Although happiness is properly the same thing as the enjoyment of the chief good, and therefore the best experience which may be desired, nevertheless because this state of enjoyment includes the chief good, happiness itself was made to be called the chief good. It is called the “chief of goods,” “the ultimate good,” “the end of the ends,” and “the end par excellence,” because all other things are desired and sought after for its sake, while happiness itself is ultimately desired for its own sake. Aristotle teaches us that “among desirable things, it is necessary that there be an ultimate good, rather than going on ad infinitum.” But let’s first consider two important points.

The first is, that we shall not concern ourselves here with the happiness upheld by Holy Men, particularly when they teach how happy is he who is helped by Divine Providence, devotes himself purely to the worship of God, and who, full of faith, hope, and charity, spends the rest of his days gently and calmly. We will speak only about that which can be known as natural, i.e., acquirable by natural means, which the philosophers did not ever doubt could be obtained on Earth.

The second point is that this natural happiness is such that one cannot conceive of circumstances which are imaginably better, sweeter, or more desirable. In such a condition there is no evil to fear, no lack of good things, nothing one cares to do that is beyond one’s power, and one is completely stable, safe, and secure. But we understand that although this sort of condition is possible in which there are necessary goods in abundance, very little that is evil, and in which one can thereby live as gently, calmly, and securely as the conditions of our country, society, lifestyle, health, age, and other such circumstances allow, it remains that to promise oneself, or to realize this supreme happiness during the course of our life, it is to not recognize, or to have forgotten, that one is a man, i.e. a feeble and weak animal who by the condition of his nature is vulnerable to an infinity of evils, and miseries.

And it is in this sense which we say that the wise man, no matter how tormented by cruel pains, can yet be content in this perfect and supreme happiness For this human happiness is always experienced in the wise as greatly as possible. The wise man does not worsen his misfortunes with impatience and despair; he instead soothes himself by his devotion. He is happier, or to say it better, less unhappy than if he succumbed in the manner of those who could not maintain themselves in such a plight with the same virtue and the same courage, and moreover do not have, as he does, the comfort that wisdom provides, such as a guilt-free life and a conscience beyond reproach, which is always a marvelous consolation.

This is why one should not go so far as to say that it is thus indifferent to wise man if he is burning in Phalaris’ brazen bull, or is in sweet repose upon a bed of roses, because he would rather not suffer from things like fire and torments – things which he would wish to be free of. But when they arrive, he considers them as inevitable evils, and he endures them courageously; so that he can say “Vror sed invictus; I burn, it is true, and suffer, I sigh and cry, but I do not succumb. I am not vanquished and I do not let myself become a desperate coward, which would render my condition even more miserable.”

To begin with, the main causes of happiness are nothing less than the goods of the mind, body, and fortune. Some philosophers highly extol one or the other, and some include them all.

Of those who chiefly recommend the goods of the mind, Anaxagoras proposes “the happiness in the contemplation things with the kind of freedom which is borne of delightful knowledge.” Posidonius, “contemplation with self-mastery over irrational impulses;” Herillus, generally and simply “wisdom;” Apollodorus and Lycus, generally “pleasures of the mind;” Leucinus, “the pleasures recurring from honest things;” the Stoics – Zeno, Cleanthes, Aristus, and the others – “virtue,” going so far as to say “that in possessing virtue, it doesn’t matter if one is healthy or sick.” All the others maintained a consensus that “living happily was nothing else than living virtuously,” or, as they expressed it, “according to nature.”

Of those who prefer the goods of the body, and who mainly have only sensual pleasure in mind, these were named “the voluptuous,” voluptuarii philosophi, about whom we will be obliged to speak when we compare them with Epicurus. It will be enough to note here in passing that they had Aristippus for their leader, and with him the Cyrenaics, about whom we will also speak further on, and the Annicerians who followed the Cyrenaics. They did not recognize any specified goal of life, but pursued the particular pleasure of any kind of action whatsoever.

Finally, among those who give value to the goods of fortune, they are very truly a crude sort of the people, who, with extraordinary avarice, look upon riches, others upon honors, still others upon other things. But among philosophers, only those who link these kinds of external goods to the goods of the mind and of the body are worth citing. For these are the ones who inspired the beautiful depictions of happiness which poets drew from the various opinions of philosophers, such as this, in which virtue requires good fortune:

Virtus colenda; Sors petenda a Diis bona:
Hac quippe duo cui suppetunt, is vivere
Et vir beatus, & bonus simul potest

Another requires that one has health, a good nature, some riches acquired without fraud, and finally to live his life congenially among his friends.

Fragili viro optima res bene valere
Atque indolem bonam esse fortitum;
Tum & possidere opes dolo haud partas

Martial (Marcus Valerius Martialis) demands several other things, such as the goods of inheritance, which do not constitute a struggle to be acquired, to be free of prosecution, to seldom enter public service, to have a tranquil mind, a healthy body, a simplicity accompanied by prudence and friends of equal condition, a woman who is not ugly but who nevertheless has modesty, a slumber which makes the nights short, a desire to be only what one is, neither to fear nor to wish for one’s last day on Earth.

Since dearest friend, it’s your desire to see
A true receipt of happiness from me;
These are the chief ingredients, if not all,
Take an estate neither too great, nor small,
Which quantum sufficit the scholars call.
Let this estate from parents care defend
The getting it too much of life does spend.
Take such a ground, whose gratitude may be
A fair encouragement for industry;
Let constant fires the winter’s fury tame,
And let thy kitchens be a vestal flame;
Thee to the town let never suits at law,
And rarely, very rarely business draw;
Thy active mind in equal temper keep,
In undisturbed peace, yet not in sleep;
Let exercise a vigorous health maintain,
Without which, all the composition is vain;
In the same weight prudence and innocence take,
And of each does the just mixture make;
But a few friendships wear, and let them be
By nature and by fortune fit for thee;
Instead of art and luxury in food,
Let mirth and freedom make thy table good.
If any cares into the daytime creep,
At night without wine’s opium, let them sleep.
Let rest, which nature does to darkness wed,
And not lust, recommend to thee thy bed.
Be satisfied, and pleased with what thou art,
Act cheerfully and well the allotted part;
Enjoy the present hour, be thankful for the past,
And neither fear nor wish the approaches of the last.

Here we may first observe, as Horace says following Aristotle, that many are often mistaken in the pursuit of happiness by making it consist of things which they miss and admire in the others, e.g., knowledge among the ignorant, wealth among the poor, or health among the sick. Horace expresses this well in his satires regarding the merchant, the soldier, and the ploughman, each of whom admires and envies the fortune of the other.

Oh happy seaman! Cries the old son of war,
With battered limbs, and half his face a scar.
The restless seaman, when insulting gales
Toss the light boat, and conquer all his sails
(If fear allows one distant thought, or word,)
Trembling applauds the brother of the sword.
The man of law when pondering at the door,
His wakeful client knocks him up at four
Would leave the bar, to lie securely warm,
And part with all his practice for a farm.
The clumsy peasant, if when harvest is done,
A kind subpoena calls him up to town;
It’s odd, but ravished with the gaudy scene,
He sells his team, sets up for citizen.

Secondly, to admire nothing, as Horace again says following Aristotle, is just about the only thing that can make a man happy and maintain his happiness.

Not to admire, as most are wont to do,
It is the only method that I know,
To make men happy, and to keep them so.

This not only shows the onset of serenity, but having recognized the vanity of human affairs he does not admire, nor loves, but rather condemns the glare of power, of honors, and of riches which usually dazzle the eyes of men; it moreover shows that this other kind of peace was acquired by he who has recognized the natural causes, who is not dumbfounded, does not fear, and doesn’t overreact like common men do.

Happy the man who studying nature’s laws,
Through known effects can trace the secret cause;
His mind possessing in a quiet state,
Fearless of fortune, and resigned to fate.

Thirdly, that the sweet repose or cherished relaxation which one finds in solitude, and away from the discomfiture of worldly affairs, contributes much to happiness. Democritus, especially, said that he who aspires to the true goodness of life, which consists mainly in peace of mind, does not need to encumber himself in much business, be it private or public; and it is known that an oracle estimated the Great King Gyges to be much unhappier than the old man Aglaus Psophidius, who in a corner of Arcadia farmed a small place from which he drew life’s necessities in abundance and, having never left this small spot of ground, lived gently without ambition and without having felt the slightest of evils that torment the majority of mankind.

It is this sweet repose which Horace also recommended in his praise of the rustic lifestyle, having said that he who lives it is happy; not being charged with debts, he simply devotes himself in the fashion of the earliest men, plowing his native land without knowing neither war, nor the sea, nor the bar, nor grand houses.

Happy the man, whom bounteous gods allow,
With his own hands paternal grounds to plough!
Like the first golden mortal happy he
From business and the cares of money free!
No human storms break off at land his sleep,
No loud alarms of nature on the deep.
From all the cheats of law, he lives secure,
Nor do the affronts of palaces endure.

And this is what Virgil also wanted to express to us when he exclaims,

Oh exceedingly blessed ploughmen,
If you only knew how well off you are!
Happily you live far from the noise of weapons,
Contently and satisfied with the fruits
Of which the ground rewards your hard work!
If your houses do not overflow with crowds of people,
Who every morning come to say ‘hello…’

( … at least nothing prevents you from living a guiltless life – a life which is preferable to all the riches of the world. For this, you slept calmly and without disturbance in the shade of your woods, and for this you enjoyed a steady, firm, and secure peace of mind.)

As for Epicurus, about whom we will discuss more at length later, he formulates happiness to consist in the absence of pain in the body and in peace of mind, while maintaining that the effective causes of happiness are neither wines, nor delicious meals, nor any other such things, but a sound, just, and enlightened rationality, accompanied by inseparable virtues, that considers and examines the causes, and the motives which compel us to choose or avoid something. Because his teachings have happiness in mind, he insists on thinking carefully about the things which create happiness. And because the most important thing of all is that the mind be released from certain erroneous beliefs that generate ceaseless anxieties and unnecessary terrors, he introduces some key principles that he believes to be of such importance that, when well-examined, they ease the mind and give a real and solid happiness.

The first principle is in regard to the knowledge and fear of God.  It’s for good reason that this philosopher wants us to begin with the ideas by which one must apprehend this sovereign being; because he who has a correct notion of him, finds himself full of love for him, and conducts himself in such manner as he pleases: he devotes himself to honesty and virtue, entrusting himself moreover in his infinite goodness, expecting everything of him, as being the source of all good, and thus living his life gently, quietly, and pleasantly. We shall not concern ourselves here by demonstrating the existence of his being, having already done it elsewhere, but we will simply notice that although Epicurus offers some just and reasonable concepts, he also offers some which are not tolerable among the pious – no matter, these he interprets in his own way and should be regarded as irreverent.

For to believe that God exists, in such a way that Lucretius makes him out to be in these beautiful verses:

For whatever is divine must live in peace,
In undisturbed and everlasting ease
Not care for us; from fears and dangers free
Sufficient to his own felicity
Naught here below naught in our power it needs
Never smiles at good, never frowns at wicked deeds.

… to believe, as I was saying, in a sovereign being that exists for all eternity, has an immortal nature, is blessed, fortunate, in and of itself, nor has need of us, nor anything to fear because of what he is, and who is not vulnerable neither to pain, nor with anger, nor with other passions – these are undeniable truths. These beliefs couldn’t be more praiseworthy, particularly for a pagan philosopher. But to fancy shunning providence, as these same verses seem to do, or to believe that it is incompatible with supreme happiness, so that God does not particularly care for man, and that good people do not have any reason to hope for his kindness, nor do the wicked have any reason to fear his vengeance – these are such things that ultimately our good sense and right religion will not permit.

The second principle is in regards to death – for death, in Aristotle’s observation, is considered to be the most horrible of all evils, an inevitability from which nobody is exempt. Thus, Epicurus professes that one must accustom oneself to think carefully upon it, thereby learning to dispel, as much as possible, those terrors which could disturb peace of mind, and consequently the happiness of life.

For that reason, he endeavors to persuade us that it is so far from being the most horrible of all evils, that it is nothing at all. Here is his argument: death, he says, doesn’t affect us, and consequently it is not to be judged an evil in relation to us. For that which affects us is accompanied by sensation, but death is the deprivation of sensation. He tells us also, as Anaxagoras does, that just as it was not terrible not to have feelings before life, so too shall we not be troubled afterwards. Just as when we are asleep, we are not apprehensive, because we are not awake: so too when we shall be dead, it will not trouble us that we are not living. He concludes, as Archesilas does, that death, which is supposed to be an evil, has this appurtenant to it: that when it is present it has never troubled anybody, and when it is absent, it is only by the weakness of mind and through dismal apprehensions that we have of death that makes it seem so terrible to us – so much so that some are struck dead by the very fear of dying.

We might admit here that death is the deprivation of external feelings, or of feeling itself. Epicurus is right to say that there is nothing to fear about death wreaking havoc by means of sight, hearing, smell, taste, or touch – as all these senses do not exist outside the body, which no longer exists, or is dissolved. But what we must disapprove of is that he maintains elsewhere that death is also the deprivation and extinction of the soul, or awareness, which is an interior sense, a sense which he includes. We shall not dally on this impiety, which was sufficiently refuted elsewhere by treating the immortality of the soul. We shall simply oblige ourselves to avoid these excessive horrors of death, and these terrors which often disturb all the leisure and peace of our life, and which by their gloomy darkness, like Lucretius knew, infects the purer pleasures:

---------------------------- Those idle fears,
That spoil our lives with jealousies and cares,
Disturb our joys with dread of pains beneath,
And sully them with the black fears of death.

Let us therefore first remember, in regards to that foolish desire to live forever, remember, I say, the feeble condition of our nature, and not to ascribe to it anything beyond its range and capacity. Let us enjoy, gently, calmly, peacefully, and without complaint, the present life allotted to us – however short or long it may be. We would have certainly been able to, without being wronged to be deprived of it, by giving thanks to the freedom in which we hold it, and count moreover our daily blessings.

Nature allows us of the use of its domains for a certain amount of time. We should not be distressed that it is necessary for us to leave when that time has expired. We are obliged to yield our place to others, just as others have had to yield theirs to us. Our bodies are naturally vulnerable to destruction – the condition of birth makes the condition of mortality necessary. “If it is sweet to be born,” to use Seneca’s words, “then let us not be sorrowed by our demise.” If rebelling against this necessity could serve some purpose, we should then approve of it; but it serves no use, and when we trouble ourselves so, we only make things worse.

The number of our days is limited, our lifetime goes by irreversibly, we run the course, and whether we want it or not, we come finally to the end. As many days as we live, that much of our lifetime allocated by nature has already expired. As death is the deprivation of the life, we die as we live by a death which does not come all at once, but in parts that accrue bit by bit  Yet, we only call the last bit “death.” Even so, it is true that the end depends on the beginning!

We thus moderate nature’s desires according to the same rules that nature prescribed, and if the Fates (to speak like the old poets) cannot be prevailed upon, so that in spite of us they hasten our death, at least we may soften their severity by going willingly.

The one and only solution for living life calmly and without anxiety, is to adapt ourselves to our own nature, to want only what it wants, to count among our blessings even the last moment of life, and to dispose and prepare ourselves so that when death arrives, we can say: “I have lived, and I completed the course which nature had given me to traverse.”

Vixi & quem dederas cursum natura pergei.

She calls me, but I come from my own accord; she asks for her payment, I return it readily to her; she orders me to die, I die without regret.

We might also usefully take the advice of Lucretius, and say to ourselves sometimes, “The greatest and the mightiest kings of the world have died, and Scipio, the lightning of war, the terror of Carthage, left his bones in the ground like the meanest slave. The most pious of men, Ancus, and Homer, the prince of poets died. So shall we be distressed to die? You, whose life is akin to being half-dead, you, who pass more than half of your time in sleep, who snore, so to speak, subsisting on fantasies, and who live in anxiety, and continual frights.”

This is what our famous Malherbe was to have had in mind when he deplores the fate of great men who are being subjected to the same the laws of death as the lowliest souls.

Yet these are turned to dust, and fate
Rules with such arbitrary sway,
So binds its laws on every state,
That all their equal’s doom obey.

With none ever yet impartial destiny
Of all its numerous subjects would dispense,
Hear this ye vulgar souls, and hence
Undaunted learn to die.

But here someone will object that we will no longer enjoy the blessing of life: no more country cottages, no more women, no more children, and no more friends with whom to make good times; alas, you say, one day, an unhappy day takes away all his delights! It is true that that is usually said, but one should add that this supposed unhappy man will not feel any desire for any of these things, and that after he has truly died, he will not see himself complaining with a broken heart and consumed by pain about his tomb.

May we not likewise argue, as Plutarch does, what often occurs in our own thoughts?  If our natural life, which we believe to be very long when it extends to a hundred years, were instead to last only one day, as those animals which, according to Aristotle, are born in the kingdom of Pontus, so that we were, like them, to enter adolescence in the morning, to be in the prime of life at midday, and to be in old age by evening, then it would be consistent in this case to be as satisfied with being able to live until the evening, as we are presently with living for a hundred years. And if, on the contrary, it were to be that one’s lifespan were a thousand years, like that of our first fathers, then one would be just as sorry to die in six hundred years as we would be to die in sixty.  From this perspective those who came first into the world, if they had lived until the present, undoubtedly would not be sorrowed to die now, as we are.

All that certainly must teach us well that life, whatever it is, must be measured not by the length, but by honesty, and the pleasantness which accompanies it, just as the perfection of a circle, as Seneca relates, needs to be measured not by the size of the circle, but by the exactitude of its roundness. “Oh vain and imprudent diligence,” Pliny says, “one counts the number of the days when one should seek only their value!”

Heu vana, & imprudens diligentia, numerus dierum
Computatur ubi quaritur pondus!

We likewise take no notice that the mass of the Earth, and the whole of the world, and a thousand other worlds, if you like, are only a point if one compares them with the immense expanse of the universe. Thus the longest life of man, if it were as long as that of the Hamadryades, or a million times more, is but a moment when compared with eternity. If this life is only a point says Seneca, how far can we extend or elongate this point?

In hoc punctum conjectus es,
Quod ut extendas, quousque extendes?

“We know that by prolonging the life,” remarks Lucretius, “we do not reduce any time from the long duration of death.” He who dies today shall not be dead for any less time than he who died a thousand years ago.

What if nature, he adds, should angrily speak to us about this in the following manner: “Why, oh mortal, do you have to complain so much about death? If your former life was pleasant to you, and if you have known to make use of the goods, and the delights that I have provided you, why as a guest do you not withdraw yourself full and satisfied with life? And why, foolish that you are, do you not accept the secure rest which is offered to you? If, on the contrary, life was tedious for you, and if you wasted my blessings, why would you request even more, only to waste them as well? For I do not have anything else to produce for you again, and though you might live to be a million years old, you would never see anything but the same things.” If nature, I say, addressed us in this manner, would we not concede that her reasoning would be right, and that she would be right to reproach us so?

At least it is necessary to concede that a wise man who has lived long enough to contemplate the world, must readily submit to the necessity of nature, at the time which he perceives that his hour approaches; and he must conclude that he has run his course, that the circle which is completed is perfect, and that if this circle is not comparable with eternity, it is at least comparable to the duration of the world.

For having beheld the face of nature, he often contemplated the sky, the Earth, and the other things which constitute the cosmos. He had often seen the risings and settings of the stars; he has seen several eclipses, several other phenomena, the cycles of the seasons, and finally various individual creations, various destructions, and changes. And in regards to those things that relate to humanity, if he has not seen them, then he has at least heard about, or learned by tradition, all that has happened since the beginning of times: peace and war, trust and treachery, courtesy and cruelty, laws established and repealed, the founding and overturning of republics, and generally all the other things that he knows, and of which he is informed, as if he had been present at the time they happened.

So he must think that all the preceding time relates to him, and thus his life began with the same things. And because the past is necessary to anticipate the future, he must still think that all the time which must follow all relates to him, in that there will be nothing in the future but what already is, that it is only circumstances which change. The universal flow of things always stays on its ordinary track, and always replays the same themes. So it is not without reason that the sacred texts pronounce, “The thing that has been, it is that which shall be, and that which is done, is that which shall be done again, and there is nothing new under the sun.” From this we may conclude that a wise man should not consider his life short, for by casting his eyes on the past, and by forecasting the future, he can do so as long as the duration of the universe.

Moreover, though Epicurus had reason to say, “There is hardly the slightest reason why a thing which will not sadden us at all when it is present, must upset us when it’s absent,” it seems, nevertheless, that there is still some reason to fear death, insofar as it can have some evils preceding it, or follow it; Seneca therefore attempts to compile some reasons to show that if death is not an evil, it nevertheless appears so much like an evil, that it cannot be casually shrugged off.

The third principle relates to the abominable opinion of the Stoics, who maintain that in certain situations, one should commit suicide; because, Seneca says... 

It is certainly a great affliction to live in want; but there is nothing that obliges us absolutely to continue in it; for wherever we cast our glance, we may see the end of our sufferings, and our deliverance, either by a precipice, a river, a dagger, a tree, by opening a vein, or by fasting. We ought to give god thanks that none of us is detained against his will in this present life. The eternal decree has admirably well appointed that there should be but one kind of entrance into the world, but many out it. Death, say they, can be met with anywhere; god hath very wisely contrived, that any may take away our life, but no man can take away our death, for it has a thousand passages open to it.

Ubique mors est; ptime hoc cavit dues
Eripere vitam nem non homini potest;
At nem mortem; mille ad hanc exitus patent.

He that knows how to die can free himself, and he always has the door of his prison open. True as it is, there is a chain that holds us fast – namely the love of life; and this love, though we cannot absolutely reject it, we should still at least mitigate it, so that if sometimes accidents require, it may not keep us back, nor hinder us from being ready to perform at present, that which we must one day do or suffer.

These following points proceed from the same school. “The wise man lives as long as he ought, though not so long as he may; he knows where he ought to live, with whom, and ho, and what he ought to do. He considers the manner of his life, and not the length. If he meets with crosses, and misfortunes, he frees himself, and doesn’t wait until the last possible moment to set him at liberty; but as soon as fortune begins to frown upon him, he seriously considers, if he ought not at that time to end his days. He believes that if he himself hastens his end, or expects it from another hand, it is the same thing; or whether it be brought to pass sooner or later, it grieves him not. Nevertheless sometimes though his death is certain and appointed, and that he knows himself set apart for execution, yet he won’t lend his helping hand, nor will he be overwhelmed with sorrow. It is a folly to die for fear of death. If he that is to kill thee is coming, wait for him, why would you prevent him? And why will you undertake to execute upon yourself another’s cruelty? Do you covet the office of an executioner? Or will you save him the labor? Socrates ought to have ended his days by fasting, and die by hunger, rather than by poison, yet he continued thirty days in prison, in expectation of death; not because during this time he had hopes of a reprieve, but to show himself obedient to the laws, and to give his friends the pleasure of enjoying the conversation of Socrates, when he was ready to die. When therefore an outward violence threatens us with death; we can’t give any general or absolute directions, whether we are to prevent it, or to expect it with patience, for there are many circumstances to be considered. But if there be two kinds of death, the one full of grievous torments, the other sudden and easy, why might we not choose the latter?”

This was the opinion of Hieronymus, all the Stoics, and namely of Pliny, who fashions the name of “good mother” to the Earth, because having compassion of us, she instituted poisons. It is also supposed to be the opinion of Plato, for although Cicero makes him out to say “that we ought to preserve the soul enclosed in the body, and without the command of him who give it, we must not depart out of this life, that we might not thereby seem to despise this gift that go has bestowed upon man,” yet in his book of laws, he declares, “That he who kills himself is not to be blamed, but when he does the act, without being thereunto forced by the sentence of the judge, or by some insufferable and unavoidable accident of fortune, or by misery and public shame.” Not to mention Cicero, who in a certain place commends the opinion of Pythagoras, “because he forbids departure from our fortress, or to quit our station of life without the appointment of the general,” that is to say, of God. Yet elsewhere he teaches “that in our life we ought to observe the same rule, which is in the Greek symposia, that is to say, ‘either drink or depart;’ so that if we can’t bear the injuries and affronts of Fortune, we must accept them, by flying from them.” And Cato, who seems not to have fought death so much to avoid the fight with Caesar, as to obey the decrees, and follow the dictates of the Stoics, esteeming it his glory to observe them, and to leave his name famous to posterity, by some great and notable action; for Lactantius says, “Cato was during his life a follower of the vanity of the Stoics.”

In regards to Democritus, “His opinion,” as the same Lactantius informs us, “was truly different from that of the Stoics; yet he suffered himself to die by fasting, when he found in his very great age, that the strength of his body, and the abilities of his mind began to fail. (Sponte fue letho caput obvius obtulit ipse) About which, we may say, is altogether criminal; for if a murderer is an offender because he kills a man, he that murders himself is guilty of the same crime, because he also kills a man. It is very probable that this is the greatest crime, whereof the vengeance is reserved to god alone; for as we do not enter upon life of our own accord, so neither are we to depart out of it of our own heads, but by his order, who has placed us in the body to inhabit there. And if any violence or injury be done us, we must bear it patiently, because the life of a guiltless person that is destroyed cannot be unpunished; for we have a powerful God, unto whom vengeance always belongs.”

Finally, in regards to Epicurus, it is believable that he too disagreed with to the Stoics, for he says, “The wise man is still happy amidst his torments,” because, being tormented by gallstones which caused him extreme pains, he nevertheless did not hasten his own death, but awaited it patiently. Seneca, besides, says “Epicurus reproaches those who desire death as much as those that fear it; and that there is a great indiscretion, nay folly, in hastening our death, for the fear of death.”

Yet it happens very often, as Lucretius said, not only because the excessive fear of death throws in some dark melancholy which makes one utterly discontented, and that one finally comes to the point of hating life as difficult, annoying, and unbearable, and at last seeks the strangest of ways for deliverance from it: procure death. But this excessive fear causes a certain imperceptible sadness, depressing one’s heart and spirits, disturbing all the functions of the life, impeding digestion, and ultimately brings on fatal diseases.

In any event, the opinion of the Stoics not only conflicts with the sacred dogmas of religion (though it doesn’t disapprove of it when some persons, by a certain particular and divine instinct, hastened their own death, like Sampson and Razis in the Old Testament, and Sophronia, and Pelagia in the New Testament) but it moreover contradicts nature, and rationality. For nature gave a natural love of life to every kind of animal and all of them, except man, will endeavor to save its life and escape death no matter what evils torment it. It is hence remarkable that only man corrupts the institution of nature through his erroneous opinions, if he rejects the use of the life and procures death, he does so by a peculiar debasement.

For the true state of nature should be considered like the general character of animals, and not of those individuals within the only species who procure their own destruction and are lost before their time allotted by nature. From which we should infer that they abuse nature, and its Creator, for although they are intended to undergo a certain course, they halt themselves in the middle of the race, and having been posted as sentinels, they desert and give up their station without awaiting the order and the command.

Reason, besides, consequently forbids the use of cruelty towards the innocent, who never did us any harm, and forbids us to be cruel to ourselves, from whom we never experienced hatred, but rather too much love. Moreover, on what occasion can virtue appear more advantageous, than when profusely suffering the evils that the hardness of fortune necessitates?

“To die,” says Aristotle, “because of our poverty, or for love, or for some other mischievous accident, is not the act of a man of spirit and courage, but of a mean and timid soul, for it is the act of a weak mind to shun and flee from things that are difficult to be endured. Stout men, says Curtius, are wont to despise death, rather than to hate life. It’s the trouble and impatience of suffering that carries the cowards to base actions, that makes them despised, and scorned. Virtue leaves nothing untried, and death is the last thing which we must encounter, but not as timid, lazy, and reluctant souls.”

I shall not linger upon the opinion of those “Who,” says Lactantius, “imagining that the souls are eternal, have therefore killed themselves, as Cleanthes, Chrysippus, and Zeno, expecting to be simultaneously transported to heaven; or as Empedocles, who cast himself in the night into the flames of Mount Aetna, supposing that by disappearing so suddenly, the world might think that he had gone to the gods; or, as Cato, who was during his lifetime a follower of the vanity of the Stoics; who, before he killed himself, as it is reported, had read Plato’s book of the eternity of the soul; or finally, as Cleombrotus, who after he had read the same book, cast himself down a precipice. This is a cursed and abominable doctrine, which drives men out of their lives.”

I shall also not dally upon that Cyrenaic of Hegesius, who preached, with so much eloquence, the miseries of life and the happy circumstances of souls after death, that the king Ptolomy was obliged to forbid him to speak in public, because several of his disciples, according to Cicero and others, killed themselves after having heard it. For the evils which we endure in life can well become so great, and multiply in such a manner that when the occasion to die presents itself, the loss of the life is not sorrowful; death is regarded as a haven in which one finds himself delivered from the miseries and tempests of life. But to press this exaggeration to the point of inciting a mistaken hatred for life is to be abusive and ungrateful towards nature, as if the gift of life that had been bestowed for our use must be rashly rejected, or as if we should not rather enjoy it, prolonging it so honestly and gently as possible!

It is true that what Theognis said formerly, “that it would be much better for men not to be born, or to die at soon as he was born,” was a celebrated saying. It is likewise demonstrated by Cleobis, Biton, Agamedes, Pindarus, and some others, who having petitioned the gods to reward them for their piety with something better and more desirable, were returned a very great favor: to die soon. Also, there is likewise a Thracian custom of crying for those who are born, and felicitating the dead. Not to mention Menander, who wished that a certain young man was dead, because he was liked by the gods.

Quem diligent Dii, juvenis ipse interit.

Nor to mention something of that celebrated pronouncement that nobody would accept life, if it were given to people who knew it.

Vitam nemo acciperet, si daretur scientibus,

But, I ask you, who shall believe that Theognis and the rest spoke seriously, or without reservation? I say “without reservation,” because if one simply wanted to say that it was better for those who would be miserable all their life to have never been born, or if they would be born, to die immediately – that sort of thing would be in some way tolerable. But to apply this to everyone is to insult nature, who is the mistress of life and death that established and instituted our birth and destruction, just like everything else that consummates the universe; and one reveals oneself to have forgotten, if not of all, than at least of most of mankind, who are not displeased with life, and who seek all the care to preserve it. For life, as we already observed, always has something pleasant about it, and so he who maintains this kind of attitude will feel enthralled and saved. He would, I believe, resemble the old man in Aesop’s fables who sent death away, even though he had called for it, or another who refused a dagger that was presented to him, even though he had asked for it, in order to deliver himself, he had said, from a misery which was unbearable to him.

Certainly we may scoff at he who said that to live or to die was something indifferent, and who, when someone else objected, “why then don’t you just die?”, he answered: “Because it is indifferent to me.” – though I’m sure that if somebody with an unsheathed sword in hand obliged him to choose, he would have preferred life over death. Another answered all the more ingeniously, who, when one reproached him that although he made a profession of wisdom, he was still frightened by danger, answered, “you are rightly excused not to fear, your soul not being so precious; but me, I fear for the soul of Aristippus.” And another, who being already old, was reproached for having too much passion to remain alive, replied, “Having only lately acquired wisdom, I wish for some time to enjoy it.” Similarly, those who marry late wish for a long life to raise their children.

But nothing is more memorable than what Cicero says about a certain Leontinus Gorgias, who having arrived at the age of a hundred and seven years, without ever stopping his ordinary work and occupations, answered those which asked him why he wanted to remain living so long?

Nihil habeo quo incusem Senectutem.

“I do not have reason to feel sorry for myself in old age.”

The fourth principle concerns the future, forbidding us from being anxiously hopeful and from being carelessly hopeless about it. In this way, we are habituated to maintain an unbothered attitude towards future events, rather than to inflame futile hopes and to depend upon what might or might not be. Since fortune is shifty and fickle, nothing that results from its power can be foreseen or relied upon with much certainty. It often misleads those who look forward and rely on it. More surely, one should not absolutely despair about what one foresees, nor to regard it as something inevitable, but to somehow prepare for any event, so that if things turn out differently than one hopes, one does not believe that he has been robbed of something absolutely necessary.

This kind of maxim – neither too hopeful nor too hopeless – tends to the same purpose. For to hope with too much confidence, one neglects all, and the mind wanders astray; and to not have any hope one forsakes all, and everything is abandoned.  But he who has a moderate mind in comparison to these extremes is in an admirable mental position, and is not obliged to exclaim:

O Jupiter venerande, quale spes malum est.

Oh hope is a great evil!

This is what Torquatus expresses so well in Cicero, when he says, that “the wise man awaits future events as if they might actually happen; but nevertheless he doesn’t depend on them, because it may also happen that they do not come to pass; meanwhile, he enjoys what is present, and remembers with satisfaction what has passed.” To this same purpose, he also says elsewhere, “that we ought not rashly despair in a mean, abject and cowardly manner, nor be overly motivated by excessive passion. Thus Epicurus, while speaking about the fool as opposed to the wise, knows that the life of the fool is unpleasant, apprehensive, and altogether based on what has yet to come:

Stulti vita ingrata est, trepida est, rota in futurum fertur.

“A fool’s life is troublesome and uneasy, always distracted with the thoughts of what may happen hereafter.”

The fifth principle is a reproach to mankind, for by delaying day by day, their life occurs unnecessarily, and in a constant dependence of the future.  “Consider,” Seneca says, according to Epicurus, “how pleasant it is to desire nothing, and what a greatness of mind it is to always be fulfilled, and not to depend upon fortune! Grab and secure the present, whereby you will have less occasion of dependence on the future.” By deferring the enjoyment of life, our life vanishes senselessly. Dum differtur, vita transcurrit. To the same purpose he says in Plutarch that “he who needs not tomorrow, nor wishes for it, comes to it passively;” as if he wanted to say that the wise man must reckon that if he considers each day of his life as the very last, and that which must achieve the circle: because in this way he will not defer pleasantness by the hope of the following day, and if he comes to the following day, that his day will be all the more pleasant, for it will be less wasted, until being higher than the roof, considered like a surplus, and esteemed as pure gain.

Pacuvius, viceroy of Syria, after having spent a whole day drinking the best and most expensive wines, had a tradition that each time he was carried off from the table, this music was sung to him: vixit, vixit, “he has lived, he has lived!”

Horace, a little earlier, gave the same council. “It is necessary,” says he, “to think that each day is the last of our life;” the time that one does not take for granted will occur agreeably.

Omnem crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum,
Grata superveniet, quae non sperabitur hora.

Let us pleasantly enjoy the present, and let us never count on the following day. Be not inquisitive as to what shall happen tomorrow; but as if you were to die this very day, consider it advantageous if providence grants you any longer continuance.

Quid sit futurum cras fuge quaerere, et
Quam Sers dierum cumque ferait, lucro
Appone ---------------

Accept with thankfulness the tome that God bestows on you, and do not defer the enjoyment of the comforts and pleasures of life till the next year. 

Tu, quamunque Deus tibi fortunaverit horam,
Grata sume manu, nec dulcia differ in annum.
The best of our days are those that past first.

Optima quaeque dies miseris mortabilus aevi
Prima fugit --------------

As if day by day one approached the dregs of the life, as if the purest pleasures that one differs could no longer be recovered, and that those which come later don’t stack up to those coming earlier – from hence these frequent complaints come from time badly spent.

“The years I once have spent, could Heaven only restore!” And nevertheless we do not press ourselves to live in the present, so that if God did restore them, we could say, “I do not see – how might I spend the time better?” We always imagine that good times and happy living have never arrived, that moreover what we desire is infinitely beyond all that we have enjoyed, or yet to enjoy. So we never appreciate anything throughout the past, and always look towards the future, as much in need of life as ever.

Sed dum abest quod avemus, id exsuperare videtur
Caetera, post aliud cum contigit, illud avemus,
Et sitis aqua tenet vitai simper hiantes.

It’s as if we don’t account for past pleasures and rejoice that they have been secured; which we should do all the more so because many others only hope for a similar fortune and their expectations are frustrated. We must do this piece of justice to Epicurus, says Seneca, “That he continually complains about our being ungrateful for the time past, that we call not to mind the good things that we have enjoyed, nor so much as reckon them among the real advantages and solid pleasures of life, because there is no delight more certain than that, which we cannot be deprived of.” Praefentia bona nondum tota in solido funt, potest illa cafus aliquis incidere, future pendent, & in certa funt; quod praeteriit inter tuta sepositum est.

Therefore Plutarch concludes, “That the nature of good consists not only in shunning evil, but also in the remembrance and in pleasing ourselves with the thoughts of things that have come to pass.” But to insist on ridiculous delays, one defers these things indefinitely.

It’s a strange thing,” says Epicurus, “that considering we are born but once, that our days are to have an end, and that tomorrow is beyond our power, nevertheless we always put off living until tomorrow, so that our life is spent miserably in these continual delays, and there are none but die busied in such affairs as concern not their real happiness, for we occupy ourselves in everything else, but to live.” From hence proceeds that other just complaint of Seneca, “among other evils, this also attends folly, that it is always a beginning to live.” And Martial says, “You are for living tomorrow. Alas! Consider it is already late to live to day; he is a wise man who knew how to live yesterday.”

Cras vives? Hodie jam vivere, postume, serum est.
Ille sapit qisquis, postume, vixit heri.

To the same purpose are those verses of Manilius:

Quid tam sollicitis vitam consumimus annis,
Torquemurque metu, caecaque cupidine rerum,
Aeternisque senes curis, dum quaerium aevum
Perdimus, & nullo votorum fine beati,
Victuro agimus semper, nec vivimus unquam.

Why do we consume our days in care, and in perpetual anxiety, tormented by needless fears, and blind ambition? We lose our life while seeking it, and without enjoying the end of desires, we always work to live, and we never really live.

The sixth principle regards greed, or covetousness – knowledge of which is of such importance, that one must be mainly occupied with distinguishing those which must be known as natural and necessary indeed, and those which are useless and superfluous. For the happiness of life depends on the denial of the latter, and to simply sustain us with the former: but as we shall be obliged to speak about them in several other places, we shall satisfy ourselves for the moment to have simply mentioned them.

The last principle that Epicurus recommends us to consider, is properly an exhortation to carry on studying philosophy – being the medicine of the soul. Because philosophy, if we consider the etymology of the word, is the study of wisdom, and wisdom for the soul – not only as a drug by which health is acquired and preserves itself, but as health itself. Indeed, just as the health of the body consists in a suitable temperature and quality of bodily fluids, thus the health of the soul consists in the moderation of passions.

One only needs to listen to Cicero to appreciate the accuracy of this comparison. “All passions,” he says, “are regarded by philosophers as distempers of the mind; and they deny, that among fools, there are any that are exempt from these distempers. Such as they are distempered, they are not healthy;” he says, “therefore every one that is a fool is actual sick.” For according to philosophers, the health of the soul consists in a certain tranquility and unbreakable stability, and a soul that is not in this condition, they called a “patient.” However, it is necessary to suppose with Epicurus and others that usually there is nothing dearer, or more precious than the health of the body – which shows how dear and precious the health of the soul must be. Thus it is true (as we shall see) that the goods and evils of the soul are greater and more considerable than those of the body. Consequently, as the end of the happy life consists in peace of mind and in the comfort of the body (as we shall also see), there is more value in the latter; for he who has a tranquil soul, comporting with the rules of wisdom, greatly nurtures temperance, which is most solid and most assured supporter of health.

“We must then,” says Epicurus, “act the part of a philosopher, not only in appearance, or out of ostentation, but effectively, and seriously, because what concerns us is not just to seem to be in health, but to really be so.” The young and old alike must apply themselves to the study of philosophy as it is important at either age to be healthy in mind and body; then one cannot reproach us, like Horace, that if we had the slightest thing stuck in our eye that caused discomfort, we would remove it straight away, and yet we defer years to cure our own spirit!

Quae laedunt oculos festinas demere, si quid,
Est animum, differs curandi tempus in annum.

We must, in regard to philosophy, not follow the example that Thales made in regard to marriage; for when his mother pressed him to marry, he could very well answer that it was not yet time, and later on, that it was too late; but just as it is ridiculous to say that it is not yet time, or that it is too late to heal the body, thus it is ridiculous to state that the time to philosophize, i.e. to cure the soul, has not yet come, or that it has passed; since it is precisely like he who would say, that it is not yet time, or it is too late to be happy. It is strange that time is thus unfortunately wasted, and that one does not apply something that is just as useful to the rich and poor alike, and when neglected, is as detrimental to young people as with old men. This is one of the reproaches that Horace made to himself.

----------- Fluunt mihi tarda
----------- Ingrataque tempora, quae spem
Consiliumpque moraantur agenda gnaviter id quod
Aeque pauperibus prodest, locupletibus aeque,
Aeque neglectum pueris, senibusque nocebit.

“Young people and old, partake! Seize something beyond money, maintenance, and the consolation of poor old men.”

----------- Petite hinc
Juvenesque, senesque miseris viatica canis,

For it is the study of philosophy, speaks the poet, imitating Biantes, Aristippus, Antisthenes, Aristotle, and other philosophers, who call philosophy the money of old age. But to speak especially about what might persuade young people to study philosophy: there is nothing more excellent and more laudable than to accustom oneself early on with good things, and to adorn the beauty of youth with the softness of the wisdom, which is the fruit of a ripe age. There is nothing more pleasant than to prepare for and to be able to expect an old age, which, in addition to the ordinary fruits of maturity, can still shine and burst forth with the same virtues with which one shone and burst forth in youth, so that by the memory of beautiful and virtuous actions, as by its repeated presence, one rejuvenates, so to speak, continuously. In regards to those who are already advanced in age, it is consistent that wisdom is the characteristic and the true ornament of old age, that it is the singular support against discomfort, and the feebleness of age, and that it is what animates old men with youthful vigor.

Here, it is necessary to listen to Seneca, who, already very old, went to hear the philosopher Sextus, just as the Emperor Antonius did so at a later time.

“Behold, this is the fifth day that I frequent the schools, and that I listen to a philosopher, who argues from eight o’ clock. You may perhaps say, it is time indeed to study in our younger years. And why not in this age? Is there anything more ridiculous than to refuse learning, because we have not leaned a long while before? Shall I be ashamed to go and meet a philosopher? We ought to learn while we are ignorant, and according to the proverb, ‘as long as we live.’ Go, Lucillus, and make haste, for fear that it should happen to you, as to me, to be obliged to study in your declining years; and make what speed you can, the rather because you have undertaken that which you will scarce learn when you come to be decrepit. But what advantage shall I gather, might you say? As much as you will strive for. What do you expect? No man becomes wise by chance. Riches may come to us of themselves, honors may be offered to us, and we may be advanced to employments and dignities, but virtue won’t come and see us; we must endeavor to find her, for she never bestows her blessings, but only upon such as take labor and pains.”

These are the principles which the ancient philosophers, and mainly Epicurus, have recommended for our serious consideration, as being specific for us to discover and to pave us the way to happiness.