The Anatomy of Melancholy

As a result, “the world is drenched in the blood men shed of one another”; the earth wallows in her own blood. “Love of the sword rages, and the madness of criminal war.” For an act that would bring a man stern execution if done privately, and that is nothing less than murder itself, becomes courage when done publicly in war, and its perpetrator is honoured. “Successful and fortunate crime is called virtue.” Like the Turks, we judge everything by the outcome. And generally, as Cyprian observes, in every age, country, and place, “the enormity of the cruelty secures impunity for the crime”; the very horror of the act protects the offender.

One is crowned for what brings another torment: For his crime one received a cross, another a crown. One is made a knight, a lord, an earl, a great duke, as Agrippa observes, for a deed that would have left another hanging from a gibbet as a warning to the rest: And yet another man, if he had done the same, would fall before the judge of morals.

A poor sheep thief is hanged for stealing food, driven perhaps by intolerable cold, hunger, and thirst to save himself from starvation. But a great man in office may safely rob whole provinces, ruin thousands, pillage and fleece them, oppress “at will,” strip, grind down, and tyrannize over people, enrich himself by plundering the common people, and act beyond anyone’s control. After all that, he is rewarded with swelling titles and honoured for his good service, and no one dares find fault or even mutter about it.

How would our Democritus have felt to see a wicked scoundrel or fool, a complete idiot, a brainless lump, a gilded ass, a human monster, attended with utter submission by many good, wise, and learned men, as though they were accessories to his riches, for the sole reason that he has more wealth and money? To see them honour him with divine titles and inflated epithets, smothering him in clouds of praise, though they know he is a dolt, a fool, a greedy wretch, a beast, and so on, simply because he is rich? To see “a wild ass under a lion’s skin,” a filthy, loathsome carcass, a Gorgon’s head swollen by flatterers, claim these glorious titles for himself, though in worth he is an infant, an ass of Cumae, a painted tomb, an Egyptian temple?

To see a withered face, a diseased, deformed, ulcerated complexion, a rotten carcass, a venomous mind, and a pleasure-loving soul adorned with lustrous pearls, jewels, crowns, perfumes, and exquisitely intricate workmanship, as proud of his clothes as a child of a new coat; while a fine person with an angelic, divine face, a saint with a humble mind and gentle spirit, goes begging in rags and is close to starvation? To see a poor, despised man, slovenly in dress and ragged in his coat, yet polished in speech, noble in spirit, and wise; and another neatly dressed, smart, full of courtesy, empty of grace and intelligence, talking nonsense?