A Discourse of Life and Death
The Burden of Life
Life from childhood to old age is filled with misery, pain, and persistent vices, leading to the conclusion that life is nothing but a series of evils.
But no matter how we spend our time, old age creeps up on us before we know it — and whether we throw ourselves into the crowd or hide away somewhere, it never fails to find us. Everyone expects to rest from all their labors in old age, free from further worry, and to keep themselves comfortable and healthy. But instead, in this age there is nothing but an aftertaste of all the evils that came before — and most often a plentiful harvest of all those vices that held and possessed them throughout their whole life. There you have the helplessness and weakness of infancy, and (what's worse) often accompanied by authority; there you are paid back for the excess and riotousness of youth with gout, palsy, and similar diseases that take away limb after limb with extreme pain and torment. There you are repaid for the mental labors, the sleepless nights and cares of adulthood, with loss of sight, loss of hearing, and all the senses one after another — except only the sense of pain. There is not a single part of us that death does not take as a pledge to be sure of us — as of bad debtors who dread their payment days beyond measure. Nothing in us will not soon be dead — and yet our vices still live in us, and not only live, but in spite of nature grow young again every day. The greedy man has one foot in the grave and is still burying his money — meaning, presumably, to find it again another day. The ambitious person, in his will, arranges useless pomp for his funeral, making his vice live and triumph after his death. The riotous person, no longer able to dance on his feet, dances with his shoulders—all his vices have left him, yet he still can't leave them. The child wishes for youth, and this man laments it. The young man lives in hope of the future, and this man feels the present evil, laments the false pleasures of the past, and sees nothing to hope for in the time to come. More foolish than the child, in that he laments the time he cannot recall and does not remember the evil he had in it; and more wretched than the young man, in that after a wretched life, being unable to die except wretchedly, he sees on all sides only matter for despair. As for the one who from his youth has undertaken to combat the flesh and the world, who has taken such great pains to mortify himself and leave the world before his time, who besides those ordinary evils finds himself vexed with this great and incurable disease of old age, and feels his flesh, however weak, often stronger than his spirit—what good, I ask, can he have except only this: that he sees his death at hand, that he sees his combat finished, that he sees himself ready to depart by death from this loathsome prison in which he has been racked and tormented all his life? I will not here speak of the infinite evils with which men in all ages are troubled, such as loss of friends and parents, banishments, exiles, disgraces, and others common and ordinary in the world: one complaining of losing his children, another of having them; one grieving for his wife's death, another for her life; one finding fault that he is too high in court, another that he is not high enough. The world is so full of evils that to write them all would require another world as great as itself. It's enough that if the happiest person in people's opinions weighs his good fortune against his misfortunes, he will judge himself unhappy; and he judges that person happy who, had he been put in his place for three days, would give it up to the next comer—sooner than he who, considering in all the goods he ever had the evils he endured to get them, and having them to retain and keep (I speak of the pleasures that can be kept, not those that wither in a moment), will judge of himself, and by himself, that the very keeping of the greatest happiness in this world is full of unhappiness and misery. Conclude then that childhood is but a foolish simplicity, youth a vain heat, manhood a painful carefulness, and old age a noisome languishing; that our plays are but tears, our pleasures fevers of the mind, our goods racks and torments, our honors heavy vanities, our rest unrest; that passing from age to age is but passing from evil to evil, and from the lesser to the greater; and that always it is but one wave driving on another, until we arrive at the haven of death. Conclude, I say, that life is but a wishing for the future and a bewailing of the past: a loathing of what we have tasted, and a longing for what we have not tasted; a vain memory of the state past, and a doubtful expectation of the state to come. Finally, that in all our life there is nothing certain, nothing assured, but the certainty and uncertainty of death.
Death as Deliverance
Death is not to be feared; it is the end of misery and a haven from life's storms, and the pain attributed to death actually belongs to life.
Behold, now death comes to us. Behold her, whose approach we so much fear. We are now to consider whether she is such as we are made to believe, and whether we ought so greatly to flee her as we commonly do. We are afraid of her, but like little children of a mask, or of the images of Hecate. We hold her in horror, but because we conceive her not as she is, but ugly, terrible, and hideous—such as it pleases the painters to represent to us on a wall. We flee before her, but it is because, seized with such vain imaginations, we do not give ourselves leisure to observe her. But staie wee, stande wee stedfast, looke wee her in the face: wee shall finde her quite other then shee is painted vs: and altogether of other countenaunce then our miserable life. Death makes an ende of this life. This life is a perpetuall misery and tempest: Death then is the issue of our miseries and entraunce of the porte where wee shall ride in safetie from all windes. And shoulde wee feare that which withdraweth vs from misery, or which drawes vs into our Hauen? Yea but you will say, it is a payne to die. Admit it bee: so is there in curing of a wounde. Such is the worlde, that one euill can not bee cured but by an other, to heale a contusion, must bee made an incision. You will say, there is difficultie in the passage: So is there no Hauen, no Porte, whereinto the entraunce is not straite and combersome. No good thing is to be bought in this worlde with other then the coyne of labour and paine. The entraunce indeede is hard, if our selues make it harde, comming thither with a tormented spirite, a troubled minde, a wauering and irresolute thought. But bring wee quietnesse of mind, constancie, and full resolution, wee shall not finde anie daunger or difficultie at all. Yet what is the paine that death brings vs? Nay, what can shee doe with those paines wee feele? Wee accuse her of all the euilles wee abide in ending our life, and consider not howe manie more greeuous woundes or sickenesses wee haue endured without death: or howe many more vehement paines wee haue suffered in this life, in the which wee called euen her to our succour. All the paines our life yeeldes vs at the last houre wee impute to Death: not marking that life begunne and continued in all sortes of paine, must also necessarily ende in paine. Not marking (I saie) that it is the remainder of our life, not death, that tormenteth vs: the ende of our nauigation that paines vs, not the Hauen wee are to enter: which is nothing else but a safegarde against all windes. Wee complayne of Death, where wee shoulde complayne of life: as if one hauyng beene long sicke, and beginning to bee well, shoulde accuse his health of his last paynes, and not the reliques of his disease. Tell mee, what is it else to bee dead, but to bee no more liuing in the worlde? Absolutelie and simplie not to bee in the worlde, is it anie payne? Did wee then feele any paine, when as yet wee were not? Haue wee euer more resemblaunce of Death, then when wee sleepe? Or euer more rest then at that time? Now if this be no paine, why accuse we Death of the paines our life giues vs at our departure? Vnlesse also we wil fondly accuse the time when as yet we were not, of the paines we felt at our birth?
Life Is Dying
Life itself is a continual dying; every moment we die, and death is not a separate event but the culmination of a process, so there is no reason to fear it.
If our entrance is with tears, is it any wonder that our exit is the same? If the beginning of our being is the beginning of our pain, is it any marvel that the ending is the same? But if our non-being in times past was without pain, and our present being is, on the contrary, full of pain — whom should we reasonably blame for the final pains: the non-being to come, or what remains of our present being? We think we don't die until we breathe our last gasp. But if we observe carefully, we die every day, every hour, every moment. We think of death as something unusual to us — and yet nothing is more common in us. Our living is nothing but continual dying: as much as we live, we die; as much as we increase, our life decreases. We don't take a single step into life without also taking a step into death. Whoever has lived a third of his years has a third of himself dead. Whoever has lived half his years is already half dead. Of our life, all the time past is dead; the present lives and dies at once, and the future likewise shall die. The past is no more, the future is not yet, the present is—and no more is. In short, this whole life is but a death: it is like a candle lit in our bodies. In one, the wind makes it melt away; in another, blows it clean out, many times before it is half burned; in others, it endures to the end. However it may be, look how much it shines, so much it burns: its shining is its burning; its light, a vanishing smoke; its last fire, its last wick, and its last drop of moisture. So it is in the life of man: life and death in man are one and the same. If we call the last breath death, then we must call all the rest so as well—all proceeding from one place, and all in one manner. One only difference there is betweene this life, and that we call death: that during the one, we haue alwayes wherof to dye: and after the other, there remaineth only wherof to liue. In summe, euen he that thinketh death simply to be the ende of man, ought not to feare it: in asmuch as who desireth to liue longer, desireth to die longer: and who feareth soone to die, feareth (to speake properlie) lest he may not longer die.
Read the original English
But with what exercise soeuer we passe the time, behold old age vnwares to vs coms vpon vs: which whether we thrust our selues into the prease of men, or hide vs somewhere out of the way, neuer failes to find vs out. Euery man makes accompt in that age to rest himselfe of all his trauailes without further care, but to keepe himselfe at ease and in health. And see contrariwise in this age, there is nothing but an after taste of all the fore going euils: and most commonly a plentifull haruest of all such vices as in the whole course of their life, hath held and possessed them. There you haue the vnabilitie and weakenesse of infancie, and (which is worse) many times accompanied with authoritie: there you are payed for the excesse and riotousnes of youth, with gowts, palsies, and such like diseases, which take from you limme after limme with extreame paine and torment. There you are recompenced for the trauailes of mind, the watchings and cares of manhoode, with losse of sight, losse of hearing, and all the sences one after another, except onely the sence of paine. Not one parte in vs but death takes in gage to be assured of vs, as of bad pay-maisters, which infinitely feare their dayes of payment. Nothing in vs which will not by and by bee dead: and neuerthelesse our vices yet liue in vs, and not onely liue, but in despite of nature daily growe yoong againe. The couetous man hath one foote in his graue, and is yet burieng his money: meaning belike to finde it againe another day.
The ambitious in his will ordaineth vnprofitable pompes for his funeralles, making his vice to liue and triumph after his death. The riotous no longer able to daunce on his feete, daunceth with his shoulders, all vices hauing lefte him, and hee not yet able to leaue them. The childe wisheth for youth: and this man laments it. The yong man liueth in hope of the future, and this feeles the euill present, laments the false pleasures past, and sees for the time to come nothing to hope for. More foolish then the childe, in bewailing the time he cannot recall, and not remembring the euill hee had therein: and more wretched then the yongman, in that after a wretched life not able, but wretchedly to die, he sees on all sides but matter of dispaire. As for him, who from his youth hath vndertaken to combate against the flesh, and against the world: who hath taken so great paines to mortifie himselfe and leaue the worlde before his time: who besides those ordinarie euilles findes himselfe vexed with this great and incurable disease of olde age, and feeles notwithstanding his flesh howe weake soeuer, stronger oftentimes then his spirite: what good I pray can hee haue but onlie herein: that hee sees his death at hand, that hee sees his combate finished, that he sees himselfe readie to departe by death out of this loathsome prison, wherein all his life time hee hath beene racked and tormented? I will not heere speake of the infinite euilles wherewith men in all ages are annoyed, as losse of friendes and parents, banishments, exiles, disgraces, and such others, common and ordinarie in the world: one complayning of loosing his children, an other of hauing them: one making sorrow for his wifes death, an other for her life, one finding faulte, that hee is too high in Courte, an other, that hee is not high enough. The worlde is so full of euilles, that to write them all, woulde require an other worlde as great as it selfe.
Sufficeth, that if the most happie in mens opinions doe counterpoize his happs with his mishaps, he shall iudge himselfe vnhappy: and hee iudge him happy, who had he beene set three dayes in his place, would giue it ouer to him that came next: yea, sooner then hee, who shall consider in all the goodes that euer hee hath had the euilles hee hath endured to get them, and hauing them to retaine and keepe them (I speake of the pleasures that may be kept, and not of those that wither in a moment) wil iudge of himselfe, and by himselfe, that the keeping it selfe of the greatest felicitie in this worlde, is full of vnhappinesse and infelicitie. Conclude then, that Childhoode is but a foolish simplicitie, Youth, a vaine heate, Manhoode, a painefull carefulnesse, and Olde-age, a noysome languishing: that our playes are but teares, our pleasures, feuers of the minde, our goodes, rackes, and torments, our honors, heauy vanities, our rest, vnrest: that passing from age to age is but passing from euill to euill, and from the lesse vnto the greater: and that alwayes it is but one waue driuing on an other, vntill we be arriued at the Hauen of death. Conclude I say, that life is but a wishing for the future, and a bewailing of the past: a loathing of what wee haue tasted, and a longing for that wee haue not tasted, a vaine memorie of the state past, and a doubtfull expectation of the state to come: finally, that in all our life there is nothing certaine, nothing assured, but the certaintie and vncertaintie of death. Behold, now comes Death vnto vs: Behold her, whose approch we so much feare. We are now to cõsider whether she be such as wee are made beleeue: and whether we ought so greatly to flie her, as commonly wee do. Wee are afraide of her: but like little children of a vizarde, or of the Images of Hecate. Wee haue her in horror: but because wee conceiue her not such as she is, but ougly, terrible, and hideous: such as it pleaseth the Painters to represent vnto vs on a wall. Wee flie before her: but it is because foretaken with such vaine imaginations, wee giue not our selues leisure to marke her.
But staie wee, stande wee stedfast, looke wee her in the face: wee shall finde her quite other then shee is painted vs: and altogether of other countenaunce then our miserable life. Death makes an ende of this life. This life is a perpetuall misery and tempest: Death then is the issue of our miseries and entraunce of the porte where wee shall ride in safetie from all windes. And shoulde wee feare that which withdraweth vs from misery, or which drawes vs into our Hauen? Yea but you will say, it is a payne to die. Admit it bee: so is there in curing of a wounde. Such is the worlde, that one euill can not bee cured but by an other, to heale a contusion, must bee made an incision. You will say, there is difficultie in the passage: So is there no Hauen, no Porte, whereinto the entraunce is not straite and combersome.
No good thing is to be bought in this worlde with other then the coyne of labour and paine. The entraunce indeede is hard, if our selues make it harde, comming thither with a tormented spirite, a troubled minde, a wauering and irresolute thought. But bring wee quietnesse of mind, constancie, and full resolution, wee shall not finde anie daunger or difficultie at all. Yet what is the paine that death brings vs? Nay, what can shee doe with those paines wee feele? Wee accuse her of all the euilles wee abide in ending our life, and consider not howe manie more greeuous woundes or sickenesses wee haue endured without death: or howe many more vehement paines wee haue suffered in this life, in the which wee called euen her to our succour. All the paines our life yeeldes vs at the last houre wee impute to Death: not marking that life begunne and continued in all sortes of paine, must also necessarily ende in paine. Not marking (I saie) that it is the remainder of our life, not death, that tormenteth vs: the ende of our nauigation that paines vs, not the Hauen wee are to enter: which is nothing else but a safegarde against all windes.
Wee complayne of Death, where wee shoulde complayne of life: as if one hauyng beene long sicke, and beginning to bee well, shoulde accuse his health of his last paynes, and not the reliques of his disease. Tell mee, what is it else to bee dead, but to bee no more liuing in the worlde? Absolutelie and simplie not to bee in the worlde, is it anie payne? Did wee then feele any paine, when as yet wee were not? Haue wee euer more resemblaunce of Death, then when wee sleepe? Or euer more rest then at that time? Now if this be no paine, why accuse we Death of the paines our life giues vs at our departure? Vnlesse also we wil fondly accuse the time when as yet we were not, of the paines we felt at our birth?
If the comming in be with teares, is it wonder that such be the going out? If the beginning of our being, be the beginning of our paine, is it maruell that such be the ending? But if our not being in times past hath bene without payne, and all this being contrarywise full of paine: whome should we by reason accuse of the last paines, the not being to come, or the remnant of this present being? We thinke we dye not, but when we yeeld vp our last gaspe. But if we marke well, we dye euery day, euery houre, euery moment. We apprehend death as a thing vnvsuall to vs: and yet haue nothing so common in vs. Our liuing is but continuall dyeng: looke how much we liue, we dye: how much we encrease, our life decreases. We enter not a step into life, but we enter a step into death.
Who hath liued a third part of his yeares, hath a third part of himselfe dead. Who halfe his yeares, is already half dead. Of our life, all the time past is dead, the present liues and dies at once, and the future likewise shall dye. The past is no more, the future is not yet, the present is, and no more is. Briefely, this whole life is but a death: it is as a candle lighted in our bodies: in one the winde makes it melt away, in an other blowes it cleane out, many times ere it be halfe burned: in others it endureth to the ende. Howsoeuer it be, looke how much it shineth, so much it burneth: her shining is her burning: her light a vanishing smoke: her last fire, hir last wike, and her last drop of moisture. So is it in the life of man, life and death in man is all one. If we call the last breath death, so must we all the rest: all proceeding from one place, and all in one manner.
One only difference there is betweene this life, and that we call death: that during the one, we haue alwayes wherof to dye: and after the other, there remaineth only wherof to liue. In summe, euen he that thinketh death simply to be the ende of man, ought not to feare it: in asmuch as who desireth to liue longer, desireth to die longer: and who feareth soone to die, feareth (to speake properlie) lest he may not longer die.
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