To Donatus 3

When I lay in darkness and blind night, and when I was tossed about on the sea of the restless world, wavering and doubtful with wandering steps, ignorant of my own life, a stranger to truth and light, I thought it very difficult and hard, given my habits at that time, what the divine mercy was promising for my salvation: that a man could be born again, and that, given life for a new life by the bath of saving water, he could put off what he had been before, and, though the structure of the body remained, change the man in soul and mind. 'How is so great a conversion possible,' I said, 'that what has either hardened as inborn in the condition of our natural matter, or grown in through long use and the old age of habit, should be put off suddenly and swiftly? These things have settled deep with a root far down. When does he learn frugality who is accustomed to lavish dinners and ample feasts? And he who was conspicuous in costly clothing and shone in gold and purple, when does he lower himself to common and simple dress? He who delighted in the fasces and honours cannot be a private and inglorious man. This one, thronged by crowds of clients, honoured by a more numerous escort of an attentive train, thinks it a punishment to be alone. With their clinging allurements, it must be that, as always, drunkenness invites, pride puffs up, anger inflames, greed disturbs, cruelty goads, ambition delights, lust hurls headlong.'