The Emptiness of Fortune's Gifts

Thereafter for awhile she remained silent; and when she had restored my flagging attention by a moderate pause in her discourse, she thus began: 'If I have thoroughly ascertained the character and causes of thy sickness, thou art pining with regretful longing for thy former fortune. It is the change, as thou deemest, of this fortune that hath so wrought upon thy mind. Well do I understand that Siren's manifold wiles, the fatal charm of the friendship she pretends for her victims, so long as she is scheming to entrap them—how she unexpectedly abandons them and leaves them overwhelmed with insupportable grief. Bethink thee of her nature, character, and deserts, and thou wilt soon acknowledge that in her thou hast neither possessed, nor hast thou lost, aught of any worth. Methinks I need not spend much pains in bringing this to thy mind, since, even when she was still with thee, even while she was caressing thee, thou usedst to assail her in manly terms, to rebuke her, with maxims drawn from my holy treasure-house. But all sudden changes of circumstances bring inevitably a certain commotion of spirit. Thus it hath come to pass that thou also for awhile hast been parted from thy mind's tranquillity. But it is time for thee to take and drain a draught, soft and pleasant to the taste, which, as it penetrates within, may prepare the way for stronger potions. Wherefore I call to my aid the sweet persuasiveness of Rhetoric, who then only walketh in the right way when she forsakes not my instructions, and Music, my handmaid, I bid to join with her singing, now in lighter, now in graver strain.

After that, she remained silent for a while. The brief pause restored my fading attention, and then she began: ‘If I have fully understood the nature and causes of your illness, you are longing for your former fortune. You believe that the change in your fortune has so troubled your mind. I know well the many tricks of that Siren, Fortune. I know the deadly charm of the friendship she pretends to offer her victims while she plots to trap them. I know, too, how she suddenly abandons them and leaves them overwhelmed with unbearable grief. Think of her nature, her character, and what she deserves. You will soon admit that in her you never possessed anything of value, nor have you lost anything of value. ‘I do not think I need to work hard to remind you of this. Even when Fortune was still with you and caressing you, you used to attack her in manly terms. You rebuked her with sayings drawn from my sacred store of wisdom. But all sudden changes in circumstances inevitably disturb the spirit. So you too have lost your peace of mind for a while. ‘But now it is time for you to drink a gentle, pleasant medicine. As it works within you, it may prepare the way for stronger remedies. So I call on the sweet persuasiveness of Rhetoric to help me. She follows the right path only when she remains faithful to my teachings. I also ask Music, my handmaid, to join her with song, now lighter, now more solemn.

'What is it, then, poor mortal, that hath cast thee into lamentation and mourning? Some strange, unwonted sight, methinks, have thine eyes seen. Thou deemest Fortune to have changed towards thee; thou mistakest. Such ever were her ways, ever such her nature. Rather in her very mutability hath she preserved towards thee her true constancy. Such was she when she loaded thee with caresses, when she deluded thee with the allurements of a false happiness. Thou hast found out how changeful is the face of the blind goddess. She who still veils herself from others hath fully discovered to thee her whole character. If thou likest her, take her as she is, and do not complain. If thou abhorrest her perfidy, turn from her in disdain, renounce her, for baneful are her delusions. The very thing which is now the cause of thy great grief ought to have brought thee tranquillity. Thou hast been forsaken by one of whom no one can be sure that she will not forsake him. Or dost thou indeed set value on a happiness that is certain to depart? Again I ask, Is Fortune's presence dear to thee if she cannot be trusted to stay, and though she will bring sorrow when she is gone? Why, if she cannot be kept at pleasure, and if her flight overwhelms with calamity, what is this fleeting visitant but a token of coming trouble? Truly it is not enough to look only at what lies before the eyes; wisdom gauges the issues of things, and this same mutability, with its two aspects, makes the threats of Fortune void of terror, and her caresses little to be desired. Finally, thou oughtest to bear with whatever takes place within the boundaries of Fortune's demesne, when thou hast placed thy head beneath her yoke. But if thou wishest to impose a law of staying and departing on her whom thou hast of thine own accord chosen for thy mistress, art thou not acting wrongfully, art thou not embittering by impatience a lot which thou canst not alter? Didst thou commit thy sails to the winds, thou wouldst voyage not whither thy intention was to go, but whither the winds drave thee; didst thou entrust thy seed to the fields, thou wouldst set off the fruitful years against the barren. Thou hast resigned thyself to the sway of Fortune; thou must submit to thy mistress's caprices. What! art thou verily striving to stay the swing of the revolving wheel? Oh, stupidest of mortals, if it takes to standing still, it ceases to be the wheel of Fortune.'

'What is it, then, poor mortal, that has made you grieve and mourn? I think your eyes must have seen something strange and unfamiliar. You believe Fortune has changed toward you, but you are mistaken. These have always been her ways, and this has always been her nature. In her very changeability, she has remained true to herself in her dealings with you. She was the same when she showered you with affection and deceived you with the promise of a false happiness. You have discovered how changeable the face of the blind goddess is. She still hides herself from others, but she has revealed her whole character to you. If you like her, accept her as she is and do not complain. If you hate her treachery, turn from her in contempt and renounce her, for her illusions are harmful. The very thing that now causes your great grief should have brought you peace. You have been abandoned by someone who might abandon anyone. Or do you really value a happiness that is certain to leave you? Again I ask, do you cherish Fortune's presence when you cannot trust her to stay, though her departure will bring you sorrow? If you cannot keep her as long as you please, and her departure overwhelms you with disaster, what is this fleeting visitor but a sign of trouble to come? It is not enough to look only at what lies before your eyes. Wisdom judges how things will turn out. Fortune's changeability has two sides, and it makes her threats less frightening and her favors less desirable. Finally, you should bear whatever happens in Fortune's domain, since you have placed your head under her yoke. But suppose you want to make rules about when she stays and when she leaves. You chose her as your mistress of your own free will. Are you not acting unjustly? Are you not making a situation you cannot change more bitter by your impatience? If you set sail in the wind, you would travel not where you intended, but where the wind drove you. If you sowed seed in the fields, you would balance the fruitful years against the barren ones. You have given yourself over to Fortune's rule, so you must submit to your mistress's whims. What! Are you really trying to stop the turning wheel? Oh, most foolish of mortals, if it stands still, it is no longer the wheel of Fortune.'

'Now I would fain also reason with thee a little in Fortune's own words. Do thou observe whether her contentions be just. "Man," she might say, "why dost thou pursue me with thy daily complainings? What wrong have I done thee? What goods of thine have I taken from thee? Choose an thou wilt a judge, and let us dispute before him concerning the rightful ownership of wealth and rank. If thou succeedest in showing that any one of these things is the true property of mortal man, I freely grant those things to be thine which thou claimest. When nature brought thee forth out of thy mother's womb, I took thee, naked and destitute as thou wast, I cherished thee with my substance, and, in the partiality of my favour for thee, I brought thee up somewhat too indulgently, and this it is which now makes thee rebellious against me. I surrounded thee with a royal abundance of all those things that are in my power. Now it is my pleasure to draw back my hand. Thou hast reason to thank me for the use of what was not thine own; thou hast no right to complain, as if thou hadst lost what was wholly thine. Why, then, dost bemoan thyself? I have done thee no violence. Wealth, honour, and all such things are placed under my control. My handmaidens know their mistress; with me they come, and at my going they depart. I might boldly affirm that if those things the loss of which thou lamentest had been thine, thou couldst never have lost them. Am I alone to be forbidden to do what I will with my own? Unrebuked, the skies now reveal the brightness of day, now shroud the daylight in the darkness of night; the year may now engarland the face of the earth with flowers and fruits, now disfigure it with storms and cold. The sea is permitted to invite with smooth and tranquil surface to-day, to-morrow to roughen with wave and storm. Shall man's insatiate greed bind me to a constancy foreign to my character? This is my art, this the game I never cease to play. I turn the wheel that spins. I delight to see the high come down and the low ascend. Mount up, if thou wilt, but only on condition that thou wilt not think it a hardship to come down when the rules of my game require it. Wert thou ignorant of my character? Didst not know how Crœsus, King of the Lydians, erstwhile the dreaded rival of Cyrus, was afterwards pitiably consigned to the flame of the pyre, and only saved by a shower sent from heaven? Has it 'scaped thee how Paullus paid a meed of pious tears to the misfortunes of King Perseus, his prisoner? What else do tragedies make such woeful outcry over save the overthrow of kingdoms by the indiscriminate strokes of Fortune? Didst thou not learn in thy childhood how there stand at the threshold of Zeus 'two jars,' 'the one full of blessings, the other of calamities'? How if thou hast drawn over-liberally from the good jar? What if not even now have I departed wholly from thee? What if this very mutability of mine is a just ground for hoping better things? But listen now, and cease to let thy heart consume away with fretfulness, nor expect to live on thine own terms in a realm that is common to all.'

'Now I would also like to reason with you a little in Fortune's own words. Consider whether her arguments are fair. "Man," she might say, "why do you complain about me every day? What wrong have I done you? What possessions of yours have I taken from you? Choose a judge if you wish, and let us argue before him about who rightfully owns wealth and rank. If you can show that any of these things truly belongs to mortal man, I freely grant you the things you claim. "When nature brought you from your mother's womb, I took you in, naked and destitute as you were. I cared for you with my own resources. Because I favored you, I raised you a little too indulgently, and that is why you now rebel against me. I surrounded you with a royal abundance of everything in my power to give. Now I choose to withdraw my hand. You have reason to thank me for the use of what was not your own. You have no right to complain as if you had lost what was entirely yours. "Why, then, do you lament? I have done you no violence. Wealth, honor, and all such things are under my control. My handmaidens know their mistress. They come with me and leave when I go. I might boldly say that if the things you mourn had been yours, you could never have lost them. "Am I alone forbidden to do as I wish with what is mine? No one rebukes the skies when they reveal the brightness of day and then cover it with the darkness of night. The year may dress the earth in flowers and fruits, then disfigure it with storms and cold. The sea is free to invite us with a smooth, calm surface today and grow rough with waves and storms tomorrow. Must man's insatiable greed bind me to a constancy foreign to my nature? "This is my art, the game I never stop playing. I turn the spinning wheel. I delight in seeing the high brought down and the low raised up. Climb up if you wish, but only on one condition. You must not think it a hardship to come down when the rules of my game require it. "Did you not know my nature? Did you not know about Crœsus, King of the Lydians? He was once the feared rival of Cyrus. Later, he was pitifully condemned to the flames of a funeral pyre and saved only by a shower sent from heaven. Have you forgotten how Paullus shed dutiful tears for the misfortunes of King Perseus, his prisoner? What else do tragedies lament so bitterly but the overthrow of kingdoms by Fortune's indiscriminate blows? "Did you not learn in childhood about the 'two jars' at the threshold of Zeus, 'one full of blessings, the other of calamities'? What if you have drawn too generously from the good jar? What if I have not even now entirely abandoned you? What if my very changeability is a good reason to hope for better things? But listen now, and stop letting your heart waste away with worry. Do not expect to live on your own terms in a realm shared by all.'

'If Fortune should plead thus against thee, assuredly thou wouldst not have one word to offer in reply; or, if thou canst find any justification of thy complainings, thou must show what it is. I will give thee space to speak.'

'If Fortune argued against you in this way, you surely would have nothing to say in reply. Or, if you can justify your complaints, you must show how. I will give you a chance to speak.'

Then said I: 'Verily, thy pleas are plausible—yea, steeped in the honeyed sweetness of music and rhetoric. But their charm lasts only while they are sounding in the ear; the sense of his misfortunes lies deeper in the heart of the wretched. So, when the sound ceases to vibrate upon the air, the heart's indwelling sorrow is felt with renewed bitterness.'

Then I said: 'Your arguments are convincing, indeed, steeped in the honeyed sweetness of music and rhetoric. But their charm lasts only while they are heard. The sense of misfortune lies deeper in the heart of a suffering person. So, when the sound fades from the air, the sorrow within the heart is felt with renewed bitterness.'

Then said she: 'It is indeed as thou sayest, for we have not yet come to the curing of thy sickness; as yet these are but lenitives conducing to the treatment of a malady hitherto obstinate. The remedies which go deep I will apply in due season. Nevertheless, to deprecate thy determination to be thought wretched, I ask thee, Hast thou forgotten the extent and bounds of thy felicity? I say nothing of how, when orphaned and desolate, thou wast taken into the care of illustrious men; how thou wast chosen for alliance with the highest in the state—and even before thou wert bound to their house by marriage, wert already dear to their love—which is the most precious of all ties. Did not all pronounce thee most happy in the virtues of thy wife, the splendid honours of her father, and the blessing of male issue? I pass over—for I care not to speak of blessings in which others also have shared—the distinctions often denied to age which thou enjoyedst in thy youth. I choose rather to come to the unparalleled culmination of thy good fortune. If the fruition of any earthly success has weight in the scale of happiness, can the memory of that splendour be swept away by any rising flood of troubles? That day when thou didst see thy two sons ride forth from home joint consuls, followed by a train of senators, and welcomed by the good-will of the people; when these two sat in curule chairs in the Senate-house, and thou by thy panegyric on the king didst earn the fame of eloquence and ability; when in the Circus, seated between the two consuls, thou didst glut the multitude thronging around with the triumphal largesses for which they looked—methinks thou didst cozen Fortune while she caressed thee, and made thee her darling. Thou didst bear off a boon which she had never before granted to any private person. Art thou, then, minded to cast up a reckoning with Fortune? Now for the first time she has turned a jealous glance upon thee. If thou compare the extent and bounds of thy blessings and misfortunes, thou canst not deny that thou art still fortunate. Or if thou esteem not thyself favoured by Fortune in that thy then seeming prosperity hath departed, deem not thyself wretched, since what thou now believest to be calamitous passeth also. What! art thou but now come suddenly and a stranger to the scene of this life? Thinkest thou there is any stability in human affairs, when man himself vanishes away in the swift course of time? It is true that there is little trust that the gifts of chance will abide; yet the last day of life is in a manner the death of all remaining Fortune. What difference, then, thinkest thou, is there, whether thou leavest her by dying, or she leave thee by fleeing away?'

Then she said: 'What you say is true. We have not yet begun to cure your sickness. So far, these are only soothing treatments to prepare for a cure of your stubborn illness. I will apply the deeper remedies in due time. But you seem determined to think yourself miserable, so let me ask you something. Have you forgotten how great your happiness has been, and how far it has extended? I will say nothing of how, when you were orphaned and alone, distinguished men took you into their care. Nor will I dwell on how you were chosen to join the family of the highest men in the state. Even before you married into their family, they loved you, and love is the most precious bond of all. Did not everyone call you most fortunate? You had a virtuous wife, a father-in-law of splendid honors, and the blessing of sons. I will pass over the honors you enjoyed in youth, though they are often denied even to older men. I do not care to speak of blessings that others have also shared. Instead, I will turn to the unequaled peak of your good fortune. If enjoying earthly success counts for anything in happiness, can any rising flood of troubles sweep away your memory of that splendor? Think of that day when you saw your two sons ride from home as joint consuls. Senators followed them, and the people welcomed them with goodwill. The two sat in curule chairs in the Senate-house. Your speech praising the king won you a reputation for eloquence and ability. In the Circus, you sat between the two consuls. You satisfied the crowd gathered around you with the gifts they expected in celebration of the triumph. I think you got the better of Fortune while she lavished her favor on you and made you her darling. You carried off a gift she had never before granted to a private person. Do you intend, then, to settle accounts with Fortune? Only now has she turned a jealous eye on you for the first time. If you compare the extent and limits of your blessings and misfortunes, you cannot deny that you are still fortunate. But perhaps you do not consider yourself favored by Fortune because your former, apparent prosperity has gone. Then do not think yourself miserable, for what you now believe to be a disaster will also pass. What? Have you only just arrived as a stranger on the scene of this life? Do you think human affairs are stable, when people themselves vanish in the swift passage of time? True, there is little reason to trust that the gifts of chance will last. Yet the last day of life is, in a way, the death of all the gifts Fortune still leaves us. What difference does it make, then, whether you leave Fortune by dying or she leaves you by running away?'

Then said I: 'True are thine admonishings, thou nurse of all excellence; nor can I deny the wonder of my fortune's swift career. Yet it is this which chafes me the more cruelly in the recalling. For truly in adverse fortune the worst sting of misery is to have been happy.'

Then I said: 'Your warnings are true, you who nurture all excellence. I cannot deny how astonishingly quickly my fortunes changed. Yet remembering that change hurts me all the more. For in times of hardship, the worst pain is to have been happy.'

'Well,' said she, 'if thou art paying the penalty of a mistaken belief, thou canst not rightly impute the fault to circumstances. If it is the felicity which Fortune gives that moves thee—mere name though it be—come reckon up with me how rich thou art in the number and weightiness of thy blessings. Then if, by the blessing of Providence, thou hast still preserved unto thee safe and inviolate that which, howsoever thou mightest reckon thy fortune, thou wouldst have thought thy most precious possession, what right hast thou to talk of ill-fortune whilst keeping all Fortune's better gifts? Yet Symmachus, thy wife's father—a man whose splendid character does honour to the human race—is safe and unharmed; and while he bewails thy wrongs, this rare nature, in whom wisdom and virtue are so nobly blended, is himself out of danger—a boon thou wouldst have been quick to purchase at the price of life itself. Thy wife yet lives, with her gentle disposition, her peerless modesty and virtue—this the epitome of all her graces, that she is the true daughter of her sire—she lives, I say, and for thy sake only preserves the breath of life, though she loathes it, and pines away in grief and tears for thy absence, wherein, if in naught else, I would allow some marring of thy felicity. What shall I say of thy sons and their consular dignity—how in them, so far as may be in youths of their age, the example of their father's and grandfather's character shines out? Since, then, the chief care of mortal man is to preserve his life, how happy art thou, couldst thou but recognise thy blessings, who possessest even now what no one doubts to be dearer than life! Wherefore, now dry thy tears. Fortune's hate hath not involved all thy dear ones; the stress of the storm that has assailed thee is not beyond measure intolerable, since there are anchors still holding firm which suffer thee not to lack either consolation in the present or hope for the future.'

‘Well,’ she said, ‘if you are suffering because of a mistaken belief, you cannot fairly blame your circumstances. Perhaps what troubles you is the loss of the happiness Fortune gives, though that happiness is happiness in name only. If so, come and count with me how rich you are in blessings, both in number and importance. Providence has kept safe and untouched what you would have considered your most precious possessions, whatever your fortune. If so, what right have you to complain of bad fortune while you still have all of Fortune’s better gifts? Your wife’s father, Symmachus, is safe and unharmed. His remarkable character is an honor to the human race. He grieves over the wrongs done to you, yet he is out of danger. He is a rare man, in whom wisdom and virtue are so nobly joined. You would have readily given your own life to keep him safe. Your wife is still alive, with her gentle nature and her unmatched modesty and virtue. All her graces can be summed up in this: she is truly her father’s daughter. She lives, I say, and stays alive only for your sake. Yet she loathes life and wastes away in grief and tears because you are absent. In this, if in nothing else, I would admit that your happiness is diminished. What can I say of your sons and their rank as consuls? In them, as far as can be expected in young men their age, their father’s and grandfather’s character shines through. A mortal’s chief concern is to preserve his life. So how happy you are, if only you could recognize your blessings! Even now, you have what everyone agrees is dearer than life. So dry your tears. Fortune’s hatred has not reached all your loved ones. The storm that has struck you is not unbearably severe. Anchors still hold firm, giving you comfort now and hope for the future.’

'I pray that they still may hold. For while they still remain, however things may go, I shall ride out the storm. Yet thou seest how much is shorn of the splendour of my fortunes.'

'I pray that they may still hold. For as long as they remain, I will weather the storm, whatever happens. Yet you can see how much of the splendor of my fortunes has been stripped away.'

'We are gaining a little ground,' said she, 'if there is something in thy lot wherewith thou art not yet altogether discontented. But I cannot stomach thy daintiness when thou complainest with such violence of grief and anxiety because thy happiness falls short of completeness. Why, who enjoys such settled felicity as not to have some quarrel with the circumstances of his lot? A troublous matter are the conditions of human bliss; either they are never realized in full, or never stay permanently. One has abundant riches, but is shamed by his ignoble birth. Another is conspicuous for his nobility, but through the embarrassments of poverty would prefer to be obscure. A third, richly endowed with both, laments the loneliness of an unwedded life. Another, though happily married, is doomed to childlessness, and nurses his wealth for a stranger to inherit. Yet another, blest with children, mournfully bewails the misdeeds of son or daughter. Wherefore, it is not easy for anyone to be at perfect peace with the circumstances of his lot. There lurks in each several portion something which they who experience it not know nothing of, but which makes the sufferer wince. Besides, the more favoured a man is by Fortune, the more fastidiously sensitive is he; and, unless all things answer to his whim, he is overwhelmed by the most trifling misfortunes, because utterly unschooled in adversity. So petty are the trifles which rob the most fortunate of perfect happiness! How many are there, dost thou imagine, who would think themselves nigh heaven, if but a small portion from the wreck of thy fortune should fall to them? This very place which thou callest exile is to them that dwell therein their native land. So true is it that nothing is wretched, but thinking makes it so, and conversely every lot is happy if borne with equanimity. Who is so blest by Fortune as not to wish to change his state, if once he gives rein to a rebellious spirit? With how many bitternesses is the sweetness of human felicity blent! And even if that sweetness seem to him to bring delight in the enjoying, yet he cannot keep it from departing when it will. How manifestly wretched, then, is the bliss of earthly fortune, which lasts not for ever with those whose temper is equable, and can give no perfect satisfaction to the anxious-minded!

‘We are making a little progress,’ she said, ‘if there is something in your life that still satisfies you. But I cannot bear how hard you are to please. You complain so bitterly and anxiously because your happiness is incomplete. Who enjoys such lasting happiness that they have no complaint about their circumstances? Human happiness is a troubled thing. Its conditions are either never fully met or never last. One person has great wealth but is ashamed of his low birth. Another is known for his noble birth but, burdened by poverty, would rather go unnoticed. A third has both wealth and noble birth but laments being unmarried and alone. Another is happily married but doomed to have no children, and saves his wealth for a stranger to inherit. Still another is blessed with children but mourns the misdeeds of a son or daughter. So it is not easy for anyone to be completely at peace with their circumstances. Every person’s lot has some hidden trouble. Those who have not experienced it know nothing of it, but it causes pain to the person who bears it. ‘Besides, the more Fortune favors a person, the more easily upset he becomes. Unless everything goes as he wishes, the slightest misfortune overwhelms him, because he has no experience of hardship. Such small things can rob even the most fortunate of complete happiness! How many people, do you suppose, would think themselves close to heaven if they received even a small part of your ruined fortune? The very place you call exile is home to those who live there. So true is it that nothing is miserable unless we think it so. Likewise, any lot is happy if we bear it calmly. Who is so favored by Fortune that he would not wish to change his circumstances if he gave free rein to discontent? ‘How much bitterness is mixed with the sweetness of human happiness! Even if a person delights in that sweetness while it lasts, he cannot keep it from leaving when it will. How clearly wretched, then, is the happiness that earthly fortune brings. It does not last forever, even for those with a calm disposition, and it cannot fully satisfy the anxious-minded!’

'Why, then, ye children of mortality, seek ye from without that happiness whose seat is only within us? Error and ignorance bewilder you. I will show thee, in brief, the hinge on which perfect happiness turns. Is there anything more precious to thee than thyself? Nothing, thou wilt say. If, then, thou art master of thyself, thou wilt possess that which thou wilt never be willing to lose, and which Fortune cannot take from thee. And that thou mayst see that happiness cannot possibly consist in these things which are the sport of chance, reflect that, if happiness is the highest good of a creature living in accordance with reason, and if a thing which can in any wise be reft away is not the highest good, since that which cannot be taken away is better than it, it is plain that Fortune cannot aspire to bestow happiness by reason of its instability. And, besides, a man borne along by this transitory felicity must either know or not know its unstability. If he knows not, how poor is a happiness which depends on the blindness of ignorance! If he knows it, he needs must fear to lose a happiness whose loss he believes to be possible. Wherefore, a never-ceasing fear suffers him not to be happy. Or does he count the possibility of this loss a trifling matter? Insignificant, then, must be the good whose loss can be borne so equably. And, further, I know thee to be one settled in the belief that the souls of men certainly die not with them, and convinced thereof by numerous proofs; it is clear also that the felicity which Fortune bestows is brought to an end with the death of the body: therefore, it cannot be doubted but that, if happiness is conferred in this way, the whole human race sinks into misery when death brings the close of all. But if we know that many have sought the joy of happiness not through death only, but also through pain and suffering, how can life make men happy by its presence when it makes them not wretched by its loss?'

‘Why, then, do you mortal children seek outside yourselves the happiness that exists only within you? Error and ignorance confuse you. I will briefly show you what perfect happiness depends on. Is anything more precious to you than yourself? You will say nothing is. If you are master of yourself, then, you possess something you will never willingly lose and Fortune cannot take away. To see why happiness cannot lie in things governed by chance, consider this. Happiness is the highest good of a creature living according to reason. But anything that can be taken away cannot be the highest good. What cannot be taken away is better. So Fortune cannot claim to bestow happiness, because Fortune is unstable. Besides, someone carried along by this fleeting happiness must either know or not know how unstable it is. If he does not know, how poor is happiness that depends on the blindness of ignorance! If he does know, he must fear losing happiness he believes he could lose. So constant fear prevents him from being happy. Or does he think the possibility of losing it is a small matter? Then any good whose loss he can bear so calmly must be insignificant. Furthermore, I know you firmly believe that human souls certainly do not die with their bodies. I know you are convinced of this by many proofs. It is also clear that the happiness Fortune gives ends with the death of the body. So if happiness comes from Fortune, there can be no doubt that all humanity sinks into misery when death ends everything. But we know that many have sought the joy of happiness through death, and even through pain and suffering. If so, how can being alive make people happy when losing life does not make them miserable?’

'But since my reasonings begin to work a soothing effect within thy mind, methinks I may resort to remedies somewhat stronger. Come, suppose, now, the gifts of Fortune were not fleeting and transitory, what is there in them capable of ever becoming truly thine, or which does not lose value when looked at steadily and fairly weighed in the balance? Are riches, I pray thee, precious either through thy nature or in their own? What are they but mere gold and heaps of money? Yet these fine things show their quality better in the spending than in the hoarding; for I suppose 'tis plain that greed Alva's makes men hateful, while liberality brings fame. But that which is transferred to another cannot remain in one's own possession; and if that be so, then money is only precious when it is given away, and, by being transferred to others, ceases to be one's own. Again, if all the money in the world were heaped up in one man's possession, all others would be made poor. Sound fills the ears of many at the same time without being broken into parts, but your riches cannot pass to many without being lessened in the process. And when this happens, they must needs impoverish those whom they leave. How poor and cramped a thing, then, is riches, which more than one cannot possess as an unbroken whole, which falls not to any one man's lot without the impoverishment of everyone else! Or is it the glitter of gems that allures the eye? Yet, how rarely excellent soever may be their splendour, remember the flashing light is in the jewels, not in the man. Indeed, I greatly marvel at men's admiration of them; for what can rightly seem beautiful to a being endowed with life and reason, if it lack the movement and structure of life? And although such things do in the end take on them more beauty from their Maker's care and their own brilliancy, still they in no wise merit your admiration since their excellence is set at a lower grade than your own.

'But since my reasoning is beginning to soothe your mind, I think I may use somewhat stronger remedies. Suppose, then, that Fortune’s gifts were not fleeting and temporary. Could any of them ever truly become yours? Would any of them keep its value when examined steadily and weighed fairly? Are riches precious because of your nature, or because of their own? What are they but gold and piles of money? Yet these fine things show their worth better when spent than when hoarded. For surely it is clear that greed always makes people hated, while generosity brings fame. But what is given to another cannot remain your own. If so, money is precious only when it is given away. And once given to others, it is no longer yours. Again, if all the money in the world belonged to one person, everyone else would be poor. Sound fills the ears of many at once without being divided. But riches cannot pass to many people without being divided among them. And when riches pass from one person to another, they must make those they leave poorer. How limited and meager riches are, then! More than one person cannot possess them as an undivided whole. And no one can acquire them without making everyone else poorer. Or is it the sparkle of jewels that attracts your eye? However exquisite their brilliance, remember that the light shines from the jewels, not from the person. Indeed, I am amazed that people admire them. How can something without the movement and form of life seem beautiful to a being endowed with life and reason? Although such things do gain more beauty from their maker’s care and their own brilliance, they still do not deserve your admiration. For their excellence is of a lower order than your own.'

'Does the beauty of the fields delight you? Surely, yes; it is a beautiful part of a right beautiful whole. Fitly indeed do we at times enjoy the serene calm of the sea, admire the sky, the stars, the moon, the sun. Yet is any of these thy concern? Dost thou venture to boast thyself of the beauty of any one of them? Art thou decked with spring's flowers? is it thy fertility that swelleth in the fruits of autumn? Why art thou moved with empty transports? why embracest thou an alien excellence as thine own? Never will fortune make thine that which the nature of things has excluded from thy ownership. Doubtless the fruits of the earth are given for the sustenance of living creatures. But if thou art content to supply thy wants so far as suffices nature, there is no need to resort to fortune's bounty. Nature is content with few things, and with a very little of these. If thou art minded to force superfluities upon her when she is satisfied, that which thou addest will prove either unpleasant or harmful. But, now, thou thinkest it fine to shine in raiment of divers colours; yet—if, indeed, there is any pleasure in the sight of such things—it is the texture or the artist's skill which I shall admire.

'Does the beauty of the fields delight you? Surely it does. The fields are a beautiful part of a very beautiful whole. We rightly enjoy the peaceful calm of the sea at times. We also admire the sky, the stars, the moon, and the sun. Yet do any of these belong to you? Do you dare boast of their beauty as your own? Are you adorned with spring's flowers? Is it your fertility that makes the fruits of autumn grow? Why are you carried away by such empty joy? Why claim someone else's excellence as your own? Fortune can never make yours what nature has made impossible for you to own. Of course, the fruits of the earth are given to sustain living creatures. But if you are content to meet your natural needs, you have no need to seek fortune's gifts. Nature needs few things, and very little of each. If you try to force more on nature once it is satisfied, the excess will prove unpleasant or harmful. But now you think it splendid to show off in clothes of many colors. Yet if there is any pleasure in seeing such clothes, I will admire the fabric or the maker's skill. '

'Or perhaps it is a long train of servants that makes thee happy? Why, if they behave viciously, they are a ruinous burden to thy house, and exceeding dangerous to their own master; while if they are honest, how canst thou count other men's virtue in the sum of thy possessions? From all which 'tis plainly proved that not one of these things which thou reckonest in the number of thy possessions is really thine. And if there is in them no beauty to be desired, why shouldst thou either grieve for their loss or find joy in their continued possession? While if they are beautiful in their own nature, what is that to thee? They would have been not less pleasing in themselves, though never included among thy possessions. For they derive not their preciousness from being counted in thy riches, but rather thou hast chosen to count them in thy riches because they seemed to thee precious.

'Or perhaps a long line of servants makes you happy? If they behave wickedly, they are a ruinous burden on your household and a great danger to you, their master. But if they are honest, how can you count their virtue among your possessions? All this plainly proves that none of the things you count as possessions is really yours. And if there is no beauty in them worth desiring, why grieve over losing them or rejoice in keeping them? But if they are beautiful in themselves, what does that have to do with you? They would be no less pleasing in themselves, even if they had never been among your possessions. They are not precious because they are counted among your riches. Rather, you chose to count them among your riches because they seemed precious to you.

'Then, what seek ye by all this noisy outcry about fortune? To chase away poverty, I ween, by means of abundance. And yet ye find the result just contrary. Why, this varied array of precious furniture needs more accessories for its protection; it is a true saying that they want most who possess most, and, conversely, they want very little who measure their abundance by nature's requirements, not by the superfluity of vain display. Have ye no good of your own implanted within you, that ye seek your good in things external and separate? Is the nature of things so reversed that a creature divine by right of reason can in no other way be splendid in his own eyes save by the possession of lifeless chattels? Yet, while other things are content with their own, ye who in your intellect are God-like seek from the lowest of things adornment for a nature of supreme excellence, and perceive not how great a wrong ye do your Maker. His will was that mankind should excel all things on earth. Ye thrust down your worth beneath the lowest of things. For if that in which each thing finds its good is plainly more precious than that whose good it is, by your own estimation ye put yourselves below the vilest of things, when ye deem these vile things to be your good: nor does this fall out undeservedly. Indeed, man is so constituted that he then only excels other things when he knows himself; but he is brought lower than the beasts if he lose this self-knowledge. For that other creatures should be ignorant of themselves is natural; in man it shows as a defect. How extravagant, then, is this error of yours, in thinking that anything can be embellished by adornments not its own. It cannot be. For if such accessories add any lustre, it is the accessories that get the praise, while that which they veil and cover remains in its pristine ugliness. And again I say, That is no good, which injures its possessor. Is this untrue? No, quite true, thou sayest. And yet riches have often hurt those that possessed them, since the worst of men, who are all the more covetous by reason of their wickedness, think none but themselves worthy to possess all the gold and gems the world contains. So thou, who now dreadest pike and sword, mightest have trolled a carol "in the robber's face," hadst thou entered the road of life with empty pockets. Oh, wondrous blessedness of perishable wealth, whose acquisition robs thee of security!'

'Then why do you make such a noisy fuss about fortune? I suppose you hope to drive away poverty through abundance. Yet you find the opposite happens. This varied collection of precious furnishings needs even more things to protect it. It is rightly said that those who own the most need the most. On the other hand, those who measure abundance by nature's needs require very little. They do not measure it by the excesses of vain display. Do you have no good within yourselves, that you seek your good in things outside and separate from you? Has the nature of things been so reversed? Can a creature made divine by reason see its own splendor only in the possession of lifeless goods? Other things are content with what is their own. Yet you, whose intellect is God-like, seek ornaments for your supremely excellent nature among the lowest things. You do not see how greatly you wrong your Maker. He willed that human beings should be superior to all things on earth. You lower your worth beneath the lowest things. The thing in which anything finds its good is plainly more precious than the thing that finds its good there. So, when you regard the vilest things as your good, you put yourselves below them by your own judgment. Nor is this undeserved. Human beings are so made that they surpass other creatures only when they know themselves. But if they lose this self-knowledge, they sink below the beasts. For it is natural for other creatures to be ignorant of themselves. In human beings, such ignorance is a defect. How great, then, is your error in thinking that outside ornaments can make anything more beautiful. They cannot. For if such additions lend any splendor, they receive the praise. Meanwhile, what they conceal remains as ugly as it was before. And again I say: whatever harms its possessor is not good. Is that untrue? No, you say, it is quite true. Yet riches have often harmed those who possessed them. For the worst people, made even greedier by their wickedness, think they alone deserve all the gold and gems in the world. So you, who now fear spear and sword, might have sung a song "in the robber's face" if you had entered the road of life with empty pockets. Oh, what wonderful happiness perishable wealth brings, when gaining it robs you of security!'

'What now shall I say of rank and power, whereby, because ye know not true power and dignity, ye hope to reach the sky? Yet, when rank and power have fallen to the worst of men, did ever an Etna, belching forth flame and fiery deluge, work such mischief? Verily, as I think, thou dost remember how thine ancestors sought to abolish the consular power, which had been the foundation of their liberties, on account of the overweening pride of the consuls, and how for that self-same pride they had already abolished the kingly title! And if, as happens but rarely, these prerogatives are conferred on virtuous men, it is only the virtue of those who exercise them that pleases. So it appears that honour cometh not to virtue from rank, but to rank from virtue. Look, too, at the nature of that power which ye find so attractive and glorious! Do ye never consider, ye creatures of earth, what ye are, and over whom ye exercise your fancied lordship? Suppose, now, that in the mouse tribe there should rise up one claiming rights and powers for himself above the rest, would ye not laugh consumedly? Yet if thou lookest to his body alone, what creature canst thou find more feeble than man, who oftentimes is killed by the bite of a fly, or by some insect creeping into the inner passage of his system! Yet what rights can one exercise over another, save only as regards the body, and that which is lower than the body—I mean fortune? What! wilt thou bind with thy mandates the free spirit? Canst thou force from its due tranquillity the mind that is firmly composed by reason? A tyrant thought to drive a man of free birth to reveal his accomplices in a conspiracy, but the prisoner bit off his tongue and threw it into the furious tyrant's face; thus, the tortures which the tyrant thought the instrument of his cruelty the sage made an opportunity for heroism. Moreover, what is there that one man can do to another which he himself may not have to undergo in his turn? We are told that Busiris, who used to kill his guests, was himself slain by his guest, Hercules. Regulus had thrown into bonds many of the Carthaginians whom he had taken in war; soon after he himself submitted his hands to the chains of the vanquished. Then, thinkest thou that man hath any power who cannot prevent another's being able to do to him what he himself can do to others?

'What shall I say now about rank and power? Because you do not know what true power and dignity are, you hope they will lift you to the sky. Yet when rank and power have fallen to the worst of men, has even Etna done such harm, spewing flames and torrents of fire? Surely you remember how your ancestors tried to abolish the power of the consuls because of their excessive pride. Yet that power had been the foundation of their liberties. And because of that same pride, your ancestors had already abolished the title of king! If these privileges are given to virtuous people, as rarely happens, it is only their virtue that pleases. So rank does not bring honor to virtue. Virtue brings honor to rank. Look, too, at the nature of the power you find so attractive and glorious! You creatures of earth, do you never consider what you are and whom you imagine yourselves ruling? Suppose one mouse claimed rights and powers above all the others. Would you not laugh heartily? Yet if you consider the body alone, what creature is weaker than a human being? People are often killed by a fly's bite or by an insect crawling into a passage inside the body. And what rights can one person exercise over another, except over the body and what is beneath the body, namely fortune? What! Can you bind a free spirit with your commands? Can you rob a mind of its rightful peace when reason has made it steadfast? A tyrant tried to force a free-born man to reveal his accomplices in a conspiracy. But the prisoner bit off his own tongue and threw it in the furious tyrant's face. The tyrant had meant torture as an instrument of cruelty. The wise man made it an opportunity for heroism. Moreover, what can one person do to another that he may not have to suffer in turn? We are told that Busiris, who used to kill his guests, was himself killed by his guest, Hercules. Regulus had put many Carthaginians he captured in war in chains. Soon afterward, he himself submitted his hands to the chains of those he had defeated. Do you think, then, that a man has any power if he cannot prevent another from doing to him what he himself can do to others?'

'Besides, if there were any element of natural and proper good in rank and power, they would never come to the utterly bad, since opposites are not wont to be associated. Nature brooks not the union of contraries. So, seeing there is no doubt that wicked wretches are oftentimes set in high places, it is also clear that things which suffer association with the worst of men cannot be good in their own nature. Indeed, this judgment may with some reason be passed concerning all the gifts of fortune which fall so plentifully to all the most wicked. This ought also to be considered here, I think: No one doubts a man to be brave in whom he has observed a brave spirit residing. It is plain that one who is endowed with speed is swift-footed. So also music makes men musical, the healing art physicians, rhetoric public speakers. For each of these has naturally its own proper working; there is no confusion with the effects of contrary things—nay, even of itself it rejects what is incompatible. And yet wealth cannot extinguish insatiable greed, nor has power ever made him master of himself whom vicious lusts kept bound in indissoluble fetters; dignity conferred on the wicked not only fails to make them worthy, but contrarily reveals and displays their unworthiness. Why does it so happen? Because ye take pleasure in calling by false names things whose nature is quite incongruous thereto—by names which are easily proved false by the very effects of the things themselves; even so it is; these riches, that power, this dignity, are none of them rightly so called. Finally, we may draw the same conclusion concerning the whole sphere of Fortune, within which there is plainly nothing to be truly desired, nothing of intrinsic excellence; for she neither always joins herself to the good, nor does she make good men of those to whom she is united.'

‘Besides, if rank and power were good in themselves, they would never come to utterly bad people. Opposites do not usually go together. Nature does not allow opposites to unite. Yet wicked people are undoubtedly often placed in high positions. So things that can belong to the worst people cannot be good by nature. Indeed, the same judgment may reasonably be made about all the gifts of fortune. These gifts fall so plentifully to all the most wicked. I think we should also consider this: no one doubts that a person is brave when they have seen that person’s brave spirit. Clearly, a person endowed with speed is swift-footed. In the same way, music makes people musical, the healing art makes them physicians, and rhetoric makes them public speakers. Each of these naturally produces its own proper effect. Its effects are not confused with those of opposite things. Indeed, each rejects whatever is incompatible with it. Yet wealth cannot extinguish insatiable greed. Power has never given self-control to someone held fast by the unbreakable chains of vicious desires. Honors granted to the wicked not only fail to make them worthy, but instead reveal and expose their unworthiness. Why does this happen? Because you take pleasure in giving things false names that do not fit their nature at all. The effects of these things themselves easily prove those names false. So it is: these riches, that power, and these honors are none of them rightly named. Finally, we may draw the same conclusion about the whole realm of Fortune. Clearly, there is nothing in it truly worth desiring, nothing good in itself. For Fortune does not always join herself to good people, nor does she make good people of those she joins.’

Then said I: 'Thou knowest thyself that ambition for worldly success hath but little swayed me. Yet I have desired opportunity for action, lest virtue, in default of exercise, should languish away.'

Then I said: 'You know that ambition for worldly success has had little influence on me. Yet I have wanted opportunities to act, so that my virtue would not weaken from lack of use.'

Then she: 'This is that "last infirmity" which is able to allure minds which, though of noble quality, have not yet been moulded to any exquisite refinement by the perfecting of the virtues—I mean, the love of glory—and fame for high services rendered to the commonweal. And yet consider with me how poor and unsubstantial a thing this glory is! The whole of this earth's globe, as thou hast learnt from the demonstration of astronomy, compared with the expanse of heaven, is found no bigger than a point; that is to say, if measured by the vastness of heaven's sphere, it is held to occupy absolutely no space at all. Now, of this so insignificant portion of the universe, it is about a fourth part, as Ptolemy's proofs have taught us, which is inhabited by living creatures known to us. If from this fourth part you take away in thought all that is usurped by seas and marshes, or lies a vast waste of waterless desert, barely is an exceeding narrow area left for human habitation. You, then, who are shut in and prisoned in this merest fraction of a point's space, do ye take thought for the blazoning of your fame, for the spreading abroad of your renown? Why, what amplitude or magnificence has glory when confined to such narrow and petty limits?

Then she said: 'This is the "last infirmity" that can tempt noble minds not yet fully refined by the virtues. I mean the love of glory and fame for great services to the common good. Yet consider with me how poor and insubstantial such glory is! As you have learned from astronomy, the whole globe of the earth is no bigger than a point compared with the heavens. In fact, measured against the vast sphere of the heavens, the earth is considered to occupy no space at all. Now, Ptolemy's proofs have taught us that living creatures known to us inhabit about a fourth of this insignificant part of the universe. From this fourth, take away all the space occupied by seas and marshes, and the vast stretches of waterless desert. Barely more than a tiny area remains for human habitation. You are confined and imprisoned in this mere fraction of a point. Yet do you concern yourselves with proclaiming and spreading your fame? How vast or magnificent can glory be when it is confined within such narrow and petty limits?

'Besides, the straitened bounds of this scant dwelling-place are inhabited by many nations differing widely in speech, in usages, in mode of life; to many of these, from the difficulty of travel, from diversities of speech, from want of commercial intercourse, the fame not only of individual men, but even of cities, is unable to reach. Why, in Cicero's days, as he himself somewhere points out, the fame of the Roman Republic had not yet crossed the Caucasus, and yet by that time her name had grown formidable to the Parthians and other nations of those parts. Seest thou, then, how narrow, how confined, is the glory ye take pains to spread abroad and extend! Can the fame of a single Roman penetrate where the glory of the Roman name fails to pass? Moreover, the customs and institutions of different races agree not together, so that what is deemed praise worthy in one country is thought punishable in another. Wherefore, if any love the applause of fame, it shall not profit him to publish his name among many peoples. Then, each must be content to have the range of his glory limited to his own people; the splendid immortality of fame must be confined within the bounds of a single race.

'Besides, this small, confined dwelling place is inhabited by many nations. They differ widely in language, customs, and ways of life. Travel is difficult, languages differ, and trade between nations is lacking. Because of these barriers, many nations never hear of individual people or even cities. In Cicero's day, for example, the fame of the Roman Republic had not yet crossed the Caucasus. Cicero himself points this out somewhere. Yet by then the Roman name had become feared by the Parthians and other nations in that region. Can you see, then, how narrow and limited the glory is that you work so hard to spread? Can the fame of a single Roman reach places where the glory of the Roman name cannot? Moreover, the customs and institutions of different peoples do not agree. What is considered praiseworthy in one country is thought deserving of punishment in another. So, if someone loves the applause that fame brings, spreading their name among many peoples will not benefit them. Each person must be content to have their glory limited to their own people. The splendid immortality of fame must be confined within the bounds of a single people.'

'Once more, how many of high renown in their own times have been lost in oblivion for want of a record! Indeed, of what avail are written records even, which, with their authors, are overtaken by the dimness of age after a somewhat longer time? But ye, when ye think on future fame, fancy it an immortality that ye are begetting for yourselves. Why, if thou scannest the infinite spaces of eternity, what room hast thou left for rejoicing in the durability of thy name? Verily, if a single moment's space be compared with ten thousand years, it has a certain relative duration, however little, since each period is definite. But this same number of years—ay, and a number many times as great—cannot even be compared with endless duration; for, indeed, finite periods may in a sort be compared one with another, but a finite and an infinite never. So it comes to pass that fame, though it extend to ever so wide a space of years, if it be compared to never-lessening eternity, seems not short-lived merely, but altogether nothing. But as for you, ye know not how to act aright, unless it be to court the popular breeze, and win the empty applause of the multitude—nay, ye abandon the superlative worth of conscience and virtue, and ask a recompense from the poor words of others. Let me tell thee how wittily one did mock the shallowness of this sort of arrogance. A certain man assailed one who had put on the name of philosopher as a cloak to pride and vain-glory, not for the practice of real virtue, and added: "Now shall I know if thou art a philosopher if thou bearest reproaches calmly and patiently." The other for awhile affected to be patient, and, having endured to be abused, cried out derisively: "Now, do you see that I am a philosopher?" The other, with biting sarcasm, retorted: "I should have hadst thou held thy peace." Moreover, what concern have choice spirits—for it is of such men we speak, men who seek glory by virtue—what concern, I say, have these with fame after the dissolution of the body in death's last hour? For if men die wholly—which our reasonings forbid us to believe—there is no such thing as glory at all, since he to whom the glory is said to belong is altogether non-existent. But if the mind, conscious of its own rectitude, is released from its earthly prison, and seeks heaven in free flight, doth it not despise all earthly things when it rejoices in its deliverance from earthly bonds, and enters upon the joys of heaven?'

'Again, how many people famous in their own time have been forgotten because no record of them survives! And what good are written records? After a somewhat longer time, they too fade with age, along with their authors. Yet when you think of future fame, you imagine you are creating immortality for yourselves. If you consider the infinite reaches of eternity, how can you rejoice in the lasting power of your name? A single moment has some duration compared with ten thousand years, however little, because both periods are finite. But ten thousand years, or even many times that number, cannot be compared with endless time. Finite periods can in some way be compared with one another, but the finite and the infinite never can. So fame, however many years it lasts, seems not merely short-lived but altogether nothing when compared with unending eternity. Yet you do not know how to act rightly unless you are seeking popular favor and the empty applause of the crowd. You abandon the supreme worth of conscience and virtue and seek your reward in the paltry words of others. Let me tell you how cleverly one man mocked the shallowness of this kind of arrogance. A man attacked someone who had adopted the name of philosopher as a cover for pride and vanity, not to practice true virtue. He added: "Now I shall know whether you are a philosopher if you bear insults calmly and patiently." The other man pretended to be patient for a while. After enduring the abuse, he cried out mockingly: "Now, do you see that I am a philosopher?" The first man replied with biting sarcasm: "I would have, if you had kept quiet." Besides, what concern do exceptional people have with fame after the body dissolves at death? For it is such people we are discussing, people who seek glory through virtue. If people die completely, which our reasoning forbids us to believe, there is no glory at all. For the person to whom that glory is said to belong no longer exists. But suppose the mind, aware of its own righteousness, is freed from its earthly prison and flies toward heaven. As it rejoices in its release from earthly bonds and enters the joys of heaven, does it not despise all earthly things?'

'But that thou mayst not think that I wage implacable warfare against Fortune, I own there is a time when the deceitful goddess serves men well—I mean when she reveals herself, uncovers her face, and confesses her true character. Perhaps thou dost not yet grasp my meaning. Strange is the thing I am trying to express, and for this cause I can scarce find words to make clear my thought. For truly I believe that Ill Fortune is of more use to men than Good Fortune. For Good Fortune, when she wears the guise of happiness, and most seems to caress, is always lying; Ill Fortune is always truthful, since, in changing, she shows her inconstancy. The one deceives, the other teaches; the one enchains the minds of those who enjoy her favour by the semblance of delusive good, the other delivers them by the knowledge of the frail nature of happiness. Accordingly, thou mayst see the one fickle, shifting as the breeze, and ever self-deceived; the other sober-minded, alert, and wary, by reason of the very discipline of adversity. Finally, Good Fortune, by her allurements, draws men far from the true good; Ill Fortune ofttimes draws men back to true good with grappling-irons. Again, should it be esteemed a trifling boon, thinkest thou, that this cruel, this odious Fortune hath discovered to thee the hearts of thy faithful friends—that other hid from thee alike the faces of the true friends and of the false, but in departing she hath taken away her friends, and left thee thine? What price wouldst thou not have given for this service in the fulness of thy prosperity when thou seemedst to thyself fortunate? Cease, then, to seek the wealth thou hast lost, since in true friends thou hast found the most precious of all riches.'

'But so that you do not think I am waging a relentless war against Fortune, I admit something. There is a time when this deceitful goddess serves people well. That is when she reveals herself, uncovers her face, and admits her true character. Perhaps you do not yet understand what I mean. What I am trying to say is strange, and I can hardly find words to explain it. For I truly believe that Ill Fortune is more useful to people than Good Fortune. Good Fortune always lies when she appears happy and seems most affectionate. Ill Fortune always tells the truth, since her changes reveal how unreliable she is. One deceives, the other teaches. One holds the minds of those she favors captive with the appearance of misleading benefits. The other frees them by showing them how fragile happiness is. So you may see that a person favored by Good Fortune is fickle, shifting with the breeze and always deceiving himself. A person disciplined by adversity, on the other hand, is sober-minded, alert, and wary. Finally, Good Fortune lures people far from what is truly good. Ill Fortune often pulls them back to it with grappling hooks. And do you think it a small gift that this cruel, hateful Fortune has revealed your faithful friends' hearts? Good Fortune hid the faces of both true and false friends from you. But when she left, she took her friends away and left you yours. What would you not have paid for this service when you were prosperous and thought yourself fortunate? Stop seeking the wealth you have lost, then, since you have found the most precious of all riches in true friends.'