hat, without external compulsion, forego the will to live, and of
their own accord hasten to destruction. For every creature diligently
pursues the end of self-preservation, and shuns death and destruction!
As to herbs and trees, and inanimate things generally, I am altogether
in doubt what to think.'

'And yet there is no possibility of question about this either, since
thou seest how herbs and trees grow in places suitable for them, where,
as far as their nature admits, they cannot quickly wither and die. Some
spring up in the plains, others in the mountains; some grow in marshes,
others cling to rocks; and others, again, find a fertile soil in the
barren sands; and if you try to transplant these elsewhere, they wither
away. Nature gives to each the soil that suits it, and uses her
diligence to prevent any of them dying, so long as it is possible for
them to continue alive. Why do they all draw their nourishment from
roots as from a mouth dipped into the earth, and distribute the strong
bark over the pith? Why are all the softer parts like the pith deeply
encased within, while the external parts have the strong texture of
wood, and outside of all is the bark to resist the weather's
inclemency, like a champion stout in endurance? Again, how great is
nature's diligence to secure universal propagation by multiplying seed!
Who does not know all these to be contrivances, not only for the present
maintenance of a species, but for its lasting continuance, generation
after generation, for ever? And do not also the things believed
inanimate on like grounds of reason seek each what is proper to itself?
Why do the flames shoot lightly upward, while the earth presses downward
with its weight, if it is not that these motions and situations are
suitable to their respective natures? Moreover, each several thing is
preserved by that which is agreeable to its nature, even as it is
destroyed by things inimical. Things solid like stones resist
disintegration by the close adhesion of their parts. Things fluid like
air and water yield easily to what divides them, but swiftly flow back
and mingle with those parts from which they have been severed, while
fire, again, refuses to be cut at all. And we are not now treating of
the voluntary motions of an intelligent soul, but of the drift of
nature. Even so is it that we digest our food without thinking about it,
and draw our breath unconsciously in sleep; nay, even in living
creatures the love