In Praise of Folly

another for groaning women; a third, for stolen goods; a fourth, for making a voyage prosperous;

and a fifth, to cure sheep of the rot; and so of the rest, for it would be too tedious to run over all.

And some there are that are good for more things than one; but chiefly, the Virgin Mother, to whom

the common people do in a manner attribute more than to the Son.

Yet what do they beg of these saints but what belongs to folly? To examine it a little. Among all

those offerings which are so frequently hung up in churches, nay up to the very roof of some of

them, did you ever see the least acknowledgment from anyone that had left his folly, or grown a

hair’s breadth the wiser? One escapes a shipwreck, and he gets safe to shore. Another, run through

in a duel, recovers. Another, while the rest were fighting, ran out of the field, no less luckily than

valiantly. Another, condemned to be hanged, by the favor of some saint or other, a friend to thieves,

got off himself by impeaching his fellows. Another escaped by breaking prison. Another recovered

from his fever in spite of his physician. Another’s poison turning to a looseness proved his remedy

rather than death; and that to his wife’s no small sorrow, in that she lost both her labor and her

charge. Another’s cart broke, and he saved his horses. Another preserved from the fall of a house.

All these hang up their tablets, but no one gives thanks for his recovery from folly; so sweet a thing

it is not to be wise, that on the contrary men rather pray against anything than folly.

But why do I launch out into this ocean of superstitions? Had I a hundred tongues, as many mouths,

and a voice never so strong, yet were I not able to run over the several sorts of fools or all the names

of folly, so thick do they swarm everywhere. And yet your priests make no scruple to receive and

cherish them as proper instruments of profit; whereas if some scurvy wise fellow should step up

and speak things as they are, as, to live well is the way to die well; the best way to get quit of sin

is to add to the money you give the hatred of sin, tears, watchings, prayers, fastings, and amendment

of life; such or such a saint will favor you, if you imitate his life— these, I say, and the like—should

this wise man chat to the people, from what happiness into how great troubles would he draw them?

Of this college also are they who in their lifetime appoint with what solemnity they’ll be buried,

and particularly set down how many torches, how many mourners, how many singers, how many

almsmen they will have at it; as if any sense of it could come to them, or that it were a shame to

them that their corpse were not honorably interred; so curious are they herein, as if, like the aediles

of old, these were to present some shows or banquet to the people.

And though I am in haste, yet I cannot yet pass by them who, though they differ nothing from the

meanest cobbler, yet ’tis scarcely credible how they flatter themselves with the empty title of

nobility. One derives his pedigree from Aeneas, another from Brutus, a third from the star by the

tail of Ursa Major. They show you on every side the statues and pictures of their ancestors; run

over their greatgrandfathers and the great-great-grandfathers of both lines, and the ancient matches

of their families, when themselves yet are but once removed from a statue, if not worse than those

trifles they boast of. And yet by means of this pleasant self-love they live a happy life. Nor are they

less fools who admire these beasts as if they were gods.

But what do I speak of any one or the other particular kind of men, as if this self-love had not the

same effect everywhere and rendered most men superabundantly happy? As when a fellow, more

deformed than a baboon, shall believe himself handsomer than Homer’s Nereus. Another, as soon

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In Praise of Folly

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as he can draw two or three lines with a compass, presently thinks himself a Euclid. A third, that

understands music no more than my horse, and for his voice as hoarse as a dunghill cock, shall yet

conceive himself another Hermogenes. But of all madness that’s the most pleasant when a man,

seeing another any way excellent in what he pretends to himself, makes his boasts of it as confidently

as if it were his own. And such was that rich fellow in Seneca, who whenever he told a story had

his servants at his elbow to prompt him the names; and to that height had they flattered him that

he did not question but he might venture a rubber at cuffs, a man otherwise so weak he could scarce

stand, only presuming on this, that he had a company of sturdy servants about him.

Or to what purpose is it I should mind you of our professors of arts? Forasmuch as this self-love

is so natural to them all that they had rather part with their father’s land than their foolish opinions;

but chiefly players, fiddlers, orators, and poets, of which the more ignorant each of them is, the

more insolently he pleases himself, that is to say vaunts and spreads out his plumes. And like lips

find like lettuce; nay, the more foolish anything is, the more ,tis admired, the greater number being

ever tickled at the worst things, because, as I said before, most men are so subject to folly. And

therefore if the more foolish a man is, the more he pleases himself and is admired by others, to

what purpose should he beat his brains about true knowledge, which first will cost him dear, and

next render him the more troublesome and less confident, and lastly, please only a few?

And now I consider it, Nature has planted, not only in particular men but even in every nation, and

scarce any city is there without it, a kind of common self-love. And hence is it that the English,

besides other things, particularly challenge to themselves beauty, music, and feasting. The Scots

are proud of their nobility, alliance to the crown, and logical subtleties. The French think themselves

the only wellbred men. The Parisians, excluding all others, arrogate to themselves the only knowledge

of divinity. The Italians affirm they are the only masters of good letters and eloquence, and flatter

themselves on this account, that of all others they only are not barbarous. In which kind of happiness

those of Rome claim the first place, still dreaming to themselves of somewhat, I know not what,

of old Rome. The Venetians fancy themselves happy in the opinion of their nobility. The Greeks,

as if they were the only authors of sciences, swell themselves with the titles of the ancient heroes.

The Turk, and all that sink of the truly barbarous, challenge to themselves the only glory of religion

and laugh at Christians as superstitious. And much more pleasantly the Jews expect to this day the

coming of the Messiah, and so obstinately contend for their Law of Moses. The Spaniards give

place to none in the reputation of soldiery. The Germans pride themselves in their tallness of stature

and skill in magic.

And, not to instance in every particular, you see, I conceive, how much satisfaction this Self-love,

who has a sister also not unlike herself called Flattery, begets everywhere; for self-love is no more

than the soothing of a man’s self, which, done to another, is Hattery. And though perhaps at this

day it may be thought infamous, yet it is so only with them that are more taken with words than

things. They think truth is inconsistent with flattery, but that it is much otherwise we may learn

from the examples of true beasts. What more fawning than a dog? And yet what more trusty? What

has more of those little tricks than a squirrel? And yet what more loving to man? Unless, perhaps

you’ll say, men had better converse with fierce lions, merciless tigers, and furious leopards. For

that flattery is the most pernicious of all things, by means of which some treacherous persons and

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In Praise of Folly

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