Tertullian · a new plain-English translation from the original language
We know, from the Lord's own teaching, that flesh is feeble while spirit is eager. So let us not flatter ourselves simply because the Lord admitted that flesh is feeble. He declared beforehand that spirit is eager, precisely to show which of the two owes obedience to which — namely, that the flesh must serve the spirit, the weaker the stronger, so that it, too, might draw strength from the spirit's strength.
Let the spirit take counsel with the flesh about their shared salvation — thinking now not of the discomforts of prison, but of the contest and the battle itself. The flesh will perhaps be afraid: of the heavy sword, of the towering cross, of the fury of beasts, of the ultimate torment of fire, of every device the torturer's ingenuity can supply.
But let the spirit set this against itself and against the flesh: bitter as these things are, still many have met them with an even mind — indeed have sought them out unasked, for the sake of reputation and glory; and not men only, but women too, so that you, blessed women, might likewise measure up to your own sex.
It would take too long to list one by one all those who have finished themselves off with the sword, driven by their own resolve. Among women, close at hand is Lucretia, who, having suffered the violence of rape, drove a knife into herself before the eyes of her kinsmen, to secure the glory of her chastity. Mucius burned his own right hand on the altar, so that this deed of his would be remembered.
Philosophers did no less: Heraclitus, who smeared himself with cow-dung and shook it off into death; likewise Empedocles, who leapt into the fires of Mount Etna; and Peregrine, not long ago, who threw himself onto his own pyre — and women too have despised fire: Dido, so as not to be forced to marry after her beloved husband; likewise Hasdrubal's wife, who, as Carthage was already burning, rather than see her husband beg mercy from Scipio, flung herself with her children into the flames of her homeland.
Regulus, a Roman commander taken captive by the Carthaginians, refused to be traded, one man, for many Carthaginian prisoners, and chose instead to be returned to the enemy — where, packed into a kind of chest studded all around on the outside with spikes, he felt as many crosses as there were nails. A woman went willingly to meet wild beasts — and not just any beasts, but asps, serpents more terrible than bull or bear, which Cleopatra set upon herself, rather than fall into the hands of her enemy.
"But," you say, "the fear of death is nothing next to the fear of torture." Did the Athenian courtesan, then, yield to the executioner? She, aware of the conspiracy, was tortured for it by the tyrant; she did not betray her fellow conspirators, and in the end bit off her own tongue and spat it, chewed, into the tyrant's face — to let him know his torments could achieve nothing against her, however much further he carried on.
For it is no secret that among the Spartans today the greatest festival is the diamastigosis — that is, the flogging. In this sacred rite, before the altar, the noblest young men are beaten with whips, while their parents and kinsmen stand by, urging them on to hold out. It is counted a badge of honor and glory — the higher honor, indeed, if the soul yields to the blows before the body does.
Well then: if earthly glory is granted this much power over the vigor of body and soul — to make a man despise sword, fire, cross, beasts, torments, all for the reward of human praise — I can fairly say these sufferings are a modest price for winning heavenly glory and the reward of God. If glass fetches this much, what should a true pearl be worth? Who, then, would not most gladly pay as much for the true thing as others pay for the false?