Boethius was born in Rome in the late fifth century AD at around the time the last Western emperor was deposed. A Christian, he also had a keen scholarly interest in paganism, particularly ancient Greek philosophy, which he cultivated in his work. Boethius saw Italy come under the sway of an Ostrogothic king named Theodoric, under whom he served as magister officiorum (Master of Offices) until he was arrested on suspicion of being implicated in treasonous acts. It was while he was in his cell that Boethius wrote his Consolation of Philosophy. The dialogue, in which Boethius converses with a personification of Philosophy, was especially popular in the Middle Ages and Renaissance. Queen Elizabeth I produced the translation from which this extract comes in 1593 when she was sixty years old. Her decision to translate the text (provided here in a modern-spelling version) has sometimes been seen as a reflection of her anxieties and frustrations upon hearing that year of the conversion of King Henri IV of France to Catholicism. Boethius was ultimately tortured and executed.

Meter 1

[…]

The glory once of happy, greeny youth,

Now Fates of grunting age, my comfort all.

Unlooked-for Age, hied by mishaps, is come,

And Sorrow bids his time to add withal;

Unseasoned, hoary hairs upon my head are poured,

And loosèd skin in feeble body shakes.

Blessèd Death, that in sweetest years refrains,

But, oft called, comes to the woeful wights;

O with how deaf ear she from wretched, wries,

And wailing eyes, cruel, to shut denies.

While guileful Fortune with vading goods did cheer,

My life well nigh the doleful hour bereaved;

When her false look a cloud hath changed,

My wretched life, thankless abode protracts.

Why me so oft, my friends, have you happy called?

Who falleth down, in steady step yet never stood.

Prose 1

While of all this, alone in silence I bethought me, and tears-full

complaint in style’s office meant, over my head to stand a woman did

appear. Of stately face, with flaming eyes of insight above the

common worth of men; of fresh color and unwon strength, though

yet so old she were that of our age she seemed not be one. Her stature

such as scarce could be discerned, for somewhile she scanted her to

the common stature of men, straight she seemed with crown of head

the heavens to strike; and lifting up the same higher, the heavens

themselves she entered, beguiling the sight of lookers-on.

Her weeds they were of smallest threads, perfect for fine

workmanship and lasting substance as, after by herself I knew, was by

her hands all wrought. Whose form, as to smoky images is wont, a

certain dimness of despised antiquity overwhelmed. Of these weeds,

in the lowest skirts π, in the upper side a θ, was read, all woven.

And between both letters, ladder-wise, certain steps were marked, by

which, from lowest to highest element, ascent there was. Yet that self