The Praise of Folly

The Praise of Folly, by Desiderius
Erasmus

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Title: The Praise of Folly
Author: Desiderius Erasmus

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DESIDERIUS ERASMUS
THE PRAISE OF FOLLY

Translated by John Wilson 1668

ERASMUS OF ROTTERDAM to his friend THOMAS MORE, health:
As I was coming awhile since out of Italy for England, that I might not
waste all that time I was to sit on horseback in foolish and illiterate
fables, I chose rather one while to revolve with myself something of
our common studies, and other while to enjoy the remembrance of my
friends, of whom I left here some no less learned than pleasant. Among
these you, my More, came first in my mind, whose memory, though
absent yourself, gives me such delight in my absence, as when present
with you I ever found in your company; than which, let me perish if in
all my life I ever met with anything more delectable. And therefore,
being satisfied that something was to be done, and that that time was no

wise proper for any serious matter, I resolved to make some sport with
the praise of folly. But who the devil put that in your head? you'll say.
The first thing was your surname of More, which comes so near the
word Moriae (folly) as you are far from the thing. And that you are so,
all the world will clear you. In the next place, I conceived this exercise
of wit would not be least approved by you; inasmuch as you are wont
to be delighted with such kind of mirth, that is to say, neither unlearned,
if I am not mistaken, nor altogether insipid, and in the whole course of
your life have played the part of a Democritus. And though such is the
excellence of your judgment that it was ever contrary to that of the
people's, yet such is your incredible affability and sweetness of temper
that you both can and delight to carry yourself to all men a man of all
hours. Wherefore you will not only with good will accept this small
declamation, but take upon you the defense of it, for as much as being
dedicated to you, it is now no longer mine but yours. But perhaps there
will not be wanting some wranglers that may cavil and charge me,
partly that these toys are lighter than may become a divine, and partly
more biting than may beseem the modesty of a Christian, and
consequently exclaim that I resemble the ancient comedy, or another
Lucian, and snarl at everything. But I would have them whom the
lightness or foolery of the argument may offend to consider that mine is
not the first of this kind, but the same thing that has been often
practiced even by great authors: when Homer, so many ages since, did
the like with the battle of frogs and mice; Virgil, with the gnat and
puddings; Ovid, with the nut; when Polycrates and his corrector
Isocrates extolled tyranny; Glauco, injustice; Favorinus, deformity and
the quartan ague; Synescius, baldness; Lucian, the fly and flattery;
when Seneca made such sport with Claudius' canonizations; Plutarch,
with his dialogue between Ulysses and Gryllus; Lucian and Apuleius,
with the ass; and some other, I know not who, with the hog that made
his last will and testament, of which also even St. Jerome makes
mention. And therefore if they please, let them suppose I played at
tables for my diversion, or if they had rather have it so, that