The Anatomy of Melancholy

Despite physicians and medicines straining to sustain nature, a swooning wife, his family’s lamentations, his friends’ tears, dirges, masses, funeral songs, and obsequies; despite speeches, insincere hired applause, eulogies, epitaphs, funeral biers, heralds, mourners in black, ceremonies, obelisks, and monumental tombs—if he even has them—he goes to hell like a hog, with a guilty conscience and a poor man’s curse: “Because of these men, hell has enlarged its mouth.”

His memory stinks like a candle’s burnt wick when it is put out; scurrilous lampoons and disgraceful accusations follow him. Poor Lazarus, meanwhile, is “God’s sanctuary,” the temple of God. He lives and dies in true devotion, attended only by his innocence, with the sky for his tomb. He longs to depart this life and be buried in his mother’s lap, and a company of angels stands ready to carry his soul into Abraham’s bosom. He leaves an enduring and sweet memory behind.

Crassus and Sulla are indeed still remembered, but more for their victories than their wealth; Croesus for his end, Solomon for his wisdom. In a word, acquiring wealth is a great trouble, keeping it an anxiety, and losing it a grief.

What fitting curse shall I call down on foolish minds? Let them pursue wealth and honours; And when, at immense cost, they have obtained false goods, Then let them learn what the true goods are.

But consider all the other unrecognised, hidden blessings a poor man possesses. I call them unrecognised because the world does not acknowledge or regard them as blessings. “Oh, how fortunate they are, if only they knew their own good fortune!” Happy they are already, if only they would recognise it, make use of it, or apply it to themselves. “A wise poor man is better than a foolish king,” Ecclesiastes 2:13.

Poverty is the road to heaven, the teacher of philosophy, the mother of religion, virtue, and sobriety, the sister of innocence and an upright mind. How many such praises could I add from the Church Fathers, philosophers, and orators?

Many poor people are troubled by their poverty. They regard it as a great affliction, a curse, a sign of God’s hatred, “wickedness itself,” damned villainy itself, a disgrace, a shame, and a reproach. But a reproach to whom, or why? If fortune has begrudged me wealth, thieves have robbed me, or my father has not left me the income others inherit; if I am a younger brother, of humble birth—

Whose lineage has no lustre, whose parents’ name is unheard—

Of humble parentage, the son of a mud-plasterer, am I therefore to blame? An eagle, bull, or lion is not rejected for its poverty: why should a man be? It is “fortune’s blow, not a fault”: fortune’s fault, not mine.