The Anatomy of Melancholy

All their attention goes into pleasing others; their god is their own advantage, their labour goes into satisfying their appetites, and their efforts serve their own ends. Whatever they profess, or seem to do in public, they say in their hearts with the fool, “There is no God.”

You there —— what do you think of Jupiter?

Their words are as soft as oil, but bitterness lies in their hearts. Like Alexander VI, they are such cunning dissemblers that they never say what they think. Many conceal themselves so well that you can scarcely detect it or find any just grounds for criticism;

they do not stir up factions or oppress people as most do; they offer no bribes, make no bargains in church offices, show none of the ambition or lust of some others, and are no drunkards: sober they see the sun rise, sober they see it set; they rise sober and go to bed sober,

plain-dealing, upright, honest people who wrong no one—or so the world regards them, at least. They are zealous in religion, charitable, meek, humble, peacemakers, observing every duty, devout, honest, well spoken of and universally loved. Yet he who knows better how to judge, who examines the heart, says that they are hypocrites: a heart full of deceit; struck, the vessels ring faultily and reveal a flaw. They are unsound within.

It is often the same with writers: more holiness in the little book than in its author, more holiness in the book than in the person who wrote it. So it is with these people. Many come to church with large Bibles—Cardano said he could not help laughing at them—and will occasionally devote themselves to Augustine, read Augustine and attend sermons,

yet they are open usurers, outright graspers: their whole way of life is Epicurean; their entire life is Epicurean indulgence and atheism. They spend the day at church and sleep with a courtesan at night.

They pose as Curii but live lives of Bacchanalian revelry.

They have Esau’s hands and Jacob’s voice. Yes, and many of those holy friars, those sanctified men, put on a cloak, says Jerome, and a hair shirt, but conceal a robber within. They are wolves in sheep’s clothing,

Foul within, attractive in their handsome skin,

Fair outside and utterly foul within: lust often hides beneath sombre clothing, and hideous ugliness is covered by a shabby garment; lust itself often lies beneath mourning dress, and dreadful vices beneath a poor coat.

But who can examine all these kinds of hypocrites or penetrate their hearts? If we may judge the tree by its fruit, there have never been so many as today. Show me a plain-dealing, truly honest man! Shame, integrity and every fear are absent.