Sicne Augustinus locutus?

Roma locuta, causa finita est: "Rome has spoken, the case is ended." This famous dictum is attributed to St Augustine, but in fact only the latter half of it is from him. What he actually says, in Sermon 131, is the following:

Iam enim de hac causa duo concilia missa sunt ad Sedem Apostolicam; inde etiam rescripta venerunt. Causa finita est; utinam finiatur error! "Two delegations have already been sent about this case to the Apostolic See; and rescripts have come back from there. The case is ended; would that the error were ended!"

Of course, what Augustine says about the rescripts coming from the Holy See is tantamount to "Roma locuta", but those words he does not use. However, the final words quoted above deserve wider circulation. So perhaps we should spread abroad the following, utterly genuine Augustinian quote:

Causa finita est: utinam finiatur error!

May all the good decrees from Rome on the litugy, etc., actually be put into practice.

Sermon 131 continues, and concludes, with the following beautiful wish:

Ergo ut advertant monemus, ut instruantur docemus, ut mutentur oremus. Conversi ad Dominum... "Therefore we admonish that they may pay heed, we teach that they may be instructed, we pray that they may be changed. Turned towards the Lord..."

More Solitude

Solitude

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow it's mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all.
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life's gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Pope on Solitude

I.
How happy he, who free from care
The rage of courts, and noise of towns;
Contented breathes his native air,
In his own grounds.

II.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

III.
Blest! who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide swift away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

IV.
Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix'd; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.

V.
Thus let me live, unheard, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.