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As Marsilio Ficino concludes a letter to Bernard Canisianus and some other friends, so I shall conclude this discussion for all good students: “Live cheerfully, my friends, free from care, perplexity, anguish, and distress; live cheerfully. Heaven made you for joy.” Again and again I ask you to be cheerful. If anything troubles your hearts or torments your souls, disregard and despise it; let it pass.
I urge this on you not only as a theologian but as a physician: without this cheerfulness, which is the life and very essence of medicine, drugs and everything used to prolong human life are dull, dead, and powerless. “While the Fates allow, live happily”—Seneca. Be cheerful, I say.
Let us not deprive this flourishing youth Of its amusements.
This was the prophet Tiresias’s advice to Menippus, who travelled throughout the world, even down to hell itself, seeking contentment; and his final farewell to Menippus was to be cheerful. “Despise the world,” he says, “and count what is in it as vanity and trifles. Seek only this throughout your life: do not pry too closely or worry too much about anything, but enjoy yourself in a composed, contented state, and above all be cheerful.”
If, as Numerus thinks, nothing is pleasant without love and laughter, Live amid love and laughter.
To conclude with Solomon, Ecclesiastes 3:22, nothing is better than that a person should take pleasure in his own affairs. Every physician repeats the same advice to his patient in this case. Capivaccius tells his to avoid excessive study and disturbances of mind, and, as far as he can, to live with an easy heart. Prospero Calano tells the melancholy Cardinal Cesi: amid your serious studies and business, enjoy jokes and witty fancies, games and diversions, and whatever else may refresh your mind. Nothing is better for this illness than cheerfulness and cheerful company. “It begins with sorrow,” says Montanus; “it must be driven out by joy.”
But look at the harm that follows. Many men, knowing that cheerful company is the only medicine against melancholy, therefore neglect their business and fall into the opposite extreme: they spend all their days among drinking companions in a tavern or alehouse, and know no other use for their time than drinking. Ale-soakers, human fish, or water-snakes, “who only drink, like frogs, and eat nothing”—like so many frogs in a puddle! Their sole occupation is eating and drinking.
Their whole religion is sacrifice to Volupia, Rumina, Edulica, Potina, and Mellona. They wish for Philoxenus’s neck, Jupiter’s threefold night, and for the sun to stand still as it did in Joshua’s time, to satisfy their appetites, so that they might “revel like Greeks and drink day and night.” Men of brilliant wit, talent, standing, and worth debase themselves in any scoundrel’s company, smoking tobacco and drinking, roaring and singing filthy songs in sordid places.
You will find someone reclining beside a cut-throat, Mixed in with sailors, thieves, or runaways.
Thomas Erastus’s charge against Paracelsus—that he would lie drinking all day in a brothel with carters and tapsters—is all too common among us, even among men of higher standing: like Timocreon of Rhodes, “drinking much and devouring much,” and so on.
They drown their wits, boil their brains in ale, consume their fortunes, waste their time, weaken their constitutions, contract filthy diseases, catarrhs, dropsies, fevers, and tremors; they develop swollen jugular veins, red pimply faces, sore eyes, and the like; they overheat their livers, upset their bodily balance, spoil their stomachs, and ruin their bodies. For drink drowns more people than the sea and all the rivers flowing into it. Mere blockheads and barrels, they confound their souls, suppress reason, pass from Scylla to Charybdis, and turn a remedy into their ruin.
What does it matter whether I perish by disease, the sword, or a falling ruin?
When the Black Prince went to restore the exiled king of Castile to his kingdom, a terrible battle was fought between the English and the Spanish. At last the Spanish fled, and the English pursued them to the river, where some drowned themselves to escape their enemies and the rest were killed. Now tell me the difference between drowning and being killed. One might as well remain melancholy as become a drunken beast and a beggar.
Company, the one comfort and remedy for every kind of discontent, becomes their very misery and the cause of their destruction. As Hermione lamented in Euripides, “Bad women made me bad”—evil company ruined her—so they may rightly complain that bad companions have been their undoing. For “a bad man wants another to be bad, so that he may be like himself.” One drunkard in a company, one thief, one whoremonger, would gladly make all the others as bad as himself.
Even if You swear you dread the night-time fumes of wine,
whatever your constitution, inclination, loves or hates, whether good or bad, if you join them you must do as they do. Even at the cost of your health, you must drink “poison in place of wine.” And so, like grasshoppers singing over their cups all summer, they starve in winter; for a little empty merriment they will face a sorrowful reckoning in the end.