although Alcibiades mocked him for it. Socrates was well entitled to do so: now and then, says Plutarch, even the most virtuous, upright, and serious men enjoy feasts, jokes, and diversions, as we use sauce with our food.

So did Scipio and Laelius:

When Scipio’s valour and Laelius’s gentle wisdom Withdrew from the crowd and public stage into privacy, They would joke and play with him, their belts loosened, While the vegetables cooked.

Brave Scipio and gentle Laelius, Away from public life and the noisy crowd, Would amuse themselves, their robes laid aside, While the cook prepared their supper.

In book 8 of his Florentine History, Machiavelli makes this observation about Cosimo de’ Medici, the wisest and most serious man of his time in Italy: he would sometimes behave like the most outrageous fool, and so enjoyed jesters, actors, and childish games to amuse himself that anyone considering his seriousness on the one hand and his foolishness and frivolity on the other would certainly say that he contained two distinct people.

I think he was right to do so, although John of Salisbury holds that magistrates, senators, and serious men should not lower themselves to frivolous amusements, “lest the commonwealth itself seem to be playing,” but should always maintain a stern, steady bearing, like Themistocles.

I approve of Cosimo de’ Medici, and of Castruccio Castracani. Italy had never known a worthier commander—another Alexander, if Machiavelli’s account of his life does not deceive us. When a friend rebuked him for dancing beneath his dignity, perhaps at some cushion dance, he replied, “A man who is wise by day hardly ever loses his wits at night”: he who is wise in the daytime may be a little foolish at night.

Paolo Giovio says much the same of Pope Leo X: he was a serious, prudent, steady man, yet sometimes very free, and too unrestrained, in his amusements. Nor is this entirely unsuitable or unbecoming to such a man’s dignity, provided he observes what is proper to the time, place, and circumstances. “Mix a little brief foolishness into your deliberations.” And as the poet said in an epigram to his wife, I would have every man say to himself, or to his friend:

Moll, once, when we happened to be in pleasant company, I asked you to dance along with the others. You refused, saying that your years now called For a matron’s manners and dress. Well, Moll, if you insist on being matronly, Be sure of this: I shall love you as a matron. And my love for you will never lessen If, in church, at home, and in bed, you follow this lesson:

Sit in church as solemnly as a saint; Let no deed, word, or thought stain your proper devotion. Veil your head if you wish, but reveal your soul To him alone who can heal wounded souls. In my house be as busy as a bee, With a sting for everyone but me, Buzzing in every corner, gathering honey; Waste nothing that costs or brings in money.

And when you see my heart turn towards pleasure, Your tongue, wit, and blood warmed by good food and wine, Let no chance of sweet sport pass you by, But be as frisky and playful as an ape.

The ancient Greeks had their Lubentia, goddess of pleasure; and the Spartans, taught by Lycurgus, “sacrificed to the god of Laughter,” especially after their wars and in peacetime. The same custom existed in Thessaly, as appears from Apuleius, who was himself made the means of their amusement: laughter and merriment were to season their labour and their otherwise sober life. “For laughter is the everlasting pleasure of gods and human beings.”

Princes employ jesters and actors, and have masters of revels at their courts. The Romans used music, gladiators, jesters, and the like at every supper—for they had no formal midday dinner—as Suetonius relates of Tiberius and Dio of Commodus; and so did the Greeks. Besides music, Xenophon’s Symposium introduces “Philip, a master of making people laugh”: Philip, a jester, was brought in to entertain them.

In book 11 of his History, Paolo Giovio has a pleasing digression on our English customs. However others may misconstrue it, I shall take it in the best sense: the whole nation, beyond all other people, is devoted to banquets and feasts. They prolong them for many hours, with delicate food, exquisite music, and witty jesters; afterwards they dance and court their sweethearts until late into the night.

Volaterranus gives the same account of this island, praising our cheerful hospitality and good humour. I think he speaks well: there is no harm in it. Long may they practise it, and all such decent amusements. Ctesias reports that a Persian king had 150 young women attend his table, taking turns to play music, sing, and dance; and Lilio Giraldi tells of an Egyptian prince who always kept nine virgins in attendance, women of exceptional beauty and sweet voices. These later gave the Greeks the idea for their story of the nine Muses.

The king of Ethiopia in Africa and most Asian princes have done, and still do, the same. Those shahs, Mughal emperors, Turks, and others take their pleasure after supper among their queens and concubines, “whom, for greater enjoyment,” my author says, “they customarily had sing and dance before the king”: taking great pleasure in seeing and hearing them sing and dance.

This and many similar ways of cheering the human heart have been practised in every age, in the knowledge that nothing better preserves life. What, then, should I say to every melancholy person, except:

Enjoy companions at table; choose friends who are not gloomy, Who take delight in trifles, laughter, and sparkling jokes.

Feast often, and keep friends who are not always sad, Whose jokes and merriment can make you glad.

Enjoy wholesome, chaste amusements, theatrical shows, plays, and games:

Let bands of young men join in, with young women among them.