Letter 7012: Item ad eundem

More to Jovinus, Patrician and Governor Time lapses and flies; we are deceived by the fleeting hours; slippery life draws men into old age. The rolling axle pulls to a swift end without a rope, and no bridle holds back the rapid wheels — carrying with it all moments and weights of things, until the finishing post forces the eager horses to a stop. So too, however different we are, we all tend toward the end; no one draws back his foot from where his boundary will be. The imperial head, kingship itself is dragged along, and the senate too; without the day looking on, the hour snatches them when it comes. What good are arms to men? Hector falls and Achilles the avenger with him; Ajax, the Achaean wall upon his shield, perishes. What is enough for the greedy man, who stores it in his miserly lap? Attalus, swollen with delicacies, departs and is gone. What cunning man does not lie down at the final end? The powerful art of Palamedes perishes in Ulysses. Fair beauty flows away: the most handsome Astur has fallen; Hippolytus lies dead, and Adonis does not survive. The swift do not escape — where the end presses, one must go: swift Quirinus dies by fate, together with his brother. What, I ask, does song achieve? Orpheus, flattered with his keen melodies, and the living voice of his lyre — they too lie still. What good is a learned tongue to departing sophists, who had the power to speak of the curved rotundities of heaven? Archytas, Pythagoras, Aratus, Cato, Plato, Chrysippus — the whole crowd of Cleanthean scholars sleeps as foolish ash. And what can poetry do? Vergil, Lucan, Menander, Homer — whose bare limbs, rotting, the tomb covers? When the end comes, songs avail the Muses nothing; eloquence gains nothing by having held onto melody. So, as the moments fall, the present things of the world flee, and the taken die strips the game-board of life. But there is one salvation — holy, great, sweet, and ample: to be able to please forever the God who is Three in One. This endures and flourishes, remains and will not perish at the end; from this, even after the tomb, holy honor is born. What survives death in the blessed flower of merits — the sweet fragrance of the just breathes from the grave; a breeze flowing more gratefully than Sabaean spice breathes, conquering the balsam that the rich grove exhales. Cinnamon, marigold, crocus, violets, rose, and lilies yield: no similar fragrance can be drunk by the nose. And what of the fact that virtue is generated in them more by death? While tombs hold their languishing limbs, they heal? The holy funerals of many solidify the uncertain life of others, and from the tomb a man returns made alive. A noble urn covers the precious talents of the Thunderer, and what reclines on earth will fly above the stars. Whoever lives under the love of God with holy governance becomes a pilgrim on earth, a citizen of heaven on his way. And after those who shine as foundations, after the first lights of Peter and Paul's faith — what number of saints radiates scattered throughout the world! What abundant grace of columns flourishes poured out! Through regions and peoples their stars preside over the world — whatever the circle embraces from the Ocean's waters. North, south, east, and west honor these lights, glorified by their own gifts. Beyond this, whatever is seen in the world is nothing: all this swelling — we are smoke and shadow. Why, then, is the life given to us dragged out in fearful whispers, and you do not write even a few words back to Fortunatus, Jovinus? You see time lapsing and you do not break the long silence; you are silent even to my detriment, that you may not refresh me. I did not think, rejoicing, that after Germania had brought our eyes together, love would spring back and flee. I had believed rather that as the years stretched on, the work of your affection would double itself. Alas, as I see, prayers run to the contrary: the time grows longer, but love grows shorter. Or do I recede from your heart as far as from your eye — and as far in spirit as we are in place? I do not say so, since I am knotted to you in my heart: my mind, where it warmly cherishes, declares otherwise. For whoever joined the soul of a friend with dear faith — what is less to the eyes burns more in love. And though wall, place, and hall may hold the absent one back, he is in his own heart wherever the pleasing face is. He sees by affection the one he does not see by sight, and a voice sounds from a distant region. What he is doing or where he is — he seems to speak words in silence; love shut up within the heart talks to itself. If a light breeze flies, he thinks greetings come from there: so a sound in the ear reports what the mind of a man carries. Therefore I, your client, dear one worthy of cultivation, seek you — you whom places make absent, not the soul — you who are always held memorable on my lips. Even as I write this, I do not speak without you. In affection, zeal, and prayer I embrace your arms and through my embrace I bind your heart and neck. You walk with me and move as a lover beside me; as if speaking gentle words, I sip kisses from your lips. I have you before my eyes — but the dear image slips away; the one I have here I cannot hold. In alternating turns you go and then return: scarcely do you flee my eyes — look, your figure comes back. And when you show your back, your innocent face is seen by me; if turned on your foot, you are present again, returning face-first. Often too I seem to give you sacred words in speech: perhaps you are silent there, but here you report words to me. This much is lacking in you: that you cannot be grasped when absent — but as though you were there, you are entirely mine here too. How we lived together for a few hours — it does not flee from my eyes while this day remains. O how many times I sent poems on fearful pages! And your page, mute and silent, will not refresh me. Who, I ask, will give back the hours we lose in silence? The light, quick and fleeting day does not recall lost time. Tell me, my known man: what are you doing? Why do you run from me, friend? If you cultivate your fields, why deny my prayers? Write with a free mind, send back high poems in verse, and cultivate me as a field of the countryside — with voice, with melody. I beg you, drive the plow of your mouth through my breastplate, that the furrows of your tongue may be my sowing, from which a harvest of the heart may be quickened with heavy ears, and our fallow field, fertile, may sprout forth grain. For if you speak to me, good man of abundant piety, you surpass with your lips the sweet honey of the combs, and please more than the juice the olive tree bears in its liquid, and refresh more sweetly than what spice breathes back. Together with dear father Aspasius and brother Leo, through the long-standing day, sweet friend — farewell.

XII Item ad eundem Tempora lapsa volant, fugitivis fallimur horis, ducit et in senium lubrica vita viros. fine trahit celeri sine fune volubilis axis nec retinet rapidas ad sua frena rotas, cuncta movens secum momenta et pondera rerum, donec meta avidos sistere cogat equos. sic quoque dissimiles ad finem tendimus omnes, nemo pedem retrahit quo sibi limes erit. imperiale caput, regnum trahit, aeque senatum, nec spectante die, cum venit, hora rapit. quid sunt arma viris? cadit Hector et ultor Achilles, Aiax, in clipeo murus Achaeus, obit. quid satis est cupido, gremio quod condit avaro? deliciis resolvis Attalus auctus abest. quis non versutus recubet dum fine supremo? de Palamede potens ars in Vlixe perit. forma venusta fluit, cecidit pulcherrimus Astur, occubat Hippolytus nec superextat Adon. non agiles fugiunt; quo terminus instat eundum: nam cum fratre celer sorte Quirinus obit. quid, rogo, cantus agit? modulis blanditus acutis Orpheus et citharae vox animata iacet. docta recessuris quid prodest lingua sophistis, qui valuere loqui curva rotunda poli? Archyta Pythagoras Aratus Cato Plato Chrysippus, turba Cleantharum stulta favilla cubat. quidve poema potest? Maro lysa Menander Homerus, quorum nuda tabo membra sepulchra tegunt? cum venit extremum, neque Musis carmina prosunt, nec iuvat eloquio detinuisse melos. sic, dum puncta cadunt, fugiunt praesentia rerum, et vitae tabulam tessera rapta levat. est tamen una salus, pia maxima dulcis et ampla: perpetuo trino posse placere deo. hoc valet atque viget, manet et neque fine peribit, hinc quoque post tumulum nascitur almus honor. quod superest obitu meritorum flore beato, suavis iustorum fragrat odor tumulo; gratius aura fluens quam spiret aroma Sabaeum, vincens quae pinguis balsama silva reflat. cinnama calta crocus violae rosa lilia cedunt, ut similis nullus nare bibatur odor. quid quod morte magis virtus generatur in illis, dumque sepulchra tenent languida membra fovent? multorum dubiam solidant pia funera vitam et redit ex tumulo vivificatus homo. nobilis urna tegit pretiosa talenta tonantis ac terris recubat quod super astra volet. qui sub amore dei sacro moderamine vivens fit peregrinus humi, civis eundo poli. denique post illos qui fundamenta coruscant, postque Petri ac Pauli lumina prima fide, quis numerus radiat sanctorum sparsus in orbe, quanta columnarum gratia fusa viget! per loca, per populos mundo sua sidera praesunt, quidquid ab Oceanis circulus ambit aquis. arctos meridies oriens occasus honorat lumina muneribus clarificata suis. de reliquo nihil est quodcumque videtur in orbe, nam tumor hic totus fumus et umbra sumus. – Cur igitur metu trahitur data vita susurro, nec Fortunato pauca, Iovine, refers? tempora lapsa vides neque longa silentia rumpis, me quoque ne necrees ad mea damna taces. non ita rebar ovans, postquam Germania nostros contulerat visus, ut resileret amor. credideram potius, quantum se tenderet aetas, ut vestri affectus se duplicaret opus. heu magis, ut video, vota in contraria currunt: tempora longantur, sed breviatur amor. an quantum ex oculo, tantum tibi corde recedo, et tam longe animo quam sumus ambo loco? non ego sic refero, quoniam tibi pectore nector: praedicat hoc aliter mens ubi dulce fovet. nam cui cara fides animum sociavit amici, quod minus est oculis flagrat amore magis, et licet absentem paries locus aula retentet, corde suo illic est, est ubi forma placens. prospicit affectu quem vultu non videt ipso, et vox longinqua de regione sonat. quid gerat aut ubi sit, tacito dare verba videtur; intra se loquitur pectore clausus amor. si volat aura levis, putat inde venire salutes: hoc fragor aure refert quod homo mente gerit. hinc tuus ergo cliens ego, care colende, requiro, absentem faciunt quem loca, non animus, qui semper nostro memoralis haberis in ore: scribimus et haec dum, non sine te loquimur. affectu studio voto tua brachia cingo atque per amplexum pectora, colla ligo. ingrederis mecum pariterque moveris amator, et quasi blanda loquens oscula libo labris. ante oculos habeo, sed cara refugit imago, hic quoque quem habeo non retinere queo. alternis vicibus modo vadis et inde recurris: vix fugis ex oculis, ecce figura redis. et cum terga dabis, facies mihi cernitur insons; si pede conversus, fronte regressus ades. saepe etiam videor dare te pia dicta relatu: illic forte taces, hic mihi verba refers. hoc de te minus est, quia prendi non potes absens; nam velut illic es totus et hic meus es. qualiter ambo simul paucis habitavimus horis non fugit ex oculis , dum manet ista dies, misimus o quotiens timidis epigrammata chartis! et tua, ne recreer, pagina muta silet. quis, rogo, reddat eas taciti quas perdimus horas? tempora non revocat lux levis atque fugax. dic homo note meus: quid agis? quid, amice , recurris? si tua rura colis, cur mea vota neges? scribe vacans animo, refer alta poemata versu et quasi ruris agrum me cole voce, melo; per thoraca meum ducas, precor, oris aratrum 7 ut linguae sulcus sint sata nostra tuus, pectoris unde seges gravidis animetur aristis, pullulet et nostrum farra novale ferax. nam mihi si loqueris, bone vir, pietatis opimae exsuperas labiis dulcia mella favis, plusque liquore placet quem fert oleagina suco, suavius et recreat quam quod aroma reflat. cum Aspasio pariter caris patre, fratre Leone longa stante die, dulcis amice, vale.