Now since I have demonstrated of what kind Are the beginnings of all things, and how Varying are the divers shapes wherein They are flying onward of their own free will, Driven in eternal motion, and in what way Out of these can be formed each several thing, After these themes it would seem best that now The nature of the mind and of the soul Should be elucidated in my verses, And fear of Acheron driven headlong forth, That dread which troubles from its lowest depths The life of man, and brooding over all With the blackness of death, will not allow Any pleasure to be unalloyed and pure. For though men often tell us that diseases And a life of public shame are to be feared Far more than Tartarus, the house of death, And that they know the nature of the soul To be of blood, or even perhaps of wind, If such should be their fancy, and that so They have no need of our philosophy, Yet from the following proof you may perceive That all these boasts are uttered to win praise Rather than from conviction of the truth. These same men, exiled from their fatherland, And banished far from human sight, disgraced By foul crime, and beset by every kind Of wretchedness, none the less still live on, And to whatever place they bear their misery, In spite of all make offerings to the dead, Slaughter black sheep, and to the nether powers Do sacrifice, and in their bitter plight Turn their thoughts to religion far more zealously. Thus you can better judge a man in stress Of peril, and amidst adversities Discover what he is; for then at last The language of sincerity and truth Is wrung forth from the bottom of his heart; The mask is torn off; what is real remains. Moreover avarice and blinding lust For honours, which compel unhappy men To overpass the bounds of right, and sometimes, As partners and accomplices of crime, To struggle with vast effort night and day Till they emerge upon the heights of power-- These sores of life are in no small degree Fostered by fear of death. For foul contempt And biting penury are mostly thought To be quite different from a pleasurable And secure life: rather they seem to be Already but a kind of lingering Before the gates of death. And so while men, Urged by an unreal terror, long to escape Far from these ills and drive them far away, They pile up wealth by shedding civil blood, Doubling their riches greedily, while they heap Massacre upon massacre, rejoice Ruthlessly in the sad death of a brother, And shun their kinsmen’s board in hate and dread. Often likewise owing to this same fear They pine with envy because some other man In the world’s eyes is powerful, some other Is gazed at, as he walks robed in bright honours, While they complain that they themselves are wallowing