Chapter 3. Constantine, Blessed in His Homeland

¹ What is there that does not conspire to give you the most fortunate possible start in life? You have as your homeland a royal city, the greatest and loveliest of cities—one at whose climate not even Momus himself could find fault,[1] so well is it tempered to the seasons, and so richly does it enjoy a happy and well-balanced air. Here no winter rises up in savage revolt, overstepping its bounds to attack us with Scythian fury, freezing the very blood in the veins of living creatures and binding the rivers in crystal chains; nor does summer, with its enervating heat, sap all our strength, rousing the Dog Star to a fever that assails the body’s health. Rather, the winter here is such as to brace our strength and draw together the battle-line of the elements, not letting it be wholly dispersed and scattered; and the summer such as to give the body warmth and let its waste matter breathe out. And the other seasons take after these two, their sisters, formed in proportion after their likeness. And have you not noticed the fruit of the trees that we, the fortunate inhabitants of this blessed city, delight in? They are large enough that those who see them give no thought to how sweet they taste; and yet so sweet to the taste that, in that respect, their size is forgotten. And so they surpass the fruit that is large elsewhere by their sweetness; the fruit that excels elsewhere in sweetness, by showing an extraordinary size; and the fruit praised elsewhere for both, by being the offspring of the Queen of Cities.