Originally printed by Richard Clay & Sons Ltd., London and Bungay and now reprinted lithographically in Great Britain at the University Press, Oxford by Vivian Ridler Printer to the University INTRODUCTION. When master hands like those of Gibbon and Hallam have sketched the life of _Boethius_, it is well that no meaner man should attempt to mar their pictures. They drew, perhaps, the most touching scene in Middle-age literary history,--the just man in prison, awaiting death, consoled by the Philosophy that had been his light in life, and handing down to posterity for their comfort and strength the presence of her whose silver rays had been his guide as well under the stars of Fortune as the mirk of Fate. With Milton in his dark days, Boece in prison could say,-- ‘I argue not Against Heaven’s hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied In liberty’s defence, my noble task, Of which all Europe rings from side to side.’ For, indeed, the echoes of Boethius, Boethius, rang out loud from every corner of European Literature. An Alfred awoke them in England, a Chaucer, a Caxton would not let them die; an Elizabeth revived them among the glorious music of her reign.[I-1] To us, though far off, they come with a sweet sound. ‘The angelic’ Thomas Aquinas commented on him, and many others followed the saint’s steps. Dante read him, though, strange to say, he speaks of the Consolation as ‘a book not known by many.’[I-2] Belgium had her translations--both Flemish[I-3] and French[I-4]; Germany hers,[I-5] France hers,[I-6] Italy hers.[I-7] The Latin editors are too numerous to be catalogued here, and manuscripts abound in all our great libraries. No philosopher was so bone of the bone and flesh of the flesh of Middle-age writers as Boethius. Take up what writer you will, and you find not only the sentiments, but the very words of the distinguished old Roman. And surely we who read him in Chaucer’s tongue, will not refuse to say that his full-circling meed of glory was other than deserved. Nor can we marvel that at the end of our great poet’s life, he was glad that he had swelled the chorus of Boethius’ praise; and ‘of the translacioun of Boece de Consolacioun,’ thanked ‘oure Lord Ihesu Crist and his moder, and alle the seintes in heuen.’ The impression made by Boethius on Chaucer was evidently very deep. Not only did he translate him directly, as in the present work, but he read his beloved original over and over again, as witness the following list, incomplete of course, of passages from Chaucer’s poems translated more or less literally from the _De Consolatione_: