own good, And overlookest first all blemishes Of mind and body of thy much preferred, Desirable dame. For so men do, Eyeless with passion, and assign to them Graces not theirs in fact. And thus we see Creatures in many a wise crooked and ugly The prosperous sweethearts in a high esteem; And lovers gird each other and advise To placate Venus, since their friends are smit With a base passion—miserable dupes Who seldom mark their own worst bane of all. The black-skinned girl is "tawny like the honey"; The filthy and the fetid's "negligee"; The cat-eyed she's "a little Pallas," she; The sinewy and wizened's "a gazelle"; The pudgy and the pigmy is "piquant, One of the Graces sure"; the big and bulky O she's "an Admiration, imposante"; The stuttering and tongue-tied "sweetly lisps"; The mute girl's "modest"; and the garrulous, The spiteful spit-fire, is "a sparkling wit"; And she who scarcely lives for scrawniness Becomes "a slender darling"; "delicate" Is she who's nearly dead of coughing-fit; The pursy female with protuberant breasts She is "like Ceres when the goddess gave Young Bacchus suck"; the pug-nosed lady-love "A Satyress, a feminine Silenus"; The blubber-lipped is "all one luscious kiss"— A weary while it were to tell the whole. But let her face possess what charm ye will, Let Venus' glory rise from all her limbs,— Forsooth there still are others; and forsooth We lived before without her; and forsooth She does the same things—and we know she does— All, as the ugly creature, and she scents, Yes she, her wretched self with vile perfumes; Whom even her handmaids flee and giggle at Behind her back. But he, the lover, in tears Because shut out, covers her threshold o'er Often with flowers and garlands, and anoints Her haughty door-posts with the marjoram, And prints, poor fellow, kisses on the doors— Admitted at last, if haply but one whiff Got to him on approaching, he would seek Decent excuses to go out forthwith; And his lament, long pondered, then would fall Down at his heels; and there he'd damn himself For his fatuity, observing how He had assigned to that same lady more— Than it is proper to concede to mortals. And these our Venuses are 'ware of this. Wherefore the more are they at pains to hide All the-behind-the-scenes of life from those Whom they desire to keep in bonds of love— In vain, since ne'ertheless thou canst by thought Drag all the matter forth into the light And well search out the cause of all these smiles; And if of graceful mind she be and kind, Do thou, in thy turn, overlook the same, And thus allow for poor mortality. Nor sighs the woman always with feigned love, Who links her body round man's body locked And holds him fast, making his kisses wet With lips sucked into lips; for oft she acts Even from desire, and, seeking mutual joys, Incites him there to run love's race-course through. Nor otherwise can cattle, birds, wild beasts, And sheep and mares submit unto the males, Except that their own nature is in heat, And burns abounding and with gladness takes Once more the Venus of the mounting males. And seest thou not how those whom mutual pleasure Hath bound are tortured in their common bonds? How often in the cross-roads dogs that pant To get apart strain eagerly asunder With utmost might?—When all the while they're fast In the stout links of Venus. But they'd ne'er So pull, except they knew those mutual joys— So powerful to cast them unto snares And hold them bound. Wherefore again, again, Even as I say, there is a joint delight.

And when perchance, in mingling seed with his, The female hath o'erpowered the force of male And by a sudden fling hath seized it fast, Then are the offspring, more from mothers' seed, More like their mothers; as, from fathers' seed, They're like to fathers. But whom seest to be Partakers of each shape, one equal blend Of parents' features, these are generate From fathers' body and from mothers' blood, When mutual and harmonious heat hath dashed Together seeds, aroused along their frames By Venus' goads, and neither of the twain Mastereth or is mastered. Happens too That sometimes offspring can to being come In likeness of their grandsires, and bring back Often the shapes of grandsires' sires, because Their parents in their bodies oft retain Concealed many primal germs, commixed In many modes, which, starting with the stock, Sire handeth down to son, himself a sire; Whence Venus by a variable chance Engenders shapes, and diversely brings back Ancestral features, voices too, and hair. A female generation rises forth From seed paternal, and from mother's body Exist created males: since sex proceeds No more from singleness of seed than faces Or bodies or limbs of ours: for every birth Is from a twofold seed; and what's created Hath, of that parent which it is more like, More than its equal share; as thou canst mark,— Whether the breed be male or female stock.

Nor do the powers divine grudge any man The fruits of his seed-sowing, so that never He be called "father" by sweet children his, And end his days in sterile love forever. What many men suppose; and gloomily They sprinkle the altars with abundant blood, And make the high platforms odorous with burnt gifts, To render big by plenteous seed their wives— And plague in vain godheads and sacred lots. For sterile are these men by seed too thick, Or else by far too watery and thin. Because the thin is powerless to cleave Fast to the proper places, straightaway It trickles from them, and, returned again, Retires abortively. And then since seed More gross and solid than will suit is spent By some men, either it flies not forth amain With spurt prolonged enough, or else it fails To enter suitably the proper places, Or, having entered, the seed is weakly mixed With seed of the woman: harmonies of Venus Are seen to matter vastly here; and some Impregnate some more readily, and from some Some women conceive more readily and become Pregnant. And many women, sterile before In several marriage-beds, have yet thereafter Obtained the mates from whom they could conceive The baby-boys, and with sweet progeny Grow rich. And even for husbands (whose own wives, Although of fertile wombs, have borne for them No babies in the house) are also found Concordant natures so that they at last Can bulwark their old age with goodly sons. A matter of great moment 'tis in truth, That seeds may mingle readily with seeds Suited for procreation, and that thick Should mix with fluid seeds, with thick the fluid. And in this business 'tis of some import Upon what diet life is nourished: For some foods thicken seeds within our members, And others thin them out and waste away. And in what modes the fond delight itself Is carried on—this too importeth vastly. For commonly 'tis thought that wives conceive More readily in manner of wild-beasts, After the custom of the four-foot breeds, Because so postured, with the breasts beneath And buttocks then upreared, the seeds can take Their proper places. Nor is need the least For wives to use the motions of blandishment; For thus the woman hinders and resists Her own conception, if too joyously Herself she treats the Venus of the man With haunches heaving, and with all her bosom Now yielding like the billows of the sea— Aye, from the ploughshare's even course and track She throws the furrow, and from proper places Deflects the spurt of seed. And courtesans Are thuswise wont to move for their own ends, To keep from pregnancy and lying in, And all the while to render Venus more A pleasure for the men—the which meseems Our wives have never need of.

Sometimes too It happens—and through no divinity Nor arrows of Venus—that a sorry chit Of scanty grace will be beloved by man; For sometimes she herself by very deeds, By her complying ways, and tidy habits, Will easily accustom thee to pass With her thy life-time—and, moreover, lo, Long habitude can gender human love, Even as an object smitten o'er and o'er By blows, however lightly, yet at last Is overcome and wavers. Seest thou not, Besides, how drops of water falling down Against the stones at last bore through the stones?



BOOK V



PROEM

O WHO can build with puissant breast a song Worthy the majesty of these great finds? Or who in words so strong that he can frame The fit laudations for deserts of him Who left us heritors of such vast prizes, By his own breast discovered and sought out?— There shall be none, methinks, of mortal stock. For if must needs be named for him the name Demanded by the now known majesty Of these high matters, then a god was he,— Hear me, illustrious Memmius—a god; Who first and chief found out that plan of life Which now is called philosophy, and who By cunning craft, out of such mighty waves, Out of such mighty darkness, moored life In havens so serene, in light so clear. Compare those old discoveries divine Of others: lo, according to the tale, Ceres established for mortality The grain, and Bacchus juice of vine-born grape, Though life might yet without these things abide, Even as report saith now some peoples live. But man's well-being was impossible Without a breast all free. Wherefore the more That man doth justly seem to us a god, From whom sweet solaces of life, afar Distributed o'er populous domains, Now soothe the minds of men. But if thou thinkest Labours of Hercules excel the same, Much farther from true reasoning thou farest. For what could hurt us now that mighty maw Of Nemeaean Lion, or what the Boar Who bristled in Arcadia? Or, again, O what could Cretan Bull, or Hydra, pest Of Lerna, fenced with vipers venomous? Or what the triple-breasted power of her The three-fold Geryon... The sojourners in the Stymphalian fens So dreadfully offend us, or the Steeds Of Thracian Diomedes breathing fire From out their nostrils off along the zones Bistonian and Ismarian? And the Snake, The dread fierce gazer, guardian of the golden And gleaming apples of the Hesperides, Coiled round the tree-trunk with tremendous bulk, O what, again, could he inflict on us Along the Atlantic shore and wastes of sea?— Where neither one of us approacheth nigh Nor no barbarian ventures. And the rest Of all those monsters slain, even if alive, Unconquered still, what injury could they do? None, as I guess. For so the glutted earth Swarms even now with savage beasts, even now Is filled with anxious terrors through the woods And mighty mountains and the forest deeps— Quarters 'tis ours in general to avoid. But lest the breast be purged, what conflicts then, What perils, must bosom, in our own despite! O then how great and keen the cares of lust That split the man distraught! How great the fears! And lo, the pride, grim greed, and wantonness— How great the slaughters in their train! and lo, Debaucheries and every breed of sloth! Therefore that man who subjugated these, And from the mind expelled, by words indeed, Not arms, O shall it not be seemly him To dignify by ranking with the gods?— And all the more since he was wont to give, Concerning the immortal gods themselves, Many pronouncements with a tongue divine, And to unfold by his pronouncements all The nature of the world.



ARGUMENT OF THE BOOK AND NEW PROEM AGAINST A TELEOLOGICAL CONCEPT

And walking now In his own footprints, I do follow through His reasonings, and with pronouncements teach The covenant whereby all things are framed, How under that covenant they must abide Nor ever prevail to abrogate the aeons' Inexorable decrees,—how (as we've found), In class of mortal objects, o'er all else, The mind exists of earth-born frame create And impotent unscathed to abide Across the mighty aeons, and how come In sleep those idol-apparitions, That so befool intelligence when we Do seem to view a man whom life has left. Thus far we've gone; the order of my plan Hath brought me now unto the point where I Must make report how, too, the universe Consists of mortal body, born in time, And in what modes that congregated stuff Established itself as earth and sky, Ocean, and stars, and sun, and ball of moon; And then what living creatures rose from out The old telluric places, and what ones Were never born at all; and in what mode The human race began to name its things And use the varied speech from man to man; And in what modes hath bosomed in their breasts That awe of gods, which halloweth in all lands Fanes, altars, groves, lakes, idols of the gods. Also I shall untangle by what power The steersman nature guides the sun's courses, And the meanderings of the moon, lest we, Percase, should fancy that of own free will They circle their perennial courses round, Timing their motions for increase of crops And living creatures, or lest we should think They roll along by any plan of gods. For even those men who have learned full well That godheads lead a long life free of care, If yet meanwhile they wonder by what plan Things can go on (and chiefly yon high things Observed o'erhead on the ethereal coasts), Again are hurried back unto the fears Of old religion and adopt again Harsh masters, deemed almighty,—wretched men, Unwitting what can be and what cannot, And by what law to each its scope prescribed, Its boundary stone that clings so deep in Time.

But for the rest,—lest we delay thee here Longer by empty promises—behold, Before all else, the seas, the lands, the sky: O Memmius, their threefold nature, lo, Their bodies three, three aspects so unlike, Three frames so vast, a single day shall give Unto annihilation! Then shall crash That massive form and fabric of the world Sustained so many aeons! Nor do I Fail to perceive how strange and marvellous This fact must strike the intellect of man,— Annihilation of the sky and earth That is to be,—and with what toil of words 'Tis mine to prove the same; as happens oft When once ye offer to man's listening ears Something before unheard of, but may not Subject it to the view of eyes for him Nor put it into hand—the sight and touch, Whereby the opened highways of belief Lead most directly into human breast And regions of intelligence. But yet I will speak out. The fact itself, perchance, Will force belief in these my words, and thou Mayst see, in little time, tremendously With risen commotions of the lands all things Quaking to pieces—which afar from us May she, the steersman Nature, guide: and may Reason, O rather than the fact itself, Persuade us that all things can be o'erthrown And sink with awful-sounding breakage down!

But ere on this I take a step to utter Oracles holier and soundlier based Than ever the Pythian pronounced for men From out the tripod and the Delphian laurel, I will unfold for thee with learned words Many a consolation, lest perchance, Still bridled by religion, thou suppose Lands, sun, and sky, sea, constellations, moon, Must dure forever, as of frame divine— And so conclude that it is just that those, (After the manner of the Giants), should all Pay the huge penalties for monstrous crime, Who by their reasonings do overshake The ramparts of the universe and wish There to put out the splendid sun of heaven, Branding with mortal talk immortal things— Though these same things are even so far removed From any touch of deity and seem So far unworthy of numbering with the gods, That well they may be thought to furnish rather A goodly instance of the sort of things That lack the living motion, living sense. For sure 'tis quite beside the mark to think That judgment and the nature of the mind In any kind of body can exist— Just as in ether can't exist a tree, Nor clouds in the salt sea, nor in the fields Can fishes live, nor blood in timber be, Nor sap in boulders: fixed and arranged Where everything may grow and have its place. Thus nature of mind cannot arise alone Without the body, nor have its being far From thews and blood. Yet if 'twere possible?— Much rather might this very power of mind Be in the head, the shoulders, or the heels, And, born in any part soever, yet In the same man, in the same vessel abide But since within this body even of ours Stands fixed and appears arranged sure Where soul and mind can each exist and grow, Deny we must the more that they can dure Outside the body and the breathing form In rotting clods of earth, in the sun's fire, In water, or in ether's skiey coasts. Therefore these things no whit are furnished With sense divine, since never can they be With life-force quickened.

Likewise, thou canst ne'er Believe the sacred seats of gods are here In any regions of this mundane world; Indeed, the nature of the gods, so subtle, So far removed from these our senses, scarce Is seen even by intelligence of mind. And since they've ever eluded touch and thrust Of human hands, they cannot reach to grasp Aught tangible to us. For what may not Itself be touched in turn can never touch. Wherefore, besides, also their seats must be Unlike these seats of ours,—even subtle too, As meet for subtle essence—as I'll prove Hereafter unto thee with large discourse. Further, to say that for the sake of men They willed to prepare this world's magnificence, And that 'tis therefore duty and behoof To praise the work of gods as worthy praise, And that 'tis sacrilege for men to shake Ever by any force from out their seats What hath been stablished by the Forethought old To everlasting for races of mankind, And that 'tis sacrilege to assault by words And overtopple all from base to beam,— Memmius, such notions to concoct and pile, Is verily—to dote. Our gratefulness, O what emoluments could it confer Upon Immortals and upon the Blessed That they should take a step to manage aught For sake of us? Or what new factor could, After so long a time, inveigle them— The hitherto reposeful—to desire To change their former life? For rather he Whom old things chafe seems likely to rejoice At new; but one that in fore-passed time Hath chanced upon no ill, through goodly years, O what could ever enkindle in such an one Passion for strange experiment? Or what The evil for us, if we had ne'er been born?— As though, forsooth, in darkling realms and woe Our life were lying till should dawn at last The day-spring of creation! Whosoever Hath been begotten wills perforce to stay In life, so long as fond delight detains; But whoso ne'er hath tasted love of life, And ne'er was in the count of living things, What hurts it him that he was never born? Whence, further, first was planted in the gods The archetype for gendering the world And the fore-notion of what man is like, So that they knew and pre-conceived with mind Just what they wished to make? Or how were known Ever the energies of primal germs, And what those germs, by interchange of place, Could thus produce, if nature's self had not Given example for creating all? For in such wise primordials of things, Many in many modes, astir by blows From immemorial aeons, in motion too By their own weights, have evermore been wont To be so borne along and in all modes To meet together and to try all sorts Which, by combining one with other, they Are powerful to create, that thus it is No marvel now, if they have also fallen Into arrangements such, and if they've passed Into vibrations such, as those whereby This sum of things is carried on to-day By fixed renewal. But knew I never what The seeds primordial were, yet would I dare This to affirm, even from deep judgments based Upon the ways and conduct of the skies— This to maintain by many a fact besides— That in no wise the nature of all things For us was fashioned by a power divine— So great the faults it stands encumbered with. First, mark all regions which are overarched By the prodigious reaches of the sky: One yawning part thereof the mountain-chains And forests of the beasts do have and hold; And cliffs, and desert fens, and wastes of sea (Which sunder afar the beaches of the lands) Possess it merely; and, again, thereof Well-nigh two-thirds intolerable heat And a perpetual fall of frost doth rob From mortal kind. And what is left to till, Even that the force of nature would o'errun With brambles, did not human force oppose,— Long wont for livelihood to groan and sweat Over the two-pronged mattock and to cleave The soil in twain by pressing on the plough.

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Unless, by the ploughshare turning the fruitful clods And kneading the mould, we quicken into birth, [The crops] spontaneously could not come up Into the free bright air. Even then sometimes, When things acquired by the sternest toil Are now in leaf, are now in blossom all, Either the skiey sun with baneful heats Parches, or sudden rains or chilling rime Destroys, or flaws of winds with furious whirl Torment and twist. Beside these matters, why Doth nature feed and foster on land and sea The dreadful breed of savage beasts, the foes Of the human clan? Why do the seasons bring Distempers with them? Wherefore stalks at large Death, so untimely? Then, again, the babe, Like to the castaway of the raging surf, Lies naked on the ground, speechless, in want Of every help for life, when nature first Hath poured him forth upon the shores of light With birth-pangs from within the mother's womb, And with a plaintive wail he fills the place,— As well befitting one for whom remains In life a journey through so many ills. But all the flocks and herds and all wild beasts Come forth and grow, nor need the little rattles, Nor must be treated to the humouring nurse's Dear, broken chatter; nor seek they divers clothes To suit the changing skies; nor need, in fine, Nor arms, nor lofty ramparts, wherewithal Their own to guard—because the earth herself And nature, artificer of the world, bring forth Aboundingly all things for all.



THE WORLD IS NOT ETERNAL

And first, Since body of earth and water, air's light breath, And fiery exhalations (of which four This sum of things is seen to be compact) So all have birth and perishable frame, Thus the whole nature of the world itself Must be conceived as perishable too. For, verily, those things of which we see The parts and members to have birth in time And perishable shapes, those same we mark To be invariably born in time And born to die. And therefore when I see The mightiest members and the parts of this Our world consumed and begot again, 'Tis mine to know that also sky above And earth beneath began of old in time And shall in time go under to disaster.

And lest in these affairs thou deemest me To have seized upon this point by sleight to serve My own caprice—because I have assumed That earth and fire are mortal things indeed, And have not doubted water and the air Both perish too and have affirmed the same To be again begotten and wax big— Mark well the argument: in first place, lo, Some certain parts of earth, grievously parched By unremitting suns, and trampled on By a vast throng of feet, exhale abroad A powdery haze and flying clouds of dust, Which the stout winds disperse in the whole air. A part, moreover, of her sod and soil Is summoned to inundation by the rains; And rivers graze and gouge the banks away. Besides, whatever takes a part its own In fostering and increasing [aught]...

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Is rendered back; and since, beyond a doubt, Earth, the all-mother, is beheld to be Likewise the common sepulchre of things, Therefore thou seest her minished of her plenty, And then again augmented with new growth.

And for the rest, that sea, and streams, and springs Forever with new waters overflow, And that perennially the fluids well, Needeth no words—the mighty flux itself Of multitudinous waters round about Declareth this. But whatso water first Streams up is ever straightway carried off, And thus it comes to pass that all in all There is no overflow; in part because The burly winds (that over-sweep amain) And skiey sun (that with his rays dissolves) Do minish the level seas; in part because The water is diffused underground Through all the lands. The brine is filtered off, And then the liquid stuff seeps back again And all regathers at the river-heads, Whence in fresh-water currents on it flows Over the lands, adown the channels which Were cleft erstwhile and erstwhile bore along The liquid-footed floods.

Now, then, of air I'll speak, which hour by hour in all its body Is changed innumerably. For whatso'er Streams up in dust or vapour off of things, The same is all and always borne along Into the mighty ocean of the air; And did not air in turn restore to things Bodies, and thus recruit them as they stream, All things by this time had resolved been And changed into air. Therefore it never Ceases to be engendered off of things And to return to things, since verily In constant flux do all things stream.

Likewise, The abounding well-spring of the liquid light, The ethereal sun, doth flood the heaven o'er With constant flux of radiance ever new, And with fresh light supplies the place of light, Upon the instant. For whatever effulgence Hath first streamed off, no matter where it falls, Is lost unto the sun. And this 'tis thine To know from these examples: soon as clouds Have first begun to under-pass the sun, And, as it were, to rend the rays of light In twain, at once the lower part of them Is lost entire, and earth is overcast Where'er the thunderheads are rolled along— So know thou mayst that things forever need A fresh replenishment of gleam and glow, And each effulgence, foremost flashed forth, Perisheth one by one. Nor otherwise Can things be seen in sunlight, lest alway The fountain-head of light supply new light. Indeed your earthly beacons of the night, The hanging lampions and the torches, bright With darting gleams and dense with livid soot, Do hurry in like manner to supply With ministering heat new light amain; Are all alive to quiver with their fires,— Are so alive, that thus the light ne'er leaves The spots it shines on, as if rent in twain: So speedily is its destruction veiled By the swift birth of flame from all the fires. Thus, then, we must suppose that sun and moon And stars dart forth their light from under-births Ever and ever new, and whatso flames First rise do perish always one by one— Lest, haply, thou shouldst think they each endure Inviolable.

Again, perceivest not How stones are also conquered by Time?— Not how the lofty towers ruin down, And boulders crumble?—Not how shrines of gods And idols crack outworn?—Nor how indeed The holy Influence hath yet no power There to postpone the Terminals of Fate, Or headway make 'gainst Nature's fixed decrees? Again, behold we not the monuments Of heroes, now in ruins, asking us, In their turn likewise, if we don't believe They also age with eld? Behold we not The rended basalt ruining amain Down from the lofty mountains, powerless To dure and dree the mighty forces there Of finite time?—for they would never fall Rended asudden, if from infinite Past They had prevailed against all engin'ries Of the assaulting aeons, with no crash.

Again, now look at This, which round, above, Contains the whole earth in its one embrace: If from itself it procreates all things— As some men tell—and takes them to itself When once destroyed, entirely must it be Of mortal birth and body; for whate'er From out itself giveth to other things Increase and food, the same perforce must be Minished, and then recruited when it takes Things back into itself.

Besides all this, If there had been no origin-in-birth Of lands and sky, and they had ever been The everlasting, why, ere Theban war And obsequies of Troy, have other bards Not also chanted other high affairs? Whither have sunk so oft so many deeds Of heroes? Why do those deeds live no more, Ingrafted in eternal monuments Of glory? Verily, I guess, because The Sum is new, and of a recent date The nature of our universe, and had Not long ago its own exordium. Wherefore, even now some arts are being still Refined, still increased: now unto ships Is being added many a new device; And but the other day musician-folk Gave birth to melic sounds of organing; And, then, this nature, this account of things Hath been discovered latterly, and I Myself have been discovered only now, As first among the first, able to turn The same into ancestral Roman speech. Yet if, percase, thou deemest that ere this Existed all things even the same, but that Perished the cycles of the human race In fiery exhalations, or cities fell By some tremendous quaking of the world, Or rivers in fury, after constant rains, Had plunged forth across the lands of earth And whelmed the towns—then, all the more must thou Confess, defeated by the argument, That there shall be annihilation too Of lands and sky. For at a time when things Were being taxed by maladies so great, And so great perils, if some cause more fell Had then assailed them, far and wide they would Have gone to disaster and supreme collapse. And by no other reasoning are we Seen to be mortal, save that all of us Sicken in turn with those same maladies With which have sickened in the past those men Whom nature hath removed from life.

***** gain, Whatever abides eternal must indeed Either repel all strokes, because 'tis made Of solid body, and permit no entrance Of aught with power to sunder from within The parts compact—as are those seeds of stuff Whose nature we've exhibited before; Or else be able to endure through time For this: because they are from blows exempt, As is the void, the which abides untouched, Unsmit by any stroke; or else because There is no room around, whereto things can, As 'twere, depart in dissolution all,— Even as the sum of sums eternal is, Without or place beyond whereto things may Asunder fly, or bodies which can smite, And thus dissolve them by the blows of might. But not of solid body, as I've shown, Exists the nature of the world, because In things is intermingled there a void; Nor is the world yet as the void, nor are, Moreover, bodies lacking which, percase, Rising from out the infinite, can fell With fury-whirlwinds all this sum of things, Or bring upon them other cataclysm Of peril strange; and yonder, too, abides The infinite space and the profound abyss— Whereinto, lo, the ramparts of the world Can yet be shivered. Or some other power Can pound upon them till they perish all. Thus is the door of doom, O nowise barred Against the sky, against the sun and earth And deep-sea waters, but wide open stands And gloats upon them, monstrous and agape. Wherefore, again, 'tis needful to confess That these same things are born in time; for things Which are of mortal body could indeed Never from infinite past until to-day Have spurned the multitudinous assaults Of the immeasurable aeons old.

Again, since battle so fiercely one with other The four most mighty members the world, Aroused in an all unholy war, Seest not that there may be for them an end Of the long strife?—Or when the skiey sun And all the heat have won dominion o'er The sucked-up waters all?—And this they try Still to accomplish, though as yet they fail,— For so aboundingly the streams supply New store of waters that 'tis rather they Who menace the world with inundations vast From forth the unplumbed chasms of the sea. But vain—since winds (that over-sweep amain) And skiey sun (that with his rays dissolves) Do minish the level seas and trust their power To dry up all, before the waters can Arrive at the end of their endeavouring. Breathing such vasty warfare, they contend In balanced strife the one with other still Concerning mighty issues,—though indeed The fire was once the more victorious, And once—as goes the tale—the water won A kingdom in the fields. For fire o'ermastered And licked up many things and burnt away, What time the impetuous horses of the Sun Snatched Phaethon headlong from his skiey road Down the whole ether and over all the lands. But the omnipotent Father in keen wrath Then with the sudden smite of thunderbolt Did hurl the mighty-minded hero off Those horses to the earth. And Sol, his sire, Meeting him as he fell, caught up in hand The ever-blazing lampion of the world, And drave together the pell-mell horses there And yoked them all a-tremble, and amain, Steering them over along their own old road, Restored the cosmos,—as forsooth we hear From songs of ancient poets of the Greeks— A tale too far away from truth, meseems. For fire can win when from the infinite Has risen a larger throng of particles Of fiery stuff; and then its powers succumb, Somehow subdued again, or else at last It shrivels in torrid atmospheres the world. And whilom water too began to win— As goes the story—when it overwhelmed The lives of men with billows; and thereafter, When all that force of water-stuff which forth From out the infinite had risen up Did now retire, as somehow turned aside, The rain-storms stopped, and streams their fury checked.



FORMATION OF THE WORLD AND ASTRONOMICAL QUESTIONS

But in what modes that conflux of first-stuff Did found the multitudinous universe Of earth, and sky, and the unfathomed deeps Of ocean, and courses of the sun and moon, I'll now in order tell. For of a truth Neither by counsel did the primal germs 'Stablish themselves, as by keen act of mind, Each in its proper place; nor did they make, Forsooth, a compact how each germ should move; But, lo, because primordials of things, Many in many modes, astir by blows From immemorial aeons, in motion too By their own weights, have evermore been wont To be so borne along and in all modes To meet together and to try all sorts Which, by combining one with other, they Are powerful to create: because of this It comes to pass that those primordials, Diffused far and wide through mighty aeons, The while they unions try, and motions too, Of every kind, meet at the last amain, And so become oft the commencements fit Of mighty things—earth, sea, and sky, and race Of living creatures.

In that long-ago The wheel of the sun could nowhere be discerned Flying far up with its abounding blaze, Nor constellations of the mighty world, Nor ocean, nor heaven, nor even earth nor air. Nor aught of things like unto things of ours Could then be seen—but only some strange storm And a prodigious hurly-burly mass Compounded of all kinds of primal germs, Whose battling discords in disorder kept Interstices, and paths, coherencies, And weights, and blows, encounterings, and motions, Because, by reason of their forms unlike And varied shapes, they could not all thuswise Remain conjoined nor harmoniously Have interplay of movements. But from there Portions began to fly asunder, and like With like to join, and to block out a world, And to divide its members and dispose Its mightier parts—that is, to set secure The lofty heavens from the lands, and cause The sea to spread with waters separate, And fires of ether separate and pure Likewise to congregate apart.

For, lo, First came together the earthy particles (As being heavy and intertangled) there In the mid-region, and all began to take The lowest abodes; and ever the more they got One with another intertangled, the more They pressed from out their mass those particles Which were to form the sea, the stars, the sun, And moon, and ramparts of the mighty world— For these consist of seeds more smooth and round And of much smaller elements than earth. And thus it was that ether, fraught with fire, First broke away from out the earthen parts, Athrough the innumerable pores of earth, And raised itself aloft, and with itself Bore lightly off the many starry fires; And not far otherwise we often see

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And the still lakes and the perennial streams Exhale a mist, and even as earth herself Is seen at times to smoke, when first at dawn The light of the sun, the many-rayed, begins To redden into gold, over the grass Begemmed with dew. When all of these are brought Together overhead, the clouds on high With now concreted body weave a cover Beneath the heavens. And thuswise ether too, Light and diffusive, with concreted body On all sides spread, on all sides bent itself Into a dome, and, far and wide diffused On unto every region on all sides, Thus hedged all else within its greedy clasp. Hard upon ether came the origins Of sun and moon, whose globes revolve in air Midway between the earth and mightiest ether,— For neither took them, since they weighed too little To sink and settle, but too much to glide Along the upmost shores; and yet they are In such a wise midway between the twain As ever to whirl their living bodies round, And ever to dure as parts of the wide Whole; In the same fashion as certain members may In us remain at rest, whilst others move. When, then, these substances had been withdrawn, Amain the earth, where now extend the vast Cerulean zones of all the level seas, Caved in, and down along the hollows poured The whirlpools of her brine; and day by day The more the tides of ether and rays of sun On every side constrained into one mass The earth by lashing it again, again, Upon its outer edges (so that then, Being thus beat upon, 'twas all condensed About its proper centre), ever the more The salty sweat, from out its body squeezed, Augmented ocean and the fields of foam By seeping through its frame, and all the more Those many particles of heat and air Escaping, began to fly aloft, and form, By condensation there afar from earth, The high refulgent circuits of the heavens. The plains began to sink, and windy slopes Of the high mountains to increase; for rocks Could not subside, nor all the parts of ground Settle alike to one same level there.