C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Selections
By Philemon (c. 368–c. 264 B.C.)
I
So have I heard, whereon much time is spent,—
What is the real Good. None find it. One
Says Virtue; and another Prudence. I,
Who in the country dwell, and dig the earth,
Have found it: it is Peace! O dearest Zeus,
How loving is the goddess, and how kind!
Marriages, festivals, kin, children, friends,
Food, wine, health, riches, happiness, she gives.
And if of all these things we are deprived,
Dead is the life of men while yet they live!
I
And he were freed from sorrow who laments,
Then would we proffer gold to purchase tears!
But now, our destiny doth pay no heed
Thereto, my lord, but ever goes its way,
The same, if thou give way to grief or no.
What boots it? Nothing! Yet our sorrow brings
The tear, as fitly as the tree her fruit!
O
The beasts, who have no thought of things like these!
For never one of them is criticized,
Nor have they any artificial woes.
Unlivable the life we men must live:
The slaves of custom, subject unto law,
Bound to posterity and ancestry,—
So have we no escape from misery.
W
And all the beasts besides,—Prometheus,—give
To other animals one nature each?
For full of courage are the lions all,
And every hare, again, is timorous.
One fox is not of crafty spirit, one
Straightforward; but if you shall bring together
Three times ten thousand foxes, you will find
One character is common to them all.
But we,—so many as our bodies are,
No less diverse our natures you will find.