In Praise of Folly

mockers have run the credulous into such mischief. But this of mine proceeds from a certain

gentleness and uprightness of mind and comes nearer to virtue than its opposite, austerity, or a

morose and troublesome peevishness, as Horace calls it. This supports the dejected, relieves the

distressed, encourages the fainting, awakens the stupid, refreshes the sick, supplies the untractable,

joins loves together, and keeps them so joined. It entices children to take their learning, makes old

men frolic, and, under the color of praise, does without offense both tell princes their faults and

show them the way to amend them. In short, it makes every man the more jocund and acceptable

to himself, which is the chiefest point of felicity. Again, what is more friendly than when two horses

scrub one another? And to say nothing of it, that it’s a main part of physic, and the only thing in

poetry; ’tis the delight and relish of all human society.

But ’tis a sad thing, they say, to be mistaken. Nay rather, he is most miserable that is not so. For

they are quite beside the mark that place the happiness of men in things themselves, since it only

depends upon opinion. For so great is the obscurity and variety of human affairs that nothing can

be clearly known, as it is truly said by our academics, the least insolent of all the philosophers; or

if it could, it would but obstruct the pleasure of life. Lastly, the mind of man is so framed that it is

rather taken with the false colors than truth; of which if anyone has a mind to make the experiment,

let him go to church and hear sermons, in which if there be anything serious delivered, the audience

is either asleep, yawning, or weary of it; but if the preacher—pardon my mistake, I would have

said declaimer—as too often it happens, fall but into an old wives’ story, they’re presently awake,

prick up their ears and gape after it. In like manner, if there be any poetical saint, or one of whom

there goes more stories than ordinary, as for example, a George, a Christopher, or a Barbara, you

shall see him more religiously worshipped than Peter, Paul, or even Christ himself. But these things

are not for this place.

And now at how cheap a rate is this happiness purchased! Forasmuch as to the thing itself a man’s

whole endeavor is required, be it never so inconsiderable; but the opinion of it is easily taken up,

which yet conduces as much or more to happiness. For suppose a man were eating rotten stockfish,

the very smell of which would choke another, and yet believed it a dish for the gods, what difference

is there as to his happiness? Whereas on the contrary, if another’s stomach should turn at a sturgeon,

wherein, I pray, is he happier than the other? If a man have a crooked, ill-favored wife, who yet in

his eye may stand in competition with Venus, is it not the same as if she were truly beautiful? Or

if seeing an ugly, ill-pointed piece, he should admire the work as believing it some great master’s

hand, were he not much happier, think you, than they that buy such things at vast rates, and yet

perhaps reap less pleasure from them than the other? I know one of my name that gave his new

married wife some counterfeit jewels, and as he was a pleasant droll, persuaded her that they were

not only right but of an inestimable price; and what difference, I pray, to her, that was as well

pleased and contented with glass and kept it as warily as if it had been a treasure In the meantime

the husband saved his money and had this advantage of her folly, that he obliged her as much as

if he had bought them at a great rate. Or what difference, think you, between those in Plato’s

imaginary cave that stand gaping at the shadows and figures of things, so they please themselves

and have no need to wish, and that wise man, who, being got loose from them, sees things truly as

they are? Whereas that cobbler in Lucian if he might always have continued his golden dreams, he

would never have desired any other happiness. So then there is no difference; or, if there be, the

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In Praise of Folly

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fools have the advantage: first, in that their happiness costs them least, that is to say, only some

small persuasion; next, that they enjoy it in common. And the possession of no good can be delightful

without a companion. For who does not know what a dearth there is of wise men, if yet any one

be to be found? And though the Greeks for these so many ages have accounted upon seven only,

yet so help me Hercules, do but examine them narrowly, and I’ll be hanged if you find one half-witted

fellow, nay or so much as one-quarter of a wise man, among them all.

For whereas among the many praises of Bacchus they reckon this the chief, that he washes away

cares, and that too in an instant, do but sleep off his weak spirits, and they come on again, as we

say, on horseback. But how much larger and more present is the benefit you receive by me, since,

as it were with a perpetual drunkenness I fill your minds with mirth, fancies, and jollities, and that

too without any trouble? Nor is there any man living whom I let be without it; whereas the gifts of

the gods are scrambled, some to one and some to another. The sprightly delicious wine that drives

away cares and leaves such a flavor behind it grows not everywhere. Beauty, the gift of Venus,

happens to few; and to fewer gives Mercury eloquence. Hercules makes not everyone rich. Homer’s

Jupiter bestows not empire on all men. Mars oftentimes favors neither side. Many return sad from

Apollo’s oracle. Phoebus sometimes shoots a plague among us. Neptune drowns more than he

saves: to say nothing of those mischievous gods, Plutoes, Ates, punishments, fevers, and the like,

not gods but executioners. I am that only Folly that so readily and indifferently bestows my benefits

on all. Nor do I look to be entreated, or am I subject to take pet, and require an expiatory sacrifice

if some ceremony be omitted. Nor do I beat heaven and earth together if, when the rest of the gods

are invited, I am passed by or not admitted to the stream of their sacrifices. For the rest of the gods

are so curious in this point that such an omission may chance to spoil a man’s business; and therefore

one has as good even let them alone as worship them: just like some men, who are so hard to please,

and withall so ready to do mischief, that ’tis better be a stranger than have any familiarity with

them.

But no man, you’ll say, ever sacrificed to Folly or built me a temple. And troth, as I said before, I

cannot but wonder at the ingratitude; yet because I am easily to be entreated, I take this also in good

part, though truly I can scarce request it. For why should I require incense, wafers, a goat, or sow

when all men pay me that worship everywhere which is so much approved even by our very divines?

Unless perhaps I should envy Diana that her sacrifices are mingled with human blood. Then do I

conceive myself most religiously worshipped when everywhere, as ’tis generally done, men embrace

me in their minds, express me in their manners, and represent me in their lives, which worship of

the saints is not so ordinary among Christians. How many are there that burn candles to the Virgin

Mother, and that too at noonday when there’s no need of them! But how few are there that study

to imitate her in pureness of life, humility and love of heavenly things, which is the true worship

and most acceptable to heaven! Besides why should I desire a temple when the whole world is my

temple, and I’m deceived or ’tis a goodly one? Nor can I want priests but in a land where there are

no men. Nor am I yet so foolish as to require statues or painted images, which do often obstruct

my worship, since among the stupid and gross multitude those figures are worshipped for the saints

themselves. And so it would fare with me, as it does with them that are turned out of doors by their

substitutes. No, I have statues enough, and as many as there are men, everyone bearing my lively

resemblance in his face, how unwilling so ever he be to the contrary. And therefore there is no

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In Praise of Folly

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