E R A S M U S's
EPISTLE
TO
Sir THOMAS MORE.
IN my late travels from Italy into England, that I might not trifle
away my time in the rehearsal of old wives' fables, I thought it more
pertinent to employ my thoughts in reflecting upon some past studies,
or calling to remembrance several of those highly learned, as well as
smartly ingenious, friends I had here left behind, among whom you (dear
Sir) were represented as the chief; whose memory, while absent at this
distance, I respect with no less a complacency than I was wont while
present to enjoy your more intimate conversation, which last afforded
me the greatest satisfaction I could possibly hope for. Having therefore
resolved to be a doing, and deeming that time improper for any serious
concerns, I thought good to divert myself with drawing up a panegyrick
upon Folly. How! what maggot (say you) put this in your head? Why, the
first hint, Sir, was your own surname of More, which comes as near
the literal sound of the word,* as you yourself are distant from the
signification of it, and that in all men's judgments is vastly wide.
* Mwpia.
In the next place, I supposed that this kind of sporting wit would be
by you more especially accepted of, by you, Sir, that are wont with this
sort of jocose raillery (such as, if I mistake not, is neither dull nor
impertinent) to be mightily pleased, and in your ordinary converse
to approve yourself a Democritus junior: for truly, as you do from a
singular vein of wit very much dissent from the common herd of mankind;
so, by an incredible affability and pliableness of temper, you have the
art of suiting your humour with all sorts of companies. I hope therefore
you will not only readily accept of this rude essay as a token from
your friend, but take it under your more immediate protection, as being
dedicated to you, and by that tide adopted for yours, rather than to
be fathered as my own. And it is a chance if there be wanting some
quarrelsome persons that will shew their teeth, and pretend these
fooleries are either too buffoon-like for a grave divine, or too
satyrical for a meek christian, and so will exclaim against me as if I
were vamping up some old farce, or acted anew the Lucian again with
a peevish snarling at all things. But those who are offended at the
lightness and pedantry of this subject, I would have them consider that
I do not set myself for the first example of this kind, but that the
same has been oft done by many considerable authors. For thus several
ages since, Homer wrote of no more weighty a subject than of a war
between the frogs and mice, Virgil of a gnat and a pudding-cake,
and Ovid of a nut Poly-crates commended the cruelty of Busiris; and
Isocrates, that corrects him for this, did as much for the injustice of
Glaucus. Favorinus extolled Thersites, and wrote in praise of a quartan
ague. Synesius pleaded in behalf of baldness; and Lucian defended
a sipping fly. Seneca drollingly related the deifying of Claudius;
Plutarch the dialogue betwixt Gryllus and Ulysses; Lucian and Apuleius
the story of an ass; and somebody else records the last will of a
hog, of which St. Hierom makes mention. So that if they please, let
themselves think the worst of me, and fancy to themselves that I was all
this while a playing at push-pin, or riding astride on a hobby-horse.
For how unjust is it, if when we allow different recreations to each
particular course of life, we afford no diversion to studies; especially
when trifles may be a whet to more serious thoughts, and comical matters
may be so treated of, as that a reader of ordinary sense may possibly
thence reap more advantage than from some more big and stately argument:
as while one in a long-winded oration descants in commendation of
rhetoric or philosophy, another in a fulsome harangue sets forth the
praise of his nation, a third makes a zealous invitation to a holy war
with the Turks, another confidently sets up for a fortune-teller, and a
fifth states questions upon mere impertinences. But as nothing is more
childish than to handle a serious subject in a loose, wanton style, so
is there nothing more pleasant than so to treat of trifles, as to make
them seem nothing less than what their name imports. As to what relates
to myself, I must be forced to submit to the judgment of others; yet,
except I am too partial to be judge in my own case, I am apt to believe
I have praised Folly in such a manner as not to have deserved the name
of fool for my pains. To reply now to the objection of satyricalness,
wits have been always allowed this privilege, that they might be smart
upon any transactions of life, if so be their liberty did not extend to
railing; which makes me wonder at the tender-eared humour of this age,
which will admit of no address without the prefatory repetition of all
formal titles; nay, you may find some so preposterously devout, that
they will sooner wink at the greatest affront against our Saviour, than
be content that a prince, or a pope, should be nettled with the least
joke or gird, especially in what relates to their ordinary customs. But
he who so blames men's irregularities as to lash at no one particular
person by name, does he (I say) seem to carp so properly as to teach
and instruct? And if so, how am I concerned to make any farther excuse?
Beside, he who in his strictures points indifferently at all, he seems
not angry at one man, but at all vices.
Therefore, if any singly complain they are particularly reflected upon,
they do but betray their own guilt, at least their cowardice. Saint
Hierom dealt in the same argument at a much freer and sharper rate; nay,
and he did not sometimes refrain from naming the persons: whereas I have
not only stifled the mentioning any one person, but have so tempered my
style, as the ingenious reader will easily perceive I aimed at diversion
rather than satire. Neither did I so far imitate Juvenal, as to rake
into the sink of vices to procure a laughter, rather than create a
hearty abhorrence. If there be any one that after all remains yet
unsatisfied, let him at least consider that there may be good use made
of being reprehended by Folly, which since we have feigned as speaking,
we must keep up that character which is suitable to the person
introduced.
But why do I trouble you, Sir, with this needless apology, you that are
so peculiar a patron; as, though the cause itself be none of the best,
you can at least give it the best protection. Farewell.
On the Argument and Design of the following Oration.
WHATEVER the modern satyrs o' th' stage,
To jerk the failures of a sliding age,
Have lavishly expos'd to public view,
For a discharge to all from envy due,
Here in as lively colours naked lie,
With equal wit, and more of modesty,
Those poets, with their free disclosing arts,
Strip vice so near to its uncomely parts,
Their libels prove but lessons, and they teach
Those very crimes which they intend t' impeach:
While here so wholesome all, tho' sharp t' th' taste,
So briskly free, yet so resolv'dly chaste;
The virgin naked as her god of bows,
May read or hear when blood at highest flows;
Nor more expense of blushes thence arise,
Than while the lect'ring matron does advise
To guard her virtue, and her honour prize.
Satire and panegyric, distant be,
Yet jointly here they both in one agree.
The whole's a sacrifice of salt and fire;
So does the humour of the age require,
To chafe the touch, and so foment desire.
As doctrine-dangling preachers lull asleep
Their unattentive pent-up fold of sheep;
The opiated milk glues up the brain,
And th' babes of grace are in their cradles lain;
( xxiv)
While mounted Andrews, bawdy, bold, and loud,
Like cocks, alarm all the drowsy crowd,
Whose glittering ears are prick'd as bolt-upright,
As sailing hairs are hoisted in a fright.
So does it fare with croaking spawns o' th' press,
The mould o' th' subject alters the success;
What's serious, like sleep, grants writs of ease,
Satire and ridicule can only please;
As if no other animals could gape,
But the biting badger, or the snick'ring ape.
Folly by irony's commended here,
Sooth'd, that her weakness may the more appear.
Thus fools, who trick'd, in red and yellow shine,
Are made believe that they are wondrous fine,
When all's a plot t' expose them by design.
The largesses of Folly here are strown.
Like pebbles, not to pick, but trample on.
Thus Spartans laid their soaking slaves before
The boys, to justle, kick, and tumble o'er:
Not that the dry-lipp'd youngsters might combine
To taste and know the mystery of wine,
But wonder thus at men transform'd to swine;
And th' power of such enchantment to escape,
Timely renounce the devil of the grape.
So here,
Though Folly speaker be, and argument,
Wit guides the tongue, wisdom's the lecture meant.
So here, Though Folly speaker be, and argument,
Wit guides the tongue, wisdom's the lecture meant.
ERASMUS's Praise of FOLLY.
_An oration, of feigned matter, spoken by Folly in her own person_.
HOW slightly soever I am esteemed in the common vogue of the world, (for
I well know how disingenuously Folly is decried, even by those who are
themselves the greatest fools,) yet it is from my influence alone that
the whole universe receives her ferment of mirth and jollity: of
which this may be urged as a convincing argument, in that as soon as I
appeared to speak before this numerous assembly all their countenances
were gilded oyer with a lively sparkling pleasantness: you soon welcomed
me with so encouraging a look, you spurred me on with so cheerful a hum,
that truly in all appearance, you seem now flushed with a good dose of
reviving nectar, when as just before you sate drowsy and melancholy, as
if you were lately come out of some hermit's cell. But as it is usual,
that as soon as the sun peeps from her eastern bed, and draws back the
curtains of the darksome night; or as when, after a hard winter, the
restorative spring breathes a more enlivening air, nature forthwith
changes her apparel, and all things seem to renew their age; so at the
first sight of me you all unmask, and appear in more lively colours.
That therefore which expert orators can scarce effect by all their
little artifice of eloquence, to wit, a raising the attentions of their
auditors to a composedness of thought, this a bare look from me has
commanded. The reason why I appear in this odd kind of garb, you shall
soon be informed of, if for so short a while you will have but the
patience to lend me an ear; yet not such a one as you are wont to
hearken with to your reverend preachers, but as you listen withal to
mountebanks, buffoons, and merry-andrews; in short, such as formerly
were fastened to Midas, as a punishment for his affront to the god Pan.
For I am now in a humour to act awhile the sophist, yet not of that sort
who undertake the drudgery of tyrannizing over school boys, and teach a
more than womanish knack of brawling; but in imitation of those ancient
ones, who to avoid the scandalous epithet of wise, preferred this title
of sophists; the task of these was to celebrate the worth of gods and
heroes. Prepare therefore to be entertained with a panegyrick, yet not
upon Hercules, Solon, or any other grandee, but on myself, that is, upon
Folly.
And here I value not their censure that pretend it is foppish and