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Updated: May 12, 2025
Of these, the highest is called Clotho, the next Atropos, and the lowest, Lachesis; who, receiving the celestial influences and efficacies of her sisters, transmits and fastens them to the terrestrial things which are under her government.
Not so When, the tower of his country, in death falls the brave; Thrice hallowed his name among all, high or low, As with blessings alive, so with tears in the grave. Trans. by H. N. COLERIDGE. Clotho and Lachesis, whose boundless sway, With Atropos, both men and gods obey.
The Fates, too, were there: sad Clotho, twirling her spindle; unloving Lachesis, with wrinkled lips ready to speak the fatal word; and pitiless Atropos, holding in her hand the unsparing shears. And around the table passed the youthful and joy-giving Hebe, pouring out rich draughts of nectar for the guests.
To friends, to foes; which skill men call Civility." The Fates were also three Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. Their office was to spin the thread of human destiny, and they were armed with shears, with which they cut it off when they pleased. The Erinnyes, or Furies, were three goddesses who punished crimes by their secret stings.
Here we have material bodies in a material world there, perhaps, ether bodies in an ether world. There is no indecency in reasonable speculation and curiosity about the life to come. One end of the thread is between our fingers, but we are haunted for the most part by the snap of Atropos' shears. Socrates faced death with the magnificent calm bred of dignified familiarity.
Lincoln's policy in this critical affair has not been such as to satisfy those who demand an heroic treatment for even the most trifling occasion, and who will not cut their coat according to their cloth, unless they can borrow the scissors of Atropos, it has been at least not unworthy of the long-headed king of Ithaca. Mr. Lincoln had the choice of Bassanio offered him.
The more I say, the more thy worth I stain, Thy fame and praise is far beyond my strain, O Zutphen, Zutphen that most fatal City Made famous by thy death, much more the pity: Ah! in his blooming prime death pluckt this rose E're he was ripe, his thread cut Atropos. Thus man is born to dye, and dead is he, Brave Hector, by the walls of Troy we see.
And lastly, with Pierian pipe he was making the pasture lands resound, black Atropos, alas, broke off the work of joy. For him ungrateful Florence bore the dismal fruit of exile, harsh fatherland to her own bard. But Ravenna's piety rejoices to have gathered him into the bosom of Guido Novello, her illustrious chief. So far Boccaccio.
Awaking, he heard them accurately; and Atropos might be persuaded to pity as soon as he to pardon where he found just fault. The prayers of cockering mothers prevailed with him just as much as the requests of indulgent fathers, rather increasing than mitigating his severity on their offending children.
He had recovered his lucidity of vision, and his impulses faded before it like mist. He saw life again as it was, an incomplete and shabby business, a patchwork of torn and ravelled effort. Everywhere the shears of Atropos were busy, and never could the cut threads be joined again. He took his wife's hand and bent over it ceremoniously. It lay in his like a stone.
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