Hesiod · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
Muses of Pieria, you who give glory through song, come now and tell of Zeus, singing of your own father, through whom mortal men are spoken of and unspoken of alike, named and unnamed, by the will of great Zeus. Easily he makes a man strong, and easily he crushes the strong; easily he brings the great low and lifts up the obscure, and easily he straightens
the crooked and withers the proud, Zeus who thunders on high and dwells in the loftiest halls. Hear me, and see and listen, and straighten judgments with justice, you yourself. And I, Perses, would tell you the plain truth. There was never just one kind of Strife after all, but on the earth there are two. A man would praise the one once he understood her, but the other deserves blame. Their tempers
are entirely different. One fosters cruel war and conflict, wretched thing that she is; no mortal loves her, but under compulsion, by the will of the gods, men pay honor to grim Strife. The other, the elder of the two, is the daughter of black Night; and Cronus' son, throned aloft and dwelling in the sky, planted her down where the earth has her roots,
and she is far better for men. Even the shiftless she rouses to work. For a man who lacks work looks at another man who is rich, one who hurries to plow and plant and set his household in order well; and neighbor competes with neighbor as he hurries toward wealth. This Strife is good for mortals. And
potter bears a grudge against potter and craftsman against craftsman; beggar begrudges beggar, and singer singer. Perses, take this to heart, and don't let malicious Strife hold your mind back from work while you go gawking at quarrels and listening in on the courts. A man has little time for quarrels and courts
if he doesn't have a full year's living stored up at home in season, the grain that earth bears, Demeter's yield. Once you have plenty of that, you could stir up quarrels and conflict over other men's property. But you won't get a second chance to act this way. Instead, let's settle our dispute right here with straight judgments, which are the best kind, since they come from Zeus. Already we divided our inheritance, but
you seized much more and carried it off, greatly flattering the bribe-eating lords who are willing to judge this case. Fools — they have no idea that the half can be worth more than the whole, or what rich sustenance hides in mallow and asphodel. For the gods keep men's livelihood hidden from them. Otherwise you could easily work enough in a single day to have supplies for
a full year even doing no work at all; you'd soon hang your plow-handle up over the smoke, and the work of oxen and hard-laboring mules would come to nothing. But Zeus hid it, angered in his heart, because clever Prometheus had deceived him. That is why he devised grim troubles for mankind. He hid fire — but the noble son of Iapetus
stole it back for men from Zeus the counselor, hiding it in a hollow fennel-stalk, unseen by Zeus who delights in thunder. Then, angered, the cloud-gathering Zeus said to him: Son of Iapetus, skilled beyond all others, you are pleased to have stolen fire and outwitted me, but this will be a great sorrow to yourself and to men yet to come. In place of fire I will give them an evil, in which
they will all take delight in their hearts, embracing their own ruin. So he spoke, and the father of gods and men laughed aloud. And he commanded renowned Hephaestus, with all speed, to knead earth together with water, to set within it human speech and vigor, and to give it a face like the deathless goddesses — the lovely, longed-for figure of a young girl. Then
he told Athena to teach her needlework, the weaving of an intricate loom, and told golden Aphrodite to pour grace over her head, and painful longing, and cares that gnaw the limbs; and he ordered Hermes, the messenger, the killer of Argus, to put in her a dog's mind and a thieving nature. So he spoke, and they obeyed lord Zeus, son of Cronus. At once the famous Lame God shaped from earth
something like a modest young woman, by the will of the son of Cronus. The bright-eyed goddess Athena dressed and adorned her; the Graces and queenly Persuasion placed golden necklaces on her body; the lovely-haired Seasons crowned her with spring flowers. And Pallas Athena fitted every ornament to her body.
Then into her chest the messenger, the killer of Argus, by the will of deep-thundering Zeus, put lies and coaxing words and a thieving nature; and the herald of the gods gave her a voice, and named this woman Pandora, because all who have their homes on Olympus gave her a gift — a disaster for men who live by bread. But once he had finished this steep, inescapable trap,
the father sent the famous killer of Argus, the swift messenger of the gods, to bring her to Epimetheus as a gift. Epimetheus did not consider that Prometheus had told him never to accept a gift from Olympian Zeus, but to send it back at once, in case it should bring some harm to mortals. But he accepted it, and only understood once he already had the evil. Before this
the tribes of men lived on earth free from evils, free from harsh labor and painful sicknesses that bring death to men. But the woman removed with her hands the great lid from the storage jar and scattered its contents, and devised grim troubles for mankind. Only Hope remained there
inside, in her unbreakable house, under the rim of the jar, and did not fly out the door; for before she could, the lid of the jar closed her in, by the will of aegis-bearing, cloud-gathering Zeus. But countless other miseries wander among men; evils crowd the land, and evils crowd the sea as well; sicknesses come upon men by day, and by night
they come uninvited, bringing harm to mortals in silence, since Zeus the counselor took away their voice. So there is no way at all to escape the mind of Zeus. If you wish, I will sketch out for you another account, well and skillfully; take it to heart. The gods and mortal men come from the same origin. First of all the immortals who hold the halls of Olympus made a golden
race of men who speak with human voice. They lived in the time of Cronus, when he was king in heaven; and they lived like gods, with carefree hearts, entirely apart from toil and misery. Wretched old age did not touch them; their hands and feet never lost their strength, and they took joy in festivities, beyond the reach of all evils;
and they died as if overcome by sleep. Everything good was theirs. The grain-giving earth bore fruit on its own, abundant and unstinting, and they, willing and at peace, tended their fields amid abundant good things. They were rich in flocks, dear to the blessed gods. But once the earth covered over this race — they became, by the will of great Zeus,
holy spirits above the earth, good spirits, guardians of mortal men, protectors against evil, who watch over judgments and cruel deeds, clothed in mist, roaming everywhere across the earth, givers of wealth; this kingly privilege was theirs. Then the gods who hold Olympus made a second race, far worse,
a silver race, matching its golden predecessor in neither frame nor mind. For a hundred years a child was raised at his good mother's side, growing up a great fool, right there in the house. But when they grew up and reached the measure of their youth, they lived only a short time, suffering pain through their own folly; for they could not restrain their reckless violence
against one another, and they were unwilling to serve the immortals or to sacrifice on the sacred altars of the blessed ones, as is right for men to do according to custom. Then Zeus, son of Cronus, in anger, buried this race too, because they gave no honors to the blessed gods who hold Olympus. But once the earth had covered this race as well — they are called
blessed spirits under the earth by mortals, second in rank, but honor accompanies them too. Then father Zeus made yet a third race of men who speak with human voice, a race of bronze, resembling the silver race in nothing at all, made from ash trees, terrible and mighty; their concern was the grim work of war and violence; they ate no bread, but had hearts as hard and unyielding as adamant — fearsome men, and great strength and untouchable hands grew
from their shoulders on their sturdy limbs. Their weapons were bronze, their houses were bronze, they worked with bronze; there was no black iron yet. And these men were destroyed by their own hands, and went down nameless to the dank house of chill Hades. Black death took them, terrifying as they were, and they left
the bright light of the sun. But when the earth had covered this race too, Zeus, son of Cronus, made yet a fourth race upon the much-nourishing earth, more just and better, a godlike race of heroic men, called demigods, the generation before our own across the boundless earth. Cruel war and dreadful battle destroyed these too,
some beneath seven-gated Thebes, in the land of Cadmus, fighting over the flocks of Oedipus, others led in ships across the great gulf of the sea to Troy, for the sake of lovely-haired Helen. There death's end covered some of them, but to others father Zeus, son of Cronus, granted a life and home apart from other men,
and settled them at the ends of the earth. And they live there with carefree hearts on the Isles of the Blessed, beside deep-swirling Ocean — blessed heroes; for their sake the life-giving soil brings honey-sweet fruit to ripeness three times each year. They live far from the immortals; Cronus rules as king over them, for the father of gods and men had released him from his bonds
and to them alike honor and glory attend. Then Zeus who thunders far made yet another, a fifth race of men, who exist now upon the much-nourishing earth. I wish I had no part in this fifth race of men, but had died before it, or been born after it. For now indeed the race is one of
iron. Never by day do they rest from toil and misery, nor by night from decay; and the gods will give them harsh cares. Yet even so, for these too good will be mixed in with evil. But Zeus will destroy this race of men too, once they are born already gray at the temples. Father will not agree with children, nor children
with father, nor guest with host, nor friend with friend; even brothers will not hold each other dear, as they once did. Soon they will dishonor their aging parents, and rail at them with harsh words, cruel and reckless, without regard for the gods' watchfulness; nor would such men repay their aging parents for their upbringing, taking the law into their own hands. One man will sack another man's city.
There will be no favor for the man who keeps his oath, nor for the just or the good; instead men will praise the doer of evil and the violent man. Might will be right, and shame will not exist; the wicked man will harm the better man, speaking against him with crooked words, and swear an oath on top of it. Envy, harsh-voiced,
gloating over evil, hateful-faced, will accompany all wretched men. And then, at last, Shame and Righteous Anger, having wrapped their fair bodies in white robes, will leave mankind and go from the wide-wayed earth up to Olympus, to join the company of the gods, abandoning men; grim pains alone will remain for mortal humanity, and against evil no defense will exist. Now I will tell a fable for kings, wise as they already think themselves to be.
This is how the hawk addressed the nightingale of the dappled throat, high up among the clouds, gripping her fast in his talons, while she wept pitifully, pierced through by his curved claws. He spoke to her scornfully: Wretched thing, why do you cry out? Someone far stronger than you now holds you. You will go wherever I take you, singer though you are.
I will make a meal of you if I wish, or let you go. Foolish is the one who wants to match strength with those who are stronger; he will not win, and will suffer pain along with disgrace. So spoke the swift-flying hawk, the long-winged bird. But you, Perses, give your ear to justice, and never nourish outrage; outrage is a plague to a poor man
for a mortal. Even a good man cannot easily carry the weight of outrage once he runs into it; it bears him down. The better road is to go around it, toward what is right. Justice wins out over Violence in the end. Only after suffering does the fool learn this. For Oath-breaking runs at once alongside crooked judgments. There is an uproar
when Justice is dragged off, wherever men who feed on bribes haul her away and judge cases with crooked verdicts. She follows, weeping, through the city and the haunts of its people, wrapped in mist, bringing harm to the men who drove her out and did not deal straight. But those who give straight judgments to foreigners and townsmen alike and do not step outside
what is right — their city flourishes and its people bloom within it. Peace, the nurse of the young, is over the land, and Zeus who sees far never marks out grim war for them. Famine never keeps company with men of straight justice, nor does ruin; they enjoy the labor of their fields at festivals. The earth carries abundant life for them, and on the mountains the oak
bears acorns on its top and bees in its middle; their woolly sheep are weighed down with fleece; their women bear children who look like their parents; they flourish continuously in good things; they have no need to travel by ship, since the fertile soil yields its harvest for them. But for those given to wicked violence and cruel deeds, Zeus the son of Kronos marks out justice.
Zeus who sees far marks it out. Often a whole city suffers for one bad man who commits crimes and plots reckless deeds. Upon them the son of Kronos brings a great disaster from the sky — famine together with plague — and the people waste away. No children are born to their wives, and their houses shrink away by the design of Olympian Zeus. And at other times
he destroys their broad army, or their wall, or their ships at sea. You kings, mark this justice well yourselves. The immortals are close among men and take note of those who wear one another down with crooked judgments, paying no heed to the gods' watching eye. For there are thrice ten thousand of them upon the earth
that feeds many — Zeus's immortal watchers of mortal men. They keep watch over judgments and cruel deeds, cloaked in mist, roaming everywhere over the earth. And Justice herself is a virgin, born of Zeus, honored and revered among the gods who hold Olympus. Whenever anyone wrongs her by twisting his verdict against her,
she goes at once and sits beside her father Zeus, son of Kronos, and denounces the unjust intent of men, so that the people may pay for the recklessness of their kings, who with wicked minds twist their rulings, turning judgments aside with crooked speech. Guard against this, you kings; straighten out your rulings, you who feed on bribes, and put crooked judgments entirely out of your minds. A man does harm to himself when he does harm to another, and
an evil plan is worst for the one who plans it. The eye of Zeus sees everything and understands everything; and even now, if he wishes, he looks upon this too, and does not fail to notice what kind of justice is kept within this city. As for me, may I not be an honest man among men, nor my son either — since it is a bad thing
for a man to be honest if the more dishonest man will get the greater share. But I do not expect Zeus the all-wise to let it end that way just yet. Perses, take these things to heart, and listen to justice, and forget violence altogether. For this is the law the son of Kronos laid down for men: that fish
and beasts and winged birds should devour one another, since there is no justice among them; but to men he gave justice, which turns out to be by far the best thing. For if a man is willing to speak what is right because he knows it, far-seeing Zeus grants him prosperity; but whoever lies deliberately, swearing a false oath as a witness, and in doing so
wounds justice and falls into incurable ruin — his line is left dimmer afterward, while the line of a man who keeps his oath grows better afterward. Now I will tell you, in your own best interest, great fool Perses. Wickedness can be had easily, and in abundance; the road to it is smooth, and it lives very close by. But before excellence
the immortal gods have set the sweat of labor; the path to it is long and steep, and rough at first; but when you reach the top, then it becomes easy, hard though it was. The best man of all is the one who works everything out for himself, considering what will be better in the end. Good too
is the man who listens to someone who speaks well. But whoever neither thinks for himself nor takes to heart what he hears from another — he is a useless man. But you, always remember what I charge you: work, Perses, you of divine stock, so that Famine will hate you and revered Demeter of the lovely crown will love you
and fill your barn with a livelihood. For Famine is always the fitting companion of the idle man. Both gods and men resent whoever lives without working, resembling in temper the stingless drones who waste the labor of the bees, eating without working themselves. Let it be your pleasure to keep your tasks in due measure, so that your barns
may be filled in their season. It is from work that men grow rich in flocks and in wealth; and by working they become far dearer to the immortals. Work is no disgrace; idleness is the disgrace. If you work, the man who sits idle will quickly grow jealous of your rising wealth; excellence and glory walk beside riches. Whatever your lot in life, it is better to work,
turning your foolish desire away from other men's belongings and toward earning your own living by work, as I urge you. Shame is no good companion for a man in need — shame, which greatly harms men, and also helps them. Shame goes with poverty; boldness with prosperity. Wealth should not be seized by force; wealth given by the gods is far better.
For if a man grabs great wealth by force of hand, or robs it by way of his tongue — a common thing, whenever profit tricks the human mind and shamelessness tramples down shame — the gods soon bring him low, and dwindle that man's house, and only for a short while
does prosperity attend him. It is all the same whether a man wrongs a suppliant or a guest, or goes up into his own brother's bed to lie secretly with his wife, doing what is improper, or through folly wrongs orphaned children, or reviles his aging father at the harsh threshold of old age, attacking him with bitter words —
against that man Zeus himself grows indignant, and in the end lays a harsh penalty on him in return for his unjust deeds. But you, keep your foolish heart entirely away from such things. To the best of your ability, offer sacrifice to the immortal gods in purity and cleanness, and burn the shining thigh-pieces; and win their favor at other moments with drink-offerings and incense,
at your lying-down and again when the sacred daylight returns, so that they may keep a kindly heart and mind toward you, and so that you may buy another's land, not have another buy yours. Invite the man who loves you to a feast, and leave your enemy be; invite above all the man who lives near you, for if
some mishap should happen at home, neighbors come ungirded while kinsmen take time to gird themselves. A bad neighbor is as much a curse as a good one is a blessing. A man who has a good neighbor has honor as his portion; not even an ox would be lost if the neighbor were not a bad one. Measure fairly from a neighbor and pay it back fairly,
Repay in equal measure — more generously, if you are able — so that in a later hour of need you will find him dependable. Do not seek dishonest gain — dishonest gains are as bad as ruin itself. Love the one who loves you, and stand by the one who stands by you. Give to a giver; to one who gives nothing, give nothing.
A man gives to the giver; no one gives to the non-giver. Giving is good, seizing is bad, a giver of death. For whatever a man gives willingly, even if it is a great deal, he takes joy in the gift and delights in his heart; but whoever takes something for himself by yielding to shamelessness — even if it is small — it chills
his heart. Whoever adds a little to what he already has wards off consuming hunger; if you set by a little at a time, and do it often, soon that little will become a great deal. What lies stored up at home does not trouble a man; it is better to keep things at home, since what is out of doors is a risk. It's good
to draw on what is at hand, but it's a misery to want for what is not there — think about that, I bid you. Take your fill at the jar's broaching and again at its dregs; be sparing in the middle — thrift at the bottom is a sorry thing. Let the wage agreed upon for a friend be kept firm. Even with your own brother, smile, but still get a witness;
for trust and mistrust alike have ruined men. Do not let a woman who sways her hips beguile your good sense with her wheedling, coaxing talk while she pries into your barn. Whoever trusts a woman trusts deceivers. A man should have an only son to keep up his father's house, for that is how wealth grows in a household; may you die old, leaving behind one more child. Yet Zeus can easily
grant boundless wealth to a greater number, too. More hands mean more work done, and greater gain besides. If your heart within you longs for wealth, do as follows: work, and pile task upon task. When the Pleiades, daughters of Atlas, rise, begin the harvest, and begin plowing when they set. For forty
nights and days they are hidden, then as the year comes round again they appear once more, first showing themselves just as the iron is being sharpened. This is the rule for the plains, both for those who live near the sea and for those who dwell in wooded valleys far from the swelling sea, in rich country: sow naked, plow naked, and reap naked,
if you want to bring in all of Demeter's works in their season, so that each of your crops may grow in its proper time, and you not go begging later at other men's houses in want, and accomplish nothing — as you have now come to me. But I will not give to you, nor measure out more grain; work, foolish Perses, at the tasks the gods have marked out for men, or else, grieving in your heart along with your wife and children,
you will go looking for a living among your neighbors, and they will pay no attention. Perhaps two or three times you'll get something; but if you keep pestering them further, you'll get nothing, and you'll waste your breath in a lot of useless talk; your fine speeches will do no good. Instead, I urge you to think of a way to pay your debts and ward off hunger. First of all, get a house,
a woman, and an ox for plowing — a bought woman, not a wife, one who can also follow the oxen — and put everything in order at home, so that you need not ask another man for a tool only to be refused, and so go without while the season slips by and the work suffers. Do not put off till tomorrow or the day after —
for a man who works half-heartedly does not fill his barn, nor does one who keeps putting things off; steady effort helps the work along, while a man who keeps delaying his work forever wrestles with ruin. When the fierce heat of the piercing sun lets up, and mighty Zeus sends the autumn rains, and a man's body feels far lighter — for then the star Sirius passes only a little
over the heads of death-marked men by day and takes a greater share of the night — at that time, timber cut with the axe is least prone to worm, as it sheds its leaves to the ground and stops putting out shoots. That is the time, then, to remember to cut your timber, fit for the season. Cut a mortar three feet across, a pestle measuring three cubits, an axle seven feet in length — that will suit it well
That's the way to do it. But if you want an eight-foot one, cut a mallet-head from the same wood too. Cut the plow-frame three spans long for a ten-palm cart. Bring plenty of bent timber home too — a plow-tree, whenever you find one, searching the mountain or the plowland, of holm-oak: that wood holds up best for oxen to plow with, once Athena's servant has
fitted it with pegs to the plow-beam and fastened it to the pole. Have two plows built and kept ready around the house, one all of a piece and one jointed, since that's far better: if you break one you can throw the other on the oxen. Poles of laurel or elm resist worms best, the frame should be oak, the plow-tree holm-oak. Keep two nine-year-old oxen, males, since their
strength is unspent then and they're at the peak of their prime — the best pair for work. They won't fight each other in the furrow, snap the plow, and leave the job undone right there. Let a vigorous man of forty follow along with them, one who's eaten a loaf broken into four pieces, eight slices, a man who keeps his mind on the work and drives a straight furrow, no longer
gazing around after his age-mates but keeping his heart on the task. No younger man does better at scattering the seed and avoiding sowing it twice, since a younger man's attention wanders after his companions. Pay attention, when you hear the crane's cry high up from the clouds, calling out year after year: it signals the time for plowing and shows the season
of winter rain. It bites the heart of the man with no oxen. That's the time to feed up the curved-horned oxen you keep at home, since it's easy to say, 'Give me a pair of oxen and a wagon,' and just as easy to be refused: 'I have work for my oxen.' A man rich in his own fancy talks of building a wagon, the fool, not even knowing that a wagon takes a hundred pieces of timber, which
he ought to have seen to and gathered at home beforehand. As soon as the plowing season first appears to mortals, get moving then, you and your slaves alike, plowing dry ground and wet alike through the plowing season, hurrying hard early, so your fields fill out. Plow in spring; but fallow ground turned in summer won't disappoint you. Sow the fallow field while
it's still light — fallow land wards off harm and soothes children's cries. Make your prayer to Zeus-of-the-soil and to holy Demeter, that Demeter's holy grain may ripen full and heavy, when you first begin plowing, once you grip the tip of the plow-handle and lay the goad across the straining backs of your oxen while they pull the yoke-peg by its straps. Let a small boy follow behind with a mattock making trouble
for the birds by burying the seed: good management is best for mortal men, bad management worst. This way, if it goes well, the grain-heads will bend down to the ground heavy with ripeness, if the Olympian himself grants a good end to it, and you'll sweep the cobwebs out of your storage jars; and I expect you'll be glad to draw on the food you have stored inside. You'll come to gray spring in comfort, and won't
look to others — someone else will be in need of you instead. But if you plow the shining earth at the solstice, you'll harvest sitting down, gathering little into your hand, binding the sheaves crosswise, covered in dust, not at all pleased, and you'll carry it home in a basket; few will admire you for it. The mind of aegis-bearing Zeus differs from one moment to the next, and it's hard for
mortal men to grasp. If you plow late, this remedy may help you: when the cuckoo first calls from the oak leaves and delights mortals over the boundless earth, then let Zeus rain for three days straight and not let up, neither overshooting the height of an ox's hoofprint nor falling short of it — that way the late plower can catch up with the early one.
Keep all this well in mind, and don't let it slip past you — neither spring coming on gray nor the rainy season in its time. Pass by the smith's bench and the warm gathering-place in winter weather, when the cold keeps men from their work; there a diligent man could add much to his household, rather than be caught by the helplessness of a hard winter together with
poverty, and end up pressing a swollen foot with a shrunken hand. The idle man, waiting on empty hope, in need of a livelihood, stores up trouble for himself in his heart. Hope is no good companion for a needy man sitting in the gathering-place, one who has no sure livelihood. Give your slaves their orders while it's still midsummer:
'Summer won't last forever — build your shelters.' Avoid the month of Lenaion, bad days all, hard on cattle, and the frosts that come biting the earth when Boreas blows, the harsh north wind that sweeps over horse-rearing Thrace and stirs up the wide sea as it blows; earth and forest groan. It flattens many tall oaks and thick firs
down onto the nurturing earth in the mountain glens, and the whole vast forest roars. Wild animals bristle and clamp their tails down under their bellies — even beasts wrapped in thick shaggy hide; yet the cold wind pierces them regardless, deep-furred chests and all. It goes right through an ox's hide, nothing stops it; it blows through a goat too,
long-haired as it is; but it can't get through flocks of sheep, since their fleece is so dense, that force of the north wind — though it does make an old man run for cover. It can't get through a soft-skinned young girl either, who stays indoors close by her dear mother, not yet knowing the works of golden Aphrodite; she bathes her tender body well, rubs herself
with oil, and lies down deep inside the house on a winter day, when the boneless one gnaws his own foot in his fireless house and miserable haunts — the sun shows him no pasture to head out to, but circles over the land and towns of dark-skinned men, and shines more slowly for all the Greeks. That's when the horned and hornless creatures of the woods,
gnashing their teeth pitifully, flee through the wooded thickets, and all of them have one thing on their mind: to find shelter, seeking out snug hideaways and rocky hollows. Then they go about like the three-legged man, whose back is bent and whose head looks down at the ground — like him they wander, avoiding the white snow. And then
put on, as I tell you, a covering for your body: a soft cloak and a tunic down to your feet; weave plenty of woof on a scant warp; wear that over you, so your hairs stay still and don't bristle up and stand on end all over your body. Bind sturdy sandals on your feet, cut to fit from the hide of a slaughtered ox, lined inside with felt. When the seasonal frost sets in, stitch together the skins of
firstborn kids with ox-sinew, to throw over your back as a shield against the rain. Wear a well-made felt cap on your head, so your ears don't get soaked, since the dawn is cold once the north wind has fallen, and at daybreak a mist rich with dew stretches from starry heaven over the earth, over the fields of
blessed men — mist that draws itself up from the ever-flowing rivers and is lifted high above the earth by a blast of wind, and sometimes rains toward evening, sometimes blows as a stiff wind when Thracian Boreas is driving the clouds along. Finish your work and get home ahead of it, so that a dark cloud from the sky never wraps around you, leaving your skin damp and soaking
your clothes through. Avoid it — this month is the harshest, wintry, hard on livestock and hard on people. Then let the oxen have half their usual ration, but let the man have more than his share of food, since the nights are long and give plenty of help. Keep watch on all this until the year runs its full course and the nights and days come even again, once the earth, mother of all, brings forth her mingled harvest once more.
When Zeus brings sixty days of winter to completion after the sun's turning, then Arcturus quits Ocean's holy stream and first rises brilliant in the dusk. After it the swallow, daughter of Pandion, mourning shrilly, rises into the light for men, at the start of new spring. Get ahead of her and prune your vines — that's the better way. But
when the House-Carrier climbs up the plants from the ground fleeing the Pleiades, that's when you should stop digging around the vines and instead sharpen your sickles and rouse your slaves; avoid shady resting-spots and sleeping in till dawn at harvest time, when the sun scorches the skin. Then hurry and bring the crop home, getting up
at first light, so your living is secure. Dawn takes a third share of the work for herself; dawn gets a man further along the road, and further along in his work too — dawn, which once it appears, sets many men on their way and puts the yoke on many oxen. But when the golden thistle blooms and the chirping cicada, perched in a tree, pours down its clear
song thick and fast from under its wings, in the season of wearying summer heat — that's when goats are at their fattest and wine is at its best, women are most eager for love, and men are at their weakest, since Sirius parches their heads and knees and their skin is dry from the heat. That's the time to have
shade under a rock and Biblian wine, a barley-cake soaked in milk, and milk from goats that are drying up, and the meat of a woodland-fed heifer that hasn't yet calved, and of firstborn kids; drink gleaming wine too, sitting in the shade, your heart full of food, your face turned toward the fresh-blowing west wind, and from a spring that runs ever clear and unmuddied pour three parts water, and
a fourth of wine. When mighty Orion first shows himself, set your servants to threshing out Demeter's sacred grain on a breezy threshing floor that runs smooth and round. Measure it out carefully and store it in jars; but once you have all your living safely stowed away inside the house, then I tell you to take on a hired man with no home of his own and look for a childless serving-woman
too — a serving-woman with a nursing calf underfoot is more trouble than she's worth. Keep a sharp-toothed dog as well, and don't stint its food, in case the man who sleeps by day comes and steals your goods from you. Bring in fodder and litter, so there's plenty on hand for the oxen and mules. Then let your slaves rest their knees a while and unyoke the oxen. When
Orion and Sirius reach the middle of the sky, and rosy-fingered Dawn looks upon Arcturus, then, Perses, cut every grape cluster and carry the harvest back to the house. Let the sun shine on them ten days and ten nights; keep them under shade five more; and when the sixth day comes, pour the gifts of glad-hearted Dionysus into your jars. But once the Pleiades and the Hyades
and mighty Orion set, then remember it's time to plow again — that's the fitting season for it, and so the year passes rightly beneath the earth. But if longing for rough seafaring takes hold of you, when the Pleiades, fleeing mighty Orion's strength, plunge into the misty sea, then all the winds rage in every direction; don't
keep your ship any longer on the wine-dark sea then, but remember to work the land instead, as I tell you. Haul your ship up on land and pack stones all around it, to hold against the force of the wet-blowing winds, and pull the drain-plug so Zeus's rain doesn't rot it. Store all the ship's gear properly inside your house, folding up the sail-wings of the sea-going vessel neatly,
and hang the well-built rudder up above the smoke. Wait yourself for the sailing season to come; and then drag your swift ship down to the sea, load a fitting cargo aboard, so you bring home a profit, just as my father and yours, great fool Perses, used to sail in ships, in need of a good living —
the same man who once came here too, crossing a great stretch of sea, leaving behind Aeolian Cyme, in a black ship, not fleeing wealth or riches or prosperity, but grim poverty, which Zeus gives to men. He settled near Helicon in a miserable village, Ascra — bad in winter, harsh in summer, never good at any time.
But you, Perses, remember to keep all your work in its proper season, above all when it comes to seafaring. Praise a small ship, but put your cargo in a big one; the bigger the load, the bigger the profit on profit will be, if the winds hold back their harmful blasts. Whenever you turn your restless heart toward trading and wish
get free of debts and cheerless hunger, then I will teach you the rhythms of the thundering sea, for all that sailing and ships are arts I never mastered. Never yet have I crossed the broad sea by ship, except that one passage from Aulis over to Euboea, where the Achaeans of old, held back by a long storm, mustered their great host out of sacred Greece against Troy, land of lovely women. There I crossed over to Chalcis for the games held for wise Amphidamas; his great-hearted sons had set out many prizes already announced. There I say I won the contest with a hymn and carried off a tripod with handles. I dedicated it to the Muses of Helicon, on the spot where they first set me on the path of clear song. That is the whole
of my experience with well-pegged ships. Even so I will tell you the mind of aegis-bearing Zeus, for the Muses taught me to sing a song beyond words. For fifty days after the solstice, when the toilsome season of summer comes to its end, is the seasonable time for mortals to sail. In that season your ship will not be smashed, and the sea will not take your crew, unless
Poseidon the earth-shaker or Zeus, king of the immortals, deliberately wishes to destroy them; for the outcome of good and evil alike rests with them. At that time the breezes blow steady and the sea is harmless. Then put your trust in the winds, drag your fast ship down into the water, and stow all your freight aboard, but hurry
to sail home again as fast as you can. Do not wait for the new wine and the autumn rain and the oncoming winter and the fierce blasts of the South Wind, which stirs up the sea in company with the heavy autumn rain of Zeus and makes the sea rough going. There is another sailing season for men, in spring: when a man first sees
as many leaves appear on the topmost branch of a fig tree as the footprint a crow makes when it steps, then the sea is fit to be crossed. This is the spring sailing. I myself do not praise it, for it is not to my liking; it is a snatched, hasty passage — you would have a hard time escaping disaster in it. Yet people even do this, out of thoughtlessness, for money
is life itself to poor mortals. But it is a dreadful thing to die among the waves. I urge you to consider all this carefully in your mind, as I tell it to you. Do not put your whole livelihood aboard hollow ships; leave the greater part behind and load the lesser part as cargo. For it is a terrible fate when calamity overtakes a man out on the swelling sea. It is dreadful too if you
load too heavy a burden onto your wagon and break the axle, so that the goods are ruined. Keep to due measure; timing is best in everything.
Bring a wife home to your house when you are of a ripe age, neither falling far short of thirty years nor going much beyond it; this is the season for marriage. Let her be a woman four years into her ripeness, and wed her in the fifth. Choose a maiden, so that you may school her in good ways yourself. Best of all, marry the one who lives nearest you, examining everything closely, so that your marriage does not become a joke to your neighbors. For no prize a man carries off surpasses a good wife, and none is more bone-chilling than a bad one, a dinner-ambusher, the kind who
roasts her husband without a torch, strong as he may be, and delivers him over to a raw old age. Be careful always to give the blessed immortals their due honor. Do not put a comrade on the same footing as your own brother; yet if you do, never be the one who wrongs him first. And do not lie just to please the tongue. But if he starts it, either by
saying something offensive or by doing something, pay him back twice over, remembering it well. But if he wants to come back to friendship again and is willing to make amends, accept him; a worthless man makes now this friend, now that, but do not let your own good name be shamed by mere appearances. Do not be called a man of many guests nor a man of none, nor a companion of the wicked, nor
a slanderer of good men. Never dare to reproach a man with soul-destroying poverty, which is the gift of the everlasting blessed gods.
The best treasure a man can have on his tongue is thrift with it, and the greatest grace comes from speech used in due measure. If you speak ill of someone, you may soon hear worse said of yourself. Do not be surly at a feast shared by many guests
held in common, for then the pleasure is greatest and the cost least. Never pour a libation of gleaming wine to Zeus at dawn with unwashed hands, nor to any other immortal; they do not listen then, but spit back your prayers. Do not urinate standing up facing the sun; and remember, after it sets and before it rises again, do not do so on the road
or off the road while walking. Night-time is the province of the blessed ones. The devout man of sound understanding does it sitting down, or else goes to the wall of a well-fenced yard. Do not expose yourself, soiled with the mark of intercourse, indoors by the hearth, but avoid that. Do not beget children on your return from an ill-omened funeral,
but only after a feast in honor of the immortals. Never cross the fair-flowing water of an ever-running river on foot until you have gazed into its beautiful current and prayed, rinsing your hands in the bright, delightful stream. If a man fords a river with hands unwashed and evil in his heart, the gods grow indignant at him and send him sufferings afterward. At a rich feast in honor of the gods, do not cut off
the withered part from the green with bright iron. Never place the wine-ladle on top of the mixing bowl while people are drinking; a deadly fate is fixed upon that. When building a house, do not leave it unfinished, or a hoarse-cawing crow may perch and croak on it. Do not eat or wash from pots that have not been consecrated by sacrifice, for there is a penalty attached to that too. Do not let a boy of twelve
days or twelve months sit on things that should not be moved — that too carries the same kind of penalty, for it unmans a man. A man should not brighten his skin by bathing in water a woman has used, for there is a harsh penalty attached to that too, for a time. When you come upon burning sacrifices, do not mock the rites in scorn; a god resents that too. Never
urinate at the mouths of rivers as they flow to the sea, nor at their springs; avoid that entirely. Do not defecate there either; that is not good for you. Do as I say, and guard carefully against the ill report of men. For rumor is a bad thing — light and very easy to raise, but heavy to bear and hard to put down again. No rumor
ever dies away completely once many people have spread it abroad; it too is in some sense a god. Watch carefully over the days that come from Zeus and mete them out properly to your household servants; the thirtieth of the month is best for overseeing work and dividing out rations, for these are days that come from Zeus of the deep counsel, when people
judge truly and observe them rightly. First, the fourth, and the seventh are sacred days, for on the seventh Leto bore Apollo of the golden sword; the eighth and the ninth, two days of the waxing month, are especially good for mortal labors; and the eleventh and twelfth are both good days, one for shearing sheep and the other for gathering the fruit of good cheer.
The twelfth surpasses the eleventh by far, since that is the day when the air-floating spider spins her threads in broad daylight, while the wise one heaps up her pile; on it a woman should raise her loom and set her work going. On the thirteenth of the waxing month avoid beginning to sow seed, though it is the best day for setting out young plants. The middle sixth is quite
unfavorable for plants, but good for begetting a son; it is not favorable for a girl, either to be born on it or to be given in marriage. The first sixth, likewise, does not suit a girl's birth; rather it favors the cutting of kids and lambs and the building of a pen around the flock, a mild day. It is good for begetting a son, and a boy born then would love
to say cutting things, lies, and beguiling words, and secret whisperings. When the month's eighth day comes, cut the boar and the deep-bellowing bull; the twelfth is the day for cutting the toil-enduring mules. On the great twentieth, in the full light of day, a wise man is born, for he has a mind stored with much good sense. The tenth is good for begetting a son, and for a girl
the middle fourth; on that day tame with a gentling hand the sheep and the shambling, curved-horned oxen, and the sharp-toothed dog, and the hard-working mules. But guard against the fourth day at both waning and waxing of the month, taking pains in your heart, for it brings sorrows that gnaw the spirit; it is a day fully appointed for such things. On the fourth of the month lead a wife home to your house,
having first chosen the birds that are best for this business. Avoid the fifth days, for they are harsh and dreadful; on the fifth, they say, the Furies attended the birth of Oath, whom Strife bore as a bane to those who swear falsely. On the middle seventh, winnowing well the sacred grain of Demeter on the smooth threshing floor, cast it down carefully; and let the woodcutter cut timbers for house-building and the many pieces of timber
fit for ships. On the fourth day begin building slender ships. The middle ninth improves toward evening; the very first ninth of the month is entirely harmless for people, for it is a good day both for planting and for being born, for a man or a woman, and it is never an altogether unlucky day. Few
know that the thrice-nine of the month is the best day to open a wine-jar, and to lay the yoke upon oxen, upon mules, upon fast-running horses, and to drag a swift many-benched ship down to the wine-dark sea; few call it by its true name. On the fourth open the wine-jar; the middle of the month is a day sacred above all others. Few again know that
the twentieth of the month is best as morning comes on; toward evening it is worse. These days are a great boon to people on earth, but the others fall between, bringing no fixed fate, giving nothing.
Different people praise different days, and few really know them. At times a day acts like a stepmother, at other times like a mother. Blessed and fortunate is the man who, knowing all this, does his work with no offense against the immortals, reading the omens of birds and avoiding transgressions. ---