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From the very fountain of enchantment there arises a taste of bitterness to spread anguish amongst the flowers.
Lucretius
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Lucretius
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Titus Lucretius Carus
Titus Carus Lucretius
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From the heart of this fountain of delights wells up some bitter taste to choke them even amid the flowers.
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... deprived of pain, and also deprived of danger, able to do what it wants, [Nature] does not need us, nor understands our deserts, and it cannot be angry.
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The dreadful fear of hell is to be driven out, which disturbs the life of man and renders it miserable, overcasting all things with the blackness of darkness, and leaving no pure, unalloyed pleasure.
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Human life lay foul before men's eyes, crushed to the dust beneath religion's weight.
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From the midst of the very fountain of pleasure, something of bitterness arises to vex us in the flower of enjoyment.
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What can give us more sure knowledge than our senses? How else can we distinguish between the true and the false?
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