The golden ages and the first strength have passed away; there was a golden race, and at one and the same time this fell, those passed away. Lamentable, the golden age begins, the golden age receives its bounds; swiftly there passed away both the former zeal and the former age. Grace used to be firmer, order stronger; and the land flowed milky with honey and honeyed with milk, fields abounding with crops watered from heaven upon the parched ground, giving good things to the givers, and faithful itself to the faithful. Peace gave leisure; the people was wholly ignorant of doing harm; the land abounded for faithful fathers, abounded with harvest. Now peace lies void and the land ruined, and right, and the good; the love of this has crashed down, the love of that has dried up, both grow dry. The land denies its crops; the peace given to man alone is put to flight, which once flourished assured, now void crashes down and is violated.
While it stood firm and assured, every plowman came forth abounding; the farmer rejected the old and reaped the new. So long as it was assured, the land returned to the field crops abundantly enough sown, giving good grasses and bountiful seed from a small seed. The race was best, most steadfast, of modest heart, knowing not how to gather the gains of the marketplace, rich in honesty. Knowing not how to deceive, to advance themselves at others' cost, diligent for right, knowing not the stain of crime, not lightly burned by the fire of cupidity. They bore no perils, since indeed no offences; the faithful fields and ancestral homes they duly tended, they waged only perpetual covenants — and battles only with pestilence. To seek the heights and to know crimes they counted a crime. Then, as it were in play, plenty was wont to flow from a teeming horn, and great abundance with a sober life, in substance, in feast, in drink.
Much modesty and much abundance went together; the bodies were vigorous, for the living breasts thrived well. Then was renowned that honesty of mind which is now lost; what is now greatest was then the lowest, and power was as nothing; the lyre of music as much as the trumpet of war then fell silent, nor did the lyre call for joys, nor the trumpet for battles. The race was golden, to which frenzy was a dice-throw, to which crime was gold, to which buying was a shame, to which there was not even mention of riches. It was not lawful to hide away nor to gather gains into purses. Tagus, full of wealth, flowed gold-streaming, wandering over its sands. Gains rivalling perils, how precious — man had not dug them up, nor learned that they would be the cause of envy. As soon as each took up the iron darts for golden weights, soon swelling pride and wrath raised both, and each fights with each.
Only a rule, born for the purpose, ruled the ages of old; only the living page taught the former ages. No capitols then were strong with marble, nor with jasper, no Indian dye, nor the unique gem from the Arimaspians. The race was useful, unchanging, exalted, severe, accustomed to enter late into the marriage bed. No care for lust, only the single implanted care for offspring; then sacred were the bonds, then it gave kisses pure of crime. Whoever was a father had passed ten times four years. Therefore this race, not drunken Venus, gave forth great men; in the boy the father himself returned in image; a good stock arose and succeeded the fathers as they passed away. Not drunken Venus but holy grace then gave to the world all who were begotten with sound blood, without the seed of disease.
They had manly limbs, upright bodies, an upright heart; they nourished not these with drink, nor these with feasting, nor that with luxuries. The dice-throw of crime and the wish for baths were not theirs, nor to go with hair covering the neck or flowing back. The swan-white temples and hoary breasts they revered not, to crave wines, to speak trifling things, to profess violence. The race was well-conscious, well-sober; that race was itself, with neither bodies nor breasts nor mind slack to itself. Their order gave nothing more, nor less than fair. For new cups there was no drunkenness for them, no crier. Wines they were wont to call perils, and wines fetters, wines poisons, and they knew them to be full of the asp. A spring was his vineyard, linen coverings a rare man had; silken coverings then no bridal woman wore;
the sober bride was free for nothing but her own proper portion. Now each man calls only his own; then each called the good things common. Common were the fleeces, the milk, the crops, the acres, the fruitfulness, the cups, the meals, the pastures, the estates, the meadows, the household gods. The meals I belie — for the former age scarcely bore such, accustomed to demand them only at evening, nor were the foods enough. What small portion was wont duly to live from the tree of Jove! To these the hermit's meal contributed the fig. For these, food from the sheep, dreams beneath Jove's sky, a couch on the grass. Commands to the lesser came from the graver, words from the elder. Holy peace gave joys, peace gave leisure and fruitfulness, but neither joys gave infamy, nor leisure weakness. Peace gave holy leisure, the businesses of rustic toil, the land legumes, the streams for cups, a rope for a girdle;
a beast for service, a cave for lodging, barley for food, grass for a couch, a rock for a seat, a hide for a cloak, a bough for a covering, and on feast-days as a rare dish a legume. By day to journey afoot, by night to rest, and a torch for light. The temples which they now build of marble, they then built of any tree at all; the courts which they now adorn with arts, they then polished with leaves. The ages were milky, the race golden, a good race, of which I dare with my poor song to say it was a fair race. The race was golden; the golden race fell, and a bereft one took its place; which, longing to live abounding and dead in mind, lives abounding in revenues, destitute of sense, bereft of patrons; it gives itself over to impious things, hurries into the trackless ways of perdition. The world is reckoned a world in origin, but only in name; it spits out purity, rushes into Venus's lusts, and is filled with these.
That former age fell, the next shuddered, the next is yet the same; the times now are not, nor the hearts, such as they were before. The flowering times, the living hearts were at first; the flowering times, the living hearts have passed away. The golden age has passed, the horrid image of the world has come forth, the very last plague and the true tear, the true abyss. This age, worthy neither in name nor upright in order, stands; this perishes by vices, this bears restless souls. And as it goes rushing on, this age creates a people standing toward evil, watchful over goods, honors, and drunken bouts. This has lost good things, this has brought forth every guileful kind, fickle in heart, changeable in substance, shameful in mind. This last age is called the lowest dregs of the others; this last age has come forth as the inmost death of souls.
It has shrunk in horror from the upright way, has fallen in order, but stands out in cunning, in anxious care, in fraud, in lust, in crime, in arrogance. It is without a name, for it is without the divine power, for it is without right; ruined by disasters, because it is given to frauds, this is its concern. To weep and to speak forth all the wicked deeds of this age that must be wept — believe me, weeping I am unable; I go to utter but a very few. As soon as that golden world briefly shone, it utterly withered, with deaths gathering from every side, with diseases from every side. The ages, ruined in substance, ruined by plague, prevailed, lying low while standing, falsely green, withered in truth. While I speak such things, I am burned and consumed by a faithful fire; I am wholly burned by inward heats and by the torch of zeal. While I note the foul things — how many, how great the impious, what evils of the earth — though my tongue be unskilled, I cannot bear to keep silence. Whence then shall I begin?
Whence shall I be heard? Whence shall I speak? Where God admonishes, He breathes abundantly that very thing which the mouth may utter. What shall I pursue first? Shall I pursue the evils, or the good things laid low? The evils stand, right lies hidden; hence a wide field for satire lies open. Spare me, O modesty: many things that follow are dishonorable; yet my care forbids the guilty deeds, and urges honorable ones. Grant pardon, I pray; here I pursue satire, here spurn the evils; put on the heart of an old man; I speak evil well — do you discern it well. The ages are ruined by crime, on the very threshold of death. Crying out I weep, grieving to weep I go with the song sent forth, O evil ages, diligent to seek wealth, sluggish toward what is right, by whom fraud has been brought forth, grace lost, and right cast away. O evil times, which have begotten evil hearts, willing nothing, scarce able to see right things.
Chaste love lies hidden, and the deep pit of Venus lies open; every good thing lies low, Venus alone pleases all, she alone. You, my eyes, pour forth now the rivers of tears. The upright way perishes; let the heavy heart, the pious mind, weep bitterly. Lust thrives, as fire binds the stubble of Avernus; lust glows and openly prevails, brought forth to be seen. Peace weeps, love groans, wrath stands and rages, with right in exile. Wherever I turn my eyes, both the gleeful crimes and the loose ones I behold; I drink in nothing with my eyes, nay nor with my ears, that I may call worthy of praise, or useful in fact. Wherever I go forth, I straightway mourn to behold dishonorable things; wherever I am borne to meet them, there is impious frenzy, within and without. No one, free of complicity in lust or vice, escapes.
Where the twofold pole stands out, there is guile, there is frenzy, there is death. Fraud sits in all those by whom either zone is inhabited. In all men, toward evil, the flesh is prone in every part. Civil battles, and no faithful hearts are found. Colchian potions, and kisses no less treacherous, are given. Wicked license wills, prevails, dares all things of crime. After evils he is led, into evils he slips, in evils he rejoices! Your nation, O Christ, called by name yours and meant to be yours, gives itself to Avernus. Things to be wept forever, on every side with weeping, I hear, I behold. Applause to impious things, a clamor for drunken ones, after, but also before. My back resounds; the guilty deeds sit fast, with right tottering. The king of Babylon enters the empty walls with his soldiery, and he himself presides, and the wing of his fury sits beside him. Exiled from his origin, deprived by his father of light, Zedekiah is made;
Look to yourself, O mind, lest you become like him in crime. Ah, grief! all things now are the complaint of reason, the bare tragedy and proper tear of religion. A single image of death possesses the slippery ages; the slippery ages an emulous race fills, a depraved offspring, (learned yet ignorant), bland yet impious, and vicious, unsociable, insatiable, gluttonous. A nation pious in voice, impious in conduct — behold, it is created; a nation provident for itself, envious in conduct, is multiplied; it is evil in speech, worse in cunning, worst of all in deed, a nation that digests evils, incites them, puts them forth, bending toward evils. The pious nation has passed away; it has gone out into Zion, this one into Babylon. Now Jacob becomes Israel, and Leah becomes Rachel — order, the crown;
it reigns in heaven, it sucks Philosophy from the breast. Now Leah, by the way, holds the homeland, Rachel; Martha holds Mary. That pious choir and its estate went, departed; it lives in heaven, now without death — believe it — it lives. There was a golden race, which now the living laurel crowns; adoption saves it, action sets it free, the palm adorns it all about. The pious nation has passed away; the impious has come forth, and numerous, a useless throng, feeble in body, hateful in heart; a nation without a breast, very many in this present time, seethes, contrary to morals, contrary to laws, contrary to Christ. It grows numb in order, it delights to grow in the throng — and it grows; it becomes very many in the flock, it knows the lowest gains, the rest it knows not.
Slipping toward evils, feeble toward good things, it prefers these to those; it perishes into vice, has leisure for this, performs it, knows it, exalts it. It is — nor do I lie — more glad toward evils, sadder toward goods; it approves the reprobate and reproves the good, every one among these. It knows how to speak good things with the voice, but knows not how to put forth deeds in deeds; quick for evil it thrives, sick toward God it stiffens and turns to stone. The golden ages and the trusting hearts have passed away; now they are a burden, who seek neither crimes nor evils; and they are refuse, who keep not for themselves very many gains, who heap not up great gains, the gains of the marketplace. Now each man wishes only fleshly, only earthly comforts; gluttony presides over the commons, money over the elders, error over both. Grace is sold, and every man runs into crime for money.
And while faith totters, every man that has, has — and shudders to be in want. White-haired faith there once was; with this love fell, with this order, as it fell. While faith stood, order stood; it seeks flight as faith flees. The sober breasts, passing by, have passed away; the manly hearts, the chaste beds, have turned their backs. The law of the Lord crashes down; the shameless man pays no penalty for his shameless venture. For ventures vengeance is wanting; unction is given, applause instead of the cross. Force lacks restraint, crimes an avenger, lawsuits a judge, vile deeds the scourge, thefts the prison, and the gentle their bishop. Outright, broad license is borne toward impious things; everywhere men run into evils and live ill, and go iniquitously. The estate of right departs; the side of crimes is everywhere propped up. He who dares and exhibits evilly whatever pleases, hears himself unpunished; an olive branch is borne to all transgressing things.
Emulous death fills the ages with crime, and Tartarus with citizens. To all transgressors it befalls — O frenzy, O fraud! — to applaud instead of the cross, to whisper flattery instead of the harsh truth, praise instead of the goad. Force has the breast, fiction has prosperity, arrogance has honor; light conduct has milk, scepters have remissness, vile deeds have favor. Where now does the vigor of justice, the strictness of the Church, the order of the fathers preeminently stand, or where does the union of the brethren remain? What hand, meeting impious or proud things, takes them in hand? I speak not of blows, but of harsh things — I mean to speak harsh words. Whose heart seethes to argue that crime has grown strong? What father of an order is a sacrifice of bruised fine flour? Who now is a good leader, taking up the whole burden of his own? Who would cry aloud good things and soldier well for the gains of morals?
Who groans over impious things, who over the evils that stand, and right forsaken? Who brandishes the sword of the mouth and thence aims the blow against crime? Who teaches men to drive off harmful leisure, and to weep the things to be wept? Who teaches to spurn vile deeds, to wipe away the spurned, and to beware the wiped? Every impious nation, rank, and order strives toward all impious things, and ill men live, and ill men sing psalms on the ten-stringed lyre. The whole world, wandering astray, strives toward all impious things; the elder is grave, the young man is light, the boy is erring. The bishop is at hand; he goes before, he himself bears his own, himself the burdens of his own. Hence crime, hence a load; a lofty throne is to him a heavy harness. He is a scepter-bearer; he rages, he raises these, he presses down those, and he is a tyrant; and — what I weep the more — to the gentle he is a lion, to thieves a lamb. He is a presbyter;
A priest ought to walk a profitable path toward good things; yet he offers himself no profitable road but a lamentable one. He is a cleric; he reads, yet governs himself badly, he wallows in the depths; both he knows the things that ought to be done and does them least of all — he turns these things into their opposite. A soldier is here; he bears arms, he rages, he strikes, he flashes with his spear, he ranges through the camps, he throttles everything, and he is a horned serpent. He is a nobleman; he swells with pride, he himself fears nothing, and therefore he is feared; he raises lofty and twisted horns, he reveres nothing. A magistrate is here; he sells his lips for hire, he loves profits, he judges what is unjust, he stands by those who have, he blocks the needy, his mouth is hostile. He is a trader; he circles the markets and the seas, he praises his own wares, he approves his own and condemns yours, and thereby he defrauds. He is a peasant;
he sows and gathers in his crops, he stuffs his barns full, he conceals the firstfruits and gleans the tithes, and so he spares himself. By going over these things again more broadly and more spaciously, I add to dwell upon them, and I aim once more to gnaw at their crimes. Money has darkened the hearts of bishops; it has proved bishops' hearts to be lacking a heart. The estate of a bishop was once reckoned sound, once whole; he used to bestow rank, but now, as the order totters, he himself totters. He who over this sea ought to have given himself as a bridge, in Zion has become for all the peoples a road into the river of fire. If I knew, without grief, how to say new things or learn new things, I could name the bishops whom I know but keep hidden. There stands for him glory, pomp, the pride of riches; in this present age no one strives to be a bridge for souls.
The bishop's mitre — to loose bonds, to hold bonds fast — by the canon he rejects it, and with money he destroys, with money he builds up. Having obtained royal heights or royal governance, he becomes an enemy plunderer, and his deed is tyrannical. A king only in name, a consul in semblance, a tyrant in mind, he is wicked to the citizens, virtuous to the reprobate, and great in his own eyes. With this man as judge, disgraces abound, the standard lacks a leader, the road is opened to gain; with this man as a bad avenger, the bird that has fed does not fly away from the cross. For the poor flock he scorns to take up righteous arms; he is a foul shield for robbers, available to those who fear. The vigor of the Church, the firmness of the empire have perished; the way lies open to frauds, and while these stand, those things have fallen. Schisms abound on both sides, two swords stand, nothing is feared; and the royal laws, the pontifical laws, are oppressed.
The law of the Lord is silent, and the imperial sword lies idle. The death of the soul roars, and — alas! — the synodal sword trembles. The common people, without a leader, oppressed by tyranny, are torn to pieces; by crime they are ruined, by the enemy they are struck down, by fire they are consumed. Neither the bishop's stole nor the consul's opposing right hand snatches them from capital dangers within, nor from enemies without. He who stands first in the ranks under the appearance of the priesthood is fickle in vice, brief in office, broken in his loins; the priest's wife becomes for him a most intimate sister, nearest to him; she calls him father, she settles him on the couch, she sits beside him; she serves as is her custom, and grieves over his aching brain when he is in pain. She herself buys the feasts, she sits by and groans beside him as he groans. She herself cherishes, favors, listens, loves, fears for her master;
she is the bolt of the bedchamber, she often sends the servant outside. That man called priest stands forth idly in his order; alas! he embodies for himself and devours the people's guilt. How venerable, how usefully sacred, and what sort of holy thing it is — he does not sufficiently regard it; hence he makes a mere image of his order. With pure lust and with blood worthy of the flesh of Christ; he bears a mouth less fit, and the bereaved people are stricken by the deeds of their master. Only in name is the clergy among the ranks and the lot of the clergy; he endures to live, but he stands forth lofty, eager to seem something. He is fervent in the ranks, sluggish in the order by which he is titled; in name a cleric, in his acts he is proved to be a courtier. You may see the clergy running without law or order, visiting halls, turning over the turbulent affairs of palaces, attending to popular business and matters of the law-court;
Add that he draws his weapon, that he heaps sword upon swords. To lead armies, to join battles, to be reckoned a soldier — the cleric chooses this, and he neglects the sacred leisure of the cleric. The cruel soldier seizes, oppresses, drives, takes, presses upon the needy; whom he weighs down he crushes, and on all sides he sinks his teeth into everyone. Not only does he not govern with his mouth, nor protect the farmers with his hand, but he puts to flight and strikes, and burns and grinds those who till the fields. The plunder taken from them is his food that clothes those whom he wickedly strips bare; toward evil he wages war, toward evil he runs about, toward evil he sweats. The soldier is more devouring than fire, more rapacious than the kite, fiercer than the tiger and more harmful than harmful fire. He rages in the ranks, illustrious in his origin of nobility, yet not his own virtue but reverence for his father props him up.
He is set in command, he goes first, with his mouth he extols his forefathers, but he extols them not in deed; noble in pedigree, he himself is reprehensible in guilt. In wealth, in origin, in flesh he is ennobled — but not in his way of life; he is dissoluble, and this noble flesh withers and is buried. Tender toward vice is the degenerate man, both high and low. Why? Because in body and not in soul he wishes to be, as it were, first. For gain he supplicates, and for gain's sake the judge judges wickedly. Your crime hinders you, the golden man speeds along; for bronze the law keeps silent. Bronze tames all things, money makes impious things pious, the law falls silent for bronze. As a wolf you bring violence; you will be reckoned a lamb — offer your possession. By your gifts you touch even the heavens, though you ought to be burned by law. Wealth is yours; the magistrate will be yours; do not flee, he is fawning. By bribery you let no one of any rank remember this.
For gain he cries out, for gain he sells his lips, he presses himself down; in short, the law is so made subject to him, and not man to the law. Behold from bribery so many evils arise, so many good things are sunk. Oh madness! behold how quickly, while the judge holds the gain, evils stand, justice falls; this man reads the law, that man spits it out for a third of a coin. See how he judges without judgment, how he judges without law; for money, not the law of Theodosius, is his care. The trader rolls almost all his dealings in fraud, he buys gains with gains, raises these, presses those, exchanges these for those; through black frosts, over mountain-ridges, through markets, across the seas he runs; the thief seizes him, the enemy strikes him, winter wears him down, the heat scorches him. Captured, in want he departs, and empty-handed he sings before the robber;
He revives his profits, hence he spurs his journey on toward Babylon; thence he returns home, here he announces new things, and brings back new things. As a buyer he defrauds your goods, for indeed he prefers his own weights to yours. The farmer is wickedly faithless, he walks about envious; often the plowman swears that the new-broken fields next to his are his own. He swears in order to carry off, and quickly he commits perjury, and knowingly; hence frequent quarrels between them, frequent litigation. The peasant puts barley into the granaries, he stores away the grain, he stores up great granaries, capacious vessels, and many things; nor does he wish to tithe the cattle or the crops, the things given by God's gift; neither the sacred portion nor the tithe is rendered to the altar. Wicked stands every action, every profession, race, rank, and age; each commits abominations; the sober road has its bounds. Every good thing perishes, every man bears otherness;
Idleness fights to undo strong things, fraud fights to undo piety. Now money alone presses upon all things, wealth lords it over all; Mammon is hidden away, men run to the markets, men stand for gain. Now Mammon stands, good things are a burden, crime is held in honor. The way of justice is given over to reproach, pious deeds to shame. The clerical order has fallen from its summit, the monastic order from its citadel. That part is broken, this is dissolved by the twisting of its order; the one is lamentable, the other utterly wretched. Each stands in name, each lies in order turned backward; each part totters, the one used to give honor, the other splendor; each falls, each, withered, has lost its flower. Who is good? Holy old age is well scorned by the old man, modesty by the boy, blushing by the strong man, and the straight path by all.
Finally, the crimes — I put off naming those whose order of evils cries out, loves, performs, brings forth, and perishes. So lost in crime is the face of the whole world, that not even now does a boy come out untouched by the plague of vices. There are childish vices, there are youthful ones, along with the age of old men; foul are men's breasts, and no season is without a blemish. Even the little child — hardly as it were a male — but I will keep silent; such things, such, so frenzied, I will pass over in silence. I spare to unweave them, I put off to bring forth fouler things. What was a vice to utter has defiled both heart and mouth. Fiery Venus stands, the golden girdle of modesty is loosed. Disgraces stand fixed, and now the nets of frenzy are stretched taut; to spare the loins has fallen away from all, from all I say; I will leave off neither gnawing nor rebuking anyone.
The common people, dissolved into impious things, into all base things — I weep, I laugh; I am Diogenes, I am Democritus. For the people think it right to know the beds of harlots; the law of one's nature commands, they say, that this man lie here and that woman with him. For why is a woman given, or begotten, if she is not to submit? Sex commands it, they say, that she bear and he be borne. Just as with their meals, so the drunken people think the disgraces of harlots are permitted, not knowing, of course, how to restrain themselves. The whole world, in all its parts, in all things, rushes of its own accord toward evils; it once stood in order, now it is ready to fall. Of its own accord it slips back, of its own accord it is dissolved, of its own accord it dies, while lust stands and crime stands, and justice is buried. Wherever the Tanais flows and the shore of tropical Syene lies beneath, everyone wishes to ungird his loins, and no one wishes to gird them.
The asinine race, perpetually drunk, runs riot in lust; and a sober, chaste life and grace are reviled. Each one, like a beast or a leaping horse, neighs after wickedness; he leaps into Venus, he cherishes her, he nourishes her, and from her he begets evils. We see all things abandoned: nothing abominable, nothing fair is left untouched. They give themselves the bonds of the flesh and kisses, kindred in flesh; base kisses and nothing sisterly — secretly the sister redoubles them for her brother; there is a road — why do I delay? — the broad road of the pit. The race is bred, for all there is the single care of Venus. Now not even the seventh degree is the last bar in begetting; the lawful heir perishes, and one who is not the father's heir treads the father's fields. Blind license intertwines all things by means of women. The wandering court of the nobility gives spurious pledges, with children born of different rank in lineage but equal in blood.
The adulteress burns; nor does the great man approve unbroken covenants; the wandering Herodias is given to many, but no one is a John. Now too the spiritual lilies are prostituted, the living jewels, the heavenly lilies are subjected. The sacred dowry is broken, and the veil is dissolved into disgraces. Each one guards himself and dreads to provoke God's zeal. The virgin choir withers away, the unstained marriage-bed departs; the bride of God falls, every man, shattered, flows into disgraces. Ah, the chaste rule groans that all base things live on; this complaint, or tragedy, cries to the stars. I shudder to tell the things which I am often inflamed to rebuke; alas, the encountering cry of a single crime strikes the heavens.
The deed of a crime is called its outcry, that crime which in Noah's time was, but now I think is, or will be, worse. Now the earth is filled with bloodshed, with fraud, with lust. Moderation in the belly is despised, grace in giving, and good in substance. Everything you behold is dissolved into the disgraces of fornication; nothing stands in order, nothing now stands well-protected from lust. Demonic nets now are the harlots, ruined bodies and a well-trodden path, a public gate. Luxury thrives, impiety stiffens, iniquity overflows. The abominable mob, the throng of harlots, defiles everything. The life of bold harlots is to go about freely — tongue, heart, action, defilement, drunken excess, belly; and the one and only slippery glory of the flesh is to love, to defile hearts in the abyss, to defile members in lust.
A filthy woman, a faithless woman, a broken woman; she defiles what is clean, she ruminates impious things, she wears down what is increased. Toward wickedness, toward good, the evil woman becomes a spur, a rein; the woman is a wild beast, and her crimes are like the sand. I do not go to pluck at the just women, whom I ought rather to bless, but because I ought, I bite with my song, in my mind, the Locusts. Now the evil woman becomes my page, becomes my discourse. I approve her well enough, but I condemn her ways; therefore I will pursue her. The woman by nods, by arts, by acts, impiously persuades; the whole woman rejoices to force crimes and to live by them. There is indeed no good one — yet if any good one too has come along, she is an evil thing, for a good woman is good almost nowhere. The woman is a guilty thing, a thing wickedly fleshly, or all flesh, energetic to betray, born to deceive, learned in deceiving;
the newest pit, the worst viper, beautiful rottenness, a slippery path, a thing wickedly public, both prey and predator, a dreadful screech-owl, a public doorway, sweet poison. Conscious of nothing good, fickle, impious, a vessel full of plague, a vessel less useful, more violable, full of outrage, insatiable, unsociable, quarrelsome; cheap merchandise sold but quickly lost, a slave of metal, a household flame, she alone loves to deceive and be deceived. She stands forth an enemy to those who love her and a friend to enemies. If she is not sought, she seeks, and reaps that as gain, so that she may be unjust. She has her own joys, she has her own things, her light is in her night. She makes exception of nothing, she conceives from her father and from her grandson; the pit of lust, the arms of the abyss, the mouth of vices — this she was, is, and will be, and through her the order of the good perishes.