The Consolation of Philosophy · 69 of 78

Book V, Song I: Chance

In the rugged Persian highlands, Where the masters of the bow Skill to feign a flight, and, fleeing, Hurl their darts and pierce the foe; There the Tigris and Euphrates At one source their waters blend, Soon to draw apart, and plainward Each its separate way to wend. When once more their waters mingle In a channel deep and wide, All the flotsam comes together That is borne upon the tide: Ships, and trunks of trees, uprooted In the torrent’s wild career, Meet, as ’mid the swirling waters Chance their random way may steer. Yet the shelving of the channel And the flowing water’s force Guides each movement, and determines Every floating fragment’s course. Thus, where’er the drift of hazard Seems most unrestrained to flow, Chance herself is reined and bitted, And the curb of law doth know.