Epistles 1.17 (Fairclough)

Even though, Scaeva, you look after your own interests quite wisely by yourself, though you know on what terms, in fine, one should handle greater folk, yet learn the views of your humble friend, who still needs some teaching. It is as if a blind man sought to show the way; yet see whether even I have aught to say, which you may care to make your own.

If pleasant ease and sleep till sunrise be your delight, if dust and noise of wheels, or if tavern offend you, I shall order you off to Ferentinum. For joys fall not to the rich alone, and he has not lived amiss who from birth to death has passed unknown. But if you wish to help your friends and to treat yourself a little more generously, you in your hunger will make for a rich table.

“If Aristippus could be content to dine on greens, he would not want to live with princes.” ““If he who censures me knew how to live with princes, he would sniff at greens.” Of these two sages tell me whose words and deeds you approve; or, since you are the younger, hear why the view of Aristippus is the better. For this is the way, as the story goes, that he dodged the snapping cynic: “I play the buffoon for my own profit, you for the people’s. My conduct is better and nobler by far. I do service that I may have a horse to ride and be fed by a prince: you sue for paltry doles; but you become inferior to the giver, though you pose as needing no man. To Aristippus every form of life was fitting, every condition and circumstance; he aimed at higher things, but as a rule was content with what he had. On the other hand, take the man whom endurance clothes with its double rags: I shall marvel if a changed mode of life befit him. The one will not wait for a purple mantle; he will put on anything and walk through the most crowded streets, and in no inelegant fashion will play either part. The other will shun a cloak woven at Miletus as worse than a dog or a snake, and will die of cold if you do not give him back his rags. Give them back and let him live on the uncouth life.

To achieve great deeds and to display captive foemen to one’s fellow-citizens is to touch the throne of Jove and to scale the skies. Yet to have won favour with the foremost men is not the lowest glory. It is not every man’s lot to get to Corinth. He who feared he might not win sat still.

Be it so—what of him who reached the goal? Did he play the man? Nay, but here or nowhere is what we look for. One dreads the burden as too big for his small soul and small body: another lifts it and carries it to the end. Either manhood is an empty name, or the man who makes the attempt justly aims at honour and reward.

Those who in the presence of their patron say nothing of their own need will get more than one who begs. It makes a difference whether you take modestly or snatch greedily. And yet this was the head and front of all. “My sister has no dower, my poor mother is a beggar, my farm is neither salable nor able to support us.” He who so speaks, cries aloud, “Give us food.” His neighbour chimes in with “me too.” So the gift will be divided and the morsel split. But if the crow could feed in quiet, he would have more meat, and much less wrangling and envy.

The man who, when taken as companion to Brundisium or lovely Surrentum, grumbles about bad roads and bitter cold and rain, or moans over his box broken open and his stores pilfered, recalls the familiar tricks of a mistress who oft bewails a pretty chain, oft a stolen anklet, so that by and by her real losses and griefs win no belief. And he who has once been fooled does not care to lift up at the crossings a beggar with a broken leg, though many a tear flow down his cheeks, though he swear by holy Osiris and cry: “Believe me, I’m in earnest; cruel men, lift up the lame!” “Look for a stranger,” the neighbours bawl back till they are hoarse.