The Anatomy of Melancholy

Monstrous people that we are—dogs, wolves, tigers, fiends, devils in human form—we not only quarrel, oppress and tyrannize ourselves, but, like so many firebrands, incite and encourage others. Our whole life is perpetual combat, conflict, pitched battle, snarling strife. “The goddess Discord” has settled in our tents; “everything comes from strife.” We pit wit against wit, wealth against wealth, strength against strength, fortune against fortune, friends against friends. As in a sea battle, we turn our broadsides; or, like two millstones rubbing continually, we set ourselves on fire or break one another’s backs, until both are ruined and consumed.

Wretched creatures! To fatten and enrich ourselves, we care nothing how we get wealth—“money by whatever means”—how many thousands we ruin, whom we oppress, through whose downfall we rise, or whom we injure: orphaned children, widows, whole communities, all to satisfy our private desires.

Though we have countless riches, an abundance of wealth and treasure, we remain utterly pitiless, merciless, remorseless and uncharitable. While our poor brother is needy, sick, in desperate distress and about to starve for lack of food, we would rather, as the fox told the ape, let our tail drag along the ground than cover his bare backside.

We would rather squander our wealth, use it up on dogs, hawks, hounds, unnecessary buildings and extravagant clothes, gorge ourselves or let it go to waste than give him a share. We would rather take what little he has than relieve his need.

Like the dog in the manger, we neither use it ourselves nor allow others to use or enjoy it. We part with nothing while we live; by failing to arrange our household affairs and set things in order, we set everyone quarrelling after our death.

Poor Lazarus lies howling at his gates for a few crumbs, asking only for scraps and leftovers. Let him cry and howl, starve and eat his own flesh: the rich man takes no notice of him.

A poor relation fallen on hard times approaches him on the road amid all his splendour and runs bareheaded beside him, begging, appealing to those old bonds of friendship, marriage and blood: uncle, cousin, brother, father—

By these tears, by your right hand, I beg you: If I have deserved anything from you, or anything of mine Has ever been dear to you, have pity on me.

“Show some pity for Christ’s sake; pity a sick man, an old man,” and so on. He does not care: ride on. Plead sickness, unavoidable loss of limbs or goods, debts incurred as a guarantor, shipwreck, fires or public disasters; show your needs and infirmities—

Even if he swears by holy Osiris and says, “Believe me, I am not pretending; cruel people, lift up a lame man.”