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SENECA's MORALS; 
 
 BY WAY OF ABSTRACT : 
 
 To which is added 
 A DISCOURSE, UNDER THE TITLE OF AV 
 
 AFTER-THOUGHT. 
 
 BY 
 
 Sir ROGER UESTRANGE, Knt. 
 
 A NEW EDITION. 
 
 Consort: 
 
 PRINTED BY J. CUNDEE, TVY TAKE, 
 
 TOR T. HURST, PATERNOSTER ROW; 
 
 T. Gibbons, and C. Smith, Bath ; T. Richards, Plymouth ; J. and E. 
 
 Lpham, fcxeter; J. Dingle, and J. Deck, "Bury ; T. Combe, 
 
 Leicester; C. Woodward, Liverpool j 
 
 and A. Borhamley, Leeds. 
 
 1803. 
 
GIFT OF 
 
 
 
 
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 <&£ 
 
 
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ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 In this enlightened age, when every day brings 
 forth something new on the subject of education and 
 morality, it is matter of considerable surprise, that 
 Writings of such intrinsic value as the present should 
 so long have lain dormant. The talents of Seneca 
 were justly estimated by his contemporaries, and long 
 after his decease; and as modern times cannot boast 
 of similar works of superior merit, the proprietors, 
 anxious to restore to society every thing valuable and 
 essential to the interests of the present generation, 
 have been induced to bring forward a new, being 
 the sixteenth edition, of Seneca's Morals, differ- 
 ing only from the former editions in some arrange- 
 ments relative to the typographic department, parti- 
 cularly in affixing to the head of each page a Hem 
 title, which, they trust, wftl be considered not only 
 as a matter of improvement, but of utility; as the 
 head-lines will, in a great measure, guide the reader 
 in finding out whatever subject he may want. How 
 far they have claim to the encouragement of an impar~ 
 tial, but indulgent public, the success of the present 
 edition can alone determine; but they presume, in 
 bringing forward a work, printed in a size the most 
 convenient to readers in general, and calculattd not 
 only to " raise the genius," but, "to mend the heart," 
 they will contribute much to the entertainment and 
 improvement of the gentleman, the man of letters, and 
 youth in particular,* Impressed with this idea, they 
 offer this edition, with some degree of confidence, to 
 the attention of the public. 
 
 * This Edition is expressly intended for the younger 
 branches of society, and for the use of schools, and semina- 
 ries of education in general. — Tliere is another Edition, 
 printed in a still superior style, in two volumes, small octavo, 
 intended as an elegant library booh, 
 
 32 
 
 796284 
 
TO THE READER. 
 
 1 
 
 T has been a long time in my thought to turn Seneca int* 
 English, but whether as a translation, or an abstract, was 
 She question. A translation I perceive it must not be, at 
 last, for several reasons. First, it is a thing already done 
 to my hand, and above sixty years standing ; though with 
 as little credit, perhaps, to the author, as satisfaction to 
 the reader. Secondly, there is a great deal in him that is 
 wholly foreign to my business : as his philosophical Treatises 
 of Meteors, Earthquakes, the Original of Rivers, several 
 frivolous Disputes betwixt the Epicureans and the Stoics,. 
 &c. to say nothing of the frequent repetitions of the same 
 thing again in other words, (wherein he very handsomely 
 excuses himself, by saying—that he does but inculcate, 
 over and over the same counsels, to those that over and 
 over commit the same faults). Thirdly, his excellency 
 consists rather in a rhapsody of divine and extraordinary 
 hints and notions than in any regulated method of dis- 
 course ; so that to take him as he lies, and so to go through 
 with him, were utterly inconsistent with the order and' 
 brevity which I propound ; my principal design being only 
 to digest and common-place his Morals, in such sort, that 
 any man, upon occasion, may know where to find them ; 
 and I have kept myself so close to this proposition^ that I 
 have reduced all his scattered ethics to their proper 
 heads, without any additions of my own, more than of ab- 
 solute necessity for the tacking of them together. Soma 
 other man in my place would, perchance, make you twenty 
 apologies, for his want of skill and address in governing 
 this affair, but these are formal and pedantic fooleries ; 
 as if any man that first takes himself for a coxcomb in his 
 own heart, would afterwards make himself one in print 
 too. This abstract, such as it is, you are extremely wel- 
 come to ; and I am sorry it is no better, both for your 
 sakes, and my own : for if it were written, up to the spirit 
 of the original, it would be one of the most valuable pre- 
 sents that ever any private man bestowed upon, the public, 
 and this too, even in the judgriient of both parties, as well 
 Christian as Heathen: of which in its due place. 
 
 Next to my choice of the author, and of the subject, to- 
 gether with the manner of handling it, I have likewise 
 had some regard, in this publication, to the timing of it, 
 and to the preference of this topic of Benefits above all 
 
OF 
 
 SENECA's WRITINGS. 
 
 IT appears that our author had, amort;* the ancients, three- 
 professed enemies. In the first place, Caligula, who called* 
 his writings— sand without lime ; alluding to the starts of his- 
 fancy, and the incoherence of his sentences. But Seneca 
 was never the worse for the censure of a person that pro- 
 pounded even the suppression of Homer himself; and of 
 casting Virgil and Livy out of all public libraries. The 
 next was Fabius, who tasks him for being too bold with the 
 eloquence of former times, and failing in that point him- 
 self; and likewise for being too quaint and finical in his 
 expressions: which Tacitus imputes, in part, to the free- 
 dom of his own particular inclination, and partly to the hu- 
 mour of the time*. He is also charged by Fabius as no 
 profound philosopher : but with all this, he allows him to 
 be a man very studious and learned, of great wit and inven- 
 tion, and well read in all sorts of literature, a severe re- 
 prover of vice, most divinely sententious, and well worth 
 the reading, if it were only for his morals ; adding, that if 
 his judgment had been answerable to his wit, it had been 
 much the more for his reputation but he wrote whatever, 
 came next : so that I would advise the reader, says he, to 
 distinguish where he himself did not; for there are many 
 things in him, not only to be approved, but admired, and 
 it was great pity, that he that could do what he would, 
 should not always make the best choice. His third adver- 
 sary is Agellius, who falls upon him for his style, and a 
 kind of tinkling in bis sentence, hut yet commends hirn for 
 his piety and good counsels. On the other side, Columello 
 calls him a man of excellent wit and learning; Pliny, the 
 prince of erudition; Tacitus gives him the character of a 
 wise man, and a fit tutor for a prince; Dto reports him to 
 have been the greatest man of his age. 
 
 Of those pieces of his that are extant, we shall not need 
 to give any particular account, and of those that are lost, 
 we cannot, any further than by lights to them from other 
 authors ; as we find them cited much to his honour, and 
 we may reasonably compute them to be the greater part of 
 bis works. That he wrote several Poems, in his banish- 
 
vni 
 
 raent, may be gathered partly frora himself, but more ex- 
 pressly out of Tacitus, who says — " that he was reproached 
 with his applying himself to poetry, after he saw that Nero 
 took pleasure in it, out of a design to curry favour," St. 
 Jerome refers to a Discourse of his concerning Matrimony. 
 Lactantius takes notice of his History and his books of 
 Moralities, St. Augustine quotes some passages of his out 
 of a book of Superstition ; some references we meet with 
 to his books of Exhortations. Fabius makes mention of his 
 Dialogues : and he himself speaks of a Treatise of his own, 
 concerning Earthquakes, which he wrote in his youth. But 
 the opinion of an Epistolary Correspondence that he had 
 with St. Paul, does not seem to have much colour for it. 
 
 Some few fragments, however, of those books of his that 
 are wanting, are yet preserved in the writings of other emi- 
 nent authors; sufficient to shew the world how great a trea- 
 sure they have lost, by the excellency of that little that is 
 left. 
 
 Seneca, says Lactantius*, that was the sharpest of all 
 the Stoics, how great a veneration has he for the Almighty : 
 as for instance, discoursing of a violent death---" Do you 
 not understand," says he, " the majesty and the authority 
 of your Judge, he is the supreme Governor of heaven and 
 earth, and the God of all your gods ; and it is upon him 
 that all those powers depend which we worship for deities." 
 Moreover, in his exhortations — " This God," says he, 
 " when he laid the foundations of the universe, and entered 
 upon the greatest and the best work in nature, in the order- 
 ing; of the government of the world, though he was himself 
 all in all, yet he substituted other subordinate ministers, 
 fis the servants of his commands." And how many other 
 things does this heathen speak of God, like one of us ? 
 
 Which the acute Seneca (says Lactantius t again) saw in 
 his Exhortations — "We." says he, " have our dependence 
 elsewhere, and should look up to that power, to which we 
 are indebted for all we can pretend to that is good. 
 
 And again $, Seneca says very well in his Morals— - 
 " They worship the images of the gods," says he, " kneel 
 to them, and adore them ; they are hardly ever from tliem, 
 either plying them with offerings, or sacrifices, and yet 
 after all this reverence to the image, they have no regard 
 at all to the workman that made it." 
 
 Lactantius |( again. " An invective," says Seneca, in his 
 Exhorttaions, "is the master-piece of most of our. philoso- 
 
 *Dmn. Inst. lib. 1. cap. 1. + Cap. 2. * Lib. 31. cap. 8. 
 
 I Lib. 3. Cap. L5. 
 
others, for the ground-work of my first Essay. We are 
 fallen into an age of vain philosophy (as the holy 
 apostle calls it), and so desperately over-run with drolls 
 and Sceptics, that there is hardly any thing so certain, or 
 so sacred, that is not exposed to question, or contempt. 
 Insomuch, that betwixt the hypocrite and the Ati.t-ist, the 
 very foundations of religion and good manners are shaken, 
 and the two tables of the Decalogue dashed to pieces, the 
 one against the other : the laws of government are sub- 
 jected to the fancies of the vulgar, public authority to the 
 private passions and opinions of the people, and the super- 
 natural motions of grace confounded with the common 
 dictates of nature. In this state of corruption, who so fit 
 as a good honest Christian Pagan, for a moderator among 
 Pagan- Christians ? 
 
 To pass now from the general scope of the whole work, 
 to the particular argument of the first part of it, I pitched 
 upon the theme of Benefits, Gratitude, and Ingratitude, to 
 begin withal, as an earnest of the rest, and a lecture ex- 
 pressly calculated for the unthankfulness of these times, 
 the foulest, undoubtedly, and the most execrable of all 
 others, since the very apostacy of the angels : nay, if I 
 durst but suppose a possibility of mercy for those damned 
 spirits, and that they might ever be taken into favour 
 again, my charity would hope even better for them, than 
 we have found from some of our revolters, and that they 
 would so behave themselves, as not to incur a second for- 
 feiture. And to carry the resemblance yet one point far- 
 ther, they do both of them agree in an implacable malice 
 against those of their fellows that keep their stations. But, 
 alas ! what could ingratitude do without hypocrisy, the 
 inseparable companion of it ; and, in effect, the bolder and 
 the blacker devil of the two ? For Lucifer himself never 
 had the face to lift up his eyes to heaven, and talk to the 
 Almighty, at the familiar rate of our pretended patriots 
 and zealots, and at the same time to make him party to a 
 cheat. It is not for nothing, that the Holy Ghost has de- 
 nounced so many woes, and redoubled so many cautions 
 against hypocrites, plainly intimating, at once, how dan- 
 gerous a snare they are to mankind, and no less odious to 
 God himself: which is sufficiently denoted in the force of 
 that dreadful expression — " And your portion shall be with, 
 hypocrites." You will find, in the Holy Scriptures, (as I 
 have formerly observed) that God has given the grace of 
 repentance to persecutors, idolators, murderers, adulterers, 
 &c. but I am mistaken, if the whole Bible affords you any 
 one instance of a converted hypocrite. 
 
VI 
 
 To descend now from truth itself, to our own experience, 
 have we not seen, even in our days, a most pious (and al- 
 most faultless) prince brought to the scaifold by his own 
 subjects ? the most glorious constitution upon the face of 
 the earth, both ecclesiastical and civil, torn to pieces, and 
 dissolved ? the happiest people under the sun enslaved ? 
 our temples sacrilegiously profaned, and a license given 
 to all sorts of heresy and outrage ? And by whom,' but by 
 a race of hypocrites, who had nothing in their mouths all 
 this while, but, the purity of the gospel, the honour of the 
 king, and the liberty of the people ; assisted underhand 
 •with defamatory papers, which were levelled at the king 
 himself, through the sides of his most faithful ministers ? 
 This project succeeded so well against one government, 
 that it is now again set on foot against another ; and by 
 some of the very actors too in that tragedy, and after a 
 most gracious pardon also, when Providence had laid 
 their necks and their fortunes at his majest3''s feet. It is a 
 wonderful thing, that libels and libellers, the most infa- 
 mous of practices and of men, the most unmanly sneaking 
 methods and instruments of mischief, the very bane of 
 human society, and the plague of all governments, it is a 
 wonderful thing (I say) that these engines and engineers 
 should ever find credit enough in the world to engage a 
 parly : but it would be still more wonderful, if the same 
 trick should pass twice upon the same people, in the same 
 age, and from the very same impostors. This contempla- 
 tion has carried me a little out of my way, but it has at 
 length brought me to my text again ; for there is in the 
 bottom of it the highest opposition imaginable, of ingrati- 
 tude and obligation. 
 
 The reader will, in some measure, be able to judge bj 
 this taste, what he is farther to expect ; that is to say, as 
 to the cast of my design and the simplicity of the style and 
 dress; for that will still be the same, only accompanied 
 with variety of matter. Whether it pleases the world, or 
 no, the care is taken : and }et, I could wish that it might 
 be as delightful to others, upon the perusal, as it has been 
 to me in the speculation. Next to the gospel itself, I do 
 look upon it as the most sovereign remedy against the mi- 
 series of human nature, and I have ever iound it so, in all 
 the injuries and distresses of an unfortunate life. You 
 may read more of him, if you please, in the Appendix., 
 which I have here subjoined to this Preface, concerning the 
 authority of his writings, and the circumstances of his life, 
 as I have extracted them out of Lipsius. 
 
IX 
 
 pliers; and if they fall upon the subject of avarice, lust, 
 ambition, they lash out into such excess of bitterness, as if 
 railing were a mark of their profession. They make me 
 think of gally-pots in an apothecary's shop, aud have re- 
 medies without, and poison within." 
 
 Lactantius* still. He that would know all things, lei 
 him read Seneca, the most lively describer of public vice* 
 and manners, and the smartest reprehender of them. 
 
 And again f, as Seneca has it in the books of Moral Phi- 
 losophy—" He is the brave man, whose splendour and au- 
 thority is the least part of his greatness ; that can look 
 death in the face without trouble, or surprize ; who, if his 
 body were to be broken upon the wheel, or melted lead to 
 be poured down his throat, would be less concerned for the 
 pain itself, than for the dignity of bearing it. 
 
 " Let no man, says Lactantius^, think himself the safer 
 in his wickedness for want of a witness, for God is omnis- 
 cient, and to him nothing can be a secret." It is an ad- 
 mirable sentence that Seneca concludes his Exhortation 
 withal.—- " God," says he, " is a great, (I know not what) 
 an incomprehensible power ; it is to him that we live, and 
 to him that we must approve ourselves. What does it avail 
 us, that our consciences are hidden from men, when our 
 souls lie open to God?" What could a Christian have 
 spoken more to the purpose in this case, than this divine 
 Pagan ? And in the beginning of the same work, says Se~ 
 neca — " Wliat is it rhat v.:e do ?. to what end is it to stand 
 contriving, and to hide ourselves? We are under a guard, 
 and there is no escaping irom our keeper. One man may- 
 be parted from another by travel, death, sickness; but 
 there is ao dividing us irom ourselves. It is to no purpose 
 to creep in'o a corner, where nobody shall see us. Ridi- 
 culous madness ! Make it the case that no mortal eye 
 could find us out ; he that has a conscience, gives evidence 
 agaist himself. 
 
 It is truly and excellently spoken of Seneca, says Lac- 
 tantius || once a^ain.---" Consider," says he, " the majesty* 
 the goodness, and the venerable mercies of the Almighty ; 
 a friend that is always at hand. What delight can it be to 
 him, the slaughter of innocent creatures, or the worship of 
 bloody sacrifices ? let us purge our minds, and lead virtu- 
 ous and honest lives. His pleasure lies not in the magni- 
 ficence of temples made wiih stones, but in the piety and 
 devotion of consecrated hearts." 
 
 * Lib. 3. cap. 9. + Lib. 6. cap. 17. $ Lib. 6. cap. 14.. 
 
 tiLifi. 6. cap. 25. 
 
In the book that Seneca wrote against Superstitions, 
 treating of images, says St. Austin*, he writes thus. — 
 " They represent the holy, the immortal, and the inviolable 
 gods, in the basest matter, and without life, or motion: in, 
 the forms of men, beasts, fishes, some of mixed bodies, and 
 those figures they call deities ; which, if they were but ani- 
 mated, would affright a man, and pass for monsters." And 
 then a little farther, treating of natural theology, after 
 citing the opinions of philosophers, he supposes an objec- 
 tion against himself—" Somebody will, perhaps, ask me, 
 would you have me then to believe the heavens, and the 
 earth, to be gods ; and some of them above the moon, and 
 some below it ? Shall I ever be brought to the opinion of 
 Plato, or of Strabo, the Peripatetic : the one of which would 
 have God to be without a body, and the other without a 
 mind ? To which he replies — " And, do you give more 
 credit then to the dreams of T. Tatius, Romulus, and Hos- 
 tilius, who caused, among other deities, even fear and 
 paleness to be worshipped? The vilest of human affections ; 
 the one being the motion of an affrighted mind ; and the 
 other, not so much the disease, as the colour of a disordered 
 body. Are these the deities that you will rather put your 
 faith in, and place in the heavens r" And, speaking after- 
 wards of their abominable customs, with what liberty doe* 
 he write? " One," says he, " out of zeal, makes himself an 
 eunuch ; another lances his arms : if this be the way to 
 please their gods, what should a man do if he had a mind to 
 anger them ? or, if this be the way to please them, they do 
 certainly deserve not to be worshipped at all. What afrenay 
 is this, to imagine, that the gods can be delighted with such 
 cruelties, as even the worst of men would make a consci- 
 ence to inflict ! The most barbarous and notorious of ty- 
 rants, some of them have, perhaps, done it themselves, or 
 ordered the tearing of men to pieces by others, but they 
 never went so far as to command any man to torment him- 
 self. We have heard of those that have suffered castra- 
 tion, to gratify the lust of their imperious masters, but 
 never any man that was forced to act it upon himself. They 
 murder themselves in their very temples, and their prayers 
 are offered up in blood. Whosoever shall but observe 
 what they do, and what they suffer, will find it so misbe- 
 coming an honest man, so unworthy of a freeman, and so 
 inconsistent with the action of a man in his wits, that he 
 must conclude them all to be mad, if it were not that there 
 are so many of them ; for only their number is their justifi- 
 cation, and their protection. 
 
 * De Civ. Dei. lib. 6. cap. 10. 
 
XI 
 
 «* When he comes to reflect," saj's St. Augustine, " upoa 
 those passages which he himself had seen in the capitol, he 
 censures them with liberty and resolution : and no man 
 will believe that such things would be done, unless in 
 mockery, or frenzy. What lamentation is there in the 
 Egyptian sacrifices for the loss of Osiris ? and then, what 
 jov for the finding of him again ? which he himself makes 
 sport with ; for, in truth, it is all a fiction ; and yet those 
 people, that neither lost any thing, nor found any thing, 
 must express their sorrows, and their rejoicings, to the highest 
 degree. But there is only a certain time," says he, " for 
 this freak, and once in a year people maybe allowed to be 
 mad. I came into the capitol," says Seneca, " where the 
 several deities had their several servants and attendants, 
 their lictors, their dressers, and all in posture and action, as 
 if they were executing their offices, some to hold the glass, 
 others to comb out Juno's and Minerva's hair, one to tell 
 Jupiter what o'clock it is ; some lasses there are, that sit 
 gazing upon the image, and fancy Jupiter has a kindness 
 for them. All these things," says Seneca, awhile after, " a 
 wise man will observe for the law's sake, more than for the 
 gods ; and all this rabble of deities, which the superstition 
 of many ages has gathered together, we are in such manner 
 to adore, as to consider the worship to be rather matter of 
 Custom, than of conscience." Whereupon St. Augustine 
 observes — that this illustrious senator worshipped what he 
 reproved, acted what he disliked, and adored what be con- 
 demned. 
 
Xll 
 
 SENECA's 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH, 
 
 J_T has been an ancient custom, to record the actions and 
 She writings of eminent men, with all their circumstances-; 
 and it is but a right that we owe to the memory of our 
 famous author, Seneca was, by birth, a Spaniard, of Cor- 
 dova, (a Roman colony, of great fame and antiquity). He 
 was of tire family of Annaeus, of the order of knights; and 
 the father, Lucius Annaeus Seneca, was distinguished from 
 the son, by the name of the orator. His mother's name 
 was Helvia, a woman of excellent qualities. His father 
 came to Rome in the time of Augustus, and his wife and 
 children soon followed him, our Seneca yet being in his 
 infancy. There were three brothers of them, and never a 
 sister. Marcus Annaeus Novatus, Lucius Annaeus Seneca, 
 and Lucius Annaeus Mela. The first of these changed his 
 name for Junius Gallio, who adopted him : to him it was 
 that he dedicated his Treatise of Anger, whom he calls 
 ^Novates too ; and he also dedicated his discourse of a 
 Happy Life, to his brother Gallio. The youngest brother 
 (Annaeus Mela) was Lucan's father. Seneca was about 
 twenty years of age in the fifth year of Tiberius, when the 
 Jews were expelled Rome. His father trained him up to 
 rhetoric, but his genius led him rather to philosophy, and 
 he applied his wit to morality and virtue. He was a great 
 hearer of the celebrated men of those times, as Attalus, 
 Sotion, Papirius, Fabianus (of whom he makes often men- 
 tion), and he was much an admirer also of Demetrius, the 
 cynic, whose conversation he had afterwards in the 
 court, and both at home also, and abroad, for they often 
 travelled together. His father was not at ail pleased with 
 his humour of philo ophy, but forced him upon the law, 
 and for a while he practised pleading. After which he 
 would need put him upon public employment, and he came 
 first to be quaestor, then praetor, and some will have it that 
 he was chosen consul ; but this is doubtful. 
 
 Seneca finding that he had ill offices done him at court, 
 and that Nero's favour began to cool, lie went directly and 
 
Xlll 
 
 resolutely to Nero, with an offer to refund all that he had 
 gotten. Which Nero would not receive; but, however, from 
 that time he changed his course of life, received few visits, 
 shunned company, went little abroad ; still pretending to 
 be kept at home either by indisposition, or by his study. 
 Being Nero's tutor and governor, all things went well, so 
 long as Nero followed his counsel. His two chief favour- 
 ites, were Burrhus and Seneca, who were both of them ex- 
 cellent in their ways : Burrhus in his care of military af- 
 fairs, and severity of discipline; Seneca for his precepts 
 and good advice in the matter of eloquence, and the gen- 
 tleness of an honest mind ; assisting one another in that 
 slippery age of the prince (says Tacitus), to invite him, 
 by the allowance of lawful pleasures, to the love of virtue. 
 Seneca had two wives, the name of the first is not men- 
 tioned, his second was Paulina, whom he often speaks of 
 with great passion. By the former he had his son Marcus. 
 In the first year of Claudius lie was banished into Cor- 
 sica, when Julia, the daughter of Germanicus, was ac- 
 cused by Messalina of adultery, and banished too ; Seneca 
 being charged as one of the adulterers. After a matter of 
 eight years, or upwards, in exile, he was called back, and 
 as much in favour again as ever. His estate was partly 
 patrimonial, but the greatest part of it was the bounty of 
 his prince. His gardens, villas, lands, possessions, and, 
 incredible sums of money, are agreed upon at all hands, 
 which drew an envy upon him. Dido reports him to have 
 had 250,0001. sterling at interest, in Britany alone, which 
 he called in all at a sum. The court itself could not bring 
 him to flattery ; and, for his piety, submission, and virtue, 
 the practice of his whole life* witnesses for him. " So 
 soon," says he*, " as the candle is taken away, my wife, 
 that knows my custom, lies still, without a word speaking, 
 and then do I recollect all that 1 have said or done that 
 day, and take myself to shrift. And why should I con- 
 ceal, or reserve any thing, or make any scruple of enquir- 
 ing into my errors, when I can say to myself— do so no 
 more, and for this once I will forgive thee ? And again, 
 what can be more pious and self-denying, than this pas- 
 sage in one of his epistles ?t — Believe me now, when I tell 
 you the very bottom of my soul : in all the difficulties and 
 crosses of my life, this is my consideration — since it is 
 God's will, I do not only obey, but assent to it ; nor do I 
 comply out of necessity, but inclination. 
 
 *DeIr», lib. 3. + Epist. 9€, 
 
XIV 
 
 Here follows now, says Tacitus, the death of Seneca, («» 
 Nero's great satisfaction, not so much for any pregnant 
 proof against him, that he was of Piso's conspiracy, but 
 Nero was resolved to do that by the sword which lie could 
 not effect by poison. For, it is reported, that Nero had 
 corrupted Cleonicus, a freeman of Seneca's, to give his 
 master poison, which did not succeed. Whether that the 
 servant had discovered it to his master, or that Seneca, by 
 his own caution and jealousy, had avoided it; for lie lived 
 only upon a simple diet, as the fruits of the earth, and his 
 drink was most commonly river water. 
 
 Natalis, it seems, was sent upon a visit to him, (being 
 indisposed) with a complaint, That he would not let Piso 
 come at him, and advising him to the continuance of their 
 friendship and acquaintance as formerly. To whom Se- 
 neca made answer, that frequent meetings and conferences 
 betwixt them, could do neither of them any good ; but that 
 he had a great interest in Piso's welfare. Hereupon Gra- 
 nius Sylvanus, a captain of the guard, was sent to examine 
 Seneca, upon the discourse that passed betwixt him and 
 Natalis, and to return his answer. Seneca, either by 
 chance, or on purpose, came that day from Campania, to a 
 villa of his own, within four miles of the city, and thither 
 the officer went the next evening, and beset the place. lie 
 found Seneca at supper with his wife Paulina, and two of 
 his friends, and gave him immediately an account of his 
 commission. Seneca told him, that it was true, that Natalis 
 had been with him in Piso's name, with a complaint, That 
 Piso could not be admitted to see him : and that he ex- 
 cused himself by reason of his want of health, and his de- 
 sire to be quiet and private ; and that he had no reason to 
 prefer another man's welfare before his own. Ca-sar him- 
 self, he said, knew very well that he was not a man of 
 compliment, having received more proofs of his freedom 
 than of his flattery. This answer of Seneca's was delivered 
 in the presence of Poppaia and Tigellinus, the intimate 
 confidents of this barbarous prince : and Nero asked him, 
 whether he could gather any thing from Seneca, as if he 
 intended to make himself away ? The tribune's answer 
 was — that he did not find him one jot moved by the mes- 
 sage : but that he went on roundly with his tale, and never 
 so much as changed countenance for the matter. "Go 
 kack to him then," says Nero, " and tell him, that he is 
 condemned to die." 1'abius Rusticus delivers it, that, the 
 tribune did not return the same way he came, but went, 
 aside to Fenius, a captain of that name, and told him Cas- 
 4 
 
■ar'a orders, asking his advice, whether he should obey 
 them, or not; who bade him by all means do as he was 
 ordered. Which want of resolution was fatal to them 
 all ; for Silvanus also, that was one of the conspirators, 
 assisted now to serve and to increase those crimes, which 
 he had before comploted to revenge. And yet he did noC 
 think fit to appear himself iivthe business, but sent a cen- 
 turion to Seneca, to tell him his doom. Seneca, without 
 any surprize, or disorder, calls for his will; which being 
 refused him by the ollicer, he turned to his friends, and 
 told them, that* since he was not permitted to requite them 
 as they deserved, he was yet at liberty to bequeath them 
 the thing of all others that he esteemed' the most, that is, 
 the image of his life : which should give them the reputa- 
 tion both of constancy and friendship, if they would but 
 imitate it; exhorting diem to a firmness of mind, some- 
 times by good counsel, otherwhile by reprehension, as the 
 occasion required. Where, says he, is all your philosophy 
 now ? all your premeditated resolutions against the vio- 
 lences of fortune ? Is there any man so ignorant of Nero's 
 cruelty, as to expect, after the murder of his mother and 
 brother, that he should ever spare the life of his governor 
 and tutor? After some geneial expressions to this pur- 
 pose, he took his wife in h : s arms, and having somewhat 
 fortified her against the present calamity, he besought and 
 conjured hereto moderate her sorrows, and betake herself 
 to the contemplations and comforts of a virtuous life, which 
 would be a fair and an ample consolation to her for the 
 loss of her husband. Paulina, on the other side, tells him 
 her determination to bear him company, and wills the exe- 
 cutioner to do his office. « Well," says Seneca, "if, after 
 the sweetness of life, as I have represented it to thee, thou 
 hadst rather entertain an honourable death, I shall not envy 
 thy example." Consulting, at the same time, the fame of 
 the person he loved, and- his own tenderness, for fear of the 
 injuries that might attend her when he was gone. " Our 
 Ecsolutions," says he, " in this generous act may be equal, 
 but thine will be the greater reputation." After this, the 
 veins of both their arms were opened at the same time 
 Seneca did not bleed so freely, his spirits being wasted 
 with age, and a thin diet; so that he was forced to cut the 
 veins of his thighs, and elsewhere, to hasten his dispatch. 
 When he was far spent, and almost sinking under his tor- 
 ments, he desired his wife to remove into another chamber, 
 lest the agonies of the one might work upon the courage of 
 tiie other. His eloquence continued to the last, as appears) 
 
 b2 
 
XVI 
 
 by the excellent things he delivered ar his death ; which 
 being taken in writing, from his own mouth, and published 
 in his own words, I shall not presume to deliver them in any 
 other. Nero, in the mean time, who had no particular spite 
 to Paulhra, gave orders to prevent her death, for fear his 
 cruelty should grow more and more insupportable and odious. 
 Whereupon the soldiers gave all freedom and encouragement 
 to her servants to bind up her wounds, and stop the blood, 
 which they did accordingly ; but whether she was sensible 
 of it or not, is a question. For among the common people, 
 who are apt to judge the worst, there were some of opinion, 
 that as long as she despaired of Nero's mercy, she seemed 
 to court the glory of dying with her husband for companv, 
 but that, upon the likelihood of better quarter, she was 
 prevailed upon to outlive him. And so, for some years 
 she did survive him, and with all piety and respect to hig 
 memory ; but so miserably pale and wan, that every body 
 might read the loss of her blood and spirits in her very 
 countenance. 
 
 Seneca, finding his death slow and lingering, desires 
 Statius Annreus, his old friend and physician, to give him 
 a dose of poison, which he had provided beforehand, bein» 
 the SHme preparation which was appointed for capital of- 
 fenders in Athens. This was brought him, and he drank it 
 up, but to little purpose ; for his body was already chilled 
 and bound up against the force of it. He went at last into 
 a hot bath, and sprinkling some of his servants that were 
 next him — "This," says he, " is an oblation to Jupiter, the 
 deliverer." The fume of the bath soon dispatched him, 
 and his body was burnt, without any funeral solemnitv, as 
 he had directed in his testament: though this will of his 
 was made in the height of his prosperity and power. There 
 was a rumour, that Subrius Fiavius, in a private consulta- 
 tion with the centurions, had taken up this following reso- 
 lution, and that Seneca himself was no stranger to it, that 
 is to say, that after Nero should have been slain by the 
 help of Piso, Piso himself should have been killed too, and 
 the empire delivered up to Seneca, as one that well de- 
 «erved it, for his integrity and virtue. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 BENEFITS in general 
 
 Several sorts of benefits 
 
 A son may oblige his father, and a servant his master 4 
 
 It * the intention, not the mailer, that makes the benefit II «- 
 
 There must be judgment in a benefit, as well as matter and in- 
 tention ; and especially in the choice of the person ^ 
 
 The matter of obligations, with its circumstances l8 
 
 03 ' 
 
 The manner ot obliging 
 
 oq - 
 
 1 lie difference and value of benefits 
 
 An honest man cannot be outdone in courtesy 36 
 
 The question discussed, whether or no a man may give or re- 
 turn a benefit to himself 
 
 How fur one man may be obliged for a beuefit done to another 45 
 
 The benefactor must have no by ends 47 
 
 There are many cases wherein a man may be minded of a benefit, 
 but it is very rarely to be challenged, and never to be up- 
 braided • • • b "[ 
 
 How far to oblige, or requite, a wicked man 65 
 
 A general view of the parts and duties of the benefactor 73 
 
 How the receiver ought to beluv e himself. 79 
 
 ss 
 
 Of gratitude 
 
 Gratitude mistaken * 
 
 Of ingratitude 
 
 There can be no law against ingratitude KM 
 
 Of a happy life, and wherein it consists 1M 
 
 Human happiness is founded upon wUdom and virtue; and 
 
 first, of wisdom ' 4 
 
 There can be no happiness witboul virtue 121 X 
 
 Efeilosophj is the guide of life J 3 * * 
 
xvhi CONTENTS. 
 
 rPage 
 1 hi force of precepts 145 
 
 No felicity like peace of conscience 156 
 
 A good map can never be miserable, nor a wicked man happy 103 
 The due contemplation of divine Providence is the certain care 
 
 of all misfortunes ifi9 
 
 Of levity of mind, and other .impediments of a. happy life 179 
 
 He that sets up his rest upon contingencies, shall never be quiet 189 
 
 A sensual life is a miserable life 197 
 
 Avarice and ambition are insatiable and restless 207 
 
 Hope and fear are the bane of human life 215 
 
 It is according to the true or false estimate of things, that we are 
 
 happy, or miserable 221 
 
 The blessings of temperance and moderation '2Ui 
 
 Constancy of mind gives a man reputation, and makes him hap- 
 py in despite of all misfortunes 257 
 
 Our happiness depends in a great measure upon the choice of 
 
 our company 251 
 
 The blessings of friendship ...... ......... 257 
 
 He that would be happy must take an account of his time 263 
 
 Happy is the man that m iy chuse his own business 273 
 
 The contempt of death makes all the miseries of life easy to us.. 281 
 Consolations against deafh from the providence and necessity 
 
 of it 294 
 
 Against immoderate sorrow for the death of friends 301 
 
 Consolations against banishment and bodily pain .. . 509 
 
 Poverty, to a wise man, is rather a blessing than a misfortune. . 314 
 Anger described; it is against nature, and only to be found 
 
 in man 321 
 
 The rise of anger -. 325 
 
 Anger may be suppressed 3*8 
 
 It is a short madness, and a deformed vice 533 
 
 Anger is neither warrantable, nor useful 33t> 
 
 Anger in general, with the danger and effects of it........ 349< 
 
 The ordinary grounds and occasions of anger 362 
 
 Advice in the cases of contumely and revenge 370 
 
 Cautions against anger in the matter of education, converse, 3i»d 
 other general means of preventing it, both in ourselves and 
 
 others 37fr 
 
 Against rash judgment 385 
 
 Take nothing ill from another man, until you have made it your 
 
 o*n case 391 
 
 (_C»f cruelty f 391 
 
CONTENTS. xi* 
 
 Pa;e 
 
 CIc:nr:vy 401 — 
 
 Certain general directions for the government of lie voice 423 
 
 Of styles, compo.-itions, and t!>e choice of words '2$ 
 
 Against all softs of affectation in discourse 435 
 
 Business, a' d want of new?, are no excuse among friends for 
 
 not writing W> 
 
 Seneca gives an account of himself. 4.'<* 
 
 The blessings of a virtuous retirement 43ft 
 
 Of impertinent studies and impertinent men iC<6 
 
 Against singularity of manners and behaviour 47A 
 
 The blessings of a vigorous mind 473 
 
 Custom is a g. eat matter, either in good, or evil 473 
 
 We are divided in ourselves, and confound good and evil 4S2 
 
 We arc moved at ihe novelty of things, for want of understand- 
 ing the reason of them 487 
 
 Every man is the artificer of his oun fortune.--Of justice and 
 
 injustice 491 
 
 Of trust in friendship, prayer, and bodily exercise 495 
 
 The danger of flattery, and in what cases a man may be al- 
 lowed to commend himself 4; 5 
 
 A general dissolution of manners, with a censure of corrupt 
 
 magistrates 501 
 
 The original uf all men is the same, and virtue is the only nobili y 509 
 We are juster to men than to God.— Of life and death. —Of 
 
 good and evil 513 
 
 Of true cvura^e 5 1 9 
 
 The advantages of a private life, and the slavery of a public. . . . 5_'3 
 
 The two blessings uf life are a sound body and a quiet mind 5','9 
 
 Man is compounded of soul and body, and has naturally a civil 
 
 war within himself 535 
 
 We abuse God's blessing?, and turn them into mischiefs 540 
 
 A discourse of God's providence in the mi=fortunes of good men 547 
 A wise and a good man is a proof against all accidents of fate. . 555 
 
 AH things are produced out of cause and matter 560 
 
 Some traditions of the ancients concerning thunder and lightning, 
 
 with the author's contemplation thereupon. jC<5 
 
 A contemplation of heaven and heavenly things. — Of God, and 
 
 the soul 569 -. 
 
 Postscript 577 
 
 After-thought , . 579 
 
SENECA's MORALS. 
 
 BENEFITS IN GENERAL. 
 
 IT is, perhaps, one of the most pernicious errors 
 of a rash and inconsiderate life, the common ig- 
 norance of the world in the matter of exchanging 
 benefits; and this arises from a mistake, partly 
 in the person that we would oblige, and partly 
 in the thing itself. To begin with the latter : a 
 benefit is a good office, done with intention and 
 judgment; that is to say, with a due regard to 
 all the circumstances of what, how, why, when* 
 where, to whom, how much, and the like. Or 
 otherwise: it is a voluntary and benevolent ac- 
 tion, that delights the giver, in the comfort it 
 brings to the receiver. It will be hard to draw 
 this subject, either into method or compass; the 
 one, because of the infinite variety and complica- 
 tion of cases; the other, by reason of the large 
 extent of it, For the whol? business (almost/ oi 
 
 & 
 
SENECA S MORALS. 
 
 Benefits nrcxsv.u y, profirable, and delightful. 
 
 Bianklnd n Society falls under this bead: the 
 duties of kings and subjects; husbands and 
 wives; parents and children; masters and ser- 
 vants; natives and strangers ; high and low; rich 
 and poor; strong and weak; friends and enemies. 
 The very meditation of it breeds good blood and 
 generous thoughts, and instructs us in all the 
 parts of honour, humanity, friendship, piety, 
 gratitude, prudence and justice. In short, the 
 art and skill of conferring benefits is, of all human 
 duties, the most absolutely necessary to the well- 
 being both of reasonable nature, and of every in- 
 dividual, as the very cement of all communities, 
 and the blessing of particulars. He that does 
 good to another man, does good also to himself: 
 not only in the consequence, but in the very act 
 of doing it; for the conscience of well-doing is an 
 ample reward. 
 
 Of benefits in general, there are several sorts: 
 as necessary, profitable, and delightful. Some 
 things there are, without which we cannot live; 
 others, without which we ought not to live; and 
 some again, without which we will not live. In 
 the first rank are those which deliver us from 
 capital dangers, or apprehensions of death: and 
 the favour is rated according to the hazard; for 
 the greater the extremity, the greater seems the 
 obligation. The next is a case, wherein we may 
 indeed live, but we had better die: as ut the 
 
 4- 
 
se^eca's morals. 
 
 .Absolute and vulgar. 
 
 question of liberty, modesty, and a good con- 
 science. In the third place follow those things 
 which custom, use, affinity, and acquaintance 
 have made dear to us ; as husbands, wives, chil- 
 dren, friends, &C which an honest man will 
 preserve at his utmost peril. Of things profit- 
 able there's a large field : as money, honour, kc. 
 to which might be added matters of superfluity 
 and pleasure. But we shall open a way to the 
 circumstances of a benefit, by some previous and 
 more general deliberations upon the thing itself. 
 
 SEVERAL SORTS OF BENEFITS. 
 
 We shall divide benefits into absolute and 
 vulgar : the one appertaining to good life ; the 
 other is only matter of commerce. The former 
 are the more excellent, because they can never 
 be made void; whereas all material benefits are 
 tossed back and forward, and change their master. 
 There are some offices that look like benefits, 
 but are only desirable conveniences, as wealth, 
 &c. and these a wicked man may receive from a 
 good; or a good man from an evil. Others 
 again, that bear the face of injuries, which are 
 only benefits ill-taken; as cutting, lancing, burn- 
 ing, under the hand of a surgeon. The greatest 
 benefits of all, are those of good education, which 
 we receive from our parents, either in the state 
 
 b2 
 
SRNECAS MORALS. 
 
 Benefits common and personal. 
 
 of ignorance, or perverseness, as their care and 
 tenderness in our infancy ; their discipline in our 
 childhood, to keep us to our duties by fear ; and, 
 if fair means will not do, their proceeding after- 
 wards to severity and punishment, without which 
 we should never have come to good. There are 
 matters of great value, many times, that are but 
 of small price; as instructions from a tutor, me- 
 dicines from a physician, &c. And there are 
 small matters again, which are of great consider- 
 ation to us: the gift may be small, and the conse- 
 quence great; as a cup of cold water in a time of 
 need may save a mans life; some things are of 
 great moment to the giver ; others to the receiver, 
 one man gives me a house ; another snatches me 
 out, when 'tis falling upon my head. One gives 
 me an estate; another takes me out of the fire, 
 or casts me out a rope when I am sinking. Some 
 good offices we do to friends, others to strangers; 
 but those are the noblest that we do without pre- 
 desert. There is an obligation of bounty, and 
 an obligation of charity: this, in case of neces- 
 sity ; and that, in point of convenience. Some 
 benefits are common, others are personal. As 
 if a prince (out of pure grace) grant a privilege 
 to a city, the obligation lies upon the commu- 
 nity, and only upon every individual as a part of 
 the whole ; but if it be done particularly for my 
 sake, then am I singly the debtor for it. The 
 
SENECA S MORALS. 
 
 A S in mav oblige his Father. 
 
 cherishing of strangers is one of the duties of hos- 
 pitality, and exercises itself in the relief and pro- 
 tection of the distressed. There are benefits of 
 good counsel, reputation, life, fortune, liberty, 
 health, nay, and of superfluity and pleasure. 
 One man obliges me out of his pocket; another 
 gives me matter of ornament and cd*****^' a 
 third, consolation. To say ^tiling of negative 
 benefits : for there are, that reckon it an obliga- 
 tion if they do a body no hurt; and place it to 
 accompt as if they saved a man, when they do 
 not undo him. To shut up all, in one word, as 
 benevolence is the most sociable of all virtues, 
 so it is of the largest extent ; for there is not any 
 man either so great, or so little, but he is yet ca- 
 pable of giving and of receiving benefits. 
 
 A SON MAY OBLIGE HIS FATHER, AND A 
 SERVANT HIS MASTER. 
 
 The question is (in the first place), whether 
 it may not be possible for a father to owe more 
 to a son in other respects, than the son owes to 
 his father for his being? That many sons are 
 both greater and better than their fathers, there 
 is no question; as there are many other things 
 that derive their beings from others, which yet 
 are far greater than their original. Is not the 
 tree larger than the seed? the river than the 
 fountain? The foundation of all things lies hid, 
 
 b 3 
 
seneca's morals. 
 
 Filial Benefits 
 
 and the superstructure obscures it. If I owe all 
 to my father, because he gives me life, I may 
 owe as much to a physician that saved his life ; 
 for if my father had not been cured, 1 had never 
 been begotten: or, if I stand indebted for all 
 that I am, to my beginning, my acknowledge- 
 ment must run back to the very original of all 
 human beings. My father gave me the benefit 
 of life, which he had ne^cr done, if his father 
 had not first given it to him. lie gave me life, 
 not knowing to whom, and when 1 was in a con- 
 dition neither to feel death, nor to fear it. That 
 is the great benefit, to give life to one that knows 
 how to use it ; and that is capable of the appre- 
 hension of death. It is true, that without a fa- 
 ther I could never have had a being ; and so with- 
 out a nurse, that being had never been improved ; 
 but I do not, therefore, owe my virtue either 
 to my nativity, or to her that gave me suck. The 
 generation of me was the least part of the be- 
 nefit: for, to live, is common with the brutes; 
 but, to live well is the main business; and that 
 virtue is all my own, saving what I drew from 
 my education. It does not follow that the first 
 benefit must be the greatest; because,, without 
 the first, the greatest could never have been. 
 The father gives life to the son but once; but if 
 the son save the father's life often, though he do 
 but his duty, it is yet a greater benefit. And 
 
Seneca's morals. 
 
 Of Sciuio and /Eneas. 
 
 again, the benefit that a man receives is the 
 greater, the more he needs it; but the living has 
 more need of life, than he that is not yet born ; 
 so that the father receives a greater benefit in the 
 continuance of his life, than the son in the be- 
 ginning of it. What if a son deliver his father 
 from the rack ; or, which is more, lay himself 
 down in his place? the giving of him a being was 
 but the office of a father, a simple act, a benefit 
 given at a venture ; beside that, he had a parti- 
 cipant in it, and a regard to his family. He gave 
 only a single life, and he received a happy one, 
 My mother brought me into the world naked, 
 exposed, and void of reason ; but my reputation 
 and mv fortune are advanced by my virtue. 
 Scipio (as yet in his minority) rescued his father 
 in a battle with Hannibal, and afterward from 
 the practices and prosecution of a powerful fac- 
 tion ; covering him with consular honours and 
 the spoils of public enemies. He made himself 
 as eminent for his moderation, as for his piety, 
 and military knowledge; he was the defender 
 and the establisher of his country; he left the 
 empire without a competitor; and made himself 
 as well the ornament of Rome, as the security 
 of it: and did not Scipio, in all this, more than 
 requite his father barely for begetting of him ? 
 Whether did Anchises more for .Eneas, in dand- 
 ling the child in his arms; or jEneas for his fa- 
 
SENECA S MOTIAI.S. 
 
 Of T. Manilas, Socrates, &c. 
 
 ther, when he carried him upon his back through 
 the flames of Troy, and made his name famous 
 to future ages, among the founders of the Roman 
 empire ? T. Manlius was the son of a sour and 
 imperious father, who banished him his house as 
 a blockhead, and a scandal to the family : this 
 Manlius, hearing that his father's life was in 
 question, and a day set for his trial, went to the 
 tribune that was concerned in his cause, and dis- 
 coursed him about it ; the tribune told him the 
 appointed time, and withal (as an obligation- 
 upon the young man) that his cruelty to his son 
 would be part of his accusation. Manlius, upon 
 this, takes the tribune aside, and presenting a 
 poniard to his breast, " Swear," says he, " that 
 you will let this cause fall, or you shall have this 
 dagger in the/heart of you; and now it is at yo ur 
 choice, which way you will deliver my father." 
 The tribune swore, and kept his word; and made 
 a fair report of the whole matter to the council. 
 He that makes himself famous by his eloquence, 
 justice, or arms, illustrates his extraction, let it 
 be ever so mean; and gives inestimable reputa- 
 tion to his parents. We should never have heard 
 of Sophroniscus, but for his son Socrates ; nor of 
 Ariosto and Gryllus, if it had not been for Xeno- 
 phon and Plato. 
 
 This is not to discountenance the veneration 
 we owe to parents > nor to make children the 
 
seneca's moiials. 9 
 
 A Servant mav oblige his Master. 
 
 worse, but the better ; and to stir up generous 
 emulations. For, in contests of good offices, 
 both parts are happy ; as well the vanquished, as 
 those that overcome. It is the only honourable 
 dispute that can arise betwixt a father and a son, 
 which of the two shall have the better of the other 
 in the point of benefits. 
 
 Jn the question betwixt a master and a servant, 
 we must distinguish betwixt benefits, duties, and 
 actions ministerial. By benefits, we understand 
 those good offices that we receive from strangers, 
 which are voluntary, and may be foiborn without 
 blame. Duties are the parts of a son and wife, 
 and incumbent upon kindred and relations. Of- 
 fices ministerial belong to the part of a servant. 
 Now, since it is the mind, and not the condition, 
 of the person that prints the value upon the be- 
 nefit, a servant may oblige his master, and so 
 may a subject his sovereign, or a common soldier 
 his general, by doing more than he is expressly 
 bound to do. Some things there are, which the 
 law neither commands nor forbids ; and here the 
 servant is free. It would be very hard for a 
 servant to be chastised for doing less than his 
 duty, and not thanked for it when he does more. 
 His body, it is true, is his master's, but his mind 
 «s his own : and there are many commands which 
 a servant ought no more to obey, than a master 
 to impose. There is no man so great, but lie 
 
10 sexeca's morals. 
 
 Examples of obliging Servants. 
 
 may both need the help and service, and stand 
 in fear of the power and unkmdness, even of the 
 meanest of mortals. One servant kills his mas- 
 ter; another saves him, nay, preserves his mas- 
 ter's life, perhaps with the loss of his own : he 
 exposes himself to torment and death; he stands 
 firm against all threats and batteries: which is 
 not only a bene (it in a servant, but much the 
 greater for his being so. 
 
 When Domitius was besieged in Corfinium, 
 and the place brought to great extremity, he 
 pressed his servant so earnestly to poison hrm, 
 that at last he was prevailed upon to give him a 
 potion; which, it seems, was an innocent opiate, 
 and Domitius outlived it. Csesar took the town, 
 and gave Domitius his life; but it was his ser- 
 vant that gave it him first. 
 
 There was another town besieged, and when it 
 was upon the last pinch, two servants made their 
 escape, and went over to the enemy: upon the 
 Romans entering the town, and in the heat of the 
 soldiers fury, these two fellows ran directly 
 home, took their mistress out of her house, and 
 drove her before them ; telling every body how 
 barbarousiy she had used them formerly, and 
 that they would now have their revenge. When 
 they had her without the gates, they kept her 
 close till the danger was over; by which means 
 fcfc&y gave their mistress her life, and she gave 
 
seneca's morals. li 
 
 Beneiiis cemer in the Will. 
 
 them their freedom. This was not the action of 
 a servile mind, to do so glorious a thing, under 
 an appearance of so great a villainy ; for if they 
 had not passed for deserters and parricides, they 
 could not have gained their end. 
 
 With one instance more (and that a very brave 
 one) 1 shall conclude this chapter. 
 
 In the civil wars of Rome, a party coming to 
 search for a person of quality that was proscribed, 
 a servant put on his master's -clothes, gmd de- 
 livered himself up to the soldiers, as the master 
 of the house ; he was taken into custody, and 
 put to death, without discovering the mistake. 
 What could be more glorious than for a servant 
 to die for his master, in that age, when there 
 were not many servants that would not betray 
 their masters ? So generous a tenderness in a 
 public cruelty ; so invincible a faith in a general 
 corruption ! What could be more glorious, I sav, 
 than so exalted a virtue, as rather to chuse death 
 for the reward of his fidelity, than the greatest 
 advantages he might otherwise have had for the 
 violation of it? 
 
 IT IS THE INTENTION, NOT THE MATTER, 
 THAT MAKES THE BENEFIT. 
 
 The good will of the benefactor is the fountain 
 of all benefits, nay, it is the benefit itself; or, at 
 least, the stamp that makes it valuable and cur- 
 
12 seneca's morals. 
 
 All Benefits are ^ood. 
 
 rent. Some there are, I know, that take the 
 matter for the benefit, and tax the obligation by 
 weight and measure. When any thing is given 
 them, they presently cast "It up : What may such 
 a house be worth ? such an office ? such an estate ? 
 As if that were the benefit, which is only the sign 
 and mark of it; for the obligation rests in the 
 mind, not in the matter; and all those advantages 
 which we see, handle, or hold in actual posses- 
 sion, by the courtesy of another, are but several 
 modes, or ways of explaining, and putting the 
 rrnod will in execution. There needs no great 
 subtiltv to prove, that both benefits and injuries 
 receive their value from the intention, when even 
 brutes themselves are able to decide this question. 
 Tread upon a dog by chance, or put him to pain 
 upon the dressing of a wound ; the one he passes 
 by as an accident; and the other, in his fashion, 
 he acknowledges as a kindness; but, offer to 
 strike at him, though you do him no hurt at all, 
 he flies yet in the face of you, even for the mis- 
 chief that you barely meant him. 
 
 It is further to be observed, that all benefits 
 are good, and (like the distributions of Providence) 
 made up of wisdom and bounty; whereas the gift 
 itself is neither good nor bad, but may indiffer- 
 ently be applied either to the one or to the other. 
 The benefit is immortal, the gift perishable: for, 
 the benefit itself continues, when we have no 
 
SEXECA S MORALS. 13 
 
 Valuable when well-timed. 
 
 longer either the use or the matter of it. He that 
 is dead, was alive ; he that has lost his eyes, did 
 see; and, whatsoever is done, cannot be rendered 
 undone. My friend, for instance, is taken by 
 pirates ; I redeem him ; and, after that, he falls 
 into other pirates hands; his obligation to me is 
 the same still, as if he had preserved his free- 
 dom. And so, if I save a man from any one 
 misfortune, and he falls into another ; if I give 
 him a sum of money, which is afterward taken 
 away by thieves, it comes to the same case. For- 
 tune may deprive us of the matter of a benefit, 
 but the benefit itself remains inviolable. If the 
 benefit resided in the matter, that which is good 
 for one man, would be so for another; whereas 
 many times the very same thing given to several 
 persons, works contrary effects, even to the dif- 
 ference of life, or death ; and that which is one 
 body's cure, proves another body's poison. Be- 
 side that, the timeing of it alters the value; and a 
 crust of bread, upon a pinch, is a greater present 
 than an imperial crown. What is more familiar, 
 than, in a battle, to shoot at an enemy and kill 
 a friend ? or, instead of a friend, to save an ene- 
 my ? But yet this disappointment in the event 
 does not at all operate upon the intention. What 
 if a man cures me of a wen, with a stroke that 
 was designed to cut off my head? or, with a ma- 
 licious blow upon my stomach, breaks an impost- 
 
 c 
 
14 SENECA S MORALS. 
 
 Good will not always a benefit. 
 
 hume? or, what if he saves my life with a draught 
 that was prepared to poison me ? the providence 
 of the issue does not at all discharge the obliquity 
 of the intent. And the same reason holds good 
 even in religion itself: it is not the incense, or 
 the offering, that is acceptable to God, but the 
 purity and devotion of the worshipper. Nei- 
 ther is the bare will, without action, sufficient; 
 that is, where we have the means of acting ; for, 
 in that case, it signifies as little to wish well, 
 without well-doing, as to do good without willing 
 it. There must be effect, as well as intention, 
 to make me owe a benefit; but, to will against it, 
 does wholly discharge it. In hue, the conscience 
 alone is the judge, both of benefits and injuries. 
 
 It does not follow now, because the benefit 
 rests in the good will, that therefore the good will 
 should be always a benefit ; for if it be not ac- 
 comDanied with government and discretion, those 
 offices, which we call benefits, are but the works 
 of passion, or of chance; and, many times, the 
 greatest of all injuries. One man does me good 
 by mistake, another i.norantly, a third upon 
 force, but none of these cases do I take to be an 
 obligation; for they were neither directed to me, 
 nor was there any kindness of intention. We do 
 not thank the seas for the advantages we receive 
 by navigation, or the rivers for supplying us with 
 fisb, and flowing of our grounds; we do not thank 
 
SENECA S MORALS. 2 .*> 
 
 Choice of the Person a main Point. 
 
 the trees, either for their fruits or shades ; or the 
 winds for a fair gale: and what's the difference 
 betwixt a reasonable creature, that does not know, 
 and an inanimate, that cannot ? A good horse 
 saves one man's life, a good suit of arms another's, 
 and a man, perhaps, that never intended it, saves 
 a third. Where's the difference now betwixt the 
 obligation of one, and of the other ? A man falls 
 into a river, and the fright cures him of an ague ; 
 we may call this a kind of lucky mischance, but 
 not a remedy. And so it is with the good we re- 
 ceive, either without, or beside, or contrary to 
 intention. It is the mind, and not the event, that 
 distinguishes a benefit from an injury. 
 
 THERE MVST BE JUDGMENT IN A BENEFIT, AS WEIL 
 
 AS MATTER AND INTENTION ; AND ESPECIALLY IN 
 
 THE CHOICE OF THE PERSON. 
 
 As it is the will that designs the benefit, and 
 the matter that conveys it, so it is the judgment 
 that perfects it : which depends upon so manv cri- 
 tical niceties, that the least error ; either in the 
 person, the matter, the manner, the quality, the 
 quantity, the time, or the place, spoils all/ 
 
 The consideration of the person is a mam point ; 
 for, we are to give by choice, and not by hazard. 
 My inclination bids me oblige one man; 1 am 
 bound in duty and justice to serve another; here 
 
 c 2 
 
16 
 
 SENECA'S MORALS. 
 
 Danger of misplacing; a Benetir. 
 
 it is charity, there it is pity ; and elsewhere, per- 
 haps, encouragement. There are some that want, 
 to whom I would riot give, because, if I did, 
 they would want still. To one man I would barely 
 offer a benefit ; but, I would press it upon another. 
 To say the truth, we do not employ any money 
 to more profit, than that which we bestow; and 
 it is not to our friends, our acquaintances, or 
 countrymen, nor to this, or that condition of 
 men, that we are to restrain our bounties ; but, 
 wheresoever there is a man there is a place, and 
 occasion for a benefit. We give to some that are 
 good already : to others, in hope to make them 
 so ; but we must do all with discretion. For, we 
 are as well answerable for what we give, as for 
 what we receive. Nay, the misplacing of a be- 
 nefit is worse than the not receiving of it ; for the 
 one is another man's fault, but the other is mine. 
 The error of the giver does oft-times excuse the 
 ingratitude of the receiver; for a favour ill-placed 
 is rather a profusion than a benefit. It is the 
 most shameful of losses, an inconsiderate bounty, 
 I will cb use a man of integrity, sincere, consider- 
 ate, grateful, temperate, well-natured, neither 
 covetous nor sordid, and, when I have obliged 
 such a man, though not worth a groat in the 
 world, I have gained my end. If we give, only 
 to receive, we lose the fairest objects of our cha- 
 nty; the absent, the sick, the captive, and the 
 
senega's morals. \7 
 
 Grati'ude not certain. 
 
 needy. When we oblige those that can never pay 
 us again in kind, as a stranger upon his last fare- 
 wel, or a necessitous person upon his death-bed, 
 we make Providence our debtor, and rejoice in 
 the conscience even of a fruitless benefit. So long 
 as we are affected with passions, and distracted 
 with hopes and fears, and (the most unmanly of 
 vices) with our pleasures, we are incompetent 
 judges where to place our bounties. But when 
 death presents itself, and we come to our last 
 will and testament, we leave our fortunes to the 
 most worthy. He that gives nothing, but in hopes' 
 of receiving, must die intestate. It is the honesty 
 of another man's mind that moves the kindness of 
 mine; and I would sooner oblige a grateful man 
 than an ungrateful : but this shall not hinder me 
 from doing good also to a person that is known to 
 be ungrateful; only with this difference, that I 
 will serve the one in all extremities with my life 
 and fortune, and the other, no further than stands- 
 with my convenience. But what shall 1 do, you 
 will say, to know whether a man will be grateful 
 or no ? I will follow probability, and hope the 
 best. He that sows is not sure to reap r nor the 
 seaman to reach his port, nor the soldier to win 
 the field; he that weds is not sure his wife shall 
 be honest, or his children dutiful. But, shall we, 
 therefore, neither sow, sail, bear arms, nor mar- 
 ry ? Nay, if I knew a man to be incurably thank- 
 
 c 3 
 
18 seneca's morals. 
 
 A Benefit a common tye. 
 
 iess, I would yet be so kind as to put him in his 
 way, or let him light a candle at mine, or draw 
 water at my well, which may stand him, perhaps, 
 in great stead, and yet not be reckoned as a be- 
 nefit from me ; for I do it carelessly, and not for 
 his sake, but my own ; as an office of humanity, 
 without any choice or kindness. 
 
 THE MATTER, OF OBLIGATIONS, WITH ITS 
 CIRCUMSTANCES. 
 
 Next to the choice of the person follows that 
 of the matter, wherein a regard must be had to 
 time, place, proportion, quality, and to the very 
 nicks of opportunity and humour. One man va- 
 lues his peace above his honour; another his ho- 
 nour above his safety ; and not a few there are, 
 that (provided they may save their bodies) never 
 care what becomes of their souls. So that good 
 offices depend much upon construction. Some 
 take themselves to be obliged, when they are not; 
 others will not believe it, when they are; and 
 some again take obligations and injuries, the one 
 for the other. 
 
 For our better direction let it be noted, that a 
 benefit is a common tye betwixt the giver and the 
 receiver, with a respect to both. Wherefore it 
 must be accommodated to the rules of discretion ; 
 for all things have their bounds and measures, 
 and so must liberality among the rest, that it be 
 
sen"ECa's morals. 10 
 
 — ■-■■■■' ■ 
 
 To be suited to the Receiver's condition. 
 
 neither too much for the one, nor too little for 
 the other, the excess being every jot as bad as 
 the defect. Alexander bestowed a city upon one 
 of his favourites, who modestly excusing himself, 
 that it was too much for him to receive, " Well, 
 but/' says Alexander, M it is not too much forme 
 to give." A haughty, certainly, and an impru- 
 dent speech ; for that which was not fit for the 
 one to take, could not be lit for the other to give. 
 Jt passes in the world for greatness of mind, to be 
 perpetually giving and loading of people with 
 bounties: but it is one thing to know how to give, 
 and another thing not to know how to keep. Give 
 me, a heart that is easy and open, but 1 will have 
 no holes in it; let it. be bountiful with judgment, 
 but 1 will have nothing to run out of it I know 
 not how. How much greater was he that refused 
 the city, than the other that offered it? Some 
 men throw away their money as if they were 
 angry with it; which is the error commonly of 
 weak minds, and large fortunes. No man esteems 
 of any thing that comes to him by chance, but 
 when it is governed by reason, it brings credit 
 both to the giver and receiver; whereas those 
 favours are, in some sort, scandalous, that make 
 a man ashamed of his patron. 
 
 It is matter of great prudence, for the bene- 
 factor to suit the benefit to the condition of the 
 receiver, who must be either his superior, his in* 
 
20 senega's morals. 
 
 Benefits of Princes ^ncl poor Men. 
 
 ferior, or his equal; and that which would be the 
 highest obligation imaginable to one, would per- 
 haps be as great a mockery and affront to the 
 other. As a plate of broken meat (for the pur- 
 pose) to a rich man, were an indignity; which, 
 to a poor man, is a charity. The benefits of 
 princes, and of great men, are honours, orifices, 
 monies, profitable commissions, countenance, and 
 protection. The poor man has nothing to pre- 
 sent, but good-will, good advice, faith, industry, 
 the service and hazard of his person, an early 
 apple, peradventure, or some other cheap curio- 
 sity. Equals, indeed, may correspond in kind j 
 but whatsoever the present may be, or to whom 
 soever we offer, this general rule must be ob- 
 served : that we always design the good and sa- 
 tisfaction of the receiver, and never grant any 
 thing to his detriment. It is not for a man to* 
 say, I was overcome by importunity; for, when 
 the fever is off, we detest the man that was pre- 
 vailed upon to our destruction. I will no more 
 undo a man with his will, than forbear saving 
 him against it. It is a benefit, in some cases, to 
 grant, and in others to deny; so that we are 
 rather to consider the advantage than the desire 
 of the petitioner. For, we may, in a passion,, 
 earnestly beg for (and take it ill to be denied 
 too) that very thing, which, upon second thoughts, 
 we may come to curse, as the occasion of a most 
 
senega's morals. 21 
 
 a S.TTT— ■ ■ • ■■ ■ , ,■ r - — - — . . ' r 
 
 Acceptable Presenis. 
 
 pernicious bount}\ Never give any thing that 
 shall turn to mischief, infamy, or shame. I will 
 consider another man's want and safety, but so 
 as not to forget my own ; unless in the case of a 
 very excellent person, and then I shall not much 
 heed what becomes of myself. There is no giving 
 of water to a man in a fever, or putting a sword 
 into a madman's hand, lie that lends a man 
 money to carry him to a bawdy-house, or a wea- 
 pon for his revenge, makes himself a partaker of 
 his crime. 
 
 He that would make an acceptable present, will 
 pitch upon something that is desired, sought for, 
 and hard to be found ; that which he sees no 
 where else, and which few have, or at least not 
 in that place and season ; something that may be 
 always in his eye, and mind him of his benefactor. 
 If it be lasting and durable, so much the better; 
 as plate rather than money, statues than apparel; 
 for it will serve as a monitor, to mind the receiver 
 of the obligation which the presenter cannot so 
 handsomely do. However, let it not be improper, 
 as arms to a woman, books to a clown, toys to a 
 philosopher. 1 will not give to any man that 
 which he cannot receive : as if I threw a ball to 
 a man without hands ; but 1 will make a return, 
 though he cannot receive it ; for my business is 
 not to oblige him, but to free myself. Nor any 
 thing that may be a reproach to his vice, or in- 
 
22 seneca's morals. 
 
 A singular present to Alexander. 
 
 firmity : as false dice to a cheat, spectacles to a 
 man that is blind. Let it not be unseasonable 
 neither, as a furred gown in summer, an um- 
 brella in winter. It enhances the value of the 
 present, if it was never given to him by any body 
 else, nor by me to any other ; for, that which we 
 give to every body, is welcome to nobody. N The 
 particularity does much, but yet the same thing 
 may receive a different estimate from several 
 persons; for, there are ways of marking and re- 
 commending it in such a manner, that if the 
 same good office be done to twenty people, every 
 one of them shall reckon himself peculiarly 
 obliged : as a cunning whore, if she has a thou- 
 sand sweethearts, will persuade every one of 
 them that she loves him best. But this is rather 
 the artifice of conversation, than the virtue of it. 
 
 The citizens of Megara sent ambassadors to 
 Alexander, in the height of his glory, to offer 
 him, as a compliment, the freedom of their city, 
 Upon Alexander's smiling at the proposal, they 
 told him, that it was a present which they had 
 never made, but to Hercules and himself. Where- 
 upon Alexander treated them kindly, and ac- 
 cepted of it ; not for the presenters' sake, but be- 
 cause they had joined him with Hercules, how 
 unreasonably soever : for Hercules conquered 
 nothing for himself, but made it his business to 
 vindicate and protect the miserable, without any 
 
senega's morals. 23 
 
 Gifis ihouid be made cheerfully. 
 
 private interest or design. But this intemperate 
 young man (whose virtue was nothing else but 
 a successful temerity) was trained up from his 
 youth in the trade of violence ; the common 
 enemy of mankind, as well of his friends, as of 
 his foes, and one that valued himself upon being 
 terrible to all mortals ; never considering that the 
 dullest creatures are as dangerous, and as dread- 
 ful as the fiercest; for the poison of a toad, or 
 the tooth of a snake, will do a man's business, as 
 sure as the paw of a tiger. 
 
 THE MANNER OF OBLIGING. 
 
 There is not any benefit so glorious in itself, 
 but it may yet be exceedingly sweetened and im- 
 proved by the manner of conferring it. The vir- 
 tue, I know, rests in the intent ; the profit in the 
 judicious application of the matter; but the 
 beauty and ornament of an obligation lies in the 
 manner of it, and it is then perfect, when the 
 dignity of the office is accompanied with all the 
 charms and delicacies of humanity, good-nature 
 and address : and with dispatch too ; for he that 
 puts a man off from time to time, was never right 
 at heart. , 
 
 In the first place, whatsoever we give, let us 
 do it frankly. A kind benefactor makes a man 
 happy as soon as he can, and as much as he can. 
 There should be no delay in a benefit, but the 
 
2-4 senega's morals. 
 
 We are to give as we would receise. 
 
 modesty of the receiver. If we cannot foresee 
 the request, let us, however, immediately grant 
 it, and by no means suffer the repeating of it. It 
 is so grievous a thing to say, i beg, the very 
 word puts a man out of countenance ; and it is a 
 double kindness to do the thing, and save an ho- 
 nest man the confusion of a blush. It comes too 
 late, that comes for the asking ; for nothing costs 
 us so dear, as that we purchase with our prayers. 
 It is all we give, even for heaven itself; and even 
 there too, where our petitions are the fairest, we 
 chuse rather to present them in secret ejacula- 
 tions, than by word of mouth. That is the last- 
 ing and acceptable benefit, that meets the receiver 
 half way. The rule is, we are to give as we 
 would receive, chearfully, quickly, and without 
 liesitation ; for there's no grace in a benefit that 
 sticks to the ringers. Nay, if there should be 
 occasion for delay, let us not, however, seem to 
 deliberate : for demurring is next door to deny- 
 ing ; and, so long as we suspend, so long are we 
 unwilling. It is a court-humour, to keep people 
 upon the tenters; their injuries are quick and 
 sudden, but their benefits are slow. Great mi- 
 nisters love to rack men with attendance, and ac- 
 count it an ostentation of their power to hold their 
 suitors in hand, and to have many witnesses of 
 their interest. A benefit should be made accept- 
 able by all possible means, even to the end that 
 
Seneca's morals. 25 
 
 Not wait to be errtreated. 
 
 the receiver, who is never to forget it, may bear 
 it in his mind with satisfaction. There must be 
 no mixture of sourness, severity, contumely, or 
 reproof, with our obligations; nay, in case there 
 should be any occasion for so much as an admo- 
 nition, let it be referred to another time. ' We 
 are a great deal apter to remember injuries than 
 benefits ; and it is enough to forgive an oMigation 
 that has the nature of an offence. 
 
 There are some that spoil a good office after it 
 is done, and others in the very instant of doing it. 
 There must be so much entreaty and importunity: 
 nav, if we do but suspect a petitioner, we put on a 
 sour face, look another way, pretend haste, com- 
 pany, business, talk of other matters, and keep him 
 off with artificial delays, let his necessities be never ' 
 so pressing; and, when we are put to it at last, it 
 comes so hard from us, that it is rather extorted, 
 than obtained, and not so properly the giving of 
 a bounty, as the quitting of a man's hold upon 
 the tug, when another is too strong for him : so 
 that this is but doing one kindness for me, and 
 another for himself; he gives for his own quiet, 
 after he has tormented me with difficulties and 
 delays. The manner of saying, or of doing any 
 thing, goes a great way in the value of the thing 
 itself. It was well said of him, that called a 
 good office that was done harshly, and with an 
 ill-will, a stoney piece of bread; it is necessary 
 
 D 
 
26* senega's morals. 
 
 Good Deeds should be with good Words. 
 
 for him that is hungry to receive it, but it almost 
 chokes a man in the going down. There must 
 be no pride, arrogance of looks, or tumor of 
 words, in the bestowing of benefits ; no insolence 
 of behaviour, but a modesty of mind, and a di- 
 ligent care to catch at occasions, and prevent 
 necessities. A pause, an unkind tone, word, 
 look, or action, destroys the grace of a courtesy. 
 It corrupts a bounty when it is accompanied with 
 state, haughtiness and elation of mind in the 
 giving of it. Some have the trick of shifting off 
 a suitor with a point of wit, or a cavil. As in 
 the case of the cynic, that begged, a talent of 
 Antigonus: — " That's too much," says he, " For 
 a cynic to ask/' When he fell to a penny, — 
 u That is too little/' says he, " for a prince to 
 give." lie might have found a way to have com- 
 pounded this controversy, by giving him a penny, 
 as to a cynic; and a talent, as from a prince. 
 Whatsoever we bestow, let it be done with a 
 frank and chearful countenance: a man must not 
 give with his hand, and deny with his looks, lie 
 that gives quickly gives willingly. 
 
 We are likewise to accompany good deeds with 
 good words, and say (for the purpose), — Why 
 should you make such a matter of this? — why 
 did not you come to me sooner? — why would 
 you make use of any body else? — I take it ill 
 Ehat you should bring me a recommendation.— 
 
seneca's morals. 57 
 
 ...... . . 
 
 Delay is worse than Denial. 
 
 Pray let there be no more of this; but when you 
 have occasion hereafter, come to me upon your 
 own account. That is the glorious bounty, when the 
 receiver can say to himself, — What a blessed day 
 lias this been to me ! — never was any thing done 
 so generously, so tenderly, with so good a grace ! 
 — What is it 1 would not do to serve this man ! — 
 A thousand times as much another way could not 
 have given me this satisfaction. In such a case, 
 let the benefit be never so considerable, the man- 
 ner of conferring it is yet the noblest part. Where 
 there is harshness of language, countenance, or 
 behaviour, a man had better be without it. A 
 flat denial is infinitely before a vexatious delay ; 
 as a quick death is a mercy, compared with a 
 lingering torment. But to be put to waitings and 
 intercessions, after a promise is past, is a cruelty 
 intolerable. It is troublesome to stay long for a 
 benefit, let it be never so great; and he that 
 holds me needlessly in pain, loses two precious 
 things, time, and the proof of friendship. Nay, 
 the very hint of a man's wants comes many times 
 too late. " If I had money," said Socrates, " I 
 would buy me a cloak." They that knew he 
 wanted one, should have prevented the very inti- 
 mation of that want. It is not the value of the 
 present, but the benevolence of the mind, that 
 we arc to consider. Pie gave me but a little, but 
 it was generously and frankly done; it was a 
 
 d2 
 
28 .seneca's morals. 
 
 . 1 ' .1, ■ „^ 
 
 Favours, public and private. 
 
 little out of a little. — lie gave it me without ask- 
 ing; he prest it upon me ; he watched the oppor- 
 
 ■ty, and took it as an obligation upon him- 
 '. On the other side, many benefits are great 
 
 hew, but little or nothing perhaps in effect, 
 when they come hard, slow, or at unawares. 
 That which is given with pride and ostentation, is 
 rather an ambition than a bounty. 
 
 Some favours are to be conferred in public, 
 others in private. In public, v the rewards of 
 great actions, as honours, charges, or whatso- 
 ever else gives a man reputation in the world; 
 but, the good offices we do for a man in want, 
 distress, or under reproach, these should be 
 known only to those who have the benefit of them. 
 Nay, not to them neither, if we can handsomely 
 conceal it from whence the favour came; for the 
 secrecy, in many cases, is a main part of the be- 
 nefit. There was a good man that had a friend, 
 who was both poor and sick, and ashamed to own 
 his condition ; he privately conveyed a bag of 
 money under his pillow, that he might seem ra- 
 ther to find than receive it. Provided .1 know 
 that 1 give it, no matter for his knowing from 
 whence it comes that receives it. Many a man 
 stands in need of help, that has not the face to 
 confess it. If the discovery may give offence, let 
 it lie concealed. He that gives to be seen, would 
 iv ver relieve a man in the dark. It would be too 
 
seneca's morals. 29 
 
 Value of Benefit? 
 
 tedious to run through all the niceties that may 
 occur upon this subject ; but, in two words, he 
 must be a wise, a friendly, and a well-bred man, 
 that perfectly acquits himself in the art and duty 
 of obliging ; for all his actions must be squared 
 according to the measures of civility, good-nature 
 and discretion. 
 
 THE DIFFERENCE AND VALUE OF BENEFITS. 
 
 We have already spoken of benefits in general, 
 the matter, and the intention, together with the 
 manner of conferring them. It follows now, in 
 course, to say something of the value of them ; 
 which is rated, either by the good they do us, or 
 by the inconvenience they save us; and has no 
 other standard than that of a judicious regard to 
 circumstance and occasion. Suppose I save a 
 man from drowning, the advantage of life is all 
 one to him, from what hand soever it comes, or 
 by what means; but yet there may be a vast dif- 
 ference in the obligation. I may do it with ha- 
 zard, or with security ; with trouble, or with 
 ease; willingly, or by compulsion; upon inter- 
 cession, or without it. I may have a prospect 
 of vain-glory, or profit : I may do it in kindness 
 to another, or an hundred by-ends to myself; 
 and every point does exceedingly vary the case. 
 Two persons may part with the same sum of mo- 
 ney, and yet not the same benefit : the one had 
 
 P3 
 
-30 seneca/s morals. 
 
 Different Obligations. 
 
 it of his own, and it was but a little out of a great 
 deal; the other borrowed it, and bestowed upon 
 me that which he wanted for himself. Two boys 
 were sent out to fetch a certain person to their 
 master : the one of them hunts up and down, and 
 comes home again weary, without rinding him } 
 the other falls to play with his companions at the 
 wheel of fortune, sees him by chance passing by, 
 delivers him his errand, and brings him. He thatt 
 found him by chance deserves to be punished ; 
 and he that sought for him, and missed him, to 
 be rewarded for his good- will. 
 
 In some cases we value the thing ; in others 
 the labour and attendance. What can be more 
 precious than good manners, good letters, life 
 and health ? and yet we pay our physicians, and 
 tutors, only for their service in their professions. 
 If we buy things cheap, it matters not, so long as 
 it is a bargain; it i,s no obligation from the seller, 
 if nobody else will give more for it. What would 
 not a man give to be set a shore in a tempest? 
 for a house in a wilderness ? a shelter in a storm ? 
 a fire, or a bit of meat, when a man's pinched 
 with hunger and cold ? a defence against thieves, 
 and a thousand other matters of moment, that 
 cost but little ? And yet we know that the skipper 
 has but his freight for our passage; and the car- 
 penters and bricklayers do their work by the day. 
 Those are many times the greatest obligations, in 
 2 
 
seneca's morals. 31 
 
 -•Escliines's Gift to hig Master. 
 
 truth, which in vulgar opinion are the smallest. 
 As comfort to the sick, poor, captives; good 
 counsel, keeping of people from wickedness, <S:c. 
 "Wherefore we should reckon ourselves to owe 
 most for the noblest benefits. If the physician 
 adds care and friendship to the duty of his calling, 
 and the tutor to the common method of his busi- 
 ness, I am to esteem them as the nearest of my 
 T elations ; for to watch with me, to be troubled 
 for me, and to put off all other patients for my 
 sake, is a particular kindness ; and so it is in my 
 tutor, if he takes more pains with me than with 
 the rest of my fellows. It is not enough, in thi 
 case, to pay the one his fees, and the other hi 3 
 salary; but I am indebted to them over and above 
 for their friendship. The meanest of mechanics 
 if he does his work with industry and care, it is 
 an usual thing to cast in something by way of re- 
 ward, more than the bare agreement; and shall 
 we deal worse with the preservers of our lives, 
 and the reformers of our manners ? He that gives 
 me himself (if he be worth taking), gives the 
 greatest benefit. And this is the present which 
 /Eschines, a poor disciple of Socrates, made to 
 his master, and as a matter of great considera- 
 tion, — " Others may have given you much/' says 
 he, " but I am the only man that has left ncthino- 
 to himself." — " This gift," says Socrates, " you 
 shall never repent of, for I will take care to re- 
 
32 senega's morals. 
 
 Benefits foil". wed by Injuries. 
 
 turn it better than I found it." So that a brave 
 man can never want matter for liberality in the 
 meanest condition ; for nature has been so kind 
 to us, that where we have nothing of fortune's we 
 may bestow something of our own. 
 
 It falls out often, that a benefit is followed 
 with an injury ; let which will be foremost, it is 
 with the latter, as with one writing upon another, 
 it docs in a great measure hide the former, and 
 keep it from appearing, but it does not quite take 
 it away. We may, in some cases, divide them, 
 and both requite the one and revenge the other; 
 or otherwise compare them, to know whether I 
 am creditor or debtor. You have obliged me in- 
 my servant, but wounded me in my brother; you- 
 have saved my son, but you have destroyed my 
 father : in this instance, I will allow as much as 
 piety and justice, and good- nature will bear; but 
 1 am not willing to set an injury against a benefit,. 
 I would have some respect to the time, the obli- 
 gation came first; and then, perhaps, the one 
 was designed, the other against his will : under 
 these considerations, I would amplify the benefit, 
 and lessen the injur} 7 , and extinguish the one with 
 the other ; nay,. I would pardon the injury, even, 
 without the benefit, but much more after it. Not 
 that a man can be bound by one benefit to suffer 
 all sorts of injuries, for there are seme cases 
 wherein we lie under no obligation for a beneiit 3 
 
SEX EC A S MORALS. 33 
 
 Case of a conditional redemption. 
 
 because a greater injury absolves it: as for ex- 
 ample, a man helps me out of a law-suit, and 
 afterwards commits a rape upon my daughter; 
 where the following impiety cancels the antecedent 
 obligation. A man lends me a little money, and 
 then sets my house on fire : the debtor is here 
 turned creditor, when the injury outweighs the 
 benefit. Kay, if a man does but so much as re- 
 pent the good office done, and grow sour and in- 
 solent upon it, and upbraid me with it, if he did 
 it only for his own sake, or for any other reason 
 than for mine, I am in some degree, more or less, 
 acquitted of the obligation. I am not at all be- 
 holden to him that makes me the instrument of 
 his own advantage. He that does me good for his 
 own sake, I will do him good for mine. 
 
 Suppose a man makes suit for a place, and can- 
 not obtain it but upon the ransom of ■ ten slaves 
 out of the gallies. If there be ten, and no more, 
 they owe him nothing for their redemption; but 
 they are indebted to him for the choice, where he 
 might have taken ten others as well as these. Put 
 the case again, that by an act of grace so many 
 prisoners are to be released, their names to be 
 drawn by lot, and mine happens to come out 
 among the rest; one part of my obligation is to 
 him that put me m a capacity of freedom, and 
 the other is to Providence, for my being one of 
 
34 seneca's morals. 
 
 Obligations upon necessity. 
 
 that number. The greatest benefits of all havfr 
 no witnesses, but lie concealed in the conseienee. 
 
 There is a great difference betwixt a common 
 obligation and a particular; he that lends my 
 country mone} 7 , obliges me only as a part of the 
 whole. Plato crossed the river, and the ferry- 
 man would take no money of him : he reflected 
 upon it as an honour done to himself, and told 
 him, that Plato was in debt. But Plato, when 
 he founcj it to be no more than he did for others* 
 recalled his word,—" For/ 7 says he, " Plato will 
 owe nothing in particular, for a benefit in corr> 
 mon ; what I owe with others, I will pay with 
 others.** 
 
 Some will have it, that the necessity of wishing 
 a man well is some abatement to the obligation 
 in the doing of him a good office. But I say, on 
 the contrary, that it is the greater, because the 
 good-will cannot be changed. It is one thing to 
 say, that a man could not but do me this or that 
 civility, because he was forced to it; and another 
 thing, that he could not quit the good-will of 
 doing it. In the former case I am a debtor to 
 him that imposeth the force, in the other to him- 
 self. The unchangeable good-will is an indispen- 
 sable obligation ; and, to say that nature cannot 
 go out of her course, does not discharge us of 
 what we owe to Providence. Shall he be said to 
 
SENECA 9 MORALS. 35 
 
 Man not ihe work of Chance. 
 
 will, that may change his mind the next moment? 
 And, shall we question the will of the Almighty, 
 whose nature admits no change? must the stars 
 quit their stations, and fall foul upon one an- 
 other ? must the sun stand still in the middle of 
 his course, and heaven and earth drop into con- 
 fusion? must a devouring lire seize upon the uni- 
 verse, the harmony of the creation be dissolved, 
 and the whole frame of nature swallowed up in a 
 dark abyss? and will nothing less than this serve 
 to convince the world of their audacious and im- 
 pertinent follies ? It is not for us to say, that — 
 " these heavenly bodies are not made for us ;" for 
 in part the}- are so, and we are the better for 
 their virtues and motions, whether we will or no; 
 though, undoubtedly, the principal cause is the 
 unalterable law of God. Providence is not moved 
 by any thing from without ; but the Divine Will 
 is an everla-ling law, an immutable decree, and 
 the impossibility of variation proceeds from God's 
 purpose of preserving ; for he never repents of his 
 first counsels. It is not wit-h our heavenly, as 
 with our earthly father. God thought of us, and 
 provided for us, before he made us (for unto him 
 all future events are present). Man was not the 
 work of chance ; his mind carries him above the 
 flight of fortune, and naturally aspires to the con- 
 templation of heaven, and divine mysteries. How 
 desperate a phrensy is it now. to undervalue, nay, 
 
36' senega's morals. 
 
 Virtuous emulation. 
 
 to contemn and to disclaim these divine blessings, 
 without which we are utterly incapable of enjoy- 
 ing any other ! 
 
 AN HONEST MAN CANNOT BE OUTDONE IN 
 COURTESEY. 
 
 It passes in the world for a generous and mag- 
 nificent saying, that — " It is a shame for a man 
 to be outdone in courtesy :" and it is worth the 
 while to examine both the truth of it, and the 
 mistake. First, there can be no shame in a vir- 
 tuous emulation; and, secondly, there can be no 
 victory without crossing the cudgels, and yielding 
 the cause. One man may have the advantages of 
 strength,, of mean?, of fortune ; and this will un- 
 doubtedly operate upon the events of good pur- 
 poses, but yet without any diminution to the vir- 
 tue. The good-will may be the same in both, 
 and yet one may have the heels of the other; for 
 it is not in a good office as in a course, where he 
 wins the plate that comes first to the post ; and 
 even there also, chance has many times a great 
 hand in the success. Where the contest is about 
 benefits, and that the one has not only a good 
 will, but matter to work upon ; and a power to 
 put the good intention in execution. And the 
 other has barely a good-will, without either the 
 means, or the occasion of a requital, if he does 
 but affectionately wish it, and endeavour it; the 
 
seneca's morals. 37 
 
 The ^iver and receiver may be on equal terms. 
 
 latter is no more overcome, in courtesy, than he 
 is in courage, that dies with his sword in his hand 
 and his face to the enemy, and, without shrink- 
 ing, maintains his station : for where fortune is 
 partial, it is enough that the good-will is equal. 
 There are two errors in this proposition: first, to 
 imply that a good man may be overcome ; and 
 then to imagine that any thing shameful can 
 befal him. The Spartans prohibited all those ex- 
 ercises where the victory was declared by the 
 confession of the contendent. The 300 Fabii were 
 never said to be conquered, but slain; nor Re- 
 gulus to be overcome, though he was taken pri- 
 soner by the Carthaginians. The mind may stand 
 firm under the greatest malice and iniquity of for- 
 tune, and yet the giver and receiver continue 
 upon equal terms : as we reckon it a drawn battle, 
 when two combatants are parted, though the cue 
 has lost more blood than the other. He that 
 knows how to owe a courtesy, and heartily wishes 
 that he could requite it, is invincible; so that 
 every man may be as grateful as he pleases, it 
 is your happiness to give, it is my fortune that 1 
 can only receive. What advantage now has your 
 chance over my virtue ? But there are some men 
 that have philosophized themselves almost out oi 
 the sense of human affections, as Diogenes, that 
 walked naked and unconcerned through the mid- 
 dle of Alexander's treasures, and was, as well in 
 
38 seneca's morals. 
 
 - .1, . . . 
 
 No matter though things given and received are unequal. 
 
 others mens' opinion, as in his own, even above 
 Alexander himself, who, at that time had the 
 whole world at his feet : for there was more that the 
 one scorned to take, than that the other had in his 
 power to give; and it is a greater generosity for a 
 beggar to refuse money, than for a prince to bestow 
 it. This is a remarkable instance of an immoveable 
 mind, and there is hardly airy contending with it; 
 but a man is never the less valiant for being 
 worsted by an invulnerable enemy, nor the fire 
 one jot the weaker for not consuming an incom- 
 bustible body, nor a sword ever a whit the worse 
 for not cleaving a rock that is impenetrable, 
 neither is a grateful mind overcome for want of 
 an answerable fortune. No matter for the ine- 
 quality of the things given and received, so long 
 as, in point of good affection, the two parties 
 stand upon the same level. It is no shame to 
 overtake a man, if we follow him as fast as we 
 can. That tumour of a man, the vain glorious 
 Alexander, was used to make his boast, that 
 never any man went beyond him in benefits, and 
 yet he lived to see a poor fellow in a tub, to 
 whom there was notliing that he could give, and 
 from whom there was nothing that he could take 
 away. 
 
 Nor is it always necessary for a poor man to 
 fly to the sanctuary of an invincible mind, to quit 
 scores with the bounties of a plentiful fortune; 
 
SENECA S MORALS. 3<) 
 
 A wise friend the noblest present. 
 
 but it does often fall out, that the returns which 
 he cannot make in kind, are more than supplied 
 in dignity and value. Archelaus, a king of Ma- 
 cedon, invited Socrates to his palace ; but he ex- 
 cused himself, as unwilling; to receive greater be- 
 ne/its than he was able to requite. This, perhaps, 
 was not pride in Socrates, but craft; for he was 
 afraid of being forced to accept of something 
 which might possibly have been unwortlry of him : 
 beside that, he was a man of liberty, and loth to* 
 make himself a voluntary slave. The truth of it 
 is, that Archelaus had more need of Socrates, 
 than Socrates of Archelaus; for he wanted a man 
 to teach him the art of life and death, and the 
 skill of government, and to read the book of na- 
 ture to him, and shew him thelieht at noon-dav; 
 he wanted a man, that, when the sun was in an 
 eclipse, and he had locked himself up in all the 
 horror and despair imaginable, he wanted a man, 
 1 eay, to deliver him from his apprehensions, and 
 to expound the prodigy to him, by telling him, 
 that there was no more in it, than only that the 
 moon was got betwixt the sun and the earth, and 
 all would be well again presently. Let the world 
 judge now, whether Archelaus's bounty, or So- 
 crates's philosophy, would have been the greater 
 present. He does not understand the value of 
 wisdom and friendship, that does not know a wise 
 friend to be the noblest of presents. A rarity 
 
 E 2 
 
40 senega's morals. 
 
 , Question of Self-Benefits. 
 
 scarce to be found, not only in a family, but in 
 an age; and no where more wanted than were 
 there seems to be the greatest store. The greater 
 a man is, the more need he has of him ; and the 
 more difficulty there is both of finding, arid of 
 knowing him. Nor is it to be said, that I cannot 
 requite such a benefactor, because I am poor, and 
 have it not. I can give good counsel ; a conversa- 
 tion, wherein he may take both delight and profit ; 
 freedom of discourse, without flattery ; kind at- 
 tention, where he deliberates; and faith inviola- 
 ble, Where he trusts; I may bring him to a love 
 and knowledge of truth, deliver him from the 
 errors of his credulity, and teach him to distin- 
 guish betwixt friends and parasites. 
 
 THE QUESTION DISCUSSED, WHETHER OR NO 
 
 A MAN MAY GIVE OR RETURN A 
 
 BENEFIT TO HIMSELF. 
 
 There are many cases, wherein a man speaks 
 of himself as of another. As for example — I may 
 thank myself for this — I am angry at myself— I 
 hate myself for that. And this way of speaking 
 has raised a dispute among the Stoics, — Whether 
 or no a man may give or return a benefit to him- 
 self? For, say they, if I may hurt myself, I may 
 oblige nivself; and, that which were a benefit to 
 another body, why is it not so to myself? and 
 why am not I as criminal in being ungrateful to 
 
sexeca's morals. 41 
 
 No man can oblige hin^elf. 
 
 myself, as if I were so to another body ? and the 
 case is the same in flattery, and several other 
 vices ; as, on the other side, it is a point of great 
 reputation for a man to command himself. Plato 
 thanked Socrates for what he had learned of him ; 
 and why might not Socrates as well thank Plato 
 for that which he had taught him ? " That which 
 you want," says Plato/' borrow it of yourself." 
 And why may not I as well give to myself as lend ? 
 If I may be angry with myself, I may thank my- 
 self ; and if I chide myself, I may as well com- 
 mend myself, and do myself good as well as hurt : 
 there is the same reason of contraries. It is a 
 common thing to say — such a man hath done 
 himself an injury. If an injury, why not a bene- 
 fit ? But, I say, that no man can be a debtor to 
 himself; for the benefit must naturally precede 
 the acknowledgment, and a debtor can no more 
 be without a creditor, than a husband without a 
 wife. Somebody must give, that somebody may 
 receive ; and it is neither giving nor receiving, the 
 passing of a thing, from one hand to the other. 
 "What if a man should be ungrateful in the case ? 
 there is nothing lost, for he that gives it has it : 
 and he that gives and he that receives, are one 
 and the same person. Now, properly speaking, 
 no man can be said to bestow any thing upon 
 himself; for he obeys his nature, that prompts 
 every man to do himself all the good he can. 
 
 E 3 
 
42 SENECA S MORALS. 
 
 To serve one's self is a thing necessary- 
 Shall I call him liberal that gives to himself, or 
 good-natured that pardons himself, or pitiful that 
 is affected with his own misfortunes ? That which 
 were bounty, clemency, compassion, to another, 
 to myself is nature. A benefit is a voluntary 
 thing ; but to do good to myself is a thing neces- 
 sary. Was ever any man commended for getting 
 out of a ditch, or for helping himself against 
 thieves ? or, what if I should allow, that a man 
 may confer a benefit upon himself? yet he cannot 
 owe it; for he returns it in the same instant that 
 he receives it. No man gives, owes, or makes a 
 return, but to another. How can one man do 
 that, to which two parties are so requisite in so 
 many respects ? Giving and receiving must go back- 
 ward and forward, betwixt two persons. If a man 
 give to himself, he may sell to himself: but to 
 sell is to alienate a thing, and to translate the 
 right of it to another ; now, to make a man both 
 the giver and the receiver, is to unite two con- 
 traries. That is a benefit, which, when it is 
 given, may possibly not be requited ; but he that 
 gives to himself, must necessarily receive what he 
 gives; beside, that all benefits are given for the 
 receiver's sake, but that which a man does for 
 himself, is for the sake of the giver. 
 
 This is one of those subtilties, which, though 
 hardly worth a man's while, yet it is not labour 
 absolutely lost neither. There is more of trick, 
 
 2 
 
seneca's morals. 43 
 
 A-*- ' ' ■ ■ SS 
 
 Second-hand Benefits. 
 
 and artifice in it, than solidity, and yet there is 
 matter of diversion too; enough, perhaps, to pass 
 •away a winter's evening, and keep a man waking 
 that is heavy-headed. 
 
 HOW FAR ONE MAN MAY BE OBLIGED FOR 
 A BENEFIT DONE TO ANOTHER. 
 
 Th e question now before us requires distinc- 
 tion and caution. For though it be both natural 
 and generous to wish well to my friend's friend, 
 yet a second-hand benefit does not bind me any 
 farther than to a second-hand gratitude; so that 
 I may receive great satisfaction and advantage 
 from a good office done to my friend, and yet 
 lie under no obligation myself. Or, if any man 
 thinks otherwise, I must ask him, in the first 
 place, where it begins ? and how far it extends ? 
 that it may not be boundless. Suppose a man 
 obliges the son ; does that obligation work upon 
 the father ? and why not upon the uncle too ? the 
 brother ? the wife ? the sister ? the mother ? nay, 
 upon all that have any kindness for him? and 
 upon all the lovers of his friends ? and upon all 
 that love them too ; and so in injinitum. In this 
 case we must have recourse, as is said heretofore, 
 to the intention of the benefactor ; and fix the 
 obligation upon him unto whom the kindness was 
 directed. If a man manures my ground, keeps 
 my house from burning or falling, it is a benefit 
 
44 Seneca's morals. 
 
 The immediate receiver is the debtor. 
 
 to me, for I am the better for it, and my house and 
 land are insensible. But if he save the life of my son, 
 the benefit is to my son ; it is a joy and comfort 
 to me, but no obligation. I am as much con- 
 cerned, as I ought to be, in the health, the feli- 
 city, and the welfare of my son, as in the happy 
 enjoyment of him ; and I should be as unhappy as 
 is possible in his loss ; but it does not follow that 
 I must of necessity lie under an obligation, for 
 being either happier, or less miserable, by another 
 body's means. There are some benefits, which, 
 although conferred upon one man, may yet work 
 upon others ; as a sum of money may be given to 
 a poor man for his own sake, which, in the con- 
 sequence, proves the relief of the whole family ; 
 but still the immediate receiver is the debtor for 
 it. For the question is not, to whom it comes 
 afterwards to be transferred, but who is the prin- 
 cipal ? and upon whom it was first bestowed ? My 
 son's life is as dear to me as my own, and, in 
 saving him, you preserve me too : in this case I 
 will acknowledge myself obliged to you, that is to 
 say, in my son's name ; for in my own, and in 
 strictness, I am not, but I am content to make 
 myself a voluntary debtor. What if he had bor- 
 rowed money ? my paying of it does not at all 
 make it my debt. It would put me to the blush, 
 perhaps, to have him taken in bed with another 
 man's wife ; but that does not make me an adul- 
 
seneca's morals. 45 
 
 An unworthy person may be obliged for another's sake. 
 
 terer. It is a wonderful delight and satisfaction 
 that I receive in his safety ; but still this good is 
 not a benefit. A man may be the better for an 
 animal, a plant, a stone, but there must be a 
 will, an intention, to make it an obligation. You 
 save the son without so much as knowing the fa- 
 ther, nay, without so much as thinking of him ; 
 and, perhaps, you would have done the same 
 thing, even if you had hated him. But without 
 any farther alteration of dialogue, the conclusion 
 is this, if you meant him the kindness, he is an- 
 swerable for it ; and I may enjoy the fruit of it, with- 
 out being obliged by it. But if it was done for my 
 sake, then am I accountable. Or howsoever, upon 
 any occasion, I am ready to do you all the kind 
 offices imaginable, not as the return of a benefit, 
 but as the earnest of a friendship ; which you are 
 not to challengerneither, but to entertain as an act 
 of honour and of justice, rather than of gratitude. 
 If a man find the body of my dead father in a de- 
 sart, and give it burial, if he did it as to my father 
 I am beholden to him ; but, if the body was un- 
 known to him, and that he would have done the 
 same thing for any other body, I am no farther 
 concerned in it than as a piece of public hu- 
 manity. 
 
 There are, moreover, some cases, wherein an 
 unworthy person may be obliged, for the sake of 
 ethers ; and the sottish extract of an ancient no- 
 
4(5 seneca's morals. 
 
 Providence gracious to the wicked for their ancestors' sake. 
 
 -.1 
 
 bility may be preferred before a better man, that 
 is but of yesterday's standing ; and it is but reason- 
 able to pay a reverence even to the memory of 
 eminent virtues. He that is not illustrious in himself, 
 ma}^ yet be reputed so in the right of his ancestors : 
 and there is a gratitude to be entailed upon the off- 
 spring of famous progenitors. Was it not for the 
 father's sake that Cicero, the son, was made con- 
 sul ? and was it not the eminence of one Pompey, 
 that raised and dignified the rest of his family ? 
 How came Caligula to be emperor of the world ? 
 a man so cruel, tbat he spilt blood as greedily a* 
 if he were to drink it; the empire was not given 
 to himself, but to his father Germanicus. A braver 
 man deserved that for him, which he never could 
 have challenged upon his own merit. What was 
 it that preferred Fabius Persicus? (whose very 
 mouth was the uncleanest part about him): what 
 was it, but the three hundred of that family that 
 so generously opposed the enemy, for the safety of 
 the commonwealth ? 
 
 Nay, Providence itself is gracious to the wicked 
 posterity of an honourable race. The counsels of 
 heaven are guided by wisdom, mercy, and justice. 
 Some men are made kings for their proper virtues, 
 without any respect to their predecessors. Others 
 for their ancestors' sake, whose virtues, though 
 neglected in their lives, come to be afterward re- 
 warded in their issues. And, it is but equality- 
 
seneca's morals. 47 
 
 Difficulties should not prevent benefactions. 
 
 that our oratitude should extend as far as the in- 
 fluence of their heroical actions and examples. 
 
 THE BENEFACTOR MUST HAVE NO BY-ENDS. 
 
 We come now to the main point of the matter 
 in question; that is to say, — Whether or no it be 
 a thing desirable in itself, the giving and receiving 
 of benefits ? There is a sect of philosophers that 
 accounts nothing valuable but what is profitable, 
 and so makes all virtue mercenary. An unmanly 
 mistake, to imagine, that the hope of gain, or fear 
 of loss, should make a man either the more or the 
 less honest. As who should say — What shall I 
 get by it, and I will be an honest man ? Whereas 
 on the contrary, honesty is a thing in itself to be 
 purchased at any rate. It is not for a body to say 
 — It will be a charge, a hazard, I shall give of- 
 fence, &c. My business is to do what I ought to 
 do ; all other considerations are foreign to the of- 
 fice. Whensoever my duty calls me, it is my 
 part to attend, without scrupulizing upon forms 
 or difficulties. Shall I see an honest man oppressed 
 at the bar, and not assist him, for fear of a court-' 
 faction ? or not second him upon the highway 
 asainst thieves, for fear of a broken head ? and 
 chuse rather to sit still, the quiet spectator of 
 fraud and violence ? Why will men be just, tem- 
 perate, generous, brave, but because it carries 
 
48 seneca's moUals. 
 
 Pleasure and Virtue not to be compared. 
 
 along with it fame, and a good conscience ? and for 
 the same reason, and no other, (to apply it to the 
 subject in hand) let a man also be bountiful. The 
 school of Epicurus, I am sure, will never swallow 
 this doctrine : (that effeminate tribe of lazy and 
 voluptuous philosophers) they will tell you, that 
 virtue is the servant and vassal of pleasure. 
 " No," says Epicurus, " I am not for pleasure 
 neither, without virtue." But why then for plea- 
 sure, say I, before virtue ? Not that the stress of 
 the controversy lies upon the order only ; for the 
 power of it, as well as the dignity, is now under 
 debate. It is the office of virtue to superintend, 
 to lead, and to govern ; but the parts you have 
 assigned it, are to submit, to follow, and to be 
 under command. But this, you will say, is no- 
 thing to the purpose, so long as both sides are 
 agreed, that there can be no happiness without 
 virtue; "Take away that," says Epicurus, " and 
 I am as little a friend to pleasure as you." The 
 pinch, in short, is this — whether virtue itself be 
 the supreme good, or only the cause of it? It is 
 not the inverting of the order that will clear this 
 point, (though it is a very preposterous error to 
 set that first which should be last). It does not 
 half so much offend me, ranging of pleasure be- 
 fore virtue, as the very comparing of them ; and 
 the bringing of two opposites, and professed ene- 
 mies, into, any sort of competition. 
 
seneca's morals. 49 
 
 Interested gifts are dishonourable. 
 
 The drift of this discourse is to support the 
 cause of benefits, and to prove that it is a mean 
 and dishonourable thing to give for any other end 
 than for giving sake. He that gives for gain, profit, 
 or any by-end, destroys the very intent of bounty. 
 For it falls only upon those who do not want, and 
 perverts the charitable inclinations of princes, and 
 of great men, who cannot reasonably propound to 
 themselves any such end. What does the sun get 
 by travelling about the universe, by visiting and 
 comforting all the quarters of the earth ? Is the 
 whole creation made, and ordered for the good of 
 mankind, and every particular man only for the 
 good of himself ? There passes not an hour of our 
 lives, wherein we do not enjoy the blessings of 
 Providence without measure, and without inter- 
 mission. And what design can the Almighty have 
 upon us, who is in himself full, safe, and inviola- 
 ble ? If he should give only for his own sake, what 
 would become of poor mortals, that have nothing 
 to return him, at best, but dutiful acknowledg- 
 ments ? It is putting out of a benefit to interest, 
 only to bestow where we may place it to advan- 
 tage. 
 
 Let its be liberal then, after the example of our 
 greatCreator, and give to others with the same con- 
 sideration that he gives to us. Epicurus's answer 
 v. ill be to this — That God gives no benefits at all, 
 but turn? his back upon the world, and, without 
 
 F 
 
seneca's morals* 
 
 The bounty of Providence. 
 
 any concern for us, leaves nature to take her course ; 
 and, whether he does any thing himself, or nothing, 
 he takes no notice, however, either of the good, or 
 of the ill, that is done here below. If there were not 
 an ordering and an over-ruling Providence, how 
 comes it (say I, on the other side), that the uni- 
 versality of mankind should ever have so unani- 
 mously agreed in the madness of worshipping a 
 power that can neither hear, nor help us ? Some 
 blessings are freely given us; others, upon our 
 prayers, are granted us; and every day brings 
 forth instances of great and seasonable mercies. 
 There never was yet any man so insensible as not 
 to feel, see, and understand a Deity in the ordi- 
 nary methods of nature, though many have been 
 so obstinately ungrateful as not to confess it ; nor 
 is any man so wretched, as not to be a partaker in 
 that divine bounty. Some benefits, it is true, 
 may appear to be unequally divided ; but, it is na 
 small matter yet, that we possess in common, and 
 which nature has bestowed upon us in her very 
 self. If God be not bountiful, whence is it that 
 we have all that we pretend to ? That which we 
 give, and that which we deny ; that which we lay 
 up, and that which we squander away? Thosft 
 innumerable delights, for the entertainment of our 
 eyes, our ears, and our understandings ? nay, that 
 copious matter even for luxury itself? For care 
 Is taken, not only for our necessities, but also for 
 

 SENECA S MORALS. 
 
 51 
 
 ^ ■ — ■ ■ ■ 
 
 For which man is unthankful. 
 
 
 our pleasures, and for the gratifying of all our 
 
 senses and appetites. So many pleasant groves, 
 fruitful and salutary plants; so many fair rivers, 
 that serve us both for recreation, plenty, and com- 
 merce. Vicissitudes of season; varieties of food, 
 by nature made ready to our hands ; and the 
 whole creation itself subjected to mankind, for 
 health, medicine, and dominion. We can be thank- 
 ful to a friend for a few acres, or a little monev, 
 and yet, for the freedom and command of the 
 whole earth, and for the great benefits of our 
 being, as life, health, and reason, we look upon 
 ourselves as under no obligation. If a man be- 
 stows upon us a house, that is delicately beauti- 
 fied with paintings, statues, gildings, and marble, 
 we make a mighty business of it; and yet it lies at 
 the mercy of a puff of wind, and the snuff of a 
 candle, and an hundred accidents, to lay it in the 
 dust. And, is it now nothing to sleep under the 
 canopy of heaven, where we have the globe of the 
 earth for our place of repose, and the glories of the 
 heavens for our spectacle ? How comes it, that 
 we should so much value what we have, and yet 
 at the same time be so unthankful for it ? Whence 
 is it that we have our breath, the comforts of 
 light, and of heat, the very blood that runs in 
 our veins ? the cattle that feed us, and the fruit of 
 the earth that feed them ? Whence have we the 
 growth of our bodies, the succession of our ages, 
 
 F 2 
 
£2 seneca's morals. 
 
 Gi)d and Nature the same power. 
 
 and the faculties of our minds ? so many veins of 
 metals, quarries of marble, &c. The seed of every 
 thing is in itself, and it is the blessing of God that 
 raises it out of the dark, into action and motion. 
 To say nothing of the charming varieties of music, 
 beautiful objects, delicious provisions for the pa- 
 late, exquisite perfumes, which are cast in over 
 and above, to the common necessities of our 
 jbeing. 
 
 " All this," says Epicurus, " we are to ascribe 
 to nature/' And why not to God, I beseech ye ? 
 As if they were not both of them one and the same 
 power, working in the whole, and in every part 
 of it. Or, if you call him the Almighty Jupiter, 
 the Thunderer, the Creator and Preserver of us 
 all, it comes to the same issue. Some will ex- 
 press him under the notion of Fate, which is only 
 a connection of causes, and himself the uppermost 
 and original, upon which all the rest depend. The 
 Stoicks represent the several functions of the Al- 
 mighty Power under several appellations. When 
 lhey speak of him as the Father, and the Foun- 
 tain of all Beings, they call him Bacchus : and, 
 under the name Hercules, they denote him to be 
 indefatigable and invincible; and, in the contem- 
 plation of him in the reason, order, proportion, 
 and wisdom of his proceedings, they call him 
 Mercury. So that which way soever they look, 
 and under what name soever they couch their 
 
BfittSCUl's MORALS. 53 
 
 His buunty expects no return. 
 
 meaning, they never fail of finding him : for he is 
 every where, and fills his own work. If a man 
 should borrow money of Seneca, and say that he 
 owes it to Annoeus, or Lucius, he may change the 
 name, but not his creditor; for, let him take 
 which of the three names he pleases, he is still a 
 debtor to the same person. As justice, integrity, 
 prudence, frugality, fortitude, are all of them 
 the goods of one and the same mind, so that 
 which soever of them pleases us, we cannot dis- 
 tinctly say, that it is this or that, but the mind. 
 
 But, not to carry this digression too far, that 
 which God himself does, we are sure is well done; 
 and, we are no less sure, that for whatsoever he 
 gives, he neither wants, expects, nor receives any 
 thing in return : so that the end of a benefit ought 
 to be the advantage of the receiver ; and that 
 must be our scope, without any by-regard to our- 
 selves. It is objected to us, the singular caution 
 we prescribe in the choice of the person, for it 
 were a madness, we say, for an husbandman to 
 sow the sand, which, if true, say they, you have 
 an eye upon profit, as well in giving as in plough- 
 ing and sowing ; and then, say they again, that, 
 if the conferring of a benefit were desirable in it- 
 self, it would have no dependence upon the choice 
 of the man, for let us give it, when, or wheresoever 
 we please, it would be still a benefit. This does 
 not at all aftect our assertion; for the person,, the 
 
 J 3 
 
B4> seneca's morals. 
 
 All B( r.efi's must be gratuitous-. 
 
 matter, the manner, and the time, are circum- 
 stances absolutely necessary to the reason of the 
 action ; there must be a right judgment in all re- 
 spects to make it a benefit. It is my duty to be 
 true to a trust, and yet there may be a time, or a 
 place, wherein I would make little difference be- 
 twixt the renouncing of it, and the delivering of 
 it up ; and the same rule holds in benefits. I will 
 neither render the one, nor bestow the other, to 
 the damage of the receiver. A wicked man will 
 run all risks to do an injury, and to compass his 
 .revenge ; and shall not an honest man venture as 
 far to a good office? All benefits must be gra- 
 tuitous. A merchant sells me the corn that keeps 
 me and my family from starving, but he sold it 
 for his interest, as well as I bought it for mine, and 
 so I owe him nothing for it. He that gives for 
 profit, gives to himself; as a physician or a law- 
 yer gives counsel for a fee, and only makes use of 
 me for his own ends ; as a grazier fats his cattle, 
 to bring them to a better market. This is more 
 properly the driving of a trade, than the culti- 
 vating of a generous commerce. This for that, is 
 rather a truck than a benefit; and he deserves to 
 be cozened, that gives any thing in hope of a re- 
 turn. And, in truth, what end should a man 
 honourably propound ? Not profit sure ; that is 
 vulgar and mechanic, and he that does not con- 
 temn it, can never be grateful. And then for 
 
seneca's mouals. 56 
 
 Ingratitude despised. 
 
 glory, it is a mighty matter, indeed, for a man to 
 boast of doing his duty. We are to give, if it 
 were only to avoid not giving ; if any thing comes 
 on it, it is clear gain; and at worst, there is no- 
 thing lost, beside, that one benefit well placed, 
 makes amends for a thousand miscarriages. It is 
 not that 1 would exclude the benefactor neither, 
 for being himself the better for a good office he 
 does for another. Some there are that do us good 
 only for their own sakes, others for ours, and 
 some again for both. He that does it for me, in 
 common with himself, if he had a prospect upon 
 both in the doing of it, I am obliged to him for 
 it, and glad with all my heart that he had a share 
 in it. Nay, 1 were ungrateful, and unjust, if I 
 should not rejoice, that what was beneficial to me, 
 might be so likewise to himself. 
 
 To pass now to the matter of gratitude and in- 
 gratitude, there never was any man yet so wicked 
 as not to approve of the one, and detest the other, 
 as the two things in the whole world, the one to 
 be the most abominated, the other the most es- 
 teemed. The very story of an ungrateful action 
 puts us out of all patience, and gives us a loath- 
 ing for the author of it. " That inhuman villain," 
 we cry, " to do so horrid a thing." Not that in- 
 considerate fool, for omitting so profitable a vir- 
 tue. Which plainly shews the sense we naturally 
 have, both of the one, and of the other, and that 
 
66 seneca's morals. 
 
 Gratitude for Benefits procures more. 
 
 we are led to it by a common impulse of reason, 
 and of conscience. Epicurus fancies God to be 
 without power, and without arms, above fear 
 himself, and as little to be feared. He places 
 him betwixt the orbs, solitary and idle, out of 
 the reach of mortals, and neither hearing our 
 prayers, nor minding our concerns; and allows 
 him only such a veneration and respect as we pay 
 to our parents. If a man should ask him now, 
 why any reverence at all, if we have no obligation 
 to him ? or rather, why that greater reverence to 
 his fortuitous atoms ? His answer would be — 
 That it is for their majesty, and their admirable 
 nature, and not out of any hope or expectation 
 from them. So that, by his proper confession, 
 a thing may be desirable for its own worth. 
 u But/' says he, " gratitude is a virtue that has 
 commonly profit annexed to it." And where is 
 the virtue, say I, that has not? But still the 
 virtue is to be valued for itself, and not for the 
 profit that attends it. There is no question, but 
 gratitude for benefits received, is the ready way 
 to procure more; and, in requiting one friend, 
 we encourage many ; but these accessions fall in 
 by the by, and, if I were sure that the doing of 
 good offices would be my ruin, I would yet pur- 
 sue them. He that visits the sick in hopes of a 
 legacy, let him be ever so friendly in all other 
 cases, I look upon him in this to be no better than 
 
seneca's morals. 57 
 
 Several sorts of ungrateful men. 
 
 a raven, that watches a weak sheep, only to peck 
 out the eyes of it. We never give with so much 
 judgment and care, as when we consider the ho- 
 nesty of the action, without any regard to the 
 profit of it ; for our understandings are corrupted 
 by fear, hope and pleasure. 
 
 THERE ARE MANY CASES WHEREIN A MAN MAY BE 
 
 MINDED OF A BENEFIT, BUT IT IS VERY 
 
 RARELY TO BE CHALLENOED, AND 
 
 NEVER TO BE UPBRAIDED. 
 
 If the world were wise, and as honest as it 
 should be, there would be no need of caution or 
 precept, how to behave ourselves in our several 
 stations and duties ; for both the giver and the 
 receiver would do what they ought to do of their 
 own accord. The one would be bountiful, and 
 the other grateful ; and the only way of minding a 
 man of one good turn, would be the following of 
 it with another. But, as the case stands, we must 
 take other measures, and consult, the best we 
 can, the common ease and relief of mankind. 
 
 As there are several sorts of ungrateful men, 
 so there must be several ways of dealing with 
 them ; either by artifice, counsel, admonition, or 
 reproof, according to the humour of the person, 
 and the degree of the offence : provided always, 
 that as well in the re-rninding a man of a benefit, 
 as in the bestowing of it, the good of the receiver 
 
S8 sexeca's morals. 
 
 Repeated gifts correct Ingratitude. 
 
 ■■..■■ ■ — 
 
 be the principal thing intended. There is a 
 curable ingratitude, and an incurable ; there is a 
 slothful, a neglectful, a proud, a dissembling, a 
 disclaiming, a heedless, a forgetful, and a mali- 
 cious ingratitude, and the application must be 
 suited to the matter we have to work upon. A 
 gentle nature may be reclaimed by authority, ad- 
 rice, or reprehension; a father, a husband, a 
 friend, may do good in the case. There are a sort 
 of lazy and sluggish people, that live as if they 
 were asleep, and must be lugged and pinched to 
 wake them. These men are betwixt grateful and 
 ungrateful ; they will neither deny an obligation, 
 nor return it, and only want quickening. I will 
 do all I can to hinder any man from ill-doing, 
 but especially a friend ; and yet more especially 
 from doing ill to me. I will rub up his memory 
 with new benefits, if that will not serve, I will 
 proceed to good counsel, and from thence to re- 
 buke. If all fails, I will look upon him as a des- 
 perate debtor, and even let him alone in his in- 
 gratitude, without making him my enemy ; for 
 no necessity shall ever make me spend time in 
 wrangling with any man upon that point. 
 
 Assiduity of obliging strikes upon the con- 
 science, as well as the memory, and pursues an 
 ungrateful man, until he becomes grateful. If one 
 good office will not do it, try a second, and then 
 a third. No man can be so thankless, but either 
 
seveca's morals. 59 
 
 Forgotten gifts may some rimes be hinted. 
 
 shame, occasion, or example, will at some time 
 or other prevail upon him. The very beasts them- 
 selves, even lions and tigers, are gained by good 
 usage. Beside, that one obligation does natu- 
 rally draw on another; and a man would not 
 willingly leave his own work imperfect. — I have 
 helped him thus far, and I will even go through with 
 it now. So that over and above the delight, and 
 the virtue of obliging, one good turn is a shooting 
 horn to another. This, of all hints, is perhaps 
 the most effectual, as well as the most generous. 
 
 In some cases it must be carried more home, as 
 in that of Julius Ca?sar, who, as he was hearing 
 a cause, the defendant finding himself pinched — 
 " Sir," says he, " do you remember a strain you 
 got in your ancle, when you commanded in Spain, 
 and that a soldier lent you his cloak for a cushion, 
 upon the top of a craggy rock, under the shade of 
 a little tree, in the heat of the day r" — " I re- 
 member it perfectly well," says Ca?sar, " and that 
 when I was ready to choke with thirst, an honest 
 fellow fetched me a draught of water in his hel- 
 met." — " But that man, and that helmet," says 
 the soldier, " does Caesar think that he could not 
 know them again if he saw them?" — " The man, 
 perchance I might," says Caesar, somewhat of- 
 fended, " but what is this story to my business ? 
 You are none of the man." — u Pardon me, sir," 
 says the soldier, " I am that very man; but Ca> 
 
Go seneca's morals. 
 
 Son e wo' id be frrateful if reminded. 
 
 sar may well forget me, for I have been trepanned 
 since, and lost an eye at the battle of Munda, 
 where that helmet too had the honour to be 
 cleft with a Spanish blade." Caesar took it as it 
 was intended ; and it was an honourable and a 
 prudent way of refreshing his memory. But this 
 would not have gone down so well with Tiberius, 
 for, when an old acquaintance of his began his 
 address to him, with—" You remember, Ca?sar." 
 " No," says Caesar, cutting him short, " I do 
 not remember what I was." Now, with him, it 
 was better to be forgotten than remembered ; for, 
 an old friend was as bad as an informer. It is a 
 common thing for men to hate the authors of 
 their preferment, as the witnesses of their mean 
 
 original. 
 
 There are some people well enough disposed to 
 be grateful, but they cannot hit upon it without a 
 prompter : they are like little school-boys that 
 have treacherous memories, it is but helping them 
 here and there with a word, when they stick, and 
 they will go through with their lesson; they must 
 be taught to be thankful, and it is a fair step if 
 we can but bring them to be willing, and only 
 offer at it. Some benefits we have neglected, 
 some we are not willing to remember. He is un- 
 grateful that disowns an obligation; and so is he 
 that dissembles it, or, to his power, does not 
 requite it ; but the worst of all is he that forgets 
 l 
 
senega's MOll.US. 6l 
 
 A Benefit once out ef sight* 16 buried. 
 
 it. Conscience, or occasion, may revive the rest, 
 but here, the very memory of it is lost. Those 
 eyes that cannot endure the light are weak, but 
 those are stark blind that cannot see it. I do not 
 like to hear people say — " Alas ! poor man, he 
 has forgotten it ;" as if that were an excuse for 
 ingratitude, which is the very cause of it ; for, if 
 he were not ungrateful, he would not be forgetful, 
 and lay that out of the way, which should be al- 
 ways uppermost, and in sight. He that thinks as 
 he ought to do, of requiting a benefit, is in no 
 danger of forgetting it. There are, indeed, some 
 benefits so great, that they can never slip the me- 
 mory; but those which are less in value, and 
 more in number, do commonly escape us. We are 
 apt enough to acknowledge — that such a man has 
 been the making of us, so long as we are in pos- 
 session of the advantage he has brought us ; but 
 new appetites deface old kindnesses, and we cany 
 our prospect forward to something more, without 
 considering what we have obtained alread\\ All 
 that is past we give for lost; so that we are only 
 intent upon the future. When a benefit is once 
 out of sight, or out of use, it is buried. 
 
 It is the freak of many people, that they cannot 
 do a good office, but they are presently boasting 
 of it, drunk or sober; and it goes about in all 
 companies, what wonderful things they have 
 •dune for this man, and what for the other. A 
 
 G 
 
62 seneca's morals. 
 
 We should not publish out good offices. 
 
 foolish and a dangerous vanity ; of a doubtful 
 friend, to make a certain enemy, For these re- 
 proaches and contempts will set every body's 
 tongue a talking, and people will conclude, that 
 these things would never be, if there were not 
 something very extraordinary in the bottom of it. 
 When it comes to that once, there is not any 
 calurnny but fastens, more or less ; nor any false- 
 hood so incredible, but in some part or other of it, 
 shall pass for a truth. Our great mistake is this, 
 we are still inclined to make the most of what 
 we give, and the least of what we receive ; where- 
 as we should do the clean contrary. — It might 
 have been more, but he had a great many to 
 oblige — It was as much as he could well spare ; 
 he will make it up some other time, &c. Nay, 
 we should be so from making publication of our 
 bounties, as not to hear them so much as men- 
 tioned, without sweetening the matter, as — Alas ! 
 I owe him a great deal more than that comes to. 
 If it were in my power to serve him, I should be 
 very glad of it. And this too, not with the figure 
 of a compliment, but with all humanity and truth* 
 There was a man of quality, that, in the trium- 
 viral proscription, was saved by one of C aosar's 
 friends, who would be still twitting him with it, 
 who it was that preserved him, and telling him 
 over and over — " You had gone to pot, friend, 
 but for me/'—" Pray you/* says the proscribed, 
 
sen'eca's morals. 6*3 
 
 osicii.aiion censured. 
 
 " let me hear no mere of this, or even leave me as 
 you found me. I am thankful enough of myself 
 to acknowledge, that 1 owe you my life; but it 
 is death to have it rung in my ears perpetually as 
 a reproach : it looks as if you had only saved me 
 to carry me about for a spectacle. I would fain 
 forget the misfortune, that I was once a prisoner, 
 without being led in triumph every day of my 
 life." 
 
 Oh ! the pride and folly of a great fortune, that 
 turns benefits into injuries ! that delights in ex- 
 cesses, and disgraces every thing it does. Who 
 would receive any thing from it upon these terms ! 
 The higher it raises us, the more sordid it makes 
 us. Whatsoever it gives, it corrupts. What is 
 there in it that should thus puff us up ? by what 
 magic is it that we are so transformed, that we 
 do no longer know ourselves ? is it impossible for 
 greatness to be liberal without insolence? The 
 benefits that we receive from our superiors are 
 then welcome, when they come with an open 
 hand and a clear brow ; without either contumely 
 or state, and so as to prevent our necessities. The 
 benefit is never the greater for the making of a 
 bustle and noise about it ; but the benefactor is 
 much the less for the ostentation of his good 
 deeds, which makes that odious to us, which 
 would be otherwise delightful. Tiberius had got- 
 ten a trick, when any man begged money of him, 
 
 G 2 
 
6*4- seneca's morals. 
 
 When benefits may be hinted. 
 
 to refer him to the senate, where all the peti- 
 tioners were to deliver up the names of their cre- 
 ditors. His end, perhaps, was, to deter men from 
 asking, by exposing the condition of their fortunes 
 to a.n examination. But it was, however, a be- 
 nefit, turned into a reprehension ; and he made a 
 reproach of a bounty. 
 
 But it is not enough yet, to forbear the casting 
 of a benefit in a man's teeth, for there are some 
 that will not allow it to be so much as challenged. 
 For an ill man, say they, will not make a return, 
 though it be demanded, and a good man will do 
 it of himself; and then the asking of it seems to 
 turn it into a debt. It is a kind of injury, to be 
 too quick with the former ; for to call upon him 
 too soon, reproaches him, as if he would not have 
 done it otherwise. Nor would I recal a benefit 
 from any man, so as to force it ; but only to re- 
 ceive it. If i let him quite alone, I make myself 
 guilty of his ingratitude, and undo him for want 
 of plain-dealing. A father reclaims a disobedient 
 son, a wife reclaims a dissolute husband, and one 
 friend excites the languishing kindness of another. 
 How many men are lost for want of being touch- 
 ed to the quick ? So long as I am not pressed, I 
 will rather desire a favour, than so much'as men- 
 tion a requital ; but if my country, my family, 
 or my liberty be at stake, my zeal and indignation 
 shall over-rule my modesty, and the world shall 
 
SlENECa's MORALS. 65 
 
 Good offices done for secondary reasons. 
 
 then understand, that I have done all 1 could, not 
 to stand in need of an ungrateful man. And, in 
 conclusion, the necessity of receiving a benefit 
 shall overcome the shame of recalling it. Nor is 
 it only allowable upon some exigents, to put the 
 receiver in mind of a good turn, but it is many 
 times for the common advantage of both parties-. 
 
 HOW FAR TO OBLI-GE, OP. REQUITE, 
 A WICKED MAN. 
 
 There are some benefits, \vhereof a wicked 
 man is wholly incapable. Of which, hereafter. 
 There are others, which are bestowed upon him, 
 not for his own sake, but for secondary reasons, 
 and of these we have spoken in part already. 
 There are, moreover, certain common offices of 
 humanity, which are only allowed him as he is a 
 man, and without any regard either to vice or 
 f virtue. To pass over the first point ; the second 
 must be handled with care and distinction, and 
 not without some seeming exceptions to the gene- 
 ral rule : as, first, here is no choice or intention in 
 the case, but it is a good office done him for some 
 by-interest, or by-chance. Secondly, there is no- 
 judgment in it neither, for it is to a wicked man. 
 But, to shorten the matter, without these circum- 
 stances it is not properly a- benefit, or, at least not. 
 to him, for it looks another way. I rescue a 
 friend from thieves, and the other escapes for 
 
 e 3 
 
H6 seneca's morals. 
 
 How to oblige an ungrateful man. 
 
 company. I discharge a debt for a friend, and 
 the other comes off too ; for they were both in a 
 bond. The third is of a great latitude, and varies 
 according to the degree of generosity on the one 
 side, and of wickedness on the other. Some be- 
 nefactors will supererogate, and do more than 
 they are bound to do. And some men are so 
 lewd, that it is dangerous to do them any sort of 
 good; no, not so much as by way of return, or re- 
 quital. 
 
 If the benefactor's bounty must extend to the 
 bad, as well as to the good ; put the case, that I 
 promise a good office to an ungrateful man. We 
 are first to distinguish (as is said before) betwixt 
 a common benefit, and a personal ; betwixt what 
 is given for merit, and what for company. Se- 
 condly, whether or no we know the person to be 
 ungrateful, and can reasonably conclude that this 
 vice is incurable. Thirdly, a consideration must 
 be had of the promise, how far that may oblige 
 us. The two first points are cleared both in one. 
 We cannot justify any particular kindness for one 
 that we conclude to be a hopelessly wicked man ; 
 so that the force of the promise is the single point 
 in question. In the promise of a good office to a 
 wicked, or ungrateful man, I am to blame if I 
 <jid it knowingly; and I am to blame, neverthe- 
 less, if 1 did it otherwise : but I must yet make 
 it good (under due qualifications) because I pro> 
 
senf.ca's morals. G7 
 
 R;^h promises are void. 
 
 mised it, that is to say, matters continuing in the 
 same state, for no man is answerable for accidents. 
 1 will sup at such a place, though it be cold; I 
 will rise at such an hour, though I be sleepy ; 
 but, if it prove tempestuous, or that I fall sick 
 of a fever, I will do neither the one nor the other. 
 I promise to second a friend in a quarrel, or to 
 plead his cause, and when I come into the field, 
 or into the court, it proves to be against my fa- 
 ther, or my brother. I promise to go a journey 
 with him, but there is no travelling upon the 
 road for robbing, my child is fallen sick, or my 
 wife in labour : these circumstances are sufficient 
 to discharge me; for a promise against law or 
 duty is void in its own nature. The counsels of 
 a vase man are certain, but events are uncertain. 
 And yet, if I have passed a rash promise, I will 
 in some degree punish the temerity of making it, 
 with the damage of keeping it, unless it turn very 
 much to my shame, or detriment, and then I 
 will be my own confessor in the point, and rather 
 be once guilty of denying, than always of giving. 
 It is not with a benefit as with a debt ; it is one 
 thing to trust an ill pay-master, and another 
 thing to oblige an unworthy person. The one is 
 an ill man, and the other only an ill husband. 
 
 There was a valiant fellow in the army, that 
 Philip, of Macedon, took particular notice of, 
 and he gave him several considerable marks oX 
 
68 seneca's morals. 
 
 Anecdote of Thilip, nf Macedon. 
 
 the kindness he had for him. This soldier puts 
 to sea, and was cast away upon a coast, where 
 a charitable neighbour took him up half dead, 
 carried him to his house, and there, at his own 
 charge, maintained and provided for him thirtj 
 days, until he was perfectly recovered; and-, 
 after all, furnished him over and above with a 
 viaticum at parting. The soldier told him the 
 mighty matters he would do for him in return, so 
 soon as he should have the honour once again to 
 see his master. To court he goes, tells Philip of 
 the wreck, but not a syllable of his preserver, and 
 and begs the estate of this very man that kept 
 him alive. It was with Philip, as it was with many 
 other princes, that give they know not what, 
 especially in a time of war ; he granted the sol- 
 dier his request, contemplating, at the same time, 
 the impossibility of satisfying so many ravenous 
 appetites as he had to please. When the good 
 man came to be turned out of all, he was not so 
 mealy-mouthed as to thank his majesty for not 
 giving away his person too, as well as his fortune, 
 but, in a bold frank letter to Philip, made a just 
 report of the whole story. The king was so in- 
 censed at the abuse, that he immediately com- 
 manded the right owner to be restored to his 
 estate, and the unthankful guest and soldier to 
 be stigmatized, for an example to others. Should 
 Philip now have kept his promise ? First, he 
 
sen'eca's morals. 69 
 
 We should quit all scores witl^icked men. 
 
 owed the soldier nothing. Secondly, it would 
 have been injurious and impious. And, lastly, a 
 precedent of dangerous consequence to human 
 society. For it would have been little less than 
 an interdiction of fire and water to the miserable, 
 to have inflicted such a penalty upon relieving 
 them. So that there must be always some tacit 
 exception, or reserve — if I can, if I may, or, if 
 matters continue as they were. 
 
 If it should be my fortune to receive a benefit 
 from one that afterwards betrays his country, I 
 should still reckon myself obliged to him, for 
 such a requital as might stand with my public 
 duty. I would not furnish him with arms, nor 
 with money, or credit, to levy, or pay soldiers ; 
 but I should not stick to gratify him at my own 
 expense, with such curiosities as might please 
 him one way, without doing mischief another ; I 
 would not do any thing that might contribute to 
 the support or advantage of his party. But, what 
 should I do now in the case of a benefactor, that 
 should afterwards become, not only mine and my 
 country's enemy, but the common enemy of man- 
 kind ? I would here distinguish betwixt the 
 wickedness of a man, and the cruelty of a beast ; 
 betwixt a limited, or a particular passion, and a 
 sanguinary rage, that extends to the hazard and 
 destruction of human society. In the former case 
 1 would quit all scores, that I might have no more? 
 
7$ seneca's morals. 
 
 Providence kind even to the unthankful. 
 
 to do with him; but, if he comes once to a delight 
 in blood, and to act outrages with greediness f to 
 study and invent torments, and to take pleasure 
 in them, the law of reasonable nature ha3 dis- 
 charged me of such a debt. But this is an im- 
 piety so rare, that it might pass for a portent, and 
 be reckoned among comets and monsters. Let 
 us, therefore,' restrain our discourse to such men, 
 as we detest with horror; such men as we see every 
 day in courts, camps, and upon the seats of 
 justice : to such wicked men I will return what I 
 have received, without making any advantage of 
 their unrighteousness. 
 
 It does not divert the Almighty from being still 
 gracious, though we proceed daily in the abuse of 
 his bounty. How many are they who enjoy the 
 comfort of the light, that do not deserve it ; that 
 wish they had never been born ; and yet nature 
 goes on quietly with her work, and allows them a 
 being, even in despite of their unthankfulness ? 
 Such a knave, we cry, was better used than I. 
 And the same complaint we extend to Providence 
 itself. How many wicked men have good crops, 
 when" better than themselves have their fruits 
 blasted? Such a man, we say, has treated me 
 very ill. Why, what should we do, but that 
 very thing which is done by God himself? that is 
 to say, give to the ignorant, and persevere to the 
 wicked. All our ingratitude, we see, does not 
 
sexeca's morals. 71 
 
 Ti'.e wicked benefited for the sake of the good. 
 
 turn Providence from pouring down of benefits, 
 even upon those that question whence they come. 
 The wisdom of heaven does all things with a re - 
 gard to the good of the universe, and the blessings 
 of nature are granted in common, to the worst as 
 well as to the best of men ; for they live promis- 
 cuously together, and it is God's will, that the 
 wicked shall rather fare the better for the good, 
 "than that the good should fare the worse for the 
 wicked. It is true, that a wise prince will confer 
 peculiar honours only upon the worthy, but in the 
 dealing of a public dole, there is no respect had 
 to the manners of the man ; but a thief, or traitor, 
 shall out in for a share, as well as an honest man. 
 If a good man and a wicked man sail both in the 
 same bottom, it is impossible that the same wind, 
 which favours the one, should cross the other. 
 The common benefits of laws, privileges, com- 
 munities, letters, and medicine, are permitted to 
 the bad, as well as to the good j and no man 
 ever yet suppressed a sovereign remedy, for fear 
 a wicked .man might be cured with it. Cities are 
 built for both sorts, and the same remedy works 
 upon both alike. In -these cases^ we are to set an 
 estimate upon the persons : there is a great differ- 
 ence betwixt the chusing of a man, and the not 
 excluding him ; the law is open to the rebellious 
 as well as to the obedient : there are some bene- 
 fits, which if they were not allowed to all, could 
 
72 seneca's morals, 
 
 Tiie opinion of the Stoics confuted. 
 
 not be enjoyed by any. The sun was never made for 
 me, but for the comfort of the world, and for the 
 providential order of the seasons ; and yet, I am not 
 without my private obligation also. To conclude, 
 he that will not oblige the wicked and the un- 
 grateful, must resolve to oblige nobody ; for, in 
 some sort or other, we are all of us wicked, we 
 are all of us ungrateful, every man of us. 
 
 We have been discoursing, all this while, how 
 far a wicked man may be obliged, and the Stoics 
 tell us, at last, that he cannot be obliged at all ; 
 for they make him incapable of any good, and 
 consequently of any benefit. But he has this ad- 
 vantage, that if he cannot be obliged, he cannot 
 be ungrateful : for, if he cannot receive, he is not 
 bound to return. On the other side, a good man, 
 and an ungrateful, are a contradiction ; so that, 
 at this rate, there is no such thing as ingratitude 
 in nature. They compare a wicked man's mind to 
 a vitiated stomach ; he corrupts whatever he re- 
 ceives, and the best nourishment turns to the 
 disease. But, taking this for granted, a wicked man 
 may yet so far be obliged, as to pass for ungrate- 
 ful, if he does not requite what he receives. For, 
 though it be not a perfect benefit, yet he receives 
 something like it. There are goods, of the mind, 
 the body, and of fortune. Of the first sort, fools 
 and wicked men are wholly incapable; to the 
 rest they may be, admitted. But why should 
 I call any man ungrateful, you will say, for 
 
seneca's morals. 73. 
 
 Cteanthes Quoted 
 
 not restoring that which I deny to be a benefit? 
 I answer, that if the receiver take it for a benefit, 
 and fails, of a return, it is ingratitude in him ; 
 for, that which goes for an obligation among 
 wicked men, is an obligation upon them, and they 
 mav pay one another in their own coin ; the mo- 
 ney is current, whether it be gold or leather, when 
 it comes once to be authorized. Nay, Cleanthes 
 carries it farther, "He that is wanting," says he, 
 " to a kind office, though it be no benefit, would 
 have done the same thing if it had been one; and 
 is as guilty as a thief is, that has set his booty, 
 end is already armed and mounted, with a pur- 
 pose to seize it, though he has not yet drawn 
 blood." Wickedness/is formed 'in the Heart; and 
 the matter of fact is onl\ the discovery, and the 
 execution of it. Now, though a wicked man 
 cannot eitiier receive or bestow a benefit, be- 
 cause he wants the will of doing good, and for 
 that he is no longer wicked when virtue has taken 
 posses- ion of him; vet we commonly call it one, 
 as we call a man illiterate that is not learned, 
 and naked that is not well clad ; not but that the 
 one can read, and the other is covered. 
 
 A GENERAL VIEW OF THE TARTS A-XD DC- 
 TIES OF THE EEXE1ACT0R. 
 
 The three main points in the question of bene- 
 fits, are, first, a judicious choice in the object; sa- 
 il 
 
74 se^eca's morals. 
 
 Benefits il! bestowed. 
 
 condly, in the matter of our benevolence; and, 
 thirdly, a grateful felicity in the manner of ex- 
 pressing it. But there are also incumbent upon 
 the benefactor other considerations, which will 
 deserve a place in this discourse. 
 
 It is not enough to do one good turn, and to do 
 it with a good grace too, unless we follow it with 
 more, and without either upbraiding, or repining. 
 It is a common "shift, to charge that upon the in- 
 gratitude of the receiver, which, in truth, is most 
 commonly the levity and indiscretion of the giver; 
 for all circumstances must be duly weighed to 
 consummate the action. Some there are that we 
 find ungrateful ; but, what with our frowardness, 
 change of humour, and reproaches, there arc 
 more that we make so. And this is the business : 
 sre give with design, and most to those that are 
 al >le to give most again. We give to the covetous, 
 and to the ambitious, to those that can never be 
 thankful (for their desires are insatiable), and to 
 those that will not. lie that is a tribune would 
 be a praetor, the praetor a consul; never reflecting 
 upon what he was, but only looking forward to 
 what he would be. People are still computing — 
 must I lose this, or that benefit ? If it be lost, the 
 fault lies in the ill bestowing of it ; for, rightly 
 placed, it is as good as consecrated; if we be 
 deceivecj. in another, let us not be deceived in 
 ourselves too. A charitable man will mend the 
 
seneca's morals. 7.* 
 
 Better never ; receive ihan nu. » b -tow. 
 
 matter, and say to himself, — Perhaps he has for- 
 got it — perchance he could not — perhaps he will 
 yet requite it. A patient creditor will, of an ill 
 pay-master, in time make a good one; an obsti- 
 nate goodness overcomes an ill disposition ; as a 
 barren soil is made fruitful by care and tillage. 
 But let a man be ever so ungrateful, or inhuman, 
 he shall never destroy the satisfaction of my hav- 
 ing done a good office. 
 
 But, what if others will be wicked? does it 
 follow that we must be so too ? If others wiil be 
 ungrateful, must we therefore be inhuman? To 
 give, and to lose, is nothing: but to lose, and 
 to give still, is the part of a great mind. And 
 the other is, in effect, the greater loss : for the 
 one does but lose his benefit, and the other loses 
 himself. The light shines upon the profane and 
 sacrilegious, as well as upon the righteous. How 
 many disappointments do we meet in our wives 
 and children, and yet we couple still ? He that 
 has lost one battle, hazards another. The mariner 
 puts to sea again after a wreck. An illustrious 
 mind does not propose the profit of a good office, 
 but the duty. If the world be wicked, we should 
 yet persevere in well-doing, even among evil 
 men. I had rather never receive a kindness than 
 never bestow one: not to return a benefit is the 
 greater sin, but not to confer it is the earlier. We 
 cannot propose to ourselves -a more glorious ex- 
 
 ii 2 
 
7# sensca's morals. 
 
 Di^a, •. uii tmentsmust not prevent good offices. 
 
 ample, than that of the Almighty, who neither 
 needs, nor expects any thing from us, and yet he 
 is continually showering; down and distributing 
 his mercies and his grace among us, not only for 
 oar necessities, but also for our delights, as fruits 
 and seasons, rain and sunshine, veins of water, 
 and of metal; and all this to the wicked, as well 
 as to the good, and without any other end than 
 the common benefit of the receivers. With what 
 face then can we be mercenary one to another, 
 that have received all things from divine Provi- 
 dence gratis ? It is a common saying — " 1 gave 
 such., or such a man so much money ; I would I 
 had thrown it into the sea/' And yet the mer- 
 chant trades again after a piracy, and the banker 
 ventures afresh after a bad security. He that will 
 do no good offices after a disappointment, must 
 needs stand still, and do just nothing at all. The 
 plough goes on after a barren year; and while the 
 ashes are yet warm, we niise a new house upon 
 the ruins of a former. What obligations can be 
 greater than those which children receive from 
 "their parents? and yet, should we give them 
 over in their infancy, it were all to no purpose. 
 Benefits, like grain, must be followed from the 
 seed to the harvest. I will not so much as leave 
 any place for ingratitude. 1 will pursue, and 1 
 will encompass the receiver with benefits; so 
 that let him look which way he will, his bene- 
 
sekeca's morals. 77 
 
 We must oblige many to find one thankful. 
 
 factor shall be still in his eye, even when hs 
 would avoid his own memory. And then I will 
 remit to one man, because he calls for it ; to an- 
 other, because he does not ; to a third, because 
 he is wicked ; and, to a fourth, because he is the 
 contrary. I will cast away a good turn upon a 
 bad man, and 1 will requite a good one. The 
 one because it is my duty, the other, that I may 
 not be in his debt. I do not love to hear any man 
 complain that he has met with a thankless man. 
 If he has met but with one, he has either been 
 very fortunate, or very careful. And yet care is 
 not sufficient. For there is no way to escape the 
 hazard of losing a benefit, but not the bestowing 
 of it ; and to neglect a duty to myself, for fear 
 another should abuse it. It is another's fault if 
 he be ungrateful, but it is mine if I do not give. 
 To find one thankful man, I will oblige a great 
 many that are not so. The business of mankind 
 would be at a stand, if we should do nothing for 
 fear of miscarriages in matters of uncertain event. 
 I will try, and believe all things, before I give 
 any man over, and do all that is possible, that I 
 may not lose a good office, and a friend together. 
 What do I know, but he may misunderstand the 
 obligation ? business may have put it out of his 
 head, or taken him off from it; he may have 
 slipt his opportunity. I will say, in excuse of hu- 
 man weakness — that one man's memory is not 
 H 3 
 
78 senega's morals. 
 
 -= . , ■ ■ ~ • ■ ■ ■ I 'J . 
 
 Benefits should not be delayed. 
 
 sufficient fur all things; it is but of limited capa- 
 city, so as to hold only so much, and no more, 
 and when it is once full, it must let out part of, 
 what it had, to take in any tiling beside, and the 
 last benefit ever sits closest to us. Jn our youth we 
 forget the obligations of our infancy ; and, when 
 we are men, we forget those of our youth. If 
 nothing will prevail, let him keep what he has 
 and welcome ; but let him have a care of return- 
 ing evil for good, and making it dangerous for a 
 man to do his duty. I would no more give a be- 
 nefit to such a man, than I would lend money to 
 a beggarly spendthrift; or deposit any in the 
 hands of a known knight of the post. However 
 the case stands, an ungrateful person is never the 
 better for a reproach; if he be already hardened 
 in his wickedness, he gives no heed to it; and, if 
 he be not, it turns a doubtful modesty into an in- 
 corrigible impudence; beside that, he watches 
 for ill words, to pick a quarrel with them. 
 
 As the benefactor is not to upbraid a benefit, 
 so neither to delay it : the one is tiresome, and 
 the other odious. We must not hold men in 
 , hand, as physicians and surgeons do their pati- 
 ents, and keep them longer in fear and pain than 
 needs, only to .magnify the cure. A generous 
 man gives easily, and receives as he gives, but 
 never exacts. lie rejoices in the return, and 
 judges favourably of it, whatever it be, and con- 
 
seneca's morals. 79 
 
 Certain rules bciw;xt the giv. r and receiver. 
 
 tents himself with a bare thank for a requital. It 
 is a harder matter with some to get the benefit, 
 after it is promised, than the first promise of it, 
 there must be so many friends made, in the case. 
 One must be desired to solicit another, and he 
 must be entreated to move a third, and a fourth 
 must be at last besought to receive it; so that the 
 author, upon the upshot, has the least share in 
 the obligation. It is then welcome when it comes 
 free, and without deduction; and no man either 
 to intercept, or to hinder, or to detain it. And, 
 let it be of such a quality too, that it be not only 
 delightful in the receiving, but after it is receiv- 
 ed ; which it will certainly be, if we do but 
 observe this rule, never to do any thing for 
 another which we would not honestly desire for 
 ourselves. 
 
 HOW THE RECEIVER OUGHT TO BEHAYK 
 HIMSELF. 
 
 There are certain rules in common, betwixt 
 the giver and the receiver: we must do both 
 chearfully, that the giver may receive the fruit 
 of his benefit in the very act of bestowing it. It 
 is a just ground of satisfaction to see a friend 
 pleased, but it is much more to make him so. 
 The intention of the one is to be suited to the 
 intention of the other; and there must be an 
 emulation betwixt them, whether shall oblige 
 
$0 Seneca's morals. 
 
 The return should exceed the obligation. 
 
 most. Let the one say, that he has received a 
 benefit, and let the other persuade himself that 
 he has not returned it. Let the one say — I am 
 paid ; and the other — I am yet in your debt ; let 
 the benefactor acquit the receiver, and the re- 
 ceiver bind himself. The frankness of the dis- 
 charge heightens the obligation. It is in conver- 
 sation as in a tennis-court : benefits are to be tost 
 like balls; the longer the rest, the better are 
 the gamesters. The giver, in some respects, has 
 the odds, because (as in a race) he starts first, 
 and the other must use great diligence to over- 
 take him. The return must be larger than the 
 first obligation, to come up to it; and it is a kind 
 of ingratitude, not to render it with interest. In 
 a matter of money, it is a common thing to pay 
 a debt out of course, and before it be due; but 
 \ve account ourselves to owe nothing for a good 
 office, whereas the benefit increases by delay. So 
 insensible are we of the most important affair of 
 human life. That man were doubtless in a mi- 
 serable condition, that could neither see, nor 
 hear, nor taste, nor feel, nor smell: but, how 
 much more unhappy is he then, that, wanting a 
 sense of benefits, loses the greatest comfort in 
 nature, in the bliss of giving and receiving them ? 
 He that takes a benefit as it is meant, is in the 
 right : for the benefactor has then his end, and his 
 only end, when the receiver i? grateful. 
 
Senf.ca's morals. 81 
 
 We must have a care to whom w<- are obliged. 
 
 The more glorious part, in appearance, is that 
 of the giver; but the receiver has, undoubtedly, 
 the harder game to play, in many regards. There 
 are some from whom I would not accept of a be- 
 nefit; that is to say, from those upon whom I 
 would not bestow one. For, why should not I 
 scorn to receive a benefit, where I am ashamed 
 to owe it ? and, I would yet be more tender too, 
 where I receive, than where I give ; for it is a 
 torment to be in debt, where a man has no mind 
 to pay; as it is the greatest delight imaginable 
 to be engaged by a friend, whom I should yet 
 have a kindness for, if I were ever so much dis- 
 obliged. It is a pain to an honest and a gener- 
 ous mind, to lie under a duty of affection against 
 inclination. I do not speak here of wise men, that 
 love to do what they ought to do, that have their 
 passions at command, that prescribe laws to 
 themselves, and keep them when they have done; 
 but of men in a state of imperfection, that may 
 have a good will perhaps to be honest, and yet 
 be over-borne by the contumacy of their affec- 
 tions. We must, therefore, have a care to whom 
 we become obliged ; and, I would be much 
 stricter yet in the choice of a creditor for benefits 
 than for money. In the one case, it is but paying 
 what I had, and the debt is discharged ; in the 
 other, I do not only owe more, but when I have 
 •aid that, 1 am still in arrear : and this law is the 
 
^2 seneca's morals. 
 
 Question relative to Brutus. 
 
 very foundation of friendship. I will suppose 
 myself a prisoner, and a notorious villain offers 
 to lay down a good sum of money for my redemp- 
 tion. First, Shall [ make use of this money, or 
 no ? Secondly, If I do, what return shall I 
 make him for it? To the first point, I will take 
 it, but only as a debt, not as a benefit, that shall 
 ever lie me to a friendship with him : and, se- 
 condly, my acknowledgment shall be only cor- 
 respondent to such an obligation. It is a school- 
 question — "Whether or no Brutus, that thought 
 Cassar not fit to live, (and put himself in the head 
 of a conspiracy against him) could honestly have 
 received his life from Cassar, if he had fallen into 
 Caesar's power, without examining what reason 
 moved him to that action? How great a man so- 
 ever he was in other cases, without dispute he 
 was extremely out in this, and below the dignity 
 of his profession. For a stoic to fear the name of 
 a king, when yet monarchy is the best state of 
 government ; nr there to hope for liberty, where 
 so great rewards are propounded, both for tyrants 
 and their slaves ; for him to imagine, ever to 
 bring the laws to their former state, where so 
 many thousand lives had been lost in the contest, 
 not so much whether they should serve or no, but 
 W r ho should be their master. He was strangely 
 mistaken sure, in the nature and reason of things, 
 to fancy, that when Julius was gone, somebodr 
 
seneca's morals. 83 
 
 Punctilious characters. 
 
 else would not start up in his place, when there 
 was yet a Tarqnin found, after so many kings that 
 were destroyed, either by sword or thunder: and 
 yet the resolution is, that he might have received 
 it, but not as a benefit; for at that rate I owe my 
 life to every man that does not take it away. 
 
 Grcecinus Julius (whom Caligula put to death, 
 out of a pure malice to his virtue) had a consi- 
 derable sum of money sent him from Fabius Per- 
 sicus a man of great and infamous example), as 
 a contribution towards the expense of plays, and 
 other public entertainments : but Julius would not 
 receive it; and some of his friends, that had an 
 eye more upon tke present, than the presenter, 
 asked him, with some freedom, what he meant 
 by refusing it? " Why," says he, " do you think 
 that I will take money, where I would not take so 
 much as a glass of wine r" After this Retilus (a 
 man of the same stamp), sent him a greater sum 
 upon the same score, M You must excuse me," 
 says he to the messenger, " for I would not take 
 any thing of PersiCus neither." 
 
 To match this scruple of receiving money, with 
 another of keeping it, and the sum not above 
 three-pence, or a groat at most;— there was a 
 certain Pythagorean that contracted with a coblcr 
 for a pair of shoes, and some three or four days 
 after, going to pay him his money, the shop was 
 shut up, and w hen he had knocked a great whit* 
 
 *' 
 
84 senfxa's morals. 
 
 ■' ' ■ — 
 
 A forced Benefit. 
 
 at the door, — " Friend," says a fellow, " you may 
 hammer your heart out there, for the man you 
 look for is dead; and when our friends are dead, 
 we hear no more news of them, but your's, that 
 are to live again, will shift well enough ;" (al- 
 luding to Pythagoras's transmigration). Upon 
 this the philosopher went away, with his money 
 chinking in his hano*, and well enough content to 
 save it; at last his conscience took check at it, 
 and, upon reflection — " Though the man be 
 dead," says he, " to others, he is alive to thee ; 
 pay him what thou owest him :" and so he went 
 back presently, and thrust it into his shop, 
 through the chink of the door. Whatever we owe, 
 it is our part to find where to pay it, and to do it 
 without asking too ; for whether the creditor be 
 good, or bad, the debt is still the same. 
 
 If a benefit be forced upon me, as from a 
 tyrant, or a superior, where it may be dangerous 
 to refuse; this is rather obeying than receiving, 
 where the necessity destroys the choice. The 
 way to know what I have a mind to do, is to 
 leave me at liberty, whether I will do it or no ; 
 but it is yet a benefit if a man does me good, in 
 spite of my. teeth ; as it is none, if I do any man 
 good against 'my will. A man may both hate, 
 and yet receive a benefit at the same time ; the 
 money is never the worse because a fool, that is 
 not read in coins, refuses to take it If the thing 
 
 * 
 
 
seneca's morals. 85 
 -**- ■ • " -i • 
 
 Requitals not to be pressed. 
 
 be good for the receiver, and so intended, no 
 matter how ill it is taken. Nay, the receiver 
 may be obliged, and not know it; but there can 
 be no benefit, which is unknown to the giver. 
 Neither will I, upon any terms, receive a benefit 
 from a worthy person, that may do him a mis- 
 thief: it is the part of an enemy, to save him- 
 self, by doing another man hUrm. 
 
 But whatever we do, let us be sure always to 
 keep a grateful mind. It is not enough to say, 
 what requital shall a poor man offer to a prince ; 
 or a slave to his patron ; when it is the glory of 
 gratitude that it depends only in the good-will. 
 Suppose a man defends my fame, delivers me 
 from beggary, saves my life, or gives me liberty, 
 that is more than life — how shall I be grateful to 
 that man ? I will receive, cherish, and rejoice in 
 the benefit. Take it kindly, and it is requited; 
 not that the debt itself is discharged, but it is 
 nevertheless, a discharge of the conscience. I 
 will yet distinguish betwixt the debtor that be- 
 comes insolvent by expences upon whores and 
 dice, and another that is undone b\v£re or thieves; 
 nor do I take this gratitude for a payment; but 
 there is no danger, 1 presume, of being arrested 
 for such a debt. * 
 
 In the return of benefits, let us be ready and 
 chearful, but not pressing. There is as much 
 greatness of mind in the owing of a good turn, as 
 
 I 
 
 % 
 
§<) SEXECa's 'MOUALS. 
 
 Favours no; 10 be confened or received proudly. 
 
 in the doing of it; and we must no more force a 
 requital out of season, than be wanting in it. lie 
 that precipitates a return, does as good as say — 
 " I am weary of being in this man's debt/' Not 
 but that the hastening of a requital, as a good 
 office, is a commendable disposition; but it is 
 another thing to do it as a discharge, for it looks 
 like casting oft' a heavy and troublesome burden. 
 It is for the benefactor to say when he will re- 
 ceive it: no matter for the opinion of the world, 
 so long as I gratify my own conscience, for I 
 cannot be mistaken in myself, but another may. 
 He that is over solicitous to return a benefit, 
 thinks the other so likewise to receive it. If he 
 had rather we should keep it, why should we re- 
 fuse, and presume to dispose of his treasure, who 
 may call it in, or let it lie out at his choice ? It 
 is as much a fault to receive what I ought not, as 
 not to give what I ought; for the giver has the 
 privilege of chusing his own time for receiving. 
 
 Borne are too proud in the conferring of bene- 
 fits, others in the receiving of them ; which is, to 
 say the truth, '-{'tolerable. The same rule serves 
 both sides, as in the case of a father and a son, 
 husband and a wife, one friend or acquaintance 
 and another, where the duties are known and 
 common. There are some that will not receive a 
 benefit but in private, nor thank you for it but in 
 your ear, or in a corner ; there must be nothing 
 
Seneca's morals. 87 
 
 It is safer to affront than 
 
 under hand and seal, no brokers, notaries, or 
 witnesses in the case: this is not so much a 
 scruple of modesty, as a kind of denying the obli- 
 gation, and only a less hardened ingratitude. 
 Some receive benefits so coldly and indifferently, 
 that a man would think the obligation lay on the 
 other side: as, who should say, " Well, since you 
 will needs have it so, I am content to take it/ 7 
 Some again so carelessly, as if they hardly knew 
 of any such thing, whereas we should rather ag- 
 gravate the matter—" You cannot imagine how 
 many you have obliged in this act ; there never 
 was so great, so kind, so seasonable a courtesy." 
 Furnius never gained so much upon Augustus, us 
 by a speech upon the getting of his father's par- 
 don for siding with Anthony—" This grace," says 
 he, " is the only injury that ever Caesar did me ; 
 for it has put me upon the necessity of living 
 and dying ungrateful." It is safer to affront some 
 people than to oblige them, for the better a man 
 deserves, the worse they will speak of him ; as if 
 the professing of open hatred to their benefactors, 
 were an argument that they lie under no obliga- 
 tion. Some people are so sour and ill-natured, 
 that they take it for an affront to have an obliga- 
 tion or a return offered them, to the discourage- 
 ment both of bounty and gratitude together. The 
 not doing and the not receiving of benefits, are 
 equally a mistake. He that refuses a new one, 
 
 i 2 
 
88 seneca's morals. 
 
 To have the will to be grateful, is to be s-j. 
 
 seems to be offended at an old one ; and yet some- 
 times 1 would neither return a benefit, no, nor so 
 much as receive it if I might. 
 
 OF GRATITUDE. 
 
 He that preaches gratitude, pleads the cause 
 both of God and man ; for without it we can nei- 
 ther be sociable nor religious. There is a strange 
 delight in the very purpose and contemplation of 
 it, as well as in the action, when I can say to 
 myself — " I love my benefactor; what is therein 
 this world that I would not do to oblige and serve 
 him ?" Where I have not the means of requital, 
 the very meditation of it is sufficient. A man is 
 nevertheless an artist for not having his tools 
 about him, or a musician because he wants his 
 fiddle ; nor is he the less brave because his hands 
 .are bound, or the worse pilot for being upon dry 
 ground. If I have only will to be grateful, 1 am 
 so. Let me be upon the wheel, or under the 
 hand of the executioner, let me be burnt limb by 
 limb, and my whole body dropping in the flames, 
 a good conscience supports me in all extremes : 
 nay, it is comfortable even in death itself, for, 
 when we come to approach that point, what care 
 do we take to summon and call to mind all our 
 benefactors, and the good offices they have done 
 us, that we may leave the world fair, and set our 
 minds in order? Without gratitude we can nei- 
 
seneca's morals. 89 
 
 Gratitude must overcome opposition. 
 
 ther have security, peace, nor reputation: and, 
 it is not, therefore, the less desirable, because it 
 draws many adventitious benefits along with it. 
 Suppose the sun, the moon, and the stars, had 
 no other business than only to pass over our 
 heads, without any effect upon our minds or 
 bodies, without any regard to our health, fruit?, 
 or seasons; a man could hardly lift up' his eyes 
 towards the heavens without wonder and venera- 
 tion, to see so many millions of radiant lights, 
 and to observe their courses and revolutions, even 
 without any respect to the common good of the 
 universe. But when we come to consider, that 
 Providence and nature are still at work when we 
 sleep, with the admirable force and operation of 
 their influences and motions, we cannot then but 
 acknowledge their ornament to be the least part of 
 their value, and that they are more to be esteem- 
 ed for their virtue than for their splendour. Their 
 main end and use is matter of life and necessity, 
 though they may seem to ns more considerable' 
 for their majesty and beauty. And so it is with 
 gratitude, we love it rather for secondary ends, 
 than for itself. 
 
 No man can be grateful without contemplating 
 things that put the common people out of their 
 wits. We must 20 into banishment, lav down our 
 lives, beggar, and expose ourselves to reproaches, 
 
 i3 
 
90 seneca's moralk. 
 
 Gratitude preserves and sains friends. 
 
 nay, it is often seen, that loyalty suffers the pu- 
 nishment due to rebellion ; and that treason re- 
 ceives the rewards of fidelity. As the benefits of 
 it are many and great, so are the hazards ; which 
 is the case, more or less, of all other virtues, 
 and it were hard, if this, above the rest, should 
 be both painful and fruitless ; so that, though we 
 may go currently on with it in smooth way, we 
 must yet prepare, and resolve (if need be) to 
 force our passage to it, even if the way were co- 
 vered with thorns and serpents; and fall back, 
 fall edge, we must be grateful still — grateful 
 for the virtue sake, and grateful over and 'above 
 upon the point/ of interest; for it preserves old 
 friends, and gains new ones. It is not our busi- 
 ness to fish for one benefit with another, and by 
 bestowing a little to get more; or to oblige for 
 any sort of expedience, but because I ought to 
 do it, and because I love it, and that to such a 
 degree, that if I could not be grateful, without 
 appearing the contrary ; if I could not return a 
 benefit, without being suspected of doing an in- 
 jury, in despite of infamy itself, I would yet be 
 grateful. No man is greater, in my esteem, than 
 he that ventures his fame to preserve the consci- 
 ence of an honest man; the one is but imaginary, 
 the other solid and inestimable. I cannot call 
 him grateful, who, in the instant of returning ope 
 
senega's morals. Qi 
 
 lie i:- grateful that is always ready. 
 
 benefit has his eye upon another. He that is 
 grateful for profit or fear, is like a woman that is 
 honest only upon the score of reputation. 
 
 As gratitude is a necessary and a glorious, so 
 it is also an obvious, a cheap, and an easy virtue. 
 So obvious, that wheresoever there is a life there 
 is a place for it; so cheap, that the covetous man 
 may be grateful without expence ; and so easv, 
 that the sluggard may be so likewise without la- 
 bour. And yet, it is not without its niceties too, 
 for there may be a time, a place, or occasion, 
 wherein I ought not to return a benefit; nay, 
 wherein I may better disown it, than deliver it. 
 
 Let it be understood, by the way, that it is 
 one thing to be grateful for a good office, and an- 
 other thing to return it ; the good will is enough 
 in one case, being as much as the one side de- 
 mands, and the other promises; but the effect is 
 requisite in the other. The physician that has 
 done his best is acquitted, though the patient dies ; 
 and so is the advocate, though the client may 
 lose his cause. The general of an army, though 
 the battle be lost, is yet worthy of commendation, 
 if he has discharged all the parts of a prudent 
 commander ; in this case, the one acquits him- 
 self, though the other be never the better for it. 
 lie is a grateful man that is always willing and 
 ready, and he that seeks for all means and occa- 
 sions of requiting a benefit, though without at- 
 
£2 seneca's morals. 
 
 ■■ r'—rr . 
 
 The grateful remember what is p:st. 
 
 taining his end, does a great deal more than the 
 man that without any trouble makes an immedi- 
 ate return. Suppose my friend a prisoner, and 
 that I have sold my estate for his ransom, I put 
 to sea in foul weather, and upon a coast that is 
 pestered with pirates, my friend happens to be re- 
 deemed before I come to the place, my gratitude 
 is as much to be esteemed, as if he had been a 
 prisoner; and if I had been taken and robbed 
 myself, it would still have been the same case. 
 Nay, there is a gratitude in the very countenance ; 
 for an honest man bears his conscience in his 
 face, and propounds the requital of a good turn 
 in the very moment of receiving it; he is cheer- 
 ful and confident, and in the possession of a true 
 friendship, delivered from all anxiety. There is 
 this difference betwixt a thankful man and an un- 
 thankful ; the one is always pleased in the good 
 he has done, and the other only once, in what he 
 has received. There must be a benignity in the 
 estimation, even in the smallest offices; and such 
 a modesty as appears to be obliged in whatsoever 
 it gives. As it is indeed a very great benefit, the 
 opportunity of doing a good office to a worthy 
 man. lie that attends to the present, and re- 
 members what is past, shall never be ungrateful. 
 But, who shall judge in the case? For a man may 
 be grateful without making a return, and un- 
 grateful with it. Our best way is to help every 
 
skktsCa's morals. 5)3 
 
 A m3ti may be over-gratefui 
 
 thing by a fair interpretation, and wheresoever 
 there is a doubt, to allow it the most favourable 
 construction, for he that is exceptions at words, 
 or looks, has a mind to pick a quarrel. For my 
 own part, when I come to cast up my accompt, 
 and know what 1 owe, and to whom, though I 
 make my return sooner to some, and later to 
 others, as occasion or fortune will give me leave, 
 yet 1 will be just to all. I will be grateful to 
 God, to man, to those that have obliged me, nay, 
 even to those that have obliged my friends. I am 
 bound in honour, and in conscience, to be thank- 
 ful for what I have received ; and if it be not yet 
 full, it is some pleasure still, that I may hope for 
 more For the requital of a favour, there must 
 be virtue, occasion, means, and fortune. 
 
 It is a common thing to screw up justice to the 
 pitch of an injury. A man may be over-righte- 
 ous; and, why not over-grateful too? There is 
 a mischievous excess, that borders so close upon 
 ingratitude, that it is no easy matter to distin- 
 guish the one from the other, but, in regard that 
 there is good-will in the bottom of it (however 
 distempered, for it is effectually but kindness out 
 of the wits), we shall discourse it under the title 
 of Gratitude Mistaken. 
 
 GRATITUDE MISTAKEN. 
 
 To refuse a good office, not so much becnuse 
 v;e do not need it, as because we would not be 
 
04 seneca's morals. 
 
 Romaruic ideas of kindness. 
 
 indebted for it, is a kind of phantastical ingrati- 
 tude, and somewhat akin to that nicety of hu- 
 mour on the other side, of being ungrateful ; 
 only it lies another way, and seems to be the 
 more pardonable ingratitude of the two. Some 
 people take it for a great instance of their good 
 will, to be still wishing their benefactors such or 
 such a mischief, only, forsooth, that they them- 
 selves might be the happy instruments of' their 
 release. These men do, like extravagant lovers, 
 that take it for a great proof of their affection, to 
 wish one another banished, beggared, or diseased, 
 that they might have the opportunity of inter- 
 posing to their relief. What difference is there 
 betwixt such wishing and cursing ? Such an af- 
 fection, and a mortal hatred ? The intent is good, 
 you will say, but this is a misapplication of it. 
 Let such a one fall into my power, or into the 
 hands of his enemies, his creditors, or the com- 
 mon people, and no mortal be able to rescue him 
 but myself. Let his life, his liberty, and his re- 
 putation, lie all at stake, and no creature but 
 myself, in condition to succour him; and why all 
 this, but because he has obliged me, and 1 would 
 requite him ? If this be gratitude, to propound 
 jails, shackles, slavery, war, beggary, to the 
 man that you would requite, what would you 
 do where you are ungrateful ! This way of pro- 
 ceeding, over and above that it is impious in it- 
 self, is likewise over-hasty and unseasonable ; for 
 
meneca's morals. 05 
 
 We must pot commit ev.il to produce good. 
 
 he that goes too fast, is as much to blame as he 
 that does not move at all (to say nothing of the 
 injustice), for if I had never been obliged, I 
 should never have wished it. There are seasons 
 wherein a benefit is neither to be received nor re- 
 quited. To press a return upon me, when I do 
 not desire it, is unmannerly; but it is worse to 
 force me to desire it. How rigorous would he be 
 to exact a requital, who is thus eager to return it ? 
 To wish a man in distress, that I mav relieve 
 him, is, first, to wish him miserable : to wish 
 that he may stand in need of any body, is against 
 him, and to wish that he may stand in need of 
 me, is for myself: so that my business is not so 
 much a charity to my friend, as the cancelling of 
 a bond, nay, it is halfway the wish of an enemy. 
 It is barbarous to wish a man in chains, slavery, 
 or want, only to bring him out again; let me ra- 
 ther wish him powerful, and happy, and myself 
 indebted to him. By nature we are prone to 
 mercy, humanity, and compassion, may we be 
 excited to be more so by the number of the grate- 
 ful, may their number increase, and may we have 
 no need of trying them. 
 
 It is not for an honest man to make wav to a 
 
 j 
 
 good office by a crime : as if a pilot should pray 
 for a tempest, that he might prove his skill ; or a 
 general wish his army routed, that he might shew 
 himself a great commander in recovering the dav. 
 
06" seneca's morals, 
 
 Kindnesses must not originate from uiikindne:>sts. 
 
 It is throwing a man into a river, to take him 
 out again. It is an obligation, I confess, to cure 
 a wound, or a disease; but, to make that wound, 
 or disease, on purpose to cure it, is a most per- 
 verse ingratitude. It is barbarous even to an 
 enemy, much more to a friend ; for, it is not so 
 much to do him a kindness, as to put him in need 
 of it. Of the two, let it be rather a scar, than a 
 wound ; and yet it would be better to have it 
 neither. Rome had been little beholden to Sci- 
 pio, if he had prolonged the Punic war, that he 
 might have the finishing of it at last ; or to the 
 Decii, for dying for their country, if they had 
 first brought it to the last extremity of needing 
 their devotion. It may be a good contemplation, 
 but it is a lewd wish. ./Eneas had never been sur- 
 named the Pious, if he had wished the ruin of 
 his country, only that he might have the honour 
 of taking his father out of the lire. It is the scan- 
 dal of a physician to make work, and irritate a 
 disease, and to torment his patient for the repu- 
 tation of his cure. If a man should openly im- 
 precate poverty, captivity, fear, or danger, upon 
 a person that he has been obliged to,would not the 
 whole world condemn him for it ? and, what is the 
 difference ; but that the one is only a private wish, 
 . and the other a public declaration ? Rutilius was 
 told, in his exile, that, for his comfort, there 
 would be ere long a civil war, that would bring 
 
seneca's morals. 97 
 
 Ingratitude the worst of all crimes. 
 
 all the banished men home again. " God for- 
 bid/' says he, " for I had rather my country 
 should blush for my banishment, than mourn for 
 my return/' How much more honourable is it 
 to owe chearfully, than to pay dishonestly? It is 
 the wish of an enemy to take a town, that he may 
 preserve it, and to be victorious, that he may 
 forgive, but, the mercy comes after the cruelty; 
 beside, that it is an injury both to God and man, 
 for the man must be first afflicted by heaven, to 
 be relieved by me. So that we impose the cruelty 
 upon God, and take the compassion to ourselves; 
 and, at the best, it is but a curse, that makes 
 way for a blessing; the bare wish is an injury, 
 and, if it dees not take effect, it is because 
 heaven has not heard our prayers. Or, if they 
 should succeed, the fear itself is a torment ; and 
 it is much more desirable to have a firm, and un- 
 shaken security. It is friendly to wish it in your 
 power to oblige me, if ever I chance to need it; 
 but it is unkind to wish me miserable, that I 
 may need it. How much more pious is it. and 
 humane, to wish that I may never want the oc- 
 casion of obliging, nor the means of doing it, nor 
 ever have reason to repent of what I have done. 
 
 OF INGRATITUDE. 
 
 Ingratitude is, of all crimes, that which 
 we are to account the most venial, in others, and 
 
 & 
 
\ 
 
 <)8 SENECA^ MORALS. 
 
 We all Ike unthankt'ully, 
 
 the most unpardonable in ourselves. It is impi- 
 ous in the highest degree, for it makes us fight 
 against our children and our altars. There are, 
 there ever were, and there ever will be, criminals 
 of all sorts, as murderers, tyrants, thieves, adul- 
 terers, traitors, robbers, and sacrilegious persons, 
 but there is hardly any notorious crime without a 
 mixture of ingratitude. It disunites mankind, 
 and breaks the very pillars of society. And yet, 
 so far is this prodigious wickedness from being 
 any wonder to us, that even thankfulness itself 
 were much the greater of the two. For men are 
 deterred from it by labour, expence, laziness, 
 business, or else diverted from it by lust, envy, 
 ambition, pride, levity, rashness, fear; nay, by 
 the very shame of confessing w'hat they have re- 
 ceived. And the unthankful man has nothing to 
 _say for himself all this while; for there needs nei- 
 ther pains, or fortune, for the discharge of his 
 duty ; beside, the inward anxiety and torment, 
 when a man's conscience makes him afraid of his 
 own thought. 
 
 To speak against the ungrateful, is to rail 
 against mankind, for even those that complain 
 are gnilty; nor do I speak only of those that do 
 not live up to the strict rule of virtue, but man- 
 kind itself is degenerated and lost. We live tin- 
 thankfully in this world, and we go struggling and 
 murmuring out of it, dissatisfied with our lot; 
 
seneca's morals. 99 
 
 Pariiculai ly t" Heav.en. 
 
 whereas we should be grateful for the blessings 
 we have enjoyed, and account that sufficient 
 which Providence has appointed for us. A little 
 more time may make our lives longer, but not 
 happier, and whensoever it is the pleasure of 
 God to call us, we must obey ; and yet all this 
 while we go on quarrelling at the world, for 
 what we find in ourselves; and v.c are yet 
 more unthankful to heaven, than we are to one 
 another. What benefit can be great now to that 
 man that despises the bounties of his maker ? We 
 would be as strong as elephants, as swift as bucks, 
 as light as birds, and we complain that we have 
 not the sagacity of dogs, the sight of eagles, the 
 long life of ravens, nay, that we are not immor- 
 tal, and endued with the knowledge of things to 
 come. Nay, we take it ill, that we are not gods 
 upon earth ; never considering the advantages of 
 our condition, or the benignity of Providence in 
 the comforts that we enjoy. We subdue the 
 strongest of creatures, and overtake the fleetest; 
 we reclaim the fiercest, and out-wit the craftiest ; 
 we are within one degree of heaven itself, and yet 
 we are not satisfied. Since there is not any one 
 creature which we had rather be, we take it ill 
 that we cannot draw the united excellencies of all 
 Other creatures into ourselves. Why are we not 
 rather thankful to that goodness, which has sub- 
 jected the whole creation to our use and service? 
 
 K 2 
 
100 seneca's morals. 
 
 Causes of Ingratitude. 
 
 5 
 
 The principal causes of ingratitude are pride 
 and self-conceit, avarice, envy, &c. It is a fa- 
 miliar exclamation, — " It is true, he did this or 
 that for me, but it came so late, and it was so 
 little, I had even as good been without it; if he had 
 not given it to me, he must have given it to some- 
 body else; it was nothing cut of his own pocket/' 
 Kay, we are so ungrateful, that he that gives us 
 all we have, if he leaves any thing to himself, we 
 reckon that he does us an injury. It cost Julius 
 Csesar his life, the disappointment of his unsalable 
 companions ; and yet he reserved nothing of all 
 that he got to himself, but the liberty of disposing 
 it. There is no benefit so large, but malignity will 
 still lessen it ; none so narrow, which a good inter- 
 pretation will not enlarge. No man shall ever be 
 grateful, that views a benefit on the wrong side; 
 or takes a good office by the wrong handle. The 
 avaricious man is naturally ungrateful, for he 
 never thinks he has enough, but without consi- 
 dering what he has, only minds what he covets. 
 Some pretend want of power to make a compe- 
 tent return, and you shall find in others a kind of 
 graceless modesty, that makes a man ashamed of 
 requiting an obligation, because it is a confession 
 that he has received one. 
 
 Not to return one good office for another, is in- 
 human; but to return evil for good, is diabolical. 
 There are too many even of this sort, who, the 
 
seneca's morals. io>i 
 
 People tull< then interest. 
 
 more they owe, the more they hate. There is 
 nothing more dangerous than to oblige those peo- 
 ple, for when they are conscious of not paying 
 the debt, they wish the creditor out of the way. 
 It is a mortal -hatred, that which arises from the 
 shame of an abused benefit. When we are on 
 the asking side, what a deal of cringing there is, 
 and profession?—" Well, I shall never forget this 
 favour, it will be an eternal obligation to me." 
 But, within a while, the note is changed, and 
 Ave hear no more words on it, till by little and 
 little it is all quite forgotten. So long as we stand 
 in need of a benefit, there is nothing dearer to us, 
 nor any thing cheaper when we have received it. 
 And yet a man may as well refuse to deliver up 
 a sum of money that is left to him in trust, with- 
 out a suit, as not to return a good office without 
 a:^king; and when we have no value any further 
 for the benefit, we do commonly care as little for 
 the author. People follow their interest; one 
 man is grateful for his convenience, and another 
 man is ungrateful for the same reason. 
 
 Some are ungrateful to their own country, and 
 their country no less ungrateful to others, so that 
 the complaint of ingratitude reaches all men. 
 Doth not the son wish for the death of his father, 
 the husband for that of his wife, &c. But who 
 can look for gratitude in an age of so many gap- 
 ing and craving appetites, where all people take. 
 
 ii 3 
 
1C 1 2 bEVECAS MORALS. 
 
 Ungrateful governors as well as others. 
 
 and none give ? In an age of license to all sorts of 
 vanity and wickedness, as lust, gluttony, avarice, 
 envy, ambition, sloth, insolence, levity, contu- 
 macy, fear, rashness, private discords and pub- 
 lic evils, extravagant and groundless wishes, vain 
 confidences, sickly affections, shameless impieties, 
 rapine authorized, and the violation of all things, 
 sacred and profane: obligations are pursued with 
 sword and poison ; benefits are turned into 
 crimes ; and that blood most seditiously spilt, 
 for which every honest man should expose his 
 own. Those that should be the preservers of their 
 country, are the destroyers of it ; and it is mat- 
 ter of dignity to trample upon the government: 
 the sword gives the law, and mercenaries take up 
 arms against their masters. Among these turbu- 
 lent and unruly motions, what hope is there of 
 finding honesty or good faith, which is the quiet- 
 est of all virtues ? There is no more lively image 
 of human life than that of a conquered city; there 
 is neither mercy, modesty, nor religion ; and if we 
 forget our lives, we may well furget our benefits. 
 The world abounds with examples of ungrateful 
 persons, and no less with those of ungrateful go- 
 vernments. Was not Catiline ungrateful, whose 
 malice aimed, not only at the mastering of his 
 country, but at the total destruction of it, by 
 calling in an inveterate and vindictive enemy 
 from beyond the Alps, to wreak their long- thirst- 
 
seneca's morals. 103 
 
 Proved Uv example 
 
 ed-for revenge, and to sacrifice the lives of as 
 many noble Romans, as might serve to answer 
 and appease the ghosts of the slaughtered Gauls? 
 Was not Marios ungrateful, that, from a com- 
 mon soldier, being raised up to consul, not only 
 gave the word for civil bloodshed and massacres, 
 but was himself the sign for the execution; and 
 every man he met in the streets, to whom he did 
 not stretch out his right-hand, was murdered ? 
 And, was not Sylla ungrateful too, that, when 
 he had waded up to the gates in human blood, 
 carried the outrage into the city, and there most 
 barbarously cut two entire legions to pieces in a 
 corner, not only after the victory, but most per- 
 fidiously after quarter given them ? Good God! 
 that ever any man should not only escape with 
 impunity, but receive a reward for so horrid a 
 villainy ! 'Was not Pompey ungrateful too, who, 
 after three consulships, three triumphs, and so 
 many honours usurped before his time, split the 
 commonwealth into three parts, and brought it 
 to such a pass, that there was no hope of safety 
 but by slavery ? Only, forsooth, to abate the envy 
 of his power, he took other partners with him 
 into the government, as if that, which was not 
 lawful for any one, might have been allowable 
 for more; dividing and distributing the provinces, 
 and breaking all into a triumvirate, reserving 
 still two parts of the three in his own family. 
 
3 04? Seneca's morals. 
 
 Every ungrateful man In.-* own enemy. 
 
 And, was not Caesar ungrateful also ? though, to 
 give him his due, he was a man of his word ; 
 merciful in his victories, and never killed any 
 man, but with his sword in his hand. Let us, 
 therefore, forgive one another. Only one word 
 more now, for the shame of ungrateful govern- 
 ments. Was not Cannllus banished ? Scipio dis- 
 missed? and Cicero exiled and plundered? Eut 
 what is all this to those that are so mad as to 
 dispute even the goodness of heaven, which gives 
 us all, and expects nothing again, but continues 
 giving to the most unthankful and complaining? 
 
 THERE CAN BE NO LAW AGAINST 
 INGRATITUDE. 
 
 Ingratitude is so dangerous to itself, and 
 so detestable to other people, that nature, one 
 would think, had sufficiently provided against it, 
 without need of any other law. For every un- 
 grateful man is his own enemy, and it seems su- 
 perfluous to compel a man to be kind to himself, 
 and to follow his own inclinations. This, of all 
 wickedness imaginable, is certainly the vice which 
 does the most divide and distract human nature. 
 Without the exercise and the commerce of mu- 
 tual offices, we can be neither happy nor sale; 
 for it is only society that secures us : take us one 
 by one, and we are a prey* even to brutes, as 
 well as to one another. Nature has brought us 
 
seneca's morals. 10.5 
 
 f lis punuliment remitted to divine justice. 
 
 into the world naked and unarmed ; we have not 
 the teeth or the paws of lions and bears, to make 
 ourselves terrible, but by the two blessings of rea- 
 son and union, we secure and defend ourselves 
 against violence and fortune. This it is that makes 
 a man the master of all other creatures, who other- 
 wise were scarce a match for the weakest of them. 
 This it is that comforts us in sickness, in age, in mi- 
 sery, in pains, and in the worst of calamities. Take 
 away this combination, and mankind is dissociated, 
 and falls to pieces. It is true, that there is no law 
 established against this abominable vice : but we 
 cannot say yet, that it escapes unpunished, for a 
 public hatred is certainly the greatest of all pe- 
 nalties ; over and above that, we lose the most 
 valuable blessing of life, in- the not bestowing 
 and receiving of benefits. If ingratitude were to 
 be punished by a law, it would discredit the obli- 
 gation; for a benefit is to be given, not lent. And 
 if we have no return at all, there is no just cause 
 of complaint; for gratitude were no virtue, if 
 there were any danger in being ungrateful. There 
 are halters, I know, hooks and gibbets, provided 
 for homicide, poison, sacrilege, and rebellion ; 
 but ingratitude (here upon earth) is only punish- 
 ed in the schools, all farther pains and inflictions 
 being wholly remitted to divine justice. And, if 
 a man may judge of the conscience by the coun- 
 tenance, the ungrateful man is never without a 
 
10fj seneca's m«rals, 
 
 ■ ■-■■ .'» *- 
 
 There can be no Ittal puni-hmerr, 
 
 canker at his heart; his mind and aspect is sad 
 and solicitous, whereas the other is always chear- 
 ful and serene. 
 
 As there are no laws extant against ingratitude, 
 so it is utterly impossible to contrive any, that 
 in all circumstances should reach it. If it were 
 actionable, there would not be courts enough in 
 the whole world to try the causes in. There can 
 be no setting a day for the requiting of benefits, 
 as for the payment of money, nor any estimate 
 upon the benefits themselves, but the whole 
 matter rests in the conscience of both parties : 
 and then there are so many degrees of it, that 
 the same rule will never serve all. Beside that, 
 to proportion it, as the benefit is greater and less, 
 will be both impracticable and without reason. 
 One good turn saves my life, another my freedom, 
 or peradventure my very soul. How shall any 
 law now suit a punishment to an ingratitude, un- 
 der these differing degrees ? It must not be said in 
 benefits as in bonds — " Pay what you owe." How 
 shall a man pay life, health, credit, security, in 
 kind ? There can be no set rule to bound that in- 
 finite variety of cases, which are more properly 
 the subject of humanity and religion, than of law 
 and public justice. There would be disputes also 
 about the benetit itself, which must totally de- 
 pend upon the courtesy of the judge, for no law 
 imaginable can set it forth. One man gives iut 
 
seneca's morals. lo7 
 
 As none can be adequate. 
 
 an estate, another only lends me a sword, and 
 that sword preserves my life. Nay, the very 
 same thing several ways done, changes the qua- 
 lity of the obligation. A word, a tone, a look, 
 makes a great alteration in the case.. How shall 
 we judge then, and determine a matter which docs 
 not depend upon the fact itself, but upon the force 
 and intention of it ? Some things are reputed be- 
 nefits, not for their value, but because we desire 
 them ; and there are offices of much greater va- 
 lue, that we do not reckon upon at all. If in- 
 gratitude were liable to a law, we must never give 
 but before witnesses, which would overthrow the 
 dignity of the benefit. And then the punishment 
 must either be equal, where the crimes are un- 
 equal, or else it must be unrighteous : so that 
 blood must answer for blood. He that is ungrate- 
 ful for my saving his life, must forfeit his own. 
 And, what can be more inhuman, than that be- 
 nefits should conclude in sanguinary events ? A 
 man saves my life, and I am ungrateful for it : 
 shall 1 be punished in my purse ? that is too little; 
 if it be less than the benefit, it is unjust, and it 
 must be capital to be made equal to it. There are, 
 moreover, certain privileges granted to parents, 
 that can never be reduced to a common rule ; 
 their injuries may be cognizable, but not their 
 benefits. The diversity of cases is too large and 
 intricate, to be brought within the prospect of a 
 
IDS seneca's mohal*. 
 
 Generosity is lessened by caution. 
 
 :. * ■ , . , == 
 
 law : so that it is much more equitable to punish 
 none, than to punish all alike. What if a man 
 follows a good office with an injuiy ; whether or 
 no shall this quit scores? or who shall compare 
 them, and weigh the one against the other ? 
 There * is another thing yet, which, perhaps, we 
 do not dream of, not one man upon the face of 
 the earth would escape, and yet every man would 
 expect to be his own judge. Once again, we are 
 all of us ungrateful, and the number does not only 
 take away the shame, but gives authority and 
 protection to the wickedness. 
 
 It is thought reasonable, by some, that there 
 should be a law against ingratitude; for, say they, 
 it is common for one city to upbraid another, and 
 to claim that of posterity, which was bestowed 
 upon their ancestors: but this is only clamour 
 without reason. It is objected by others, as a 
 discouragement to good offices, if men shall not 
 be made answerable for them; but i say, on the 
 other side, that no man would accept of a benefit 
 upon those terms. He that gives, is prompted to 
 it by a goodness of mind, and the generosity of 
 the action is lessened by the caution ; for it is his 
 desire that the receiver should please himself, and 
 owe no more than he thinks fit. But, what if 
 this might occasion fewer benefits, so long as they 
 would be franker? nor is there any hurt in putting 
 a check upon rashness and profusion. In answer 
 
seneca's morals. 109 
 
 Like money lent upon security. 
 
 to this, men will be careful enough whom they 
 oblige, without a law; nor is it possible for a 
 judge ever to set us right in it, or indeed any- 
 thing else, but the faith of the receiver. The 
 honour of a benefit is this way preserved, which 
 is otherwise prophaned, when it comes to be mer- 
 cenary, and made matter of contention. We are 
 even forward enough of ourselves to wrangle, 
 without unnecessary provocations. It would be 
 well, I think, if monies might pass upon the same 
 conditions with other benefits, and the payment 
 remitted to the conscience, without formalizing 
 upon bills and securities; but human wisdom has 
 rather advised with convenience than virtue, and 
 chosen rather to force honesty, than expect it. 
 For every paltry sum of money T there must he 
 bonds, witnesses, counterparts, powers, &c. which 
 is no other than a shameful confession of fraud and 
 wickedness, when more credit is given to our 
 seals than to our minds; and caution taken lest 
 he that has received the money should deny it. 
 Were it not better now to be deceived by some, 
 than to suspect all ? What is the difference, at 
 this rate, betw T ixt the benefactor and an usurer, 
 save only that in the benefactor's case, there is no 
 body stands bound ? 
 
110 senega's morals. 
 
 The readiest way to Happiness 
 
 A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 Or A HAPPY LITE, AND WHEREIN IT 
 CONSISTS. 
 
 THERE is not any thing in this world, perhaps, 
 that is more talked of, and less understood, than 
 the business of a happy life. It is, every man's 
 wish and design, and yet not one of a thousand 
 that knows wherein that happiness consists. We 
 live, however, in a blind and eager pursuit of it, 
 and the more haste we make in a wrong way, the 
 farther we are from our journey's end. Let us, 
 therefore, first consider — What it is we would be 
 at. And, secondly, which is the readiest way to 
 compass it. If we be right, we shall find every 
 day how much we improve; but if we either fol- 
 low the cry, or the track of people that are out 
 of the way, we must expect to be misled, and to 
 continue our days in wandering and error. Where- 
 fore it highly concerns us to take along with us a 
 skilful guide , for it is not in this, as in other 
 voyages, where the high-way brings us to our 
 place of repose, or, if a man should happen to 
 be out, where the inhabitants might set him right 
 again; but, on the contrary, the beaten road is 
 here the most dangerous, and the people, instead 
 
seneca's morals. Ill 
 
 Wherein consists true felicity. 
 
 of helping us, misguide us. Let us not therefore 
 follow like beasts, but rather govern ourselves by 
 reason than by example. It fares with us in hu- 
 man life as in a routed army, one stumbles first, 
 and then another falls upon him, and so they fol- 
 low, one upon the neck of another, until the 
 whole field comes to be but one heap of miscar- 
 riages. And the mischief is, that the number of 
 the multitude carries it against truth and justice, 
 so that we must leave the crowd, if we would be 
 happy; for the question of a happy life is not to 
 be decided by vote: nay, so far from it, that 
 plurality of voices is still an argument of the 
 wrong ; the common people find it easier to be- 
 lieve than to judge, and content themselves with 
 what is usual, never examining whether it be 
 good or no. By the common people is intended 
 the man of title, as well as the clouted shoe, for 
 I do not distinguish them by the eye, but by the 
 mind, which is the proper judge of the man. 
 Worldly felicity, I know, makes the head giddy; 
 but if ever a man comes to himself again, he will 
 confess — that whatsoever he has done, he wishes 
 undone ; and, that the things he feared were bet- 
 ter than those he prayed for. 
 
 The true felicity of life is to be free from per- 
 turbations, to understand our duties toward God 
 and man, to enjoy the present, without any an- 
 xious dependence upon the future. Not to amuse 
 ourselves with either hopes or fears, but to rest 
 
 l2 
 
112 seneca's morals. 
 
 A sound mind makes a happy man. 
 
 satisfied with what we have, which is abundantly 
 sufficient; for he that is so, wants nothing. The 
 great blessings of mankind are within us, and 
 within our reach, but we shut our eyes, and like 
 people in the dark, we fall foul upon the very 
 thing we search for, without finding it. Tran- 
 quillity is a certain equality of mind, which no 
 condition of fortune can either exalt or depress. 
 Nothing can make it less, for it is the state of 
 human perfection; it raises us as high as we can 
 go, and makes every man his own supporter; 
 whereas he that is borne up by any thing else 
 may fall. He that judges aright, and perseveres 
 in it, enjoys a perpetual calm : he takes a true 
 prospect of things ; he observes an order, mea- 
 sure, a decorum in all his actions ; he has a be- 
 nevolence in his nature; he squares his life ac- 
 cording to reason, and draws to himself love and 
 admiration. Without a certain and an unchange- 
 able j udgment, all the rest is but fluctuation; but 
 he that always wills and nills the same thing, is 
 undoubtedly in the right. Liberty and serenity 
 of mind must necessarily ensue upon the master- 
 ing of those things which either allure or affright 
 us, when, instead of those flashy pleasures (which 
 even at the best, are both vain and hurtful toge- 
 gether), we shall find ourselves possessed of joys 
 transporting and everlasting. It must be a sound 
 mind that makes a happy man; there must be a 
 constancy in all conditions; a care for the things 
 
seneca's morals. 113 
 
 'I he be:ii of (rue joy is wit! :r,. 
 
 of this world, but without trouble; and such an 
 indifterency for the bounties of fortune, that either 
 with them, or without them, we may live con- 
 tentedly. There must be neither lamentation 
 nor quarreling, nor sloth, nor fear, for it makes a 
 discord in a man's life. He that fears, serves. 
 The joy of a wise man stands firm without inter- 
 ruption, in all places, at all times, and in all 
 conditions, his thoughts are chearful and quiet. 
 As it never came in to him from without, so it 
 will never leave him; but is born within him, and 
 inseparable from him. It is a solicitous life that 
 is egged on with the hope of any thing, though 
 never so open and easy; nay, though a man 
 should never suffer any sort of disappointment. I 
 do not speak this, either as a bar to the fair en- 
 joyment of lawful pleasures, or to the gentle flat- 
 teries of reasonable expectations, but, on the 
 ._ contrary, I would have men to be always in good 
 hurnpm*, provided that it arises from their own 
 souls, and be cherished in their own breasts. 
 Other delights are trivial ; they may smooth the 
 brow, but they do not fill and affect the heart. 
 True joy is a seren^and sober motion; and they 
 are miserably out, that take laughing for rejoic- 
 ing ; the seat of it is within, and there is no 
 chearfulness like the resolution of a brave mind, 
 that has fortune under its feet. He that can look 
 death in the face and bid it welcome, open his 
 L3 
 
114 seneca's morals. 
 
 Definition of wisdom. 
 
 door to poverty, and bridle his appetites, this is 
 the man whom Providence has established in the 
 possession of inviolable delights. The pleasures 
 of the vulgar are ungrounded, thin, and superfi- 
 cial; but the other are solid and eternal. As the 
 body itself is rather a necessary thing than a great, 
 so the comforts of it are but temporary and vain; 
 beside, that without extraordinary moderation, 
 their end is only pain and repentance. Whereas 
 a peaceful conscience, honest thoughts, virtuous 
 actions, and an indifference for casual events, are 
 blessings without end, satiety, or measure. This 
 consummated state of felicity is only a submission 
 to the dictate of right nature : the foundation of it 
 is wisdom and virtue; the knowledge of what we 
 ought to do, and the conformity of the will to that 
 knowledge. 
 
 HUMAN HAPPINESS IS FOUNDED UPON 
 
 WISDOM AND VIRTUE; AND PIRST, 
 
 OP WISDOM. 
 
 Taking for granted, that human happiness is 
 founded upon wisdom and virtue, we shall treat 
 upon these tw r o points in order as they lie; and, 
 first, of wisdom; and not in the latitude of its 
 various operations, but only as it has a regard to 
 good life, and the happiness of mankind. 
 
 Wisdom is a right understanding, a faculty of 
 discerning good from evil, what is to be chosen 
 and what rejected, a judgment grounded upon the. 
 
seneca's morals. 115 
 
 The truly wise are truly happy. 
 
 value of things, and not the common opinion of 
 them; an equality of force, and a strength of re- 
 solution. It sets a watch over our words and 
 deeds, it takes up with the contemplation of the 
 works of nature, and makes us invincible, by 
 either good or evil fortune. It is large and 
 spacious, and requires a great deal of room 
 to work in; it ransackp heaven and earth; 
 it has for its object things past and to come, 
 transitory and eternal. It examines all the cir- 
 cumstances of time, what it is, when it began, 
 and how long it will continue: and so for the 
 mind, whence it came, what it is, when it begins, 
 how long it lasts, whether or no it passes from 
 one form to another, or serves only one, and 
 wanders when it leaves us ; where it abides in the 
 state of separation, and what the action of it; 
 what use it makes of liberty, whether or no it re- 
 tains the memory of things past, and comes to 
 the knowledge of itself. It is the habit of a per- 
 fect mind, and the perfection of humanity raised 
 as high as nature can carry it. It differs from 
 philosophy, as avarice and money; the one de- 
 sires, and the other is desired; the one is the ef- 
 fect and the reward of the other. To be wise, is 
 the use of wisdom, as seeing is the use of eyes, 
 and veil-speaking the use of eloquence. He that 
 is perfectly wise is perfectly happy ; nay, the very 
 beginning of wisdom makes life easv. Neither is 
 it enough to know this, unless we print it in our 
 
llo seneca's morals. 
 
 Wisdom renders easy every situation. 
 
 minds by daily meditation, and so bring a good 
 will to a good habit, And we must practise what 
 we preach ; for philosophy is not a subject for 
 popular ostentation, nor does it rest in words, but 
 in things; it is not an entertainment taken up for 
 delight, or to give a taste to our leisure, but it 
 fashions the mind, governs our actions, tells us 
 what we are to do, and what not. It sits at the 
 helm, and guides us through all hazards ; nay r 
 we cannot be safe without it, for every hour gives 
 us an occasion to make use of it. It informs us 
 in all the duties of life, piety to our parents, faith 
 to our friends, charity to the miserable, judgment 
 in counsel; it gives us peace by fearing nothing, 
 and riches by coveting nothing. 
 
 There is no condition of life that excludes a 
 wise man from discharging his duty. If his for- 
 tune be good, he tempers it; if bad, he masters it; 
 if he has an estate, he will exercise his virtue in 
 plenty ; if none, in poverty ; if he cannot do it in' 
 his country, he will do it in banishment; if he has 
 no command,, he will do the office of a common 
 soldier. Some people have the skill of reclaim- 
 ing the fiercest of beasts, they will make a lion 
 embrace his keeper, a tyger kiss him, and an ele- 
 phant kneel to him. This is the case of wise 
 men in the extremest difficulties ; let them be 
 ever so terrible in themselves, when they come 
 to him once, they are perfectly tame. They that 
 ascribe the invention of tillage, architecture, na- 
 
seneca's morals. 117 
 
 She teaclies what are gocJand evil things. 
 
 vigation, &c. to wise men, may perchance be in 
 the right, that they were invented by wise men ; 
 but they were not invented by wise men, as wise 
 men; for wisdom does not teach our fingers, but 
 our minds. Fiddling and dancing, arms and for- 
 tifications, were the works of luxury and discord, 
 but wisdom instructs us in the way of nature, and 
 in the arts of unity and concord ; not in the instru- 
 ments, but in the government of life; nor to 
 make us live only, but to live happily. She 
 teaches us what things are good, what evil, and 
 what only appear so ; and to distinguish betwixt 
 true greatness and tumour. She clears our minds 
 of dross and vanity — she raises up our thoughts to 
 heaven, and carries them down to hell — she dis- 
 courses the nature of the soul, the powers and 
 faculties of it, the first principles of things, the 
 order of providence — she exalts us from things 
 corporeal to incorporeal, and retrieves the truth 
 of all — she searches nature, gives laws to life, and 
 tells us — " That it is not enough to know God, 
 unless we obey him." She looks upon all acci- 
 dents as acts of Providence, sets a true value 
 upon things, delivers us from false opinions, and 
 condemns all pleasures that are attended with re- 
 pentance — she allows nothing to be good, that 
 will not be so for ever ; no man to be happy, but 
 he that needs no other happiness than what he has 
 within himself; no man to be great, or powerful, 
 
118 SENECA S MORALS. 
 
 Right reason the peirection of human nature. 
 
 that is not master of himself. This is the felicity 
 of human life ; a felicity that can neither be cor- 
 rupted nor extinguished. It enquires into the na- 
 ture of the heavens, the influence of the stars, 
 how far they operate upon our minds and bodies ; 
 which thoughts, though they do not form our 
 manners, they do yet raise and dispose us for 
 glorious things. 
 
 It is agreed, upon all hands, that right reason 
 is the perfection of human nature, and wisdom 
 only the dictate of it. The greatness that arises 
 from it is solid and unmoveable, the resolutions 
 of wisdom being free, absolute, and constant; 
 whereas folly is never long pleased with the same 
 thing, but still shifting of counsels, and sick of it- 
 self. There can be no happiness without con- 
 stancy and prudence; for a wise man is to write 
 without a blot, and what he likes once he ap- 
 proves for ever. He admits of nothing that is either 
 evil or slippery, but marches without staggering 
 or stumbling, and is never surprized — he lives al- 
 ways true and steady to himself, and whatsoever 
 befalls him, this great artificer of both fortunes 
 turns to advantage. He that demurs and hesi- 
 tates, is not yet composed : but wheresoever vir- 
 tue interposes upon the main, there must be con- 
 cord and consent in the parts. For all virtues are 
 in agreement, as well as all vices are at variance. 
 .A wise man, in what condition soever lie is, will 
 
9ENJ-.CA S MORALS. ]1Q 
 
 Arts are but wisdom's servants. 
 
 be still happy, for he subjects all things to himself, 
 because he submits himself to reason, and governs 
 his actions by counsel, not by passion. He is not 
 moved with the utmost violence of fortune, nor 
 with the extremities of lire and sword: whereas a 
 fool is afraid of his own shadow, and surprized at 
 ill accidents, as if they were all levelled at him. 
 lie does nothing unwillingly, for whatever he 
 finds necessary, he makes it his choice. He pro- 
 pounds to himself the certain scope and end of 
 human life; he follows that which conduces to it, 
 and avoids that which hinders it. He is content with 
 his lot, whatever it be, without wishing what he 
 has not; though of the two, he had rather abound 
 than want. The great business of his life, like 
 that of nature, is performed without tumult or 
 noise : he neither fears danger, nor provokes it ; 
 but it is his caution, not any want of courage ; for 
 captivity, wounds, and chains, he only looks upon 
 as false and lymphatical terrors. He does not 
 pretend to go through with whatever he under- 
 takes ; but to do that well which he does. Arts 
 are but the servants wisdom commands; and 
 where the matter fails, it is none of the workman's 
 fault. He is cautelous in doubtful cases, in pros- 
 perity temperate, and resolute in adversity ; still 
 making the best of every condition, and improv- 
 ing all occasions to make them serviceable to his 
 
120 seneca's morals. 
 
 Three degrees of proficients in wisdom. 
 
 fate. Some accidents there are, which, I con- 
 fess, may affect him, but not overthrow him, as 
 bodily pains, loss of children and friends, the ruin 
 and desolation of a man's country. One must be 
 made of stone, or iron, not to be sensible of these 
 calamities ; and beside, it were no virtue to bear 
 them, if a body did not feel them. 
 
 There are three degrees of proficients in the 
 school of wisdom. The first are those that come 
 within the sight of it, but not up to it: they have 
 learned what they ought to do, but they have not 
 put their knowledge in practice; they are past the 
 hazard of a relapse, but they have still the grudges 
 of a disease, though they are out of the danger of 
 it. By a disease, I do not understand an obsti- 
 nacy in evil, or an ill habit, that makes us over- 
 eager upon things, which are either not much to 
 be desired, or not at all. A second sort are those 
 that have subjected their appetite for a season, 
 but are yet in fear of falling back. A third sort, 
 are those that are clear of many vices, but not of 
 all. They are not covetous, but perhaps they are 
 choleric; not lustful, but perchance ambitious; 
 they are firm enough in some cases, but weak in 
 others: there are many that despise death, and 
 yet shrink at pain. There are diversities in weak 
 men, but no inequalities; one is more affable, 
 another more ready, a third a better speaker, but 
 
seneca's morals, !?1 
 
 Virtue is an invin ess of mind. 
 
 the ieucity of them all is equal. JU is m this, as 
 in heavenly bodies, there is a certain state in 
 greatness. 
 
 In civil and domestic affairs, a wise man may 
 stand in need of counsel, as of a plnsician. an 
 advocate, a solicitor, but, in greater matters, the 
 blessing of wise men rests in the joy they take in 
 the communication of their virtues. If there were 
 nothing else in it, a man would apply himself to 
 wisdom, because it settles him in a perpetual 
 tranquillity of mind. 
 
 THERE CAN BE NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT 
 VIRTUE. 
 
 Virtue is that perfect good which is the com- 
 plement of a happy life, the only immortal thing 
 that belongs to immortality; it is the knowledge 
 both of others and itself, it is an invincible great- 
 ness of mind, not to be elevated or dejected with 
 good or ill fortune. It is sociable and gentle, free, 
 steady, and fearless, content within itself, full of 
 inexhaustible delights, and it is valued for itself. 
 One may be a good physician, a good governor, 
 a good grammarian, without being a good man; 
 so that ail things from without are only acces- 
 saries, for the seat of it is a pure and holy mind. 
 It consists in a congruity of actions, which we can 
 never expect, so long as we are distracted by our 
 passions. Not but that a man may be allowed to 
 
 u 
 
1Q2! SF.NEC.v's MORALS. 
 
 Virtue soars above difficulties. 
 
 change colour and countenance, and suffer such 
 impressions as are properly a kind of natural force 
 upon the body, and not under the dominion of 
 the mind : but all this while I will have his judg- 
 ment firm, and he shall act steadily and boldly, 
 without wavering betwixt the motions of his body 
 and those of his mind. It is not a thing indiffer- 
 ent, I know, whether a man lies at ease upon a 
 bed, or in torment upon a wheel : and yet the 
 former may be the worse of the two, if we suffer 
 the latter with honour, and enjoy the other with 
 infamy. It is not the matter, but the virtue, that 
 makes the action good or ill ; and he that is led 
 in triumph may yet be greater than his conqueror. 
 When we come once to value our flesh above our 
 honesty, we are lost: and yet 1 would not press 
 upon dangers, no not so much as upon inconveni- 
 ence, unless where the man and the brute come 
 in competition ; and, in such a case, rather- than 
 make a forfeiture of my credit, my reason, or my 
 faith, I would run all extremities. They are 
 great blessings to have tender parents, dutiiul 
 children, and to live under a just and well-ordered 
 government. Now, would it not trouble even a 
 virtuous man, to see his children butchered before 
 his eyes, his father made a slave, and his country 
 over-run by a barbarous enemy ? There is a great 
 difference betwixt the simple loss of a blessing, and 
 the succeeding of a great mischief into the place of 
 
seneca's morals. 123 
 
 Her glories are not to i>e obscured. 
 
 it over and above. The loss of health is followed with 
 sickness, and the loss of sight with blindness, but 
 this does not hold in the loss of friends and chil- 
 dren, where there is rather something to the con- 
 trary to supply that loss; that is to say, virtue^ 
 which fills the mind, and takes away the desire of 
 what we have not. What matters it whether the 
 water be stopt or no, so long as the fountain is safe ? 
 Is a man ever the wiser for a multitude of friends, 
 or the more foolish for the loss of them ? So nei- 
 ther is he the happier, nor the more miserable. 
 Short life, grief and pain, are accessions that have 
 no effect at all upon virtue. It consists in the 
 action, and not in the things we do 5 in the choice 
 itself, and not in the subject matter of it. It is 
 not a despicable body, or condition, not poverty, 
 infamy, or scandal, that can obscure the glories 
 of virtue; but a man may see her through all op- 
 positions, and he that looks diligently into the state 
 of a wicked man, will see the canker at his heart, 
 through all the false and dazzling splendors of 
 greatness and fortune. We shall then discover 
 our childishness, in setting our hearts upon things 
 trivial and contemptible, and in the selling of our 
 very country and parents for a rattle. And what 
 is the difference (in effect) betwixt old men and 
 children, but that the one deals in paintings and 
 statues, and the other in babies ? So that we our- 
 selves are only the more expensive fools. 
 
 m 2 
 
124" senega's morals. 
 
 '1 lie dignity o' virtue. 
 
 If one could but see the mind of a good man, 
 as it is illustrated with virtue, the beauty and the 
 majesty of it, which is a dignity not so much as to 
 be thought of without love and vt aeration, would 
 cot a man bless himself at the sight of such an 
 object, as at the encounter of some supernatural 
 .power ? A power so miraculous, that it is a kind 
 of charm upon the souls of those that are truly af- 
 fected with it. There is so wonderful a grace and 
 authority in it, that even the worst of men ap- 
 prove it, and set up for the reputation of being 
 accounted virtuous themselves. They covet the 
 fruit indeed, and the profit of wickedness, but 
 they hate, and are ashamed of the imputation of 
 it. It is by an impression of nature, that ail men 
 have a reverence for virtue: they know it, and 
 they have a respect for it, though they do not 
 practise it ; nay, for the countenance of their very 
 wickedness, they miscal it virtue. Their injuries 
 they call benefits, and expect a man should thank 
 them for doing him a mischief; they cover their 
 most notorious iniquities with a pretext of justice. 
 He that robs upon the highway, had rather find 
 his booty than force it. Ask any of them that 
 live upon rapine, fraud, and oppression, if they 
 had not rather enjoy a fortune honestly gotten, 
 and their consciences will not suffer them to deny 
 it. Men are vicious only for the profit of villainy ; 
 for at the same time that they commit it, they 
 
seneca's morals. 1*25 
 
 Winch overcomes ill f. rtune, and moderates good. 
 
 condemn it. Nay, so powerful is virtue, and so 
 gracious is Providence, that every man has a light 
 set up within him for a guide," which we do all ot 
 us both see and acknowledge, though we do not 
 pursue it. This is it that makes the prisoner upon 
 the torture happier than the executioner, and 
 sickness better than health, if we bear it without 
 yielding or repining : this is that which overcomes 
 ill fortune, and moderates good; for it marches 
 betwixt the one and the other, with an equal con- 
 tempt of both. It turns (like fire) all things into 
 itself, our actions and our friendships are tinctured 
 with it, and whatever it touches becomes amiable. 
 That which is frail and mortal rises and falls, 
 grows, wastes, and varies from itself, but the 
 state of things divine is always the same ; and so 
 is virtue, let the matter be what it will. It is 
 never the worse for the difficulty of the action, nor 
 the better for the easiness of it. It is the same in 
 a rich man as in a poor, in the sickly man as m a 
 sound, in a strong as in a weak ; the virtue of the 
 besieged is as great as that of the besiegers. There 
 are some virtues, I confess, which a good man 
 cannot be without, and yet he had rather have no 
 occasion to employ them. If there were any dif- 
 ference, I should prefer the virtues of patience 
 before those of pleasure; for it is braver to break 
 through difficulties, than to temper our delights. 
 But, though the subject of virtue may possibly be 
 
 m 3 
 
126" seneca's MORALS. 
 
 The s!>K)(i-will accepted for the deed. 
 
 t — - 
 
 against nature, as to be burnt, or wounded, yet 
 the virtue itself, of an invincible patience, is ac- 
 cording to nature. We may seem perhaps to pro- 
 mise more than human nature is able to perform, 
 but we speak with a respect to the mind, and not 
 to the body. 
 
 If a man does not live up to his own rules, it is 
 something yet to have virtuous meditations, and 
 good purposes, even without acting; it is gener- 
 ous, the very adventure of being good, and the 
 bare proposal of an eminent course of life, though 
 beyond the force of human frailty to accomplish. 
 There is something of honour yet in the miscar- 
 riage, nay, in the naked contemplation of it : I 
 would receive my own death with as little trouble 
 as I would hear of another man's ; I would bear 
 the same mind, whether 1 be rich or poor, whether 
 I oet or lose in the world ; what I have, I will not 
 either sordidly spare, or prodigally squander 
 away; and! will reckon upon benefits well placed 
 as the fairest part of my possession, not valuing 
 them by number or weight, but by the profit and 
 esteem of the receiver ; accounting myself never 
 the poorer for that which I give to a worthy per- 
 son. What I do, shall be done for conscience, 
 not ostentation. I will cat and drink, not to gra- 
 tify my palate, or cnly v to fill and empty, but to 
 satisfy nature. I will be chearful to my friends, 
 mild, and placable to my enemies. I will prevent 
 
seneca's morals. 127 
 
 Contemplation and action. 
 
 an honest request, if I can foresee it, and I will 
 grant it without asking. I will look upon the 
 whole world as my country, and upon the gods, 
 both as the witnesses and the judges of my words 
 and deeds. I will live and die with this testimony 
 — that I loved good studies, and a good consci- 
 ence ; that I never invaded another man's liberty, 
 and that I preserved my own. I will govern my 
 life, and my thoughts, as if the whole world were 
 to see the one, and to read the other ; for, what 
 does it signify, to make any thing a secret to my 
 neighbour, when to God (who is searcher of our 
 hearts) all our privacies are open ? 
 
 Virtue is divided into two parts, contemplation 
 and action. The one is delivered by institution, 
 the other by admonition. One part of virtue con- 
 sists in discipline, the other in exercise ; for we 
 must first learn, and then practise. The sooner 
 we begin to apply ourselves to it, and the more 
 haste we make, the longer shall we enjoy the 
 comforts of a rectified mind, nay, we have the 
 fruition of it in the very act of forming it ; but, 
 it is another sort of delight, I must confess, that 
 arises from the contemplation of a soul which is 
 advanced into the possession of wisdom and virtue. 
 It it was so great a comfort to us, to pass from 
 the subjection of our childhood into a state of li- 
 berty and business, how much greater will it be, 
 when we come to cast off the boyish levity of our 
 
12<S sf.neca's morals. 
 
 Calamity affects not the virtuous mind. 
 
 minds, and range ourselves among the philoso- 
 phers ? We are past our minority, it is true, but 
 not our indiscretions, and, which is yet worse, 
 we have the authority of seniors, and the weak- 
 nesses of children, (I might have said of infants, 
 for every little thing frights the one, and every 
 trivial fancy the other;. Whoever studies thjs 
 point well, will find, that many things are the 
 less to be feared, the more terrible they appear. 
 To think any thing good that is not honest, were 
 1,0 reproach Providence; for good men suffer 
 many inconveniences ; but virtue, like the sun, 
 goes on still with her work, let the air be ever so 
 cloudy, and finishes her course, extinguishing 
 likewise all other splendors and oppositions, inso- 
 much, that calamity is no more to a virtuous 
 mind, than a shower into the sea. That which 
 is right, is not to be valued by quantity, number, 
 or time : a life of a day may be as honest as a 
 life of a hundred years; but yet virtue in one man 
 may have a larger field to shew itself in, than in 
 another. One man, perhaps, may be in a station 
 to administer unto cities and kingdoms, to con- 
 trive good laws, create friendships, and do bene- 
 ficial offices to mankind. It is another man's for- 
 tune to be straitened by poverty, or put out of 
 the way by banishment ; and yet the latter may 
 be as virtuous as the former, and may have as 
 great a mind, as exact a prudence, as inviolable 
 4 
 
&EK£CX S MORALS, 1*2.0 
 
 Virtue dwell; in the heart, not in the tongue. 
 
 a justice, and as large a knowledge of things, both 
 divine and human, without which a man cannot 
 be happy. For virtue is open to all, as well to 
 servants and exiles, as to princes : it is profitable 
 to the world, and to itself, at all distances, and 
 in all conditions, and there is no difticultv can 
 excuse a man from the exercise of it, and it is 
 only to be found in a wise man, though there may 
 be some faint resemblances of it in the. common 
 people. The Stoics hold all virtues to be equal, 
 but yet there is a great variety in the matter they 
 have to work upon, according as it is larger or 
 narrower, illustrious, or less noble, of more or 
 less extent; as all good men are equal, that is to 
 say, as they are good, but yet one may be young, 
 another old, one may be rich, another poor, one 
 eminent and powerful, another unknown and ob- 
 scure. There are many things which have little 
 or no grace in themselves, and yet are made glo- 
 rious and remarkable by virtue. Nothing can be 
 good, which gives neither greatness nor security to 
 the mind ; but, on the contrary, iniects it with 
 insolence, arrogance, and tumour. Nor does 
 virtue dwell upon the tip of the tongue, but in 
 the temple of a purified heart. He that depends 
 upon any other good, becomes covetous of life, 
 and what belongs to it, which exposes a man to 
 appetites that are vast, unlimited % and intolera- 
 ble. Virtue is free and indefatigable, and ac- 
 
130 senega's morals. 
 
 A viituoui life must be of one piece. 
 
 companied with concord and gracefulness : where- 
 as pleasure is mean, servile, transitory, tiresome, 
 and sickly, and scarcely outlives the tasting of it ; 
 it is the good of the belly, and not of the man, 
 and only the felicity of brutes. Who does not 
 know that fools enjoy their pleasures, and that 
 there is great variety in the entertainments of 
 wickedness ? Nay, the mind itself has its variety 
 of perverse pleasures, as well as the body, as in- 
 solence, self-conceit, pride, garrulity, laziness, 
 and the abusive wit of turning every thing into ri- 
 dicule; whereas virtue weighs all this, and cor- 
 rects it. It is the knowledge both of others, and 
 of itself, it is to be learned from itself, and the 
 very will itself may be taught; which will cannot 
 be right, unless the whole habit of the mind be 
 right, from whence the will comes. It is by the 
 impulse of virtue that we love virtue, so that the 
 very way to virtue lies by virtue, which takes in 
 also, at a view, the laws of human life. 
 
 Neither are we to value ourselves upon a day, 
 or an hour,-or any one action, but upon the whole 
 habit of the mind. Some men do one thing 
 bravely, but not another: they will shrink at in- 
 .fainy, and bear up against poverty ; in this case, 
 we commend the fact and despise the man. The 
 "soul is never in the right place, until it be deli- 
 vered from the cares of human affairs : we must 
 -labour and climb the hill, if we will arrive at vir- 
 
st.nkca's MO HALS. fS'l 
 
 \ '. • i can n wi l i suppressed. 
 
 tue, whose scat is upon the top of it. He that 
 masters avarice, and is truly good, stands firm 
 against ambition, he looks upon his last hour, not 
 as a punishment, but -as the equity of a common 
 fate ; he that subdues his carnal lusts, shall easily 
 keep himself untainted with any other : so that 
 reason does not encounter this or that vice by it- 
 self, but beats down all at a blow. "What does he 
 care for ignominy, that only values himself upon 
 conscience and not opinion ? Socrates looked a 
 scandalous death in the face with the same con- 
 stancy that he had before practised towards the 
 thirty tyrants: his virtue consecrated the very 
 dungeon: as Cato's repulse was Cato's honour, 
 and the reproach of the government. He that is 
 wise, will take delight even in an ill opinion that 
 is well gotten ; it is ostentation, not virtue, when 
 a man will have his good deeds published ; and, 
 it is not enough to be just, where there is honour 
 to be gotten, but to continue so, in defiance of 
 infamy and danger. 
 
 But virtue cannot lie hid, for the time will come 
 that shall raise it again (even after it is buried), 
 and deliver it from the malignity of the age that 
 oppressed it. Immortal glory is the shadow of it, 
 and keeps it company, whether we will or no ; 
 but sometimes the shadow goes before the sub- 
 stance, and other whiles it follows it, and the 
 later it comes, the larger it is, when envy itself. 
 
132 senega'* morals. 
 
 Some ■ i tee ■•■. lire t'oe teioSj others the spur. 
 
 shall have given way to it. It was a long time 
 that Democritus was takc-n for a madman, and 
 before Socrates had any esteem in the world. 
 How long was it before Cato could be understood ? 
 nay, he was affronted, contemned and rejected, 
 and people never knew the value of him until 
 they had lost him. The integrity and courage of 
 mad Rutilius had been forgotten, but for his suf- 
 ferings. I .speak of those that fortune has made 
 famous for their persecutions: and there are others 
 also that the world never took notice of until they 
 v, ere dead; as Epicurus and Metrodorus, that were 
 almost wholly unknown, even in the place where 
 they lived. Now, as the body is to be kept in upon 
 the down-hill, and forced upwards, so there are 
 tome virtues thaf; require the rein, and others the 
 spur; In liberality, temperance, gentleness of 
 nature, we are to check ourselves, for fear of 
 falling:, but in patience, resolution, and perse- 
 verance, where we are to mount the hill, we stand 
 in need of encouragement. Upon this division of 
 the matter, I had rather steer the smoother course, 
 than pass through the experiments of sweat and 
 blood : I know it is my duty to be content in all 
 conditions, but yet, if it were at my election, I 
 would choose the fairest. When a man comes 
 once to stand in need of fortune, his life is anxi- 
 ous, suspicious, timorous, dependent upon every 
 moment, and in fear of all accidents. How can 
 
SF.NECa's MORALS- 133 
 
 A good man happy within him 
 
 that man resign himself to God, or bear his lot, 
 whatever it be, without murmuring, and chear? 
 fully submit to Providence, that shrinks at every 
 motion oi" pleasure, or pain ? It is virtue alone 
 that raises us above griefs, hopes, fears, and 
 chances, and makes us not only patient, but will- 
 ing, as knowing that whatever we suffer is ac- 
 cording to the decree of heaven. He that is 
 overcome with pleasure (so contemptible and 
 weak an enemy), what will become of him when 
 he comes to grapple with dangers, necessities, tor- 
 ments, death, and the dissolution of nature itself ? 
 wealth, honour, and favour, may come upon a 
 man by chance, nay, they may be cast upon him 
 without so much as looking after them ; but vir- 
 tue is the work of industry and labour; and cer- 
 tainly it is worth the while to purchase that good 
 which brings all others along with it. A good 
 man is happy within himself, and independent 
 upon fortune, kind to his friend, temperate to his 
 enemy, religiously just, indefatigably laborious, 
 and he discharges all duties with a constancy and 
 congruity of action?. 
 
 PHILOSOPHY IS THE GUIDE OF LIFE. 
 
 If it be true, that the understanding and the 
 will are the two eminent faculties of the reason- 
 able soul, it follows necessarily, that wisdom and 
 virtue (which are the best improvements of the*e 
 
J 34 seveca's morals. 
 
 Phii sopl'y— moral, 
 
 two faculties), must be the perfection also of our 
 reasonable being, and, consequently, the unde- 
 niable foundation of a £appy life: There is not 
 any duty to which Providence has not annexed a 
 blessing, nor any institution of heaven, which, 
 even in this life, we may not be the better for j 
 not any temptation, either of fortune, or appe- 
 tite, that is not subject to our reason ; nor any 
 passion, or affliction, for which virtue has not 
 provided a remedy. So that it is our own fault 
 if we either hope for any thing; which two aifec- 
 tions are the root of all our miseries. From this 
 general prospect of the foundation of our tran- 
 quillity, we shall pass by degrees to a particular 
 consideration of the means by which it may be 
 procured, and of the impediments that obstruct 
 it ; beginning with that philosophy which princi- 
 pally regards our manners, and instructs us in the 
 measures of a virtuous and quiet life. 
 
 Philosophy is divided into moral, natural, and 
 rational. The first concerns our manners, the 
 second searches the works of nature, and the third 
 furnishes us with propriety of words and argu- 
 ments, and the faculty of distinguishing, that we 
 may not be imposed upon with tricks and fallacies. 
 The causes of things fall under natural philoso- 
 phy, arguments under rational, and actions under 
 moral. Moral philosophy is again divided into 
 matter of justice, which arises from the estimation 
 
sf.keca's morals. 135 
 
 Natural, and rn ma!. 
 
 of things and of men; and into affections and ac- 
 tions; and a failing in any one of these disorder 
 all the rest. For what does it profit us to know 
 the true value of things, if we be transported by 
 our passions ? or, to master our appetites, with- 
 out understanding the when, the what, the h6w, 
 and other circumstances of our proceedings ? For 
 it is one thing to know the rate and dignity of 
 things, and another to know the little nicks and 
 springs of acting. Natural philosophy is convers- 
 ant about things corporeal and incorporeal, the 
 disquisition of causes and effects, and the contem- 
 plation of the cause of causes. Rational philoso- 
 phy is divided into logic and rhetoric ; the one 
 looks after words, sense, and order; the other 
 treats barely of words, and the significations of 
 them. Socrates places all philosophy in morals ; 
 and wisdom, in the distinguishing of good and 
 evil. It is the art and law of life, and it teaches 
 us what to do in all cases ; and, like good marks- 
 men, to hit the white at any distance. The force 
 of it is incredible, for it gives us, in the weakness 
 of a man, the security of a spirit : in sickness, it is 
 as good as a remedy to us; for whatsoever, eases 
 the mind, is profitable also to the body. The 
 physician may prescribe diet and exercise, and 
 accommodate his rule and medicine to the dis- 
 ease, but it is philosophy that must bring us to a 
 contempt of death, which is the remedy of all dis- 
 
 H 2 
 
136 senega's morals. 
 
 One wise n.an heli»s another. 
 
 eases. In poverty it gives us riches, or such a 
 state of mind as makes them superfluous to us. It 
 arms us against all difficulties : one man is pressed 
 with death, another with poverty, some with en- 
 vy, others are offended at Providence, and unsa- 
 tisfied with the condition of mankind. But philo- 
 sophy prompts us to relieve the prisoner, the in- 
 firm, the necessitous, the condemned, to shew 
 the ignorant their errors, and rectify their affec- 
 tions. It makes us inspect and govern our man- 
 ners ; it rouses us where we are faint and drowsy ; 
 it binds up what is loose, and humbles in us that 
 which is contumacious : it delivers the mind from 
 the bondage of the body, and raises it up to the 
 contemplation of its divine original. Honours, 
 monuments, and all the works of vanity and am- 
 bition are demolished and destroyed by time, but 
 the reputation of wisdom is venerable to posterity; 
 and those that were envied or neglected in their 
 lives, are adored in their memories, and exempt- 
 ed from the very laws of created nature, which 
 has set bounds to all other things. The very sha- 
 dow of glory carries a man of honour upon all 
 dangers, to the contempt of fire and sword ; and 
 it were a shame, if right reason should not in- 
 spire as generous resolutions into a man of virtue. 
 Neither is philosophy only profitable to the 
 public, but one wise man helps another, even in 
 the exercise of their virtues ; and the one has need 
 
Seneca's morals. 137 
 
 Philosophy teaches to live we". 
 
 of the other, both for conversation and counsel ; 
 for they kindle a mutual emulation in good offices 
 We are not so perfect yet, but that many new 
 things remain still to be found out, which will 
 give us the reciprocal advantages of instructing 
 one another : for, as one wicked man is conta- 
 gious to another, and the more vices are mingled 
 the worse it is, so is it on the contrary with good 
 men and their virtues. As men of letters are the 
 most useful and excellent of friends, so are they 
 the best of subjects ; as being better judges of the 
 blessings they enjoy under a well-ordered govern- 
 ment, and of what they owe to the magistrate for 
 their freedom and protection. They are men of 
 sobriety and learning, and free from boasting and 
 insolence ; they reprove vice, without reproaching 
 the person ; for they have learned to be wise, with- 
 out either pomp or envy. That which we see in 
 high mountains we find in philosophers, they seem 
 taller near hand than at a distance. They are 
 raised above other men, but their greatness is 
 substantial. Nor do they stand upon the tiptoe, 
 that they may seem higher than they are, but, 
 content with their own stature, they reckon them- 
 selves tall enough when fortune cannot reach 
 them. Their laws are short, and yet comprehen- 
 sive too, for they bind all. 
 
 It is the bounty of nature that we live, but of 
 philosophy that we live well ; which is, in truth, 
 N 3 
 
138 sf.seca's morals. 
 
 The good effects of a tutor. 
 
 a greater benefit than life itself. Not but that 
 philosophy is also the gift of heaven, so far as to 
 the faculty, but not to the science; for that must 
 be the business of industry. No man is born wise; 
 but wisdom and virtue require a tutor ; though 
 we can easily learn to be vicious without a master. 
 Jt is philosophy that gives us a veneration for God, 
 a charity for our neighbour ; that teaches us our 
 duty to heaven, and exhorts us to an agreement 
 one with another: it unmasks things that are ter- 
 rible to us, assuages our lusts, refutes our errors, 
 restrains our luxury, reproves our avarice, and 
 works strangely upon tender natures. I could 
 never hear Attains, says Seneca, upon the vices 
 of the age, and the errors of life, without a com- 
 passion for mankind; and in his discourses upon 
 poverty, there was something, methought, that 
 was more than human. " More than we use," 
 says he, " is more than we need, and only a bur- 
 den to the bearer." That saying of his put me out 
 of countenance at the superfluities of my own for- 
 tune. And so in Ins invectives against vain plea- 
 sures, he did at such a rate advance the felicities 
 of a sober table, a pure mind, and a chaste body, 
 that a man could not hear him without a lo\e for 
 continence and moderation. Upon these kclures 
 of his, 1 denied myself, for a while after, certain 
 delicacies that J had formerly use^, but, in a short 
 time, I fell to them again, though so sparingly, 
 
SENECA S MORALS. 130 
 
 Yuuih is apt to Uke good impressions. 
 
 that the proportion came little short of a total 
 abstinence. 
 
 Now, to shew you, says our author, how much 
 earnester my entrance upon philosophy was than 
 toy progress : — my tutor, Sotion, gave me a won* 
 derail kindness for Pythagoras, and after him for 
 Sextus ; the former forbore shedding of blood up- 
 on his Metempsychosis, and put men in fear of it, 
 lest they should offer violence to the souls of some 
 of their departed friends and relations. — " Whe- 
 ther," says he, " there be a transmigration or not; 
 ifitbetrue, there is no hurt in it; if false, there 
 is frugality : and nothing is gotten by cruelty nei- 
 ther, but the cozening a wolf, perhaps, or a vul- 
 ture of a supper. Now Sextus abstained upon 
 another account, which was, that he would not 
 have men inured to hardness of heart, by the lace- 
 ration and tormenting of living creatures; beside, 
 that nature had sufficiently provided for the suste- 
 nance of mankind, without blood/' This wrought 
 so far upon me, that 1 gave over eating of flesh, 
 and in one year made it not only easy to me, but 
 pleasant ; my mind, methought, was more at 
 liberty (and I am still of the same opinion), but 
 I gave it over nevertheless, and the reason was 
 this: — it was imputed as a superstition to the 
 Jews, the forbearance of some sorts of flesh, and 
 my lather brought me back again to mv old cus- 
 tom, that I might not be thought tainted with 
 
140 seneca's morals. 
 
 Difference between the splendour of philosophy and of fortune. 
 
 their superstition. Nay, and I had much ado to 
 prevail upon myself to suffer it too. I make use 
 of this instance to shew the aptness of youth to 
 take good impressions, if there be a friend at hand 
 to press them. Philosophers are the tutors of 
 mankind ; if they have found out remedies for 
 the mind, it must be our part to apply them. I 
 cannot think of Cato, Lelius, Socrates, and Plato, 
 without veneration, their very names is sacred to 
 me. Philosophy is the health of the mind, let us 
 look to that health first; and, in the second place, 
 to that of the body, which may be had upon easier 
 terms; for a strong arm, a robust constitution, or 
 the skill of procuring this, is not a philosopher's 
 business. He does some things as a wise man, 
 and other things as he is a man ; and he may 
 have strength of body, as well as of mind ; but if 
 he runs, or casts the sledge, it were injurious to 
 ascribe that to his wisdom, which is common to 
 the greatest of fools. He studies rather to fill his 
 mind, than his coffers; and he knows that gold 
 and silver were mingled with dirt, until avarice, 
 or ambition, parted them. His life is ordinate, 
 fearless, equal, secure, he stands firm in all ex- 
 tremities, and bears the lot of his humanity with 
 a divine temper. There is a great difference be- 
 twixt the splendour of philosophy and of fortune ; 
 the one shines with an original light, the other 
 with a borrowed one; beside, that it makes us 
 
Seneca's morals. J4-1 
 
 I ■• liberal sciences o *ite • I curios ty. 
 
 happy and immortal; for learning shall outlive 
 palaces and monuments. The house of a wise 
 man is safe, though narrow; there is neither noise 
 nor furniture in it, no porter at the door, nor any 
 thing that is either vendible, or mercenary, nor 
 any business of fortune; for she has nothing to do 
 where she has nothing to look after. This is the 
 way to heaven, which nature has chalked out, 
 and it is both secure and pleasant ; there needs 
 no train of servants, no pomp, or equipage to 
 make good our passage, no money, or letters of 
 credit, for expences upon the voyage, but the 
 graces of an honest mind will serve us upon 
 the way, and make us happy at our journey's 
 end. 
 
 To tell you my opinion now of the liberal 
 sciences ; I have no great esteem for any thing 
 that terminates in profit, or money, and yet I 
 shall allow them to be so far beneficial, as they 
 only prepare the understanding without detain- 
 ing it. They are but the rudiments of wisdom, 
 and only then to be learned when the mind is ca- 
 pable of nothing better, and the knowledge of 
 them is better worth the keeping than the acquir- 
 ing. They do not so much as pretend to the 
 making of us virtuous, but only to give us an ap- 
 titude of disposition to be so. The grammarian's 
 business lies in a syntax of speech, or, if he pro- 
 ceed to history, or the measuring of a werse, he 
 
14-2 sexeca's morals. 
 
 \ irtue preferable m cuii ity 
 
 is at the end of his line, but what signifies a con- 
 gruity of periods, the computing of syllables, or 
 the modifying of numbers, to the taming of our 
 passions, or the repressing of our lusts ? The phi- 
 losopher proves the body of the sun to be large ; 
 but for the true dimensions of it, we must ask the 
 mathematician; geometry and music, if they do 
 not teach us to master our hopes and fears, all 
 the rest is to little purpose. What does it con- 
 cern us, which was the elder of the two, Homer 
 or Hesiod ; or which was the taller, Helen or 
 Hecuba ? We take a great deal of pains to trace 
 Ulysses in his wanderings, but, were it not time 
 as well spent to look to ourselves, that we may 
 not wander at all ? are not we ourselves tossed 
 with tempestuous passions; and both assaulted 
 by terrible monsters on the one hand, and tempt- 
 ed by Syrens on the other ? Teach me my duty 
 to my country, to my father, to my wife, to man- 
 kind. What is it to me, whether Penelope was 
 honest or no ? teach me to know how to be so 
 myself, and to live according to that knowledge. 
 What am I the better for putting so many parts 
 together in music, and raising an harmony out of 
 so many different tones ? teach me to tune my af- 
 fections, and to hold constant to myself. Geome- 
 try teaches me the art ot measuring acres; teach 
 me to measure my appetites, and to know when 
 1 have enough : teach me to divide with my bro- 
 
SENKCAS MORALS. 143 
 
 Philo <'pliy nerHs not etoquei 'p 
 
 ther, and to rejoice in the prosperity of my neigh- 
 bour. You teach me how I may hold my own, 
 and keep my estate, but I would rather learn how 
 I may lo;e it all, and yet be contented. It is 
 hard, you will say, for a man to be forced from 
 the fortune of his family. This estate, it is true, 
 was my father's, but, whose was it in the time of 
 my great grand-father? I do not only say, what 
 man's was it, but what nation's ? The astrologer 
 tells me of Saturn and Mars in opposition, but I 
 say, let them be as they will, their courses and 
 their positions are ordered them by an unchange- 
 able decree of fate. Either they produce and 
 point out the effects of all things, or else they 
 signify them ; if the former, what are we the 
 better for the knowledge of that, which must of 
 necessity come to pass ? if the latter, what does 
 it avail us, to foresee what we cannot avoid ? so 
 that whether we know or not know, the event will 
 still be the same. 
 
 He that designs the institution of human life, 
 should not be over curious of his words ; it does 
 not stand with his dignity to be solicitous about 
 sounds and syllables, and to debase the mind 
 of man with small and trivial things, placing 
 wisdom in matters that are rather difficult, 
 than great. If it be eloquent, it is his good for- 
 tune, not his business. Subtle disputations are 
 only the sport of wits, that play upon the catch, 
 5 
 
H4 seneca's morals. 
 
 Life bc.i. : nc£i la n 
 
 and are fitter to be contemned than resolved. Were 
 not I madman to sit wrangling about words, and 
 patting of nice and impertinent questions, when 
 the enemy has already made the breach, the town 
 fired over my head, and the mine ready to play, 
 that shall blow me up into the air ? were this a 
 time for fooleries ? let me rather fortify myself 
 against death, and inevitable necessities ; let me 
 understand that the good of life does not consist 
 in the length, or space, but in the use of it. When 
 1 go to sleep, who knows whether ever I shall 
 wake again? and when 1 wake, whether ever I 
 shall sleep again ? When I go abroad, whether 
 ever I shall come home again ? and when I re- 
 turn, whether ever I shall go abroad again? It is 
 not at sea only, that life and death are within a 
 few inches of one another, but they are as near 
 every where else too, only we do not take so 
 much notice of it. What have we to do with fri- 
 volous and captious questions, and impertinent 
 niceties ? let us rather study how to deliver our- 
 selves from sadness, fear, and the burden of all 
 our secret lusts; let us pass over all our most so- 
 lemn levities, and make haste to a good life, 
 which is a thing that presses us. Shall a man that 
 goes for a midwife stand gaping upon a post, to 
 see what play to day ? or, when his house is on 
 fire, stay the curling of a periwig, before he calls 
 for help ? Our houses are on fire, our country 
 
Seneca's moral*. 145 
 
 Certain precept? the wisdom of the indents. 
 
 invaded, our goods taken away, our children in 
 danger, and, I might add to these, the calamities 
 of earthquakes, shipwrecks, and whatever else is 
 most terrible. Is this a time for us now to be 
 playing fast and loose with idle questions, which 
 are, in effect, but so many unprofitable riddles ? 
 our duty is, the cure of the mind, rather than 
 the delight of it; but we have only the words of 
 wisdom, without the works, and turn philosophy 
 into a pleasure, that was given for a remedy. 
 What can be more ridiculous, than for a man to 
 neglect his manners, and compose his style ? We 
 are sick and ulcerous, and must be lanced and 
 scarified, and every man has as much business 
 within himself, as a physician in a common pesti- 
 lence. Misfortunes, in fine, cannot be avoided, 
 but they may be sweetened, if not overcome, and 
 our lives may be made happy by philosophy. 
 
 THE FORCE OF PRECEPTS. 
 
 There seems to be so near an affinity betwixt 
 wisdom, philosophy, and good counsels, that it 
 is rather matter of curiosity, than of profit, to di- 
 vide them ; philosophy being only a limited wis- 
 dom, and good counsels a communication of that 
 wisdom, for the good of others, as well as of our- 
 selves, and to posterity as well as to the present. 
 The wisdom of the ancients, as to the government 
 of life, was no more than certain precepts, what 
 
 o 
 
146' seneca's morals. 
 
 The best men require admonition. 
 
 to do, and what not : and men were much better 
 in that simplicity; for as they came to be more 
 learned, they grew less careful of being good. 
 That plain and open virtue is now turned into a 
 dark and intricate science, and we are taught to 
 dispute, rather than to live. So long as wicked- 
 ness was simple, simple remedies also were suffi- 
 cient against it, but now it has taken root and 
 spread, we must make use of stronger. 
 
 There are some dispositions that embrace good 
 things as soon as they hear them, but they will 
 still need quickening by admonition and precept. 
 We are rash and forward in some cases, and dull 
 in others, and there is no repressing of the one 
 humour, or raising of the other, but by removing 
 the causes of them, which are, in one word, false 
 admiration and false fear. Every man knows his 
 duty to his country, to his friends, to his guests, 
 and yet, when he is called upon to draw his sword 
 for the one, or to labour for the other, he finds 
 himself distracted betwixt his apprehensions, and 
 his delights: he knows well enough the injury he 
 does his wife in the keeping of a wench, and yet 
 his lust over- rules him; so that it is not enough 
 to give good advice, unless we can take away 
 that which hinders the benefit of it. If a man 
 does what he ought to do, he will never do it con- 
 stantly, or equally, without knowing why he does 
 it. And if it be only chance, or custom, he that 
 5 
 
seneca's morals. 147 
 
 ■«__ — _ 1 — -— — 
 
 The force of precepts and sentence?. 
 
 dors well by chance, may do ill so too. And 
 farther, a precept may direct us what we ought 
 to do, and yet fall short in the manner of doing 
 it. An expensive entertainment may, in one- 
 case, be extravagance, or gluttony; and yet a 
 point of honour and discretion in another. Tibe- 
 rius Caesar had a huge mullet presented him, 
 which he sent to the market to be sold. — " And 
 now, (says he) my masters (to some company 
 with him) you shall see, that either Apricius, or 
 Octavius, will be the chapman for this fish." Oc- 
 tavius beat the price, and gave about 30l. ster- 
 ling for it. Now there was a great difference be- 
 tween Octavius that bought it for his luxury, and 
 the other that purchased it for a compliment to 
 Tiberius. Precepts are idle, if we be not first 
 taught what opinion we are to have of the matter 
 in question ; whether it be poverty, riches, dis- 
 grace, sickness, banishment, &c. Let us there- 
 fore examine them one by one, not what they are 
 called, but what in truth they are. And so for 
 the virtues : it is to no purpose to set a high es- 
 teem upon prudence, fortitude, temperance, and 
 justice, if we do not first know what virtue is, 
 whether one or more, or if he that has one, has 
 all ; or how they differ. 
 
 Precepts are of great weight, and a. few useful 
 ones at hand, do more toward a happy life, than 
 whole volumes' of cautions, that we know not 
 
 o 2 
 
148 seneca's morals. 
 
 Precepts in verse more erficacious than in prose. 
 
 where to iind. These solitary precepts should be 
 our daily meditation, for they are the rules by 
 which we ought to square our lives. When they 
 are contracted into sentences they strike the affec- 
 tions, whereas admonition is only blowing of the 
 coal : it moves the vigour of the mind, and ex- 
 cites virtue: we have the thing already, but we 
 know not where it lies. It is by precepts that the 
 understanding is nourished and augmented, the 
 offices of prudence and justice are guided by them, 
 and they lead us to the execution of our duties. 
 A precept delivered in verse, has a much greater 
 effect than in prose; and those very people that 
 never think they have enough, let them but hear 
 a sharp sentence against avarice, how will they 
 clap and admire it, and bid open defiance to mo- 
 ney ? So soon as we find the affections struck, we 
 must follow the blow, not with syllogisms, or 
 quirks of wit, but with plain and weighty reason; 
 and we must do it with kindness too, and respect, 
 for there goes a blessing along with counsels and 
 discourses, that are bent wholly upon the good of 
 the hearer : and those are still the most efficacious 
 that take reason along with them, and tell us as 
 well why we are to do this or that, as what we 
 are to do. For some understandings are weak, 
 and need an instructor, to expound to them what 
 is good and what is evil. It is a great virtue to 
 love, to give, and to follow good counsel; if it 
 
seneca's morals. 149 
 
 -ood (•"■jn-.ei is the liest service we enn render 
 
 dues not lead us to honesty, it does at least 
 prompt us to it. As several parts make up but 
 one harmony, and the most agreeable music 
 arises from discords ; so should a wise man gather 
 many acts, many precepts, and the examples of 
 many arts, to inform his own life. Our forefa- 
 thers have left us in charge to avoid three things, 
 hatred, envy, and contempt; now it is hard to 
 avoid envy, and not incur contempt ; for, in 
 taking too much care not to usurp upon others, 
 we become many times liable to be trampled upon 
 ourselves. Some people are afraid of others, be- 
 cause it is possible that others may be afraid of 
 them, but kt us secure ourselves on all hands; 
 for flattery is as dangerous as contempt. It is not 
 to say, in case of admonition, I knew this before ; 
 for we know many things, but we do not think of 
 them ; so that it is the part of a monitor not so 
 much to teach, as to mind us of our duties. Some- 
 times a man oversees that which lies just under 
 his nose ; other while he is careless, or pretends 
 not to see it. We do all know that friendship is 
 sacred, and yet we violate it ; and the greatest 
 libertine expects that his own wife should be ho- 
 nest. 
 
 Good counsel is the most needful service that 
 we can do to mankind, and if we give it to many, 
 it will be sure to profit some : for, of many trials, 
 some or other will undoubtedly succeed. He that 
 
 o 3 
 
150 seneca's morals. 
 
 Three poiots to be observed in < ur undertakings. 
 
 places a man in the possession of himself, does a 
 great thing ; for wisdom does not shew itself so 
 much in precept, as in life ; in a firmness of mind 
 and a mastery of appetite. It teaches us to do as 
 well as to talk, and to make our words and ac- 
 tions all of a colour. If that fruit be pleasantett 
 which we gather from a tree of our own planting, 
 how much greater delight shall we take in the 
 growth and increase of good manners of our own 
 forming? It is an eminent mark of wisdom for a 
 man to be always like himself. You shall have 
 some that keep a thrifty table, and lash out upon 
 building; profuse upon themselves, and sordid to 
 others ; niggardly at home, and lavish abroad. 
 This diversity is vicious, and the effect of a dissa- 
 tisfied and uneasy mind ; whereas every wise man 
 lives by rule. This disagreement of purposes 
 arises from hence, either that we do not pro- 
 pound to ourselves what we would be at, or, if 
 we do, that we do not pursue it, but pass from 
 one thing to another; and we do not onty change 
 neither, but return to the very thing which we had 
 both quitted and condemned. 
 
 In all our undertakings, let us first examine 
 our own strength, the enterprize next, and, third- 
 ly, the persons with whom we have to do. The 
 first point is most important, for we are apt to 
 over-value ourselves, and reckon that we can do 
 more than indeed we can. One man sets up for a 
 
seneca's morals. 151 
 
 We are all slaves to fortune. 
 
 speaker, and is out as soon as he opens his 
 mouth; another overcharges his estate, perhaps, 
 or his boclv. A bashful man is not fit for public 
 business; some again are too stiff, and peremptory 
 for the court. Many people are apt to fly out in 
 their anger, nay, and in a frolic too, if any sharp 
 thing fall in their way, they will rather venture a 
 neck, than lose a jest. These people had better 
 be quiet in the world, than busy. Let him that is 
 naturally choleric and impatient, avoid all provo- 
 cations, and those affairs also that multiply and 
 draw on more, and those also from which there 
 is no retreat. When we may come off at plea- 
 sure, and fairly hope to bring our matters to a 
 period, it is well enough. If it so happen, that 
 a man be tied up to business, which he can nei- 
 ther loosen, nor break off, let him imagine those 
 shackles upon his mind to be irons upon his legs, 
 they are troublesome at first, but when there is 
 no remedy but patience, custom makes them 
 easy to us, and necessity gives us courage. We 
 are all slaves to fortune : some only in loose and 
 golden chains, others in strait ones, and coarser ; 
 nay, and they that bind us are slaves too them- 
 selves, some to honour, others to wealth ; some 
 to offices, others to contempt; some to their su- 
 periors, others to themselves : nay, life itself is a 
 servitude ; let us make the best of it then, and 
 with our philosophy mend our fortune. Dimeul- 
 
152 seneca's morals. 
 
 We must propose nothing hut what is honest. 
 
 ties may be softened, and heavy burdens dispos- 
 ed of to our ease. Let us covet nothing out of 
 our reach, but content ourselves with things 
 hopeful, and at hand, and without envying the 
 advantages of others; for greatness stands upon 
 a craggy precipice, and it is much safer and 
 quieter living upon a level. How many great 
 men are forced to keep their station upon mere 
 necessity, because they find there is no coming 
 down from it but headlong? These men would 
 do well to fortify themselves, against ill conse- 
 quences, by such virtues and meditations as may 
 make them less solicitous for the future. The 
 surest expedient in this case is to bound our de- 
 sires, and to leave nothing to fortune which we 
 may keep in our own power. Neither will this 
 course wholly compose us, but it shews, at worst, 
 the end of our troubles. 
 
 It is a main point to take care that we propose 
 nothing but what is hopeful and honest. For it 
 will be equally troublesome to us, either not to 
 succeed, or to be ashamed of the success. Where- 
 fore, let us be sure not to admit any ill designs 
 into our heart, that we may lift up pure hands 
 to heaven, and ask nothing which another shall 
 be the loser by. Let us pray for a good mind, 
 which is a wish to no man's injury. I will re- 
 member always that I am a man, and then con- 
 sider, that if I am happy, it will not last always ; 
 
senega's morals. 153 
 
 Weshouid piaciise oui \ nines at siateM periods. 
 
 if unhappy, I may be other if I please. I will 
 carry my life in my hand, and deliver it up rea- 
 dily, when it shall be- called for. I will have a 
 care of being a slave to myself, for it is a perpe- 
 tual, a shameful, and the heaviest of all servi- 
 tudes, and this may be done by moderate desires. 
 1 will say to myself, — " What is it that I labour, 
 sweat, and solicit for, when it is but very little 
 that I want, and it will not be long that I shall 
 need any thing ?" He that would make a trial of 
 the firmness of his mind, let him set certain days 
 apart for the practice of his virtues. Let him 
 mortify himself with fasting, coarse clothes, and 
 hard lodging, and then say to himself, — " Is this 
 the thing now that I was afraid of?" In a state 
 of security a man may thus prepare himself 
 against hazards, and in plenty fortify himself 
 against want. If you will have a man resolute 
 when he comes to the push, train him up to it 
 before-hand. The soldier does duty in peace, 
 that he may be in breath when he comes to bat- 
 tle. How many great and wise men have made 
 experiment of their moderation by a practice of 
 abstinence, to the highest degree of hunger and 
 thirst, and convinced themselves, that a man 
 may rill his belly without being beholden to for- 
 tune, which never denies any of us wherewith to 
 satisfy our necessities, though she be never so 
 angry. It is as easy to surfer it always, as to try 
 
154 seneca's morals. 
 
 It is easier to give than to take advice. 
 
 it once, and it is no more than thousands of ser- 
 vants and poor people do every day of their 
 lives. He that would live happily, must neither 
 trust to good fortune, nor submit to bad: he 
 must stand upon his guard against all assaults; 
 he must stick to himself, without any depend- 
 ence upon other people. Where the mind is 
 tinctured with philosophy, there is no place for 
 grief, anxiety, or superfluous vexations. Jt is 
 prepossessed with virtue, to the neglect of fortune, 
 which brings us to a degree of security not to be 
 disturbed. It is easier to give counsel than to 
 take it ; and a common thing for one choleric 
 man to condemn another. We may be sometimes 
 earnest in advising, but not violent or tedious. 
 Few words with gentleness and efficacy are best ; 
 the misery is, that the wise do not need counsel, 
 and fools will not take it. A good man, it is true, 
 delights in it; and it is a mark of folly and ill 
 nature, to hate reproof. To a friend I would be 
 always frank and plain, and rather fail in the suc- 
 cess, than be wanting in the matter of faith and 
 trust. There are some precepts that serve in 
 common, both to the rich and poor, but they are 
 too general ; as — " Cure your avarice, and the 
 work is done." It is one thing not to desire mo- 
 ney, and another thing not to understand how to 
 use it. In the choice of the persons we have to 
 do withal, we should see that they be worth our 
 
Hf.S EC \ * MORALS. 
 
 Vve must learn to musier our vices. 
 
 while ; in the choice of our business we are to 
 consult nature, and follow our inclinations. He 
 that gives s^ber advice to a witty droll, must 
 look to have every thing turned into ridicule. 
 "As if you philosophers," says Marcellinus, "did 
 not love your whores, and your guts, as well as 
 other people :" and then he tells you of such and 
 such that were taken in the manner. We are all 
 sick, I must confess, and it is not for sick men to 
 play the physicians; but it is yet lawful for a man 
 in an hospital to discourse of the common condi- 
 tion and distempers of the place. He that should 
 pretend to teach a madman how to speak, walk, 
 and behave himself, were he not the madder man 
 of the two ? He that directs the pilot, makes him 
 move the helm, order the sails so or so, and 
 make the best of a scant wind, after this or that 
 manner : and so should we do in our counsels. 
 Do not tell me what a man should do in health, 
 or poverty, but shew me the way to be either 
 sound or rich. Teach me to master my vices ; 
 for it is to no purpose, so long as I am under 
 their government, to tell me what I must do 
 when I am clear of it. In case of an avarice a 
 little eased, a luxury moderated, a temerity re- 
 strained, a sluggish humour quickened, precepts 
 will then help us forward, and tutor us how to 
 beha\e ourselves. It is the first, and the main 
 tie of a soldier, his military oath, which is an 
 
156* seneca's morals. 
 
 ; ' ' ' ■ " i - - ■ 
 
 A good conscience the test of a good life. 
 
 engagement upon him both of religion and ho- 
 nour. In like manner, he that pretends to a 
 happy life, must first lay a foundation of virtue, 
 as a bond upon him, to live and die true to that 
 cause. We do not find felicity in the veins of 
 the earth, where we dig for gold ; nor in the bot- 
 tom of the sea, where we fish for pearl; but in a 
 pure and untainted mind, which, if it were not 
 holy, were not fit to entertain the deity. lie 
 that would be truly happ3 r , must think his own 
 lot best, and so live with men, as considering that 
 God sees him, and so speak to God, as if men 
 heard him. 
 
 NO FELICITY LIKE PEACE OF CONSCIENCE. 
 
 A good conscience is the testimony of a good 
 life, and the reward of it. This is it that forti- 
 fies the mind against fortune, when a man has 
 gotten the mastery of his passions, placed his 
 treasure and his security within himself, learned 
 to be content with his condition, and that death 
 is no evil in itself, but only the end of man. He 
 that has dedicated his mind to virtue, and to the 
 good of human society, whereof he is a member, 
 has consummated all that is either profitable or 
 necessary for him te> know, or do, toward the 
 establishment of his peace. Every man has a 
 judge and a witness within himself, of all the 
 good and ill that he docs, which inspires us with 
 
seneca's morals. 157 
 
 It tortilie- Ihe mind. 
 
 great thought?, and administers to us wholesome 
 counsels. We have a veneration for -all the works 
 of nature, the heads of rivers, and the springs of 
 medicinal waters ; the horrors of groves and of 
 caves strike us with an impression of religion and 
 worship. To see a man fearless in dangers, un- 
 tainted with lusts, happy in adversity, composed 
 in a tumult, and laughing at all those things 
 which are generally either coveted or feared, all 
 men must acknowledge, that this can be nothing 
 else but a beam of divinity that influences a mor- 
 tal body. And this is it that carries us to the 
 disquisition of things divine and human ; what 
 the state of the world was before the distribution 
 of the first matter into parts ; v. hat power it was 
 that drew order out of that confusion, and gave 
 laws both to the whole and every particle there- 
 of; what that space is beyond the world, and 
 whence proceed the several operations of nature. 
 Shall any man see the glory and order of the 
 universe, so many scattered parts and qualities 
 wrought into one mass, such a medley of things, 
 which are vet distinguished ; the world enlight- 
 ened, and the disorders of it so wonderfully re- 
 gulated, and, shall he not consider the author 
 and disposer of all this, and whither we ourselves 
 shall go, when our souls shall be delivered from 
 the slavery of our flesh ? The whole creation, 
 we see, conforms to the dictates of Providence, 
 
 p 
 
158 sent.ca's morals. 
 
 A good conscience the greatest blessing in nature. 
 
 and follows God, both as a governor and as a 
 guide. A great, a good, and a right mind, is 
 a kind of divinity lodged in flesh, and may be 
 the blessing of a slave, as well as of a prince ; it 
 came from heaven, and to heaven it must re- 
 turn ; and it is a kind of heavenly felicity, which 
 a pure and virtuous mind enjoys, in some de- 
 gree, even upon earth : whereas temples of ho- 
 nour are but empty names, which probably owe 
 their beginning either to ambition, or to violence. 
 I am strangely transported with the thoughts of 
 eternity, nay, with the belief of it, for I have a 
 profound veneration for the opinions of great 
 men, especially when they promise things so 
 much to my satisfaction— for they do promise^ 
 them, though they do not prove them. In the 
 question of the immortality of the soul, it goes 
 very far with me, a general consent to the opinion 
 of a future reward and punishment, which medi- 
 tation raises me to the contempt of this life, in 
 hopes of a better. But still, though we know 
 that we have a soul, yet, what the soul is, how, 
 and from whence, we are utterly ignorant : this 
 only we understand, that all the good and ill we 
 do, is under the dominion of the mind ; that a 
 clear conscience states us in an inviolable peace ; 
 and that the greatest, blessing in nature is that, 
 which every honest man may be bestow upon 
 himself. The body is but the clog and prisoner 
 4 
 
seneca's morals. 159 
 
 ]t :<-ar no wii:ie.-ses. 
 
 of the mind, tossed up and down, and persecuted 
 with punishments, violences and diseases ; but 
 the mind itself is sacred and eternal, and exempt 
 from the danger of all actual impression. 
 
 Provided that we look to our consciences, no 
 matter for opinion: let me deserve well, though 
 1 hear ill. The common people take stomach 
 and audacity for the marks of magnanimity and 
 honour; and, if a man be soft and modest, they 
 look upon him as an easy fop, but when they 
 come once to observe the dignity of his mind, in 
 the equality and firmness of his actions, and that 
 his external quiet is founded upon an internal 
 peace, the very same people have him in esteem 
 and admiration. For there is no man but ap- 
 proves of virtue, though but few pursue it; we 
 see where it is, but we dare not venture to come 
 at it; and the reason is, we over-value that 
 which we must quit to obtain it. A good con- 
 science fears no witnesses, but a guilty consci- 
 ence is solicitous, even in solitude. If we do 
 nothing but what is honest, let all the world 
 know it ; but if otherwise, what docs it signify 
 to have nobody else know it, so long as 1 know 
 it myself? Miserable is he that slights that wit- 
 ness ! Wickedness, it is true, may escape the 
 law, but not the conscience. For a private con- 
 viction is the first, and the greatest punishment 
 of offenders ; so that sin plagues itself, and the 
 
 P2 
 
100 SEN EC AS MORALS. 
 
 Conscience haunts the guilty. 
 
 fear of vengeance pursues even those that escape 
 the stroke of it. It were ill for good men that 
 iniquity may so easily evade the law, the judge, 
 and the execution, if nature had not set up tor- 
 ments and gibbets in the consciences of trans- 
 gressors. He that is guilty lives in perpetual 
 terror, and, while he expects to be punished, he 
 punishes himself; and, whosoever deserves it, 
 expects it. What if he be not detected ? He is 
 still in apprehension yet that he may be so. His 
 sleeps are painful, and never secure; and he 
 cannot speak of another man's wickedness, with- 
 out thinking of his own ; whereas a good consci- 
 ence is a continual feast. Those are the only 
 certain and profitable delights, which arise from 
 the conscience of a well-acted life. No matter 
 for noise abroad, so long as we are quiet within : 
 but if our passions be seditious, that is enough to 
 keep us waking, without any other tumult. It 
 is not the posture of the body, or the composure 
 of the bed, that will give rest to an uneasy mind. 
 There is an impatient sloth, that may be roused 
 by action, and the vices of laziness must be cured 
 by business. True happiness is not to be found 
 in excesses of wine, or of women, nor in the 
 largest prodigalities of fortune ; what she has 
 given me, she may take away, but she shall not 
 tear it from me, and so long as it does not grow 
 to me, I. can part with it without pain. He thai 
 
EOA*S M0P.AL3, l6l 
 
 Id ex unine ourselves every nk 
 
 would perfectly know himself, let him set aside 
 his money, his fortune, his dignity, and examine 
 himself naked, without being put to learn from 
 others the knowledge of himself. 
 
 It is dangerous for a man too suddenly or too 
 easily to believe himself. Wherefore, let us exa- 
 mine, watch, observe, and inspect our own heart?, 
 for we ourselves are our own greatest flatterers. 
 We should every night call ourselves to an ac- 
 count — What infirmity have I mastered to-day? 
 what passion opposed ? what temptation resisted ? 
 what virtue acquired ? Our vices will abate of 
 themselves, if they be brought every day to the 
 shrift. Oh the blessed sleep that follows such a 
 diary ! Oh the tranquillity y liberty, and greatness 
 cf that mind, that is a spy upon itself, and a pri- 
 vate censor of its own manners ! It is my cus- 
 tom (says our author) every night, so soon as the 
 candle is out, to run over all the words and ac- 
 tions of the past da\-, and I let nothing escape 
 me ; for, why should I fear the sight of my own 
 errqrs, when I can admonish and forgive myself? 
 I was a little too hot in §uch a dispute : my opi- 
 nion might have been as well spared, for it gave 
 offence, and did no good at all. The thing was- 
 true, but all truths are not to be spoken at all 
 times ; I would I had held my tongue, for there 
 is no contending either with fools or our superiors. 
 I have done ill, but it shall be so no more. If 
 
 f3 
 
1&2 skuecVs morals. 
 
 Virtue an antidote against calamity. 
 
 every man would but thus look into himself, it 
 would be the better for us all. What can be more 
 reasonable than this daily review of a life that we 
 cannot warrant for a moment ? Our fate is set, 
 and the first breath we draw, is only the first mo- 
 tion toward our last : one cause depends upon 
 another, and the course of all things, public 
 and private, is but a long connection of provi- 
 dential appointments. There is a great variety 
 in our lives, but all tends to the same issue. 
 Nature may use her own bodies as she pleases, 
 but a good man has this consolation, that nothing 
 perishes which he can call his own. It is a great 
 comfort that we are only condemned to the same 
 fate with the universe ; the heavens themselves 
 are mortal as well as our bodies ; nature has 
 made us passive, and to suifer is our lot. While 
 we are in the flesh, every man has his chain and 
 his clog, only it is looser and lighter to one man 
 than to another : and he is more at ease that 
 takes it up and carries it, than he that drags it. 
 We are born to lose and to perish, to hope and to 
 fear, to vex ourselves and others, and there is no 
 antidote against a common calamity, but virtue ; 
 for the foundation of true joy is in the conscience. 
 
seneca's morals. 16*3 
 
 Reason the perfection of mankind. 
 
 A GOOD MAN CAN NEVER KE MISERABLE, 
 NOR A WICKED MAN HAPPY. 
 
 There is not in the scale of nature a more in- 
 separable connection of cause, and effect, than in 
 the case of happiness and virtue : nor any thing 
 that more naturally produces the one, or more 
 necessarily presupposes the other. For, what is 
 it to be happv, but for a man to content himself 
 with his lot, in a chearful and quiet resignation 
 to the appointments of God ? All the actions of 
 our lives ought to be governed with a respect to 
 good and evil : and it is only reason that distin- 
 guishes, by which reason we are in such a manner 
 influenced, as if a ray of the divinity were dipt 
 in a mortal body, and that is the perfection of 
 mankind. It is true, we have not the eyes of 
 «' agks, or the sagacity of hounds ; nor if we had, 
 ■jould we pretend to value ourselves upon any 
 thing which we have in common with brutes. 
 What are we the better for that which is foreign 
 to us, and may be given and taken away ? As the 
 beams of the sun irradiate the earth, and yet 
 remain where they were ; so is it in some propor- 
 tion with an holy mind, that illustrates all our 
 actions, and yet adheres to its original. Why do 
 we not as well commend a horse for his glorious 
 trappings, as a man for his pompous additions ? 
 kow much a braver creature is a lion (which by 
 
I«4 seneca's morals. 
 
 r ' ' • ■ ■ »' ■• 
 
 It is our duty to sett ankind; 
 
 nature ought to be fierce and terrible), how 
 much braver, I say, in his natural horror than 
 in his chains ? so that every thing in its pure na- 
 ture pleases us best. It is not health, nobility, 
 or riches, that can justify a wicked man; nor is 
 it the want of all these that can discredit a good 
 one. That is the sovereign blessing, which 
 makes the possessor of it valuable, without any 
 thing else, and him that wants it contemptible,, 
 thou uh he had all the world besides. Jt is not 
 the painting, gilding, or carving, that makes a 
 good ship, but if she be a nimble sailer, tight 
 and strong, to endure the seas, that is her ex- 
 cellency. It is the edge and temper of the blade 
 that makes a good sword, not the richness of the 
 scabbard ; and so it is not money, or possessions, 
 that make a man considerable, but his virtue. 
 
 It is every mans duty to make himself profitable 
 to mankind, if he can, to many, if not, to fewer;, 
 if not to neither, to his neighbours, but, however, 
 to himself.. There are two republics, a great 
 one, which is human nature ; and a less, which 
 is the place where we were born : some serve 
 both at a time, some only the greater, and some 
 again only the less : the greater may be served' in 
 privacy, solitude, contemplation, and, perchance r 
 that way better than any other ; but it was the 
 intent of nature, however, that we should serve 
 both. A good man may serve the public, his 
 
seneca's morals. Io\5 
 
 He that spends his time well, gives a great example. 
 
 friend, and himself, in any station. If he be 
 not for the sword, let him take the gown ; if the 
 bar does not agree with him, let him try the pul- 
 pit; if he be silenced abroad, let him give coun- 
 sel 1 at home, and discharge the part of a faithful 
 friend, and a temperate companion. When he 
 is no longer a citizen, he is yet a man ; but the 
 whole world is his country, and human nature 
 never wants matter to work upon : but, if no- 
 thing wiii serve a man in the civil government, 
 unless he be prime minister; or in the field, but 
 to command in chief, it is his own fault. The 
 common soldier, where he cannot use his hands, 
 fights with his looks, his example, his encou- 
 ragement, his voice, and stands his ground even 
 when he has lost his hands, and does service too 
 with his very clamour ; so that in any condition 
 whatsoever, he still discharges the duty of a 
 good patriot. Nay, he that spends his time well, 
 even in a retirement, gives a great example. We 
 may enlarge indeed, or contract, according to 
 the circumstances of time, place, or abilities, 
 but, above all things, we must be sure to keep 
 ourselves in action, for he that is slothful is dead 
 even while he lives. Was there ever any state so 
 desperate as that of Athens under the thirty ty- 
 rants, where it was capital to be honest, and the 
 senate house was turned into a college of hang- 
 men ' never was any government so wretched and 
 
lt)6 senega's morals. 
 
 The injuries of fortune affect not the mind. 
 
 so hopeless ; and yet Socrates at the same time 
 preached temperance to the tyrants, and courage 
 to the rest, and afterwards died an eminent ex- 
 ample of faith and resolution, and a sacrifice for 
 the common good. 
 
 It is not for a wise man to stand shifting and 
 fencing with fortune, but to oppose her bare- 
 faced, for he is sufficiently convinced that she 
 can do him no hurt. She may take away his 
 servants, possessions, and dignity; assault his 
 body, put out his eyes, cut off his hands, and 
 strip him of ail the external comforts of life. But 
 what does all this amount to, more than the re- 
 calling of a trust, which he has received, with 
 condition to deliver it up again upon demand ? 
 He looks upon himself as precarious, and only 
 lent to himself, and yet he does not value him- 
 self ever the less, because he is not his own, but 
 takes such care, as an honest man should do, of 
 a thins that is committed to him in trust. When- 
 soever he that lent me myself, and what 1 have, 
 shall call for all back again, it is not a loss, but 
 a restitution, and I must willingly deliver up 
 what most undeservedly was bestowed upon me. 
 And it will become me to return my mind better 
 than I received it. 
 
 Demetrius, upon the taking of Megara, asked 
 Stilpo, the philosopher, what he had lost. " No- 
 thing," says he, " for I had all that I con 1 /] M U 
 
seneca's MORALS. 1 67 
 
 An instance of magnanimity. 
 
 my own, about me/' And yet the enemy had 
 tiien made himself master of his patrimony, his 
 iidren, and his country, but these he looked 
 n only a? adventitious goods, and under the 
 command of fortune : now he that neither lost 
 any thing, nor feared any thing, in a public ruin, 
 but was safe and at peace, in the middle of the 
 flames, and in the heat of a military intemper- 
 ance and fury, what violence, or provocation 
 imaginable, can put such a man as this out of 
 the possession of himself? walls and castles may 
 be mined and battered, but there is no art or en- 
 gine that can subvert a steady mind. " I have 
 made my way," says Stilpo, " through fire and 
 blood ; what is become of my children I know 
 not; but these are transitory blessings, and ser- 
 vants that are condemned to chance their mas- 
 lets ; what was my own before, is my own still. 
 Some have lost their estates, others their dear- 
 bought mistresses, their commissions and offices ; 
 the usurers have lost the bonds and securities, 
 but, Demetrius, for my part, I have saved all : 
 and $o not imagine, after all this, either that 
 Demetrius is a conqueror, or that Stilpo is over- 
 come; it is only thy fortune has been too hard for 
 mine/' Alexander took Babylon, Scipio took 
 Carthage, the capital was burnt, but there is no 
 fire or violence, that can discompose a generous 
 mind: and let us not take this character neither 
 
l6S senega's morals. 
 
 A brave mind is unmoved by accidents. 
 
 for a chimera, for all ages afford some, though 
 not many instances of this elevated virtue. A 
 good man does his duty, let it be ever so painful, 
 so hazardous, or ever so great a loss to him ; 
 and it is not all the money, the power, and the 
 pleasure in the world, no, not any force or ne- 
 cessity that can make him wicked ; he considers 
 what he is to do, not what he is to suffer, and 
 will keep on his course, though there should be 
 nothing but gibbets and torments in the way. And 
 in this instance of Stilpo, who, when he had lost 
 his country, his wife, his children, the town on 
 fire over his head, himself escaping very hardly, 
 and naked out of the flames — " I have saved all 
 my goods," says he, " my justice, my courage, 
 my temperance, and my prudence:" accounting 
 nothing his own, or valuable, and shewing how 
 much easier it was to overcome a nation than 
 one wise man. It is a certain mark of a brave 
 mind, not to be moved by any accidents. The 
 upper region of the air admits neither clouds nor 
 tempests, the thunder, storms, and meteors, are 
 formed below, and this is a difference betwixt a 
 mean and an exalted mind ; the former is rude 
 and tumultuary, the latter is modest, venerable, 
 composed, and always quiet in its station. In 
 brief, it is the conscience that pronounces upon 
 the man, whether he be happy or miserable. 
 But, though sacrilege and adultery be generally 
 
seneca's morals. l6\<) 
 
 Resignation is the part of a generous man. 
 
 condemned, how many are there still that do not 
 so much as blush at the one, and, in truth, glory 
 in the other ? For nothing is more common than 
 for great thieves to ride in triumph, when the 
 little ones are punished. But, let wickedness 
 escape as it may at the bar, it never fails of doing 
 justice upon itself; for every guilty person is his 
 own hangman. 
 
 THE DUE CONTEMPLATION OF DIVINE PRO- 
 VIDENCE IS THE CERTAIN CURE OF 
 ALL MISFORTUNES. 
 
 Whoever observes the world, and the order 
 of it, will find all the motions in it to be only 
 vicissitude of failing and rising, nothing extin- 
 guished, and even those things which seem to us 
 to perish, are in truth but changed. The sea- 
 sons go and return, day and night follow in their 
 courses, the heavens roll, and nature goes on 
 with her work : all things succeed in their turns, 
 storms and calms ; the law of nature will have it 
 so, which we must follow and obey, accounting 
 all things that are done, to be well done : so that 
 what we cannot mend, we must suffer, and wait 
 upon Providence v/ithout repining. It is the 
 part of a cowardly soldier to follow his com- 
 mander groaning, but a generous man delivers 
 himself up to God without struggling ; and it is 
 only for a narrow mind to condemn the order of 
 
 Q 
 
170 Seneca's morals. 
 
 Fortune has no weapon thai roaches the mind. 
 
 the world, and to propound rather the mending 
 of nature than of himself. No man has any cause 
 of complaint against Providence, if that which is 
 right pleases him. Those glories that appear fair 
 to the eye, their lustre is but false and superfi- 
 cial, and they are only vanity and delusion : they 
 are rather the goods of a dream, than a substan- 
 tial possession ; they may cozen us -at a distance, 
 but bring them once to the touch, they are rotten 
 and counterfeit. There are no greater wretche* 
 an the world, than many of those which the peo- 
 ple take to be happy ; those are the only true 
 and incorruptible comforts, that will abide all 
 trials, and the more we turn und examine them, 
 the more valuable we find them, and the greatest 
 felicity of all is, not to stand in need of any. 
 What is poverty ? No man lives so poor as he was 
 born. What is pain ? It will either have an end 
 itself, or make an end of us. In short, fortune 
 has no weapon that reaches the mind ; but the 
 bounties of Providence are certain, -and perma- 
 nent blessings, and they are the greater and the 
 better the longer we consider them : that is to 
 say, — the power of contemning things terrible, 
 and despising what the common people covet. In 
 the very methods of nature, we cannot but ob- 
 serve the regard that Providenoc had to the good 
 of mankind, even in .the disposition of the world, 
 in providing so amply for our maintenance and 
 5 
 
sf.nilCa's morals. }7l 
 
 Afflictions aiv Lnt ui.ils. 
 
 satisfaction. It is not possible for us to compre- 
 hend what the power is, which has made all 
 things. Some few sparks of that divinity arc dis- 
 covered, but infinitely the greater part of it lies 
 hid. We are all of us, however, thus far agreed, 
 first, in the acknowledgment and belief of that 
 Almighty Being; and, secondly, that we are to 
 ascribe to it all majesty and goodness. 
 
 " If there be a Providence/' say some, " how 
 comes it to pass that good men labour under af- 
 fliction and adversity, and wicked men enjoy 
 themselves in ease and plenty r" My answer is, 
 that God deals by us as a good father does by his 
 children ; he tries us, he hardens us, and fits us 
 for himself. He keeps a strict hand over those 
 that he loves, and by the rest he does as we do 
 by our slaves, he lets them go on in license and 
 boldness. As the master gives his most hopeful 
 scholars the hardest lessons, so does God deal 
 with the most generous spirits ; and the cross en- 
 counters of fortune we are not to look upon as 
 cruelty, but as a contest. The familiarity of 
 daggers brings us to the contempt of them, and 
 that part is strongest which is most exercised: 
 the seaman's hand is callous, the soldier's arm is 
 strong, and the tree that is most exposed to the 
 wind takes the best root. There are people that 
 live in perpetual winter, in extremity of frost and 
 penury, where a cave, a lock of straw, or a few 
 
 Q 2 
 
172 seneca's morals. 
 
 We are apt to murmur without cause. 
 
 leaves, is all their covering, and wild beasts their 
 nourishment; all this, by custom, is not only 
 made tolerable, but when once it is taken up 
 upon necessit}*-, by little and little, it becomes 
 pleasant to them. Why should we then count 
 that condition of life a calamity, which is the lot 
 vf many nations ? There is no state of life so mi- 
 serable, but there are in it remissions, diver- 
 sions, nay, and delights too, such is the benig- 
 nity of nature towards us, even in the severest 
 accidents of human life. There were no living, 
 if adversity should hold on as it begins, and keep 
 up the force of the first impression. We are apt 
 to murmur at many things as great evils, that 
 have nothing at all of evil in them beside the com- 
 plaint, which we should more reasonably take 
 up against ourselves. If I be sick, it is part of 
 my fate; and for other calamities, they are usual 
 things, they ought to be, nay, which is more, 
 they must be, for they come by divine appoint- 
 ment. So that we should not only submit to 
 God, but assent to him, and obey him out of 
 duty, even if there were no necessity : all those 
 terrible appearances that make us groan and 
 tremble, are but the tribute of life ; we are nei- 
 ther to wish, nor to ask, nor to hope to escape 
 them ; for it is a kind of dishonesty to pay a tri- 
 bute unwillingly. Ami troubled with the stone, 
 ©r afilicted with continual losses ? nay, is mf 
 
sexeca's morals.' 173 
 
 Only in adverse fortune we find great examples 
 
 body in clanger ? all this is no more than what L 
 prayed for, when I prayed for old age ; all these 
 things are as familiar, in a long life, as dust and 
 dirt in a long way. Life is a warfare, and what 
 brave man would not rather chuse to be in a 
 tent, than in a shamble; fortune does like a 
 swordman, she scorns to encounter a fearful man. 
 There is no honour m the victory, where there is 
 no danger in the way to it : she tries Mueius by 
 fire, Rutilius by exile, Socrates by poison, and 
 Cato by death. It is only in adverse fortune, and 
 in bad times, that we find great examples. Mu- 
 cins thought himself happier with his hand in the 
 flame, than if it had been in the bosom of his 
 mistress. — Fabricius took more pleasure in eating 
 the roots of his own planting, than in all the de- 
 licacies of luxury and expense. Shall we call 
 Rutilius miserable, whom his very enemies have 
 adored ? who, upon a glorious and a public prin- 
 ciple, chose rather to lose his country, than to 
 return from banishment; the only man that de- 
 nied any thing to Syila, the dictator, who re- 
 called him. Nor did he only refuse to come, but 
 drew himself farther off. — " Let them," says he, 
 " that think banishment a misfortune, live slaves 
 at Rome, under the imperial cruelties of Sylla. 
 He that sets a price upon the heads of senators, 
 and, after a law of his own institution against 
 cut- throats, becomes the greatest himself/' Is it 
 
 Q 3 
 
174 seneca's morals. 
 
 Providence d<a\vsgood out of evil. 
 
 not better for a man to live in exile abroad, than 
 to be massacred at home ? In suffering for vir- 
 tue, it is not the torment, but the cause, that we 
 are to consider ; and the more pain, the more re- 
 nown. When any hardship befals us, w : e must 
 look upon it as an act of Providence, which many 
 times suffers particulars to be wounded for the 
 conservation of the whole : beside that, God 
 chastises some people under an appearance of 
 blessing them, turning their prosperity to their 
 ruin, as a punishment for abusing his goodness. 
 And we are farther to consider, that many a good 
 man is afflicted, only to teach others to suffer : 
 for we are born for example ; and likewise, that 
 where men are contumacious and refractory, it 
 pleases God many times to cure greater evils by 
 less, and to turn our miseries to our advantage. 
 
 How many casualties and difficulties are there 
 that we dread, as insupportable mischiefs, which 
 upon farther thoughts, we find to be mercies and 
 benefits ? as banishment, poverty, loss of rela- 
 tions, sickness, disgrace; some are cured by the 
 lance, by fire, hunger, thirst, taking out of bones, 
 lopping off limbs, and the like. Nor do we only 
 fear things that are many times beneficial to us, 
 but, on the other side, we hanker after, and 
 pursue things that are deadly and pernicious: 
 we are poisoned in the very pleasures of our lux- 
 ury, and betrayed to a thousand diseases, by the 
 
st.neca's morals. 175 
 
 Calamity is tlie trial of virtue. 
 
 indulging of our palate. To lose a child, or a 
 limb, is only to part with what we have received, 
 and nature may do what she pleases with her 
 own. We are frail ourselves, and we have re- 
 ceived things transitory : that which was given us 
 may be taken away ; calamity tries virtue, as the 
 fire does gold ; nay, he that lives most at ease, 
 is only delayed, not dismissed, and his portion is 
 to come. When we are visited with sickness, or 
 other afflictions, we are not to murmur as if we 
 were ill used : it is a mark of the general esteem, 
 when he puts us upon a post of danger — we do 
 not say, my captain uses me ill, but, he does me 
 honour; and so should we sa} 7 , that are com- 
 manded to encounter difficulties, for this is our 
 case with God Almighty. 
 
 What was Regulus the worse, because fortune 
 made choice of him for an eminent instance, both 
 of faith and patience ? He was thrown into a case 
 of wood stuck with pointed nails, so that which 
 wa\ T soever he turned his body, it rested upon his 
 wounds ; his eye-lids were cut off, to keep him 
 waking; and yet Mecaenas was not happier upon 
 his bed, than Regulus upon his torments. Nay, 
 the world is not yet grown so wicked, as not to 
 prefer Regulus before Mecaenas. And can any 
 man take that to be an evil, of which Providence 
 accounted this brave man worthy? " It has 
 pleased God," says he, " to single me out for an 
 
176* senega's morals. 
 
 Accidents are neither good nor evil. 
 
 experiment of the force of human nature." No 
 man knows his own strength, or valour, but by 
 being put to the proof. The pilot is tried in a 
 storm, the soldier in a battle; the rich man 
 knows not how to behave himself in poverty. He 
 that has lived in popularity and applause, knows 
 not how he would bear infamy and reproach : nor 
 he that never has children, how he would bear 
 the loss of them. Calamity is the occasion of 
 virtue, and a spur to a great mind. The very 
 apprehension of a wound startles a man when he 
 first bears arms, but an old soldier bleeds boldly, 
 because he knows that a man may lose blood, 
 and yet win the day. Nay, many times a cala- 
 mity turns to our advantage, and great ruins 
 have made way to great glories. The crying out 
 of fire has many times_ quieted a fray, and the 
 interposing of a wild beast has parted the thief 
 and the traveller, for we are not at leisure for 
 less mischiefs, while we are under the apprehen- 
 sion of greater. One man's life is saved by a 
 disease ; another is arrested, and taken out of 
 the way, just when his house was falling upon 
 his head. 
 
 To shew now, that the favours, or the crosses 
 of fortune, and the accidents of sickness and of 
 health, are neither good nor evil, God permits 
 them indifferently, both to good and evil men. 
 " It is hard/' you will say, " for a virtuous man 
 
se^eca's morals. 177 
 
 ,A ^noH man Is arn^H a^ni^st a" evil. 
 
 to suffer all sorts of misery, and for a wicked 
 man not only to go free, but to enjoy himself at 
 pleasure/' And, is it not the same thing for 
 men of prostituted impudence and wickedness, to 
 sleep in a whole skin, when men of honour and 
 honesty bear arms, lie in the trenches, and re- 
 ceive wounds ? or for the vestal virgins to rise in 
 the night to their prayers, when common strum- 
 •pets lie stretching themselves in their beds ? we 
 should rather say, with Demetrius, "If I had 
 known the will of heaven before I was called to 
 it, I would have offered myself." If it be the 
 pleasure of God to take my children, I have 
 brought them up to that end : if my fortune, any 
 part of my body, or my life, I would rather pre- 
 sent it than yield it up; I am ready to part with 
 all, and to suffer all, for I know that nothing 
 comes to pass but what God appoints. Our fate 
 is decreed, and things do not so much happen as 
 in their due time proceed, and every man's por- 
 tion of joy and sorrow is predetermined. 
 
 There is nothing falls amiss to a good man, 
 that can be charged upon Providence; for wicked 
 actions, lew r d thoughts, ambitious projects, blind 
 lusts, and insatiable avarice, against all these he 
 is armed by the benefit of reason : and do we ex- 
 pect now that God should look to our luggage 
 too (I mean our bodies)? Demetrius discharged 
 himself of his treasure, as the clog and burden o£ 
 
178 seneca's morals. 
 
 Providence treats us like a geneious father. 
 
 his mind. Shall we wonder, then, if God suffers 
 that to befal a good man, which a good man 
 sometimes does to himself? I lose a son, and why 
 not ? when it may sometime so fall out, that I 
 myself may kill him. Suppose he be banished by 
 an order of state : is it not the same thing with a 
 man's voluntary leaving of his country,, and never 
 to return ? Many afflictions may befal a good 
 man, but no evil ; for contraries will never incor- 
 porate; all the rivers in the world are never 
 able to change the taste or quality of the sea. 
 Prudence and religion are above accidents, and 
 draw good out of every thing ; affliction keeps a 
 man in use, and makes him strong, patient, and 
 hardy. Providence treats us like a generous fa- 
 ther, and brings us up to labours, toils and dan- 
 gers : whereas the indulgence of a fond mother 
 makes us weak and spiritless. God loves us with 
 a masculine love, and turns us loose to injuries 
 and indignities : he takes delight to see a brave 
 and a good man wrestling with evil fortune, and 
 yet keeping himself upon his legs, when the whole 
 world is in disorder about him ; and, are not we 
 ourselves delighted to see a bold fellow press with 
 his lance upon a boar, or lion? and the con- 
 stancy and resolution of the action is the grace 
 .and dignity of the spectacle. No man can be 
 happy that does not stand firm, against all con- 
 tingencies, and say to himself in all extremities 
 — " I should have been content, if it might have 
 
s^neca's morals. 179 
 
 Enquiry tnio the impediments of happines . 
 
 been so, or so; but, since it is otherwise deter- 
 mined, God will provide better." The more we 
 struggle with our necessities, we draw the knot 
 the harder, and the worse it is with us : and, the 
 more the bird flaps and flutters in the snare, the 
 surer she is caught. So that the best way is to 
 submit, and lie still, under this double consider- 
 ation — that the proceedings of God are unques- 
 tionable, and his decrees not to be resisted. 
 
 «OF LEVITY OF MIND, AND OTHER IMPEDI- 
 MENTS OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 Now, to sum up what is already delivered, we 
 have shewed what happiness is, and wherein it 
 consists : that it is founded upon wisdom and 
 virtue; for we must first know what we ought to 
 do, and then live according to that knowledge. 
 We have also discoursed the helps of philosophy 
 and precepts towards a happy life : the blessing 
 of a good conscience; that a good man can never 
 be miserable, nor a wicked man happy; nor any 
 man unfortunate, that chearfully submits to Pro- 
 vidence. We shall now examine, how it comes 
 to pass, that when the certain way to happiness 
 lies so lair before us, men will yet steer their 
 course on the other side, which as manifestly 
 leads to ruin. 
 
 There are some that live without any design at 
 nil, and only pass in the world like straws upon a 
 
180 Seneca's morals. 
 
 Causes of self-affliction. 
 
 river; they do not go, but they are carried. 
 Others only deliberate upon the parts of life, and 
 not upon the whole, which is a great error, for 
 there is no disposing of the circumstances of it, 
 unless we first propound the main scope. How 
 shall any man take his aim without a mark ? or, 
 what wind will serve him that is not yet resolved 
 upon his port ? we live, as it were, by chance, 
 and by chance we are governed. Some there are 
 that torment themselves afresh with the memory 
 of what is past — "Lord! what did I endure? 
 never was any man in my condition, every body 
 gave me over; my very heart was ready to 
 break," &c. Others again afflict themselves with 
 the apprehension of evils to come, and very ridi- 
 culously both: for the one does not now concern 
 us, and the other not yet ; beside, that there may 
 be remedies for mischiefs likely to happen, for 
 they give us warning by signs and symptoms, of 
 their approach. Let him that would be quiet, 
 take heed not to provoke men that are in power, 
 but live without giving offence; and if we cannot 
 make all great men our friends, it will suffice to 
 keep them from being our enemies. This is a 
 thing we must avoid, as a mariner would do a 
 storm. A rash seaman never considers what 
 wind blows, or what course he steers, but runs 
 at a venture, as if he would brave the rocks and 
 the eddies; whereas he that is careful and con- 
 siderate, informs himself beforehand where the 
 
stxkca'* morals. 181 
 
 Lev ty of mind prevents repo?e. 
 
 danger lies, and what weather it is like to be: he 
 consults his compass, and keeps aloof from those 
 places that are infamous for wrecks and miscar- 
 riages. So does a wise man in the common busi- 
 ness of life ; he keeps out of the way from those 
 that may do him hurt; but it is a point of pru- 
 dence not to let them take notice that he does it 
 on purpose ; for that which a man shuns, he ta- 
 citly condemns. Let him have a care also of lis- 
 teners, newsmongers, and medlers in other peo- 
 ple's matters, for their discourse is commonly of 
 such things as are never profitable, and most 
 commonly dangerous, either to be spoken or 
 heard. 
 
 Levity of mind is a great hindrance of repose, 
 and the very change of wickedness is an addition 
 to the wickedness itself, for it is inconstancy 
 added to iniquity; we relinquish the thing we 
 sought, and then we take it up again, and so di- 
 vide our lives between our lust and our repent- 
 ances. From one appetite we pass to another, 
 not so much upon choice, as for change ; and 
 there is a check of conscience that casts a damp 
 upon all our unlawful pleasures, which makes us 
 lose the day in expectation of the night, and the 
 night itself tor fear of the approaching light. Some 
 people are never quiet, others are always so, and 
 they are both to blame : for that which looks like 
 vivacity and industry in one ; is only a restlessi 
 
152 seneca's morals. 
 
 We all labour under inordinate desires. 
 
 and agitation ; and that which passes in the other 
 for moderation and reserve, is but a drowsy and 
 an unactive sloth. Let motion and rest both 
 take their turns, according to the order of na- 
 ture, which make both the day and the night. 
 Some are perpetually shifting from one thing to 
 another ; others again make their whole life but 
 a kind of uneasy sleep ; some lie tossing and 
 turning, till very weariness brings them to rest; 
 others again, I cannot so properly call inconstant, 
 as lazy. There are many proprieties and diversi- 
 ties of vice, but it is one never-failing effect of it 
 to live displeased. "We do all of us labour under 
 inordinate desires ; we are either timorous, and 
 dare not venture, or venturing, we do not suc- 
 ceed, or else we cast ourselves upon uncertain 
 hopes, where we are perpetually solicitous, and 
 in suspense. In this distraction, we are apt to 
 propose to ourselves things dishonest and hard, 
 and when we have taken great pains to no pur- 
 pose, we come then to repent of our undertakings, 
 we are afraid to go on, and we can neither master 
 our appetites, nor obey them: we live and die 
 restless and irresolute, and, which is worst of all, 
 when we grow weary of the public, and betake 
 ourselves to solitude for relief, our minds are 
 sick and wallowing, and the very house and walls 
 are troublesome to us; we grow impatient, and 
 ashamed of ourselves, and suppress our inward 
 "vexation, until it break our heart for want of vent. 
 
sf.neca's morals. 185 
 
 Change of place avails not in disquietude. 
 
 This is it that makes us sour and morose, envious 
 of others, and dissatisfied with ourselves, until at 
 last, betwixt our troubles for other people's suc- 
 cesses, and the despair cf our own, we tall foul 
 upon fortune and the times, and get into a corner 
 perhaps, where we sit brooding over our own dis- 
 quiets. In these dispositions there is a kind of 
 pruriginous fancy, that makes some people take 
 delight in labour and uneasiness, like the clawing 
 of an itch, until the blood starts. 
 
 This is it that puts us upon rambling voyages, 
 one while by land, but still disgusted with the 
 present : the town pleases us to-day, the country 
 to-morrow ; the splendour of the court at one 
 time, the horrors of a wilderness at another, but 
 all this while we carry our plague about us, for 
 it is not the place we are weary of, but our- 
 selves. Nay, our weakness extends to every 
 thing, for we are impatient equally of toil and of 
 pleasure. This trotting of the ring, and only 
 treading the same steps over and over again, has 
 made many a man lay violent hands upon him- 
 self. It must be the change of the mind, not of 
 the climate, that will remove the heaviness of the 
 heart ; our vices go along with us, and we carry 
 in ourselves the causes of our disquiets. There 
 is a <*reat weight lies upon us, and the bare shock- 
 ing of it makes it the more uneasy ; changing of 
 Cuuutiies, in this case, is not travelling, but watt- 
 
 r2 
 
J 84 seneca's morals. 
 
 Only philosophy make-, the mind invincible. 
 
 dering. We must keep on our course, if we 
 would gain our journey's end. He that cannot 
 live happily any where, will live happily no 
 where. What is a man the better for travelling? 
 as if his cares could notlind him out wherever he 
 goes. Is there any retiring from the fear of 
 death, or of torments? or from those difficulties 
 which beset a man wherever he is ? It is only 
 philosophy that makes the mind invineible, and 
 places us out of the reach of fortune, so that all her 
 arrows fall short of us. 'I his it is that reclaims the 
 rage of our lusts, and sweetens the anxiety of our 
 fears : frequent changing of places, or counsels, 
 shews an instability of mind ; and we must fix 
 the bodv, before we can fix the soul. We can 
 hardly stir abroad, or look about us, without en- 
 countering something or other that revives our 
 appetites. As he that would cast off an unhappy 
 love, avoids whatsoever may put him in mind of 
 the person, so he that would wholly deliver him- 
 self from his beloved lusts, must shun all objects 
 that ma}'' put them in his head again, and re- 
 mind him of them. We travel, as children run 
 up and down after strange sights, for novelty, 
 not profit; we return neither the better nor the 
 sounder, nay, and the very agitation hurts us. 
 We learn to call towns and places by their names, 
 and to tell stories of mountains, and of rivers : 
 but, had not our time been better spent in the 
 study of wisdom, and of virtue, in the learning of 
 
seneca's morals. 1&5 
 
 Anecdote of a traveller. 
 
 what is already discovered, and in the quest of 
 things not yet found out? If a man break his 
 leg, or strain his ancle, he sends presently for a 
 surgeon to set all right again, and does not take 
 horse upon it, or put himself on shipboard: no 
 more does the change of place work upon our 
 disordered minds than upon our bodies. It is 
 not the place, I hope, that makes either an ora- 
 tor, or a physician. Will any man ask upon the 
 road — " Pray which is the way to prudence, to 
 justice, to temperance, to fortitude?" No matter 
 whither any man goes that carries his affections 
 along with him. He that would make his travels 
 delightful, must make himself a temperate com- 
 panion. A great traveller was complaining, that 
 he was never the better for his travels. " That is 
 very true," said Socrates, " because you travelled 
 with yourself." Now, had not he better have 
 made himself another man, than to transport 
 himself to another place ? It is no matter what 
 manners we find any where, so long as we carry 
 our own. But we have all of us a natural curi- 
 osity of seeing fine sights, and of making new dis- 
 coveries, turning over antiquities, learning the 
 customs of nations, &c. We are never quiet, to- ■ 
 day we seek an office, to-morrow we are sick of 
 it : we divide our lives betwixt a dislike of the 
 present, and a desire of the future ; but he that 
 lives as he should, orders himself so as neither 
 
 e3 
 
1S6 seneca's morals. 
 
 We often dread what we seem to desire. 
 
 to fear, nor to wish for to-morrow ; if it come, it 
 is welcome, but if not, there is nothing lost ; 
 for that which is come, is but the same over 
 again with what is past. As levity is a pernicious 
 enemy to quiet ; so pertinacy is a great one too. 
 The one changes nothing, the other sticks to no- 
 thing; and which of the two is the worse may be 
 a question. J t is many times seen, that we beg 
 earnestly for those things, which, if they were 
 offered us, we would refuse: and it is but just to 
 punish this easiness of asking with an equal faci- 
 lity of granting. There are some things we would 
 be thought to desire, which we are so far from 
 desiring, that we dread them. " I shall tire you," 
 says one, in the middle of a tedious story, if Nay, 
 pray be pleased to go on/' we cry, though we 
 wished his tongue out at half way. Kay, we do not 
 deal candidly even with God himself. We should 
 say to ourselves, in these cases — " This I have 
 drawn upon myself. I could never be quiet, until 
 I had gotten this woman, this place, this estate, 
 ibis honour; and now see what is become of it." 
 
 One sovereign remedy against ail misfortunes 
 is, constancy of mind ; the changing of parties and 
 countenances, looks as if a man were driven with 
 the wind. Nothing can be above him that is 
 above fortune. It is not violence, reproach, con- 
 tempt, or whatever else from without, that can 
 make a wise man quit his ground, but he is proof 
 
seneca's morats. 187 
 
 Constancy nt mind secures lip from misfortunes. 
 
 against calamities, both great and small : onlv 
 our error is, that what we cannot do ourselves, we 
 think nobody else can ; so that we judge of the 
 wise by the measures of the weak. Place me 
 among princes, or among beggars : the one shall 
 not make me proud, nor the other ashamed. I 
 can take as sound a sleep in a barn, as in a pa- 
 lace, and a bottle of hay makes me as good a 
 lodging as a bed of down. Should every day suc- 
 ceed to my wish, it should not transport me, nor 
 would I think myself miserable, if 1 should not 
 have one quiet hour in my whole life. I will not 
 transport myself with either pain or pleasure ; 
 but yet for all that I could wish that I had an 
 easier game to play, and that I were put rather 
 to moderate my joys than ury sorrows. If I were 
 am imperial prince, I had rather take than be 
 taken; and yet I would bear the same mind 
 under the chariot of my conqueror, that 1 had in 
 my own. It is no great matter to trample upon 
 those things that are most coveted or feared by 
 the common people. There are those that will 
 laugh upon the wheel, and cast themselves upon 
 a certain death, only upon a transport of love, 
 perhaps anger, avarice, or revenge, how much 
 more then upon an instinct of virtue, which is 
 invincible and steady? ii a short obstinacy of 
 mind can do this, how much more shall a com- 
 posed and a deliberate virtue, whose force is equal 
 and perpetual? 
 
188 seneca's morals. 
 
 Plain-dealing tianquillizes a man's life. 
 
 To secure ourselves in this world, first, we 
 must aim at nothing that men count worth the 
 wrangling for. Secondly, we must not value the 
 possession of any thing, which even a common 
 thief would think worth the stealing. A man's 
 body is no booty. Let the way be ever so dan- 
 gerous for robberies, the poor and the naked pass 
 quietly. A plain-dealing sincerity of manners 
 makes a man's life happy, even in despite of scorn 
 and contempt, which is every clear man's fate. 
 But we had better yet be contemned for simpli- 
 city, than lie perpetually upon the torture of a 
 counterfeit, provided that care be taken not to 
 confound simplicity with negligence: and it is, 
 moreover, an uneasy life, that of a disguise, for 
 a man to seem to be what he is not; to keep a 
 perpetual guard upon himself, and to live in fear 
 of a discovery. He takes every man that looks 
 upon him for a spy, over and above the trouble of 
 being put to play another man's part. 1 1 is a good 
 remedy, in some cases, for a man to apply him- 
 self to civil affairs and public business; and yet, 
 in this state of life too, what betwixt ambition 
 and calumny, it is hardly safe to be honest f 
 There are, indeed, some cases, wherein a wise 
 man will give way : but let him not yield over- 
 easily neither; if he marches off, let him have a 
 care of his honour, and make his retreat with his 
 sword in his hand, and his face to the enemy. Oi 
 
sexeca's morals. 1S9 
 
 .N.i man liapp. that depends upon fortune, 
 
 all others, a studious life is the least tiresome; it 
 makes us easy to ourselves and to others, and 
 gains us both friends and reputation. 
 
 HE THAT SETS UP IIIS REST UPON CONTIN- 
 GENCIES, SHALL NEWER EE QUIET. 
 
 Never pronounce any man happy that de- 
 pends upon fortune for his happiness, for nothing 
 can be more preposterous than to place the good 
 of a reasonable creature in unreasonable things. 
 If I have lost any thing it was adventitious, and 
 the less money the less trouble; the less favour, 
 the less envy: nay, even in these cases that put 
 us out of our wits, it is not the loss itself, but 
 the opinion of the loss that troubles us. It is a 
 common mistake to account those things neces- 
 sary that are superfluous, and to depend upon 
 fortune for the felicity of life, which arises only 
 from virtue. There is no trusting to her smiles: 
 the sea swells and rages in a moment, and the 
 ships are swallowed up at night, in the very place 
 where they sported themselves in the morning ; 
 and fortune has the same power over princes that 
 it has over empires, over nations that it has over 
 cities, and the same power over cities that it has 
 over private men. Where is the estate that may 
 not be folio wed upon the heel with famine and 
 beggary ? that dignity, which the next moment 
 
1$0 seneca's morals. 
 
 Uncertainty of human affairs j— 
 
 may not be laid in the dust? that kingdom that 
 is secure from desolation and ruin? The period 
 of all things is at hand, as well as that which casts 
 out the fortunate, as the other that delivers the 
 unhappy ; and that which may fall out at any 
 time, may fall out this very day. What shall 
 come to pass I know not 5 but what may come to 
 pass I know : so that I will despair of nothing, 
 but expect every thing ; and whatsoever Provi- 
 dence remits, is clear gain. Every moment, if it 
 spares me, deceives me; and yet in some sort it 
 does not deceive me, for though I know that any 
 thing may happen, yet I know likewise that 
 every thing will not. I will hope the best, and 
 provide for the worst. Methinks we should not 
 find so much fault with fortune for her incon- 
 stancy, when we ourselves suffer a change every 
 moment that we live ; only other changes make 
 more noise, and this steals upon us like the sha- 
 dow upon a dial, every jot as certainly, but more 
 insensibly. 
 
 The burning of Lyons may serve to shew us 
 that we are never safe, and to arm us against all 
 surprizes. The terror of it must needs be great, 
 for the calamity is almost without example. If 
 it had been fired by an enemy, the flame would 
 have left some farther mischief to have been done 
 by the soldiers: but to be wholly consumed, we 
 have not heard of man? earthquakes so pernicious. 
 
seneca's MORALS. 101 
 
 An instance thereof. 
 
 So many rarities to be destroyed in one night, 
 and in the depth of peace to suffer an outrage 
 beyond the extremity of war. Who would be- 
 lieve it r but twelve hours betwixt so fair a city 
 and none at all : it was laid in ashes in less time 
 than it would require to tell the story. To 
 stand unshaken in such a calamity is hardly to be 
 expected, and our wonder cannot but be equal to 
 our grief. Let this accident teach us to provide 
 against all possibilities that fall within the power 
 of fortune, all external things are under her do- 
 minion : one while she calls her hands to her as- 
 sistance, another while she contents herself with 
 her own force, and destroys us with mischiefs of 
 which we cannot find the author. No time, 
 place, or condition is excepted; she makes our 
 very pleasures painful to us; she makes war upon 
 ■us in the depth of peace, and turns the means of 
 our security into an occasion of fear; she turns a 
 friend into an enemy, and makes a foe of a com- 
 panion; we suffer the effects of war without any 
 adversary, and, rather than fail, our felicity 
 shall be the cause of our destruction. Lest we 
 should either forget or neglect her power, every day 
 produces something extraordinary. She persecutes 
 the most temperate with sickness, the strongest 
 constitutions with the phthisick, she brings the 
 innocent to punishment, and the most retired she 
 assaults with tumults. Those glories that have 
 
1.9*2 seneca's morals. 
 
 No true felicity in any iliing. 
 
 grown up with many ages, with infinite labour 
 and expence, and under the favour of many aus- 
 picious providences, one day scatters and brings 
 to nothing. He that pronounced a day, nay, an 
 hour, sufficient for the destruction of the greatest 
 empire, might have fallen to a moment. It were 
 some comfort yet to the frailty of mankind, and 
 of human affairs, if things might but decay as 
 slowly as they rise ; but they grow by degrees, 
 and they fall to ruin in an instant. There is no 
 felicity in any thing, either private or public: 
 men, nations, and cities, have all their fates and 
 periods ; our very entertainments are not without 
 terror, and our calamity rises there where we 
 least expect it. Those kingdoms that stood the 
 shock both of foreign wars, and civil, come to 
 destruction without the sight of an enemy. Nay, 
 we are to dread our peace and felicity more than 
 violence, because we are there taken unprovided, 
 unless, in a state of peace we do the duty of men 
 in war, and say to ourselves — Whatsoever may 
 be, will be. I am to-day safe, and happy in 
 the love of my country; I am to-morrow banish- 
 ed ; to-day in pleasure, peace, and health ; to- 
 morrow broken upon the wheel, led in triumph, 
 and in the agony of sickness. Let us, therefore, 
 prepare for a shipwreck in the port, and for a 
 tempest in a calm. One violence drives me from 
 my country, another ravishes that from me; and 
 
seneca's morals. 193 
 
 All possessions are uncertain. 
 
 that very place, where a man can hardly pass 
 this day for a crowd, may be to-morrow a desart. 
 Wherefore, let us set before our eyes the whole 
 condition of human nature, and consider as well 
 what may happen, as what commonly does. The 
 way to make future calamities easy to us in the 
 sufferance, is to make them familiar to us in the 
 contemplation. How many cities in Asia, Achaia, 
 Assyria, and Macedonia, have been swallowed 
 up by earthquakes ! nay, whole countries are 
 lost, and large provinces laid under water, but 
 time brings all things to an end, for all the works 
 of mortals are mortal. All possessions, and their 
 possessors, are uncertain and perishable; and 
 what wonder is it to lose any thing at any time, 
 when we must one day lose all ? 
 
 That which we call our own, is but lent us ; 
 and what we have received gratis, we must re- 
 turn without complaint, That which fortune 
 gives us this hour, she may take away the next; 
 and he that trusts to her favours, shall either 
 find himself deceived, or if he be not, he will at 
 least be troubled because he may be so. There 
 is no defence in walls, fortifications, and engines, 
 against the power of fortune : we must provide 
 ourselves within, and when we are safe there, we 
 are invincible; we may be battered, but not 
 taken, She throws her gifts among us, and we 
 sweat and scuffle for them; never considering 
 
 B 
 
194 senega's morals. 
 
 Fortune's bounties are but snares ; 
 
 how few are the better for that which is expected 
 by all. Some arc transported with what they 
 get, others tormented for what they miss, and 
 many times there is a leg or an arm broken in a 
 contest for a counter. She gives us honours, 
 riches, and favours, only to take them away 
 again, either by violence or treachery ; so that 
 they frequently turn to the damage of the re- 
 ceiver. She throws out baits for us, and sets 
 traps, as we do for birds and beasts ; her boun- 
 ties are snares and lime-twigs to us ; we think 
 that we take, but we are taken. If they had any 
 thing in them that were substantial, they would 
 some time or other fill, and quiet us ; but they 
 serve only to provoke our appetite, without any 
 thing more than pomp and show to allay it. But 
 the best of it is, if a man cannot mend- his for- 
 tune, he may yet mend his manners, and put 
 himself so far out of her reach, that whether she 
 gives or takes, it shall be all one to us ; for we 
 are neither the greater for the one, nor the less 
 for the other. We call this a dark room, or that 
 a light one, when it is in itself neither the one 
 nor the other, but only as the day and the night 
 renders it. And so it is in riches, strength of 
 body, beauty, honour, command: and likewise 
 in pain, sickness, banishment, death; which 
 are in themselves middle and indifferent things, 
 and only good or bad, as they are influenced by 
 
 4 
 
seneca's morals. 195 
 
 She Bparea neither the rich nor ihe poor. 
 
 virtue. To weep, lament, and groan, is to re- 
 nounce our duty; and it is the same weakness, 
 on the other side, to exult and rejoice; I would 
 rather make my fortune, than expect it; being 
 neither depressed with her injuries, nor dazzled 
 with her favours. When Zcno was told, that all 
 his goods were drowned :— " Why then/' says 
 he, " fortune has a mind to make me a philoso- 
 pher." It is a great matter for a man to advance 
 his mind above her threats or flatteries, for he 
 that has once gotten the better of her, is safe for 
 ever. 
 
 It is some comfort yet to the unfortunate, that 
 great men be under the lash for company; and 
 that death spares the palace no more than the 
 cottage ; and that whoever is above me, has a 
 power also above him. Do we not daily see 
 funerals without trouble, princes deposed, coun- 
 tries depopulated, towns sacked, without so much 
 as thinking how soon it may be our own case ? 
 Whereas, if we would but prepare, and arm our- 
 selves against the iniquities of fortune, we should 
 never be surprised. When we see any man ba- 
 nished, beggared, tortured, we are to account, 
 that though the mischief fell upon another, it 
 was levelled at us. What wonder is it, if of so 
 many thousands of dangers, that are constantly 
 hovering about us, one comes to hit us at last? 
 That which befak any man, may befal every 
 
 s 2 
 
196 senega's morals. 
 
 Life is miserable throughout. 
 
 man; and then it breaks the force of a present 
 calamity, to provide against the future. What- 
 soever our lot is, we must bear it ; as suppose it 
 be contumely, cruelty, fire, sword, pains, dis- 
 eases, or a prey to wild beasts; there is no strug- 
 gling, nor any remedy but moderation. It is to 
 tio purpose to bewail any part of our life, when 
 life itself is miserable throughout; and the whole 
 flux of it only a course of transition from one 
 misfortune to another. A man may as well won- 
 der that he should be cold in v winter, sick at sea, 
 or have his bones clattered together in a waggon, 
 as at the encounter of ill accidents and crosses in 
 the passage of human life: and it is in vain to 
 run away from fortune, as if there were any 
 hiding-place, wherein she could not find us; or 
 to expect any quiet from her, for she makes life 
 a perpetual state of war, without so much as any 
 respite or truce. This we may conclude upon, 
 that her empire is but imaginary, and that who- 
 soever serves her, makes himself a voluntary 
 slave ; for the things that are often contemned 
 by the inconsiderate, and always by the wise, are 
 in themselves neither good nor evil: as pleasure 
 and pain, prosperity and adversity, which can 
 only operate upon our outward condition, with- 
 out any proper and necessary effect upon the 
 mind. 
 
SEN'ECa's M ORALS. 1 97 
 
 The pleasures of luiurj are painful. 
 
 A SENSUAL LIFE IS A MISERABLE LIFE. 
 
 The sensuality that we here treat of, falls na- 
 turally under the head of luxury, which extends 
 to alfthe excesses of gluttony, lust, effeminacy oi 
 manners, and, in short, to whatsoever concerns 
 the over-great care of the carcase. 
 
 To begin now with the pleasures of the palate, 
 (which deal with us like Egyptian thieves, that 
 strangle those they embrace): what shall we say 
 of the luxury of Nomentanus and Apicius, that 
 entertained their very souls in the kitchen; they 
 have the choicest music for their ears, the most 
 diverting spectacles for their eyes, the choicest 
 variety of meats and drinks for their palates. — 
 What is all this, I say, but a merry madness ? 
 It is true, they have their delights, but not with- 
 out heavy and anxious thoughts, even in their 
 very enjoyments ; beside that, they are followed 
 with repentance, and their frolics are little more 
 than the laughter of so many people out of their 
 wits. Their felicities are full of disquiet, and 
 neither sincere, nor well-grounded; but they 
 have need of one pleasure to support an- 
 other, and of new prayers to forgive the errors 
 of their former. Their life must needs be wretch- 
 ed, that get w ith great pains what they keep with 
 greater. One diversion overtakes another, hope 
 
 s 3 
 
J £)8 sl^lca's morals. 
 
 Miseries of sensuality. 
 
 excites hope, ambition begets ambition; so that 
 they only change the matter of their miseries, 
 without seeking any end of them, and shall never 
 be without either prosperous or unhappy causes 
 of disquiet. What if a body might have all the 
 pleasures in the world for the asking ? who would 
 so much unman himself, as by accepting of 
 them, to desert his soul, and become a perpetual 
 slave to his senses? Those false and miserable 
 palates, that judge of meats by the price and dif- 
 ficulty, not by the healthfulness or taste, they 
 vomit that they may eat, and they eat that they 
 may fetch it up again. They cross the seas for 
 rarities, and when they have swallowed, them, 
 they will not so much as give them time to digest. 
 Wheresoever nature has placed men, she has pro- 
 vided them aliment, but we rather chuse to irri- 
 tate hunger by expence, than to allay it at an 
 easier rate. What is it that we plough the seas 
 for, or arm ourselves against men and beasts ? 
 to what end do we toil and labour, and pile bags 
 upon bags r We may enlarge our fortunes, but 
 we cannot our bodies ; so that it does but spill, 
 and run over, whatsoever we take more than we 
 can hold. Our forefathers (by force of whose 
 virtues we are now supported in our vices) , lived 
 every jot as well as we, when they provided and 
 dressed their own meat with their own hands, 
 lodged upon the ground, and were not as yet 
 
seneca's motiat.s. lpQ 
 
 r . . , .. , , , ■ 
 
 I'ea-.is happier ihan tensuali 
 
 come to the vanity of gold and gems : when they 
 swore by their earthen gods, and kept their oath, 
 though they died for it. Did not our consuls live 
 more happily, when they cooked their own meat 
 with those victorious hands that had conquered so 
 many enemies, and won so many laurels ? Did 
 they not live more happily, I say, than our Api- 
 cius, (that corrupter of youth, and plague of the 
 age he lived in,) who, after he had spent a pro- 
 digious fortune upon his belly, poisoned himself 
 for fear of starving, when he had 250,000 crowns 
 in his coffers ? which may serve to shew us, that 
 it is the mind, and not the sum, that makes any 
 man rich; when Apicius, with all this treasure, 
 counted himself in' a state of beggary, and took 
 poison to avoid that condition, which another 
 would have prayed for. But why do we call it 
 poison, which was the wholesomest draught of his 
 life ? his daily gluttony was poison rather, both 
 to himself and others. His ostentation of it was 
 intolerable ; and so was the infinite pains he took 
 to ,mislead others, by his example, who went fast 
 enough of themselves, without driving. 
 
 It is a shame for a man to place his felicity in 
 those entertainments, and appetites, that are 
 stronger in brutes. Do not beasts eat with a 
 better stomach ? have they not more satisfaction 
 in their lusts? and they have not only a quicker 
 relish of their pleasures, but they enjoy them 
 
200 seneca's morals. 
 
 We have as many disease* as dishes. 
 
 without either scandal or remorse. If sensuality 
 were happiness, beasts were happier than men; 
 but human felicity is lodged in the soul, not in 
 the flesh. They that deliver themselves up to 
 luxury, are still either tormented with too little, 
 or oppressed with too much ; and equally mise- 
 rable, by being either deserted, or overwhelmed. 
 They are like men in a dangerous sea, one while 
 cast a-dry upon a rock, and another while swal- 
 lowed up in a whirlpool ; and all this from a mis- 
 take of not distinguishing good from evil. The 
 huntsman, that with much labour and hazard 
 takes a wild beast, runs as great a risk afterwards 
 in the keeping of him, for many times he tears 
 out the throat of his master; and it is the same 
 with inordinate pleasures : the more in number, 
 and the greater they are, the more general and 
 absolute a slave is the servant of them. Let the 
 common people pronounce him as happy as they 
 please, he pays his liberty for his delights, and 
 sells himself for what he buys. 
 
 Let any man take a view of our kitchens, the 
 number of our cooks, and the variety of our 
 meats, will he not wonder to see so much provi- 
 sion made for one belly? We have as many dis- 
 eases as we have cooks, or meats ; and the ser- 
 vice of the appetite is the study now in vogue. 
 To say nothing of our trains of lacqueys, and our 
 troops of caterers and sewers. Good God! that 
 
senega's morals. 201 
 
 Crudities worse than famine. 
 
 ever one belly should employ so many people. 
 How nauseous and fulsome are the surfeits that 
 follow these excesses? Simple meats are out of 
 fashion, and all are collected into one; so that 
 the cook does the office of the stomach, nay, and 
 of the teeth too, for the meat looks as if it were 
 chewed before-hand ; here is the luxury of all 
 tastes in one dish, and liker a vomit than a soup. 
 From these compounded dishes arise compounded 
 diseases, which require compounded medicines. 
 It is the same thing with our minds, that it is 
 with our tables ; simple vices are cured by simple 
 counsels, but a general dissolution of manners is 
 hardly overcome : we are over-run with a public 
 as well as with a private madness. The physi- 
 cians of old understood little more than the virtue 
 of some herbs to stop blood, or heal a wound : 
 and their firm and healthful bodies needed little 
 more, before they were corrupted by luxury and 
 pleasure, and when it came to that once, their 
 business was not to lay hunger, but to provoke it, 
 by a thousand inventions and sauces. That which 
 was aliment to a craving stomach, is become a 
 burden to a full one. From hence come paleness, 
 trembling, and worse effects from crudities than 
 famine; a weakness in the joints, the belly 
 stretched, suffusion of choler, the torpor of the 
 nerves, and a palpitation of the heart, lb say 
 nothing of the megrims, torments of the e\ es arid 
 
202 seneca's morals. 
 
 Hi effects of drunkenness. 
 
 ears, head-ach, gout, scurvy, several sorts of 
 fevers and putrid ulcers, with other diseases, that 
 are but the punishment of luxury. So long as 
 our bodies were hardened with labour, or tired 
 with exercise, or hunting, our food was plain and 
 simple; many dishes have made many diseases. 
 
 It is an ill thing for a man not to know the 
 measure of his stomach, nor to consider, that 
 men do many things in their drink that they are 
 ashamed of sober: drunkenness being nothing 
 else but a voluntary madness. It emboldens men 
 to do all sorts of mischiefs; it both irritates wick- 
 edness, and discovers it; it does not make men 
 vicious, but it shews them to be so. It was in a 
 drunken fit that Alexander killed Clytus. It 
 makes him that is insolent, prouder; him that is 
 cruel, fiercer; it takes away all shame. He that 
 is peevish, breaks out presently into ill words and 
 blows. The lecher, without any regard to de- 
 cency, or scandal, turns up his whore in the 
 market-place. A man's tongue trips, his head 
 turns round, he staggers in his pace. To say no- 
 thing of the crudities and diseases that follow upon 
 this distemper; consider the public mischiefs it 
 has done. How many warlike nations and strong 
 cities, that have stood invincible to attacks and 
 sieges, has drunkenness overcome ? Is it not a 
 great honour to drink the company dead ? a 
 magnificent virtue to swallow more wine than the 
 
SENECA S MORALS. Cu.1 
 
 Luxury steals upon us by degree'. 
 
 rest, and yet at last to be out-done by a hog- 
 shead ? What shall we say of those men, that in- 
 vert the offices of day and night ? as if our eyes 
 were only given us to make use of in the dark. 
 Is it day ? it is time to go to bed. Is it night ? it 
 is time to rise. Is it towards morning? let us go 
 to supper. When other people lie down, they 
 rise ; and lie till the next night, to digest the de- 
 bauch of the day before. It is an argument of 
 clownery, to do as other people do. Luxury 
 steals upon us by degrees ; first it shews itself in 
 a more than ordinary care of our bodies, it slips 
 next into the furniture of our houses, and it gets 
 then into the fabric, curiosity, and expence of 
 the house itself. It appears, lastly, in the fan- 
 tastical excesses of our tables. We change and 
 shuffle our meats, confound our sauces, serve 
 that in first that used to be the last, and value 
 our dishes, not for the taste, but for the rarity. 
 Nay, we are so delicious, that we must be told 
 when we are to eat or drink, when we are hungry 
 or weary; and we cherish some vices, as proofs and 
 arguments of our happiness. The most miserable 
 mortals are they, that deliver themselves up to 
 their palates, or to their lusts : the pleasure is 
 short, and turns presently nauseous, and the end 
 of it is either shame or repentance. It is a brutal 
 entertainment, and unworthy of a man, to place 
 Lis felicity in the service of his senses. As to the 
 
201 SENEGAS MORALS. 
 
 The vanity <>f luxury. 
 
 wrathful, the contentious, the ambitious, though 
 the distemper be great, the offence has yet some- 
 thing in it that is manly. But, the basest of prosti- 
 tutes are those that dedicate themselves wholly to 
 lust; what with their hopes and fears, anxiety of 
 thought, and perpetual disquiets, they are never 
 well, full nor fasting. 
 
 What a deal of business is now made about our 
 houses and diet, which was at first both obvious, 
 and of little expence ? Luxury led the way, and 
 we have employed our wits in the aid of our 
 vices. First, we desired superfluities ; our next 
 step was to wickedness; and, in conclusion, we 
 delivered up our minds to our bodies, and so be- 
 came slaves to our appetites, which before were 
 our servants, and are now become our masters. 
 What was it that brought us to the extravagance 
 of embroideries, perfumers, tire-women, &c. We 
 passed the bounds of nature, and launched out into 
 superfluities, insomuch, that it is now a-days only 
 for beggars and clowns to content themselves with 
 what is sufficient; our luxury makes us insolent 
 and mad, We take upon us like princes, and fly 
 out for every trifle, as if there were life and death 
 in the case. What a madnes6 is it for a man to 
 lay out an estate upon a table, or a cabinet ; a 
 patrimony upon a pair of pendents ; and, to in- 
 flame the price of curiosities, according to the 
 hazard either of breaking or losing them. To 
 

 ivveca's 
 
 MOKA'^. 
 
 205 
 
 
 ■» We eat nut to s.ni t\ 1 
 
 ittfigei'i l)ui .niiuition. 
 
 
 wear garments that will neither defend a wo- 
 man's body, nor her modesty ; so thin, that one 
 would make a conscience of swearing she were 
 not naked : for she hardly shews more in the pri- 
 vacies of her amour, than in public. How long 
 shall we covet and oppress, enlarge our posses- 
 sions, and account that too little for one man, 
 which was formerly enough for a nation r and 
 our luxury is as insatiable as our avarice. Where 
 is that lake, that sea, that forest, that spot of 
 land, that is not ransacked to gratify our palate ? 
 The very earth is burdened with our buildings ; 
 not a river, nor a mountain escapes us. Oh that 
 there should be such boundless desires in our 
 little bodies ! would not fewer lodoinw, serve us? 
 We lie but in one, and where we are not, that is 
 not properly ours. What with our hooks, snares, 
 nets, dogs, &c. we are at war with all living 
 creatures ; and nothing comes amiss, but that 
 which is either too cheap, or too common ; and 
 all this to gratify a fantastical palate. Our 
 avarice, our ambition, our lusts, are insatiable; 
 we.enlarge our possessions, swell our families, we 
 rifle sra and land for matter of ornament and 
 luxury. A bull contents himself with one mea- 
 dow, and one forest is enough for a thousand ele- 
 phants, but the little body of a man devours more 
 than all other living creatures. We do not eat 
 to satisfy hunger, but ambition; we are dead 
 
 T 
 
£05 seneca's morals. 
 
 A voluptuary cannot be a ?< o:l man. 
 
 while we are alive; and our houses are so much 
 our tombs, that a man might write our epitaphs 
 upon our very doors. 
 
 A voluptuous person, in fine, can neither be a 
 good man, a good patriot, nor a good friend ; for 
 he is transported with his appetites, without con- 
 sidering, that the lot of man is the law of nature. 
 A good man (like a good soldier) will stand his 
 ground, receive wounds, glory in his scars, and 
 in death itself, love his master for whom he falls ; 
 with that divine precept always in his mind — 
 u Follow good/' Whereas he that complains, la- 
 ments, and groans, must yield, nevertheless, and 
 do his duty, though in spite of his heart. Now, 
 what a madness is it, for a man to chuse rather 
 to Le lugged, than to follow, and vainly to con- 
 tend with the calamities of human life ? Whatever 
 is laid upon us by necessity, we should receive 
 generously ; for it is foolish to strive with what 
 we cannot avoid. We are born subjects, and to 
 obey God is perfect liberty. lie that does this shall 
 be free, safe, and quiet: ail his actions shall suc- 
 ceed to hub wish ; and what can any man desire 
 more, than to want nothing from without, and to 
 have all things de^rabie within himself? Plea- 
 sures do but weaken our minds, and send us for 
 our support to fortune, who gives us money only 
 as the wages of slavery. We must stop our eyes 
 a&d our ears. Ulysses had but one rock to fear, 
 
 2 
 
seneca's morals. 207 
 
 Riches do not make us 
 
 but human life has many. Every city, nay, 
 every man is one, and there is no trusting even to 
 our nearest friends. Deliver me from the su- 
 perstition of taking those things which are light 
 and vain, for felicities! 
 
 AVARICE AND AMBITION ARE INSATIABLE 
 AND RESTLESS. 
 
 Til e man that would be truly rich, must not 
 increase his fortune, but retrench his appetites : 
 for riches are not only superfluous, but mean, 
 and little more use to the possessor than to the 
 looker on. What is the end of ambition and ava- 
 rice, when, at best, we are but stewards of what 
 we falsely call our own? All those things which 
 we pursue with so much hazard, and expence of 
 blood, as well to keep, as to get; for which we 
 break faith and friendship : what are they, but 
 the mere deposit a of fortune ? and not ours, but 
 already inclining toward a new master. There is 
 nothing our own, but that which we give to our- 
 selves ; and of which we have a certain and an 
 inexpugnable possession. Avarice is so insatia- 
 ble, that it is not in the power of liberality to 
 content it : and our desires are so boundless, that 
 whatever we get, is but in the way to getting 
 more without end ; and so long as we are solicit- 
 ous for the increase of wealth, we lose the true 
 use of it, and spend our time in putting out, call- 
 
208 seneca's morals. 
 
 Old men act like children. 
 
 ing inland passing our accounts, without any 
 substantial benefit either to the world or to 
 ourselves. What is the difference betwixt old 
 men and children ? the one cries for nuts and ap- 
 ples, and the other for gold and silver. The one 
 sets up courts of justice, hears and determines, 
 acquits and condemns in jest, the other in ear- 
 nest ; the one makes houses of clay, the other of 
 marble ; so that the works of old men are nothing 
 in the world but the progress and improvement of 
 children's errors : and they are to be admonished 
 and punished too like children, not in revenge for 
 injuries received, but as a correction of injuries 
 done, and to make them give over. There is 
 some substance yet in gold and silver, but as to 
 judgments and statutes, procuration and counte- 
 nance money, these are cnly the visions and 
 dreams of avarice. Throw a crust of bread to a 
 dog, he takes it open-mouthed, swallows it whole, 
 and presently gapes for mere: just so do we with 
 the splits of fortune, down they* gg without thew- 
 ir.y. and we are immediately ready for another 
 cl p. But what has avarice now to do with gold 
 and silver, that is so much out-done by curio- 
 sities of a far greater value ? let us no Ionizer 
 tomphain, that there was not a heavier load upon 
 those precious metals, or that they were not 
 buried deep enough^ when we Lave found out 
 ways by wax and parchments* and by bloody 
 
seneca's morat.s. 209 
 
 Avar ce punishes itself. 
 
 usurous contracts, to undo one another. It is 
 remarkable, that Providence has given us all 
 things for our advantage near at hand, but iron, 
 gold, and silver (being both the instruments of 
 blood and slaughter, and the price of it), nature- 
 has hidden in the bowels of the earth. 
 
 There is no avarice without some punishment, 
 over and above that which it is to itself. How 
 miserable is it in the desire ! how miserable even 
 in the attaining of our ends! For money is a 
 greater torment in the possession, than it is in the 
 pursuit. The fear of losing it is a great trouble, 
 the loss of it a greater, and it is made a greater 
 yet by opinion. Nay, even in the case of no di- 
 rect loss at all, the covetous man loses what he 
 does not get. It is true, the people call the rich 
 man a happy man, and wish themselves in his 
 condition ; but, can any condition be worse than 
 that, which carries vexation and envy along with 
 it ? Neither is any man to boast cf his fortune, 
 his herds of cattle, his number of slaves, his 
 lands and palaces ; for, comparing that which he 
 has, to that which he farther covets, he is a beg- . 
 gar. No man can possess all things, but any man 
 may contemn them, and the contempt of riches is 
 the nearest way to the gaining of them. 
 
 Some magistrates are made for money, and 
 those commonly are bribed with money. We are 
 all turned merchants, aiui look not into the qua- 
 
 T 3 
 
210 Seneca's morals. 
 
 A va rice makes us rrulevo Vnt. 
 
 lity of tilings, but into the price of them ; for re- 
 ward we are pious, and for reward again we are 
 impious. ^Ve are honest, so long as we may 
 thrive upon it; but if the devil himself give bet- 
 ter wages, we change our party. Our parents 
 have trained us up into an admiration of gold 
 and silver, and the love of it is grown up with us 
 to that degree, that when we should shew our 
 gratitude to heaven, we make presents of those 
 metals. This is it that makes poverty look like a 
 curse, and a reproach, and the poets help it for- 
 ward; the chariot of the sun must be all of gold; 
 the best of times must be the golden age, and thus 
 they turn the greatest misery of mankind into the 
 greatest blessings. 
 
 Neither dues avarice make us only unhappy in 
 ourselves, but malevolent also to mankind. The 
 soldier wishes for war, the husbandman would 
 have his corn dear, the lawyer prays for dissen- 
 sion, the physician for a sickly year; he that 
 deals in curiosities for luxury and excess, and 
 makes up his fortune out of the corruptions of the 
 age. High winds and public conflagrations make 
 work for the carpenter and bricklayer, and one 
 man lives by the loss of another ; some few, per- 
 haps, have the fortune to be detected, but they 
 are all wicked alike. A great plague makes work 
 for the sexton, and, in one word, whosoever 
 gains by the dead, has not much kindness for the 
 
sexeca's morals. Qll 
 
 I he ill eflect> wf ambition. 
 
 living. Demades, of Athens, condemned a fel- 
 low that sold necessaries for funerals, upon proof 
 that he wished to make himself a fortune by his 
 trade, which could not be but by a great morta- 
 lity. But, perhaps, he did not so much desire 
 to have many customers, as to sell dear and buy 
 cheap ; besides that, all of that trade might have 
 been condemned as well as he. Whatsoever whets 
 our appetites, flatters and depresses the mind, 
 and by dilating it, weakens it ; first blowing it up, 
 and then filling and deluding it with vanity. 
 
 To proceed now from the most prostitute of all 
 vices, sensuality and avarice, to that which passes 
 in the world for the most generous, the thirst of 
 glory and dominion. If they that run mad after 
 wealth and honour, could but look into the hearts 
 of them that have already gained these points, 
 how would it startle them to see those hideous 
 cares and crimes that wait upon ambitious gieat- 
 ness : all those acquisitions that dazzle the eyes of 
 the vulgar, are but false pleasures, slippery and 
 uncertain. They are achieved with labour, and 
 the very guard of them is painful. Ambition 
 puffs us up with vanity and wind ; and we are 
 equally troubled, either to see any body before 
 us, or no body behind us, so that we lie under a 
 double envy; for whosoever envies another, is 
 also envied himself. What matters it how far 
 Alexander extended his conquests, if he was not 
 
212 seneca's morals, 
 
 All superfluities are hurtful. 
 
 yet satisfied with what he had ? Every man wants 
 as much as he covets; and it is lost labour to 
 pour into a vessel that will never be full. lie 
 that had subdued so man}* princes and nations, 
 upon the killing of Clytus (one friend), and the 
 loss of Hephestion (another), delivered himself 
 up to anger and sadness ; and when he was mas- 
 ter of the world, he was yet a slave to his pas- 
 sions. Look into Cyrus, Cambyses, and the 
 whole Persian line, and you shall not find so 
 much as one man of them that died satisfied with 
 what he had gotten. Ambition aspires from great 
 things to greater, and propounds matters even 
 impossible, when it has once arrived at things be- 
 yond expectation. It is a kind of dropsy, the 
 more a man drinks, the more he covets. Let 
 any man but observe the tumults, and the crowds 
 that attend palaces ; what affronts must we endure 
 to be admitted, and how much greater when we 
 are in ? The passage to virtue is fair, but the 
 way to greatness is craggy, and it stands not only 
 upcn a precipice, but upon ice too ; and yet it is 
 a hard matter to convince a great man that his 
 station is slippery, or to prevail with him not 
 to depend upon his greatness ; but all superfluities 
 are hurtful. A rank crop lays the corn, too 
 great a burden of fruits breaks the bough, and 
 our minds may be as well overcharged with an 
 immodtrate happiness. Nay, though we our- 
 
senega's morals. 213 
 
 The arnhiiion of Pompey, Caesar, and Marius. 
 
 selves would be at rest, our fortune will not suffer 
 it: the way that leads to honour and riches leads 
 to trouble; and we find the causes of our sorrows 
 in the very objects of our delights. What joy is 
 there in feasting and luxury, in ambition and a 
 crowd of clients, in the arms of a mistress, or in 
 the vanity of an unprofitable knowledge? These 
 short and false pleasures deceive us, and, like 
 drunkenness, revenge the jolly madness of one 
 hour, with the nauseous and sad repentance of 
 many. Ambition is like a gulph, every thing is 
 swallowed up in it, and buried ; besides the dan- 
 gerous consequences of it, for that which one hath 
 taken from all, may be easily taken away again 
 by all from one. It was not virtue or reason, 
 but the mad love of a deceitful greatness, that 
 animated Pompey in his wars, either abroad or 
 at home. What was it but his ambition that 
 hurried him to Spain, Africa, and elsewhere, 
 when he was too great already, in every body's 
 opinion but his own ? and the same motive had 
 Julius Caesar, who could not, even then, brock 
 a superior himself, when the commonwealth 
 had submitted unto two already. Nor was it any 
 instinct of virtue that pushed on Marius, who, at 
 the head of an army, was himself yet led on 
 under the command of ambition : but he came at 
 last to the deserved fate of other wicked men, 
 and to drink himself of the same cup that he had 
 
14 seueca's morals. 
 
 The nominally great are miserable. 
 
 filled to others. We impose upon our reason, 
 when we suffer ourselves to be transported with 
 titles, tor we know that they are nothing but a 
 more glorious sound ; and so for ornaments and 
 gildings, though there may be a lustre to dazzle 
 our eyes, our understanding tells us yet, that it is 
 only outside, and that the matter under it is only 
 coarse and common. 
 
 I will never envy those that the people call great 
 and happy. A sound mind is not to be shaken 
 with a popular and vain applause, nor is it in the 
 power of their pride to disturb the state of our 
 happiness. An honest man is known, now a-days, 
 toy the dust he raises upon the way, and it is be- 
 come a point of honour to over-run people, and 
 keep all at a distance, though he that is put 
 out of the way may, perchance, be happier than 
 he that takes it. He that would exercise a power 
 profitable to himself, and grievous to nobody 
 else, let him practise it upon his passions. They 
 that have burnt cities, otherwise invincible, 
 driven armies before them, and bathed them- 
 selves in human blood, after that they have over* 
 come all open enemies, they have been vanquish- 
 ed by their lust, by their cruelty, and without 
 any resistance. Alexander was possessed with 
 the madness of laying kingdoms waste. — lie be- 
 gan with Greece, where he was brought up, and 
 there he quarried himself upon that in it which 
 
seneca's morals. 215 
 
 *• ■ = 
 
 Of hope and fear. 
 
 was best; he enslaved Lacedcmon, and silenced 
 Athens : nor was he content with the destruction 
 of those towns, which his father Philip had either 
 conquered or bought, but he made himself the 
 enemy of human nature, and, like the worst of 
 beasts, he worried what he could not eat. Feli- 
 city is an unquiet thing ; it torments itself, and 
 puzzles the brain. It makes some people ambi- 
 tious, others luxurious; it puffs up some, and 
 softens others; only (as it is with wine) some heads 
 bear it better than others, but it dissolves all. 
 Greatness stands upon a precipice, and if pros- 
 perity carries a man never so little beyond his 
 poise, it over- bears and dashes him to pieces. It 
 is a rare thing for a man in a great fortune to lay 
 down his happiness gently ; it being a common 
 fate for a man to sink under the weight of those 
 felicities that raise him. H.ow many cf the nobi- 
 lity did Marius bring down to herdsmen, and 
 other mean offices ? Nay, in the very moment 
 of our despising servants, we may be made so 
 ourselves. 
 
 HOPE AND TEAR ARE THE BANE OF 
 HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 No man can be said to be perfectly happy, that 
 runs the risk of disappointment; which is the 
 case of every man that fears or hopes for any 
 thing. For hope and fear, how distant soevet 
 
2l6 seneca's morals. 
 
 The misery of anticipation. 
 
 they may seem to be the one from one another, 
 they are both of them yet coupled in the same' 
 chain, as the guard and the prisoner; and the 
 one treads upon the heel of the other. The rea- 
 son of this is obvious, for they are passions that 
 look forward, and are very solicitous for the fu- 
 ture; only hope is the more plausible weakness of 
 the two, which, in truth, upon the main, are in- 
 separable, for ,the one cannot be without the 
 other; but where the hope is stronger than the 
 fear, or the fear than the hope, we call it the one 
 or the other: for, without fear, it were no longer 
 hope, but certainty; as without hope, it were no 
 longer fear, but despair. We may come to un- 
 derstand, whether our disputes are vain or no, if 
 we do but consider, that we are either troubled 
 about the present, the future, or both. If the 
 present, it is easy to judge, and the future is un- 
 certain. It is a foolish thing to be miserable be- 
 iore-hand, for fear of misery to come ; for a man 
 loses the present which he might enjoy, in expec- 
 tation of the future : nay, the fear of losing any 
 tiling is as bad as the loss itself. I will be as 
 prudent as I can, but not timorous, or careless: 
 and I will bethink myself, and forecast what in- 
 conveniences may happen, before they come. It 
 is true, a man may fear, and yet not be fearful ; 
 which is no more than to have the affection of 
 fear, without the vice of it; but jet a frequent 
 
sexeca's morals. 21T 
 
 Tin* miseries of indulging fe r. 
 
 admittance of it runs into a habit. It is a shame- 
 ful and unmanly thing to be doubtful, timorous, 
 and uncertain ; to sot one step forward, and an- 
 other backward, and to be irresolute. Can there 
 be any man so fearful, that had not rather fall 
 once, than hang always in suspense ? 
 
 Our miseries are endless, if we stand in fear of 
 all possibilities; the best way, in such a case, is 
 to drive out one nail with another, and a little to 
 qualify fear with hope, which may serve to pal- 
 liate a misfortune, though not to cure it. There 
 is not any thing that we fear, which is so certain 
 to come, as it is certain that many things which 
 we do fear will not come ; but we are loth to op- 
 pose our credulity when it begins to move us, and 
 so to bring our fear to the test. Well ! but, what 
 if the thing we fear should come to pass ? perhaps 
 it will be the better for us. Suppose it to be 
 death itself, why may it not prove the glory of 
 my life ? Did not poison make Socrates famous ? 
 and, was not Cato's sword a great part of his ho- 
 nour ? Do we fear any misfortune to befal us ? we 
 are not presently sure that it will happen. How 
 many deliverances have come unlooked for ? and 
 how many mischiefs that we looked for, have 
 never come to pass ? it is time enough to lament 
 when it comes, and, in the interim, to promise 
 ourselves the best. What do I know, but some- 
 thing or other may delay or divert it ? some have 
 
 U 
 
318 seneca's morals. 
 
 We should prepare for the worst. 
 
 escaped out of the fire, others, when a house has 
 fallen over their head, have received no hurt; 
 one man has been saved when a sword was at his 
 throat; another has been condemned, and out- 
 lived his headsmen : so that ill fortune, we see, 
 as well as good, has her levities — peradventure it 
 will be, peradventfire not — and until it comes to 
 pass we are not sure of it ; we do many times take 
 words in a worse sense than they were intended, 
 and imagine things to be worse taken than they 
 are. It is time enough to bear a misfortune when 
 it comes, without anticipating it. 
 
 He that would deliver himself from all appre- 
 hensions of the future, let him first take for 
 granted, that all fears will fall upon him ; and 
 then examine and measure the evil that he fears, 
 which he will find to be neither great nor long. 
 Beside, that the ills which he fears he may suffer, 
 he suffers in the very fear of them. As in the 
 symptoms of an approaching disease, a man shall 
 find himself lazy and listless, a weariness in his 
 limbs, with a yawning and shuddering all over 
 him ; so it is m the case of a weak mind, it fan- 
 cies misfortunes, and makes a man wretched be- 
 fore his time. Why should 1 torment myself at 
 present, with what perhaps may fall out fifty 
 years hence ? This humour is a kind of voluntary 
 disease, and an industrious contrivance of our 
 own unhappiness, to complain of un affliction that 
 5 
 
sext.ca's morals. 219 
 
 The things most to be feared. 
 
 we do not feel. Some are not only moved with 
 grief itself, but with the mere opinion of it, as 
 children will start at a shadow, cr at the sight of 
 a deformed person. If we stand in fear of vio- 
 lence from a powerful enemy, it is some comfort 
 to us, that whosoever makes himself terrible to 
 others, is not without fear himself. The least 
 noise makes a lion start,, and the fiercest of beasts, 
 whatsoever enrages them, makes them tremble 
 too ; a shadow, a voice, an unusual odour, rouses 
 them. 
 
 The things most to be feared I take to be three 
 kinds — want, sickness, and those violences that 
 may be imposed upon us by a strong hand. The 
 last of these has the greatest force, because it 
 comes attended with noise and tumult: whereas 
 the incommodities of poverty and diseases are 
 most natural, and steal upon us in silence, with- 
 out any external circumstances of horror ; but 
 the other marches in pomp, with fire and sword, 
 gibbets, racks, hooks, wild beasts to devour us, 
 stakes to empale us, engines to tear us to pieces, 
 pitched bags to burn us in, and a thousand other 
 exquisite inventions of cruelty. No wonder then, 
 if that be most dreadful to us, that presents itself 
 in so many uncouth shapes, and by the very so- 
 lemnity is rendered the most formidable. The 
 more instruments of bodily pain the executioner 
 
 u 2 
 
520 Seneca's morals. 
 
 . . ■' j. • , ■ ; ■ ■■■ ,«g 
 
 False courage. 
 
 shews us, the more frightful he makes himself : 
 for many a man that would have encountered 
 death, in any generous form, is yet overcome with 
 the manner of it. As for the calamities of hun- 
 ger and thirst, inward ulcers, scorching fevers, 
 tormenting fits of the stone, I look upon these 
 miseries to be at least as grievous as any of the 
 rest, only they do not so much affect the fancy, 
 because they lie out of sight. Some people talk 
 high of dangers at a distance, but (like cowards) 
 when the executioner comes to do his duty, and 
 shews us the fire, the axe, the scaffold, and death 
 nt hand, their courage fails them at the very 
 pinch, when they have most need of it. Sickness, 
 (I hope) captivity, and fire, are no new things to 
 ns ; the falls of houses, funerals, and conflagra- 
 tions, are every day before our eyes. The man that 
 I supped with last night is dead before morn- 
 ing ; why should I wonder then, seeing so many 
 fall about me, to be hit at last myself; what can 
 Le greater madness, than to cry out — Who would 
 have dreamed of this ? And why not, I beseech 
 you ? where is that estate that may not be reduced 
 to beggary ; that dignity which may not be fol- 
 lowed with banishment, disgrace, and extreme 
 contempt ; that kingdom that may not suddenly 
 fall to ruin, change its master, and be depopulat- 
 ed ; that prince that may not puss the hand of a 
 
sekbca's morals. 221 
 
 Effect!) of fancy. 
 
 common hangman r That which is one man's 
 fortune may be another's, but the foresight of 
 calamities to come, breaks the violence of them. 
 
 IT IS ACCORDING TO THE TRUE OR FALSE 
 
 ESTIMATE OF THINGS, THAT WE ARE 
 
 HAPPY, OR MISERABLE. 
 
 I low many things there are that the fancy 
 makes terrible by night, which the day turns into 
 ridiculous ? what is there in labour, or in death, 
 that a man should be afraid of? they are much 
 slighter in act than in contemplation, and we may 
 contemn them, but we will not : so that it is not 
 because they are hard, that we dread them ; but 
 they are hard, because wc are iirst afraid of them. 
 Pains, and other violences of fortune, are the 
 same thing to us that goblins are to children: we 
 are more scared with them, than hurt. We take 
 up our opinions upon trust, and err for company, 
 still judging that to be best, that has most compe- 
 titors. We make a false calculation of matters, 
 because we advise with opinion, and not with na- 
 ture; and this misleads us to a higher esteem for 
 riches, honour, and power, than they are worth ; 
 we have been used to admire and recommend 
 them, and a private error is quickly turned into a 
 public. The greatest and the smallest things are 
 equally hard to be comprehended: we account 
 many things great, for want of understanding what 
 
 u 3 
 
222 Seneca's morals. 
 
 We shtukl be content with our lot. 
 
 effectually is so ; and we reckon other things to 
 be small, which we find frequently to be of the 
 highest value. Vain things only move vain minds; 
 the accidents that we so much boggle at, are not 
 terrible in themselves, but they are made so by 
 our infirmities; but we consult rather what we 
 hear, than what we feel, without examining, op- ' 
 posing, or discussing the things we fear ; so that 
 we either stand still and tremble, or else directly 
 run for it; as those troops did, that, upon the 
 raising of the olust, took a flock of sheep for the 
 eneuvy. When the body and mind are corrupted, 
 it is no wonder that all things prove intolerable ; 
 and not because they are so in truth, but because 
 we are dissolute and foolish : for we are infatuated 
 to such a degree, that betwixt the common mad- 
 ness of men, and that which falls under the care 
 of the physician, there is but this difference — the 
 one labours of a disease, and the other of a false 
 opinion. 
 
 The Stoics hold, that all those torments that com- 
 monly draw from us groans and ejaculations, are in 
 themselves trivial and contemptible. But these 
 high-flown expressions apart (how true soever), 
 let us discourse the point, at the rate of ordinary 
 men, and not make ourselves miserable before our 
 time ; for the things we apprehend to be at hand, 
 may possibly never come to pass. Some thing* 
 i rouble us more than they should, other things 
 
sexf.ca's morals. 2 i 23 
 
 What is one man's evil is an< thert good. 
 
 sooner; and some things again disorder us, that 
 ought not to trouble us at all: so that we either 
 enlarge, or create, or anticipate, our disquiets. 
 For the first part, let it rest as a matter in con^ 
 troversy, for that which 1 account light, another 
 perhaps will judge insupportable; one man 
 laughs under the lash, and another whines for a 
 Philip. How sad a calamity is poverty to one 
 man, which to another appears rather desirable, 
 than inconvenient? for the poor man, who has 
 nothing to lose, has nothing to fear : and he that 
 would enjoy himself to the satisfaction of his soul, 
 must be either poor indeed, or at least look as if 
 he were so. Some people are extremely dejected 
 with sickness and pain, whereas Epicurus blessed 
 his fate with his last breath, in the acutest tor- 
 ments of the stone imaginable. And so for ba- 
 nishment, which to one man is so grievous, and 
 yet to another is no more than a bare change ot 
 place: a thing that we do every day for our 
 health and pleasure, nay, and upon the account 
 even of our common business. How terrible is 
 death to one man, which to another appears the 
 greatest providence in nature, even towards all 
 ages and conditions. It is the wish of some, the 
 relief of many, and the end of all. It sets the 
 slave at liberty, carries the banished man home, 
 and places all mortals upon the same level: inso- 
 
224 Seneca's morals. 
 
 Our prayers are often curses. 
 
 much, that life itself were punishment without it. 
 "When I see tyrants, tortures, and violences, the 
 prospect of death is a consolation to me, and the 
 only remedy against the injuries of life. 
 
 Nay, so great are our mistakes in the true esti- 
 mate of things, that we have hardly done any 
 thing that we have not had reason to wish un- 
 done; and we have found the things we feared to 
 be more desirable than those we coveted: our 
 very prayers have been more pernicious than the 
 curses of our enemies, and we must pray again 
 to have our former prayers forgiven. Where is the 
 wise man that wishes to himself the wishes of his 
 mother, nurse, or his tutor, the worst of enemies, 
 with the intention of the best of friends ? We are 
 undone, if their prayers be heard ; and it is our 
 duty to pray, that they may not ; for they are no 
 other than well-meaning execrations. They take 
 evil for good, and one wish fights with another; 
 give me rather the contempt of all those things 
 whereof they wish me the greatest plenty. We 
 are equally hurt by some that pray for us, and by 
 others that curse us : the one imprints in us a 
 false fear, and the other does us mischief by mis- 
 take. So that it is no wonder if mankind be miser- 
 able, when we are brought up from the very 
 cradle under the imprecations of our parents. We 
 pray for trifles, without so much as thinking of 
 
8E1T£CA's morals. 225 
 
 ^ e are vain, and will not believe it. 
 
 the greatest blessings; and we are not ashamed, 
 many times, to ask God for that, which we should 
 blush to own to our neighbour. 
 
 It is with us, as with an innocent that my fa- 
 ther had in his family; she fell blind on a sudden, 
 and nobody could persuade her she was blind. 
 She could not endure the house (she cried), it 
 was so dark, and was still calling to go abroad. 
 That which we laughed at in her, we find to be 
 true in ourselves; we are covetous and ambitious, 
 but the world shall never bring us to acknowledge 
 it, and we impute it to the place : nay, we are 
 the worse of the two ; for that blind fool called 
 for a guide, and we wander about without one. 
 It is a hard matter to cure those that will not be- 
 lieve they are sick. We are ashamed to admit a 
 master, and we are too old to learn. Vice still 
 soes before virtue, so that we have two works to 
 do ; we must cast off the one, and learn the other, 
 l'v one evil we make way to another, and only 
 seek things to be avoided, or those of which we 
 are soon weary. That which seemed too much 
 when we wished for it, proves too little when we 
 have it ; and it is not, as some imagine, that fe- 
 licity is greedy, but it is little and narrow, and 
 cannot satisfy us. That which we take to be very 
 high at a distance, we find it to be but low, when 
 we come at it. And the business is, we do not 
 understand the true state of things ; we are de- 
 
226 seneca's morals. 
 
 Nasure u limited, but fanc - y boundless. 
 
 ceived by rumours, when we have gained the 
 thing we aimed at, we find it to be either ill, or 
 empty, or perchance less than we expect, or 
 otherwise perhaps great, but not good. 
 
 THE BLESSINGS OF TEMPERANCE AND 
 MODERATION. 
 
 There is not any thing that is necessary to us, 
 but we have it either cheap, or gratis; and this 
 is the provision that our heavenly father hath 
 made for us, whose bounty was never wanting to 
 our needs. It is true, the belly craves, and 
 calls upon us, but then a small matter contents 
 it : a little bread and water is sufficient,, and all 
 the rest is but superfluous. He that lives ac- 
 cording to reason shall never be poor ; and he 
 that governs his life by opinion, shall never be 
 rich; for nature is limited, but fancy is bound- 
 less. As for meat, clothes, and lodging, a little 
 feeds the body, and as little covers it, so that if 
 mankind would only attend human nature, with- 
 out gaping at superfluities, a cook would be found 
 as needless as a soldier : for we may have neces- 
 sities upon very easy terms, whereas we put our- 
 selves to great pains for excesses. When we are 
 cold we may cover ourselves with the skins of 
 beasts, and against violent heats we have natural 
 grottos, or with a few osiers, and a little clay, 
 we may defend ourselves against all seasons, 
 
sexeca's morals. 22) 
 
 The moderation of pas a ;■>•. 
 
 Providence has been kinder to us than to leave us 
 to live by our wits, and to stand in need of in- 
 vention and arts. It is only pride and curiosity 
 that involves us in difficulties: if nothing will 
 serve a man but rich clothes and furniture, sta- 
 tues and plate, a numerous train of servants, 
 and the rarities of all nations, it is not fortune's 
 fault, but his own, that he is not satisfied : for 
 his desires are insatiable, and this is not a thirst, 
 but a disease, and if he were master of the whole 
 world, he would be still a beggar. It is the 
 mind that makes us rich and happy, in what con- 
 dition soever we are, and money signifies no more 
 to it than it does to the gods; if the religion be 
 sincere, no matter for the ornaments ; it is only 
 luxury and avarice that makes poverty grievous 
 to us ; for it is a very small matter that does our 
 business, and when we have provided against 
 cold, hunger, and thirst, all the rest is but va- 
 nity and excess; and there is no need of expence 
 upon foreign delicacies, or the artifices of the 
 kitchen. What is he the worse for poverty, that 
 despises these things, nay, is he not rather the 
 better for it, because he is not able to go to the 
 price of them ? for he is kept sound, whether he 
 will or no; and that which a man cannot do, 
 looks many times as if he would not. 
 
 When 1 look back into the moderation of past 
 ages, it makes me ashamed to discourse, as if 
 
228 senega's morals. 
 
 A lutle suffices a temperate man. 
 
 poverty had need of any consolation ; for we are 
 now come to that degree of intemperance, that a 
 fair patrimony is too little for a meal. Homer 
 had but one servant, Plato three, and Zeno (the 
 master of the masculine sect of Stoics), had none 
 at all. The daughters of Scipio had their por- 
 tion out of the common treasury, for their father 
 left them not worth a penny : how happy were 
 their husbands that had the people of Rome for 
 their father-in-law? Shall any man now contemn 
 poverty, after these eminent examples, which are 
 sufficient not only to justify, but to recommend 
 it ? Upon Diogenes' only servant running away 
 from him, he was told where he was, and per- 
 suaded to fetch him back again. " What," says 
 he, " can Manes live without Diogenes, and not 
 Diogenes without Manes V and so let him go. 
 The piety and moderation of Scipio has made his 
 memory more venerable than his arms, and more 
 yet, after he left his country, than while he de- 
 fended it; for matters were come to that pass, 
 that either Scipio must be injurious to Rome, or 
 Rome to Scipio. Coarse bread and water to a 
 temperate man, is as good as a feast; and the 
 very herbs of the field yield a nourishment to 
 man, as well as to beasts. It was not by choice 
 meats and perfumes that our forefathers recom- 
 mended themselves, but in virtuous actions, and 
 the sweat of honest, military^ and of manly la- 
 tours. 
 
senega's morals. 229 
 
 The state of innocence. 
 
 While nature lay in common, and all her bene- 
 fits were promiscuously enjoyed, what could be 
 happier than the state of mankind, when people 
 lived without avarice or envy? what could be 
 richer, than when there was not a poor man to 
 be found in the world? So soon as this impartial 
 bounty of Providence came to be restrained by 
 covetousness, and that particulars appropriated 
 that to themselves which was intended for all, 
 then did poverty creep into the world, when 
 some men, by desiring more than came to their 
 share, lost their title to the rest. A loss never to 
 be repaired ; for though we may come yet to get 
 much, we once had all. The fruits of the earth 
 were in those days divided among the inhabitants 
 of it, without either want or excess. . So long as 
 men contented themselves with their lot, there 
 was no violence, no engrossing, or hiding cf 
 those benefits for particular advantages, which 
 were appointed for the community ; but every 
 man had as much care for his neighbour as for 
 himself. No arms, or bloodshed, no war, but 
 with wild beasts, but under the protection of a 
 wood, or a cave, they spent their days without 
 cares, and their nights without groans ; their in- 
 nocence was their security and their protection. 
 There were as yet no beds of state, no orna- 
 ments of pearl, or embroidery, nor any of those 
 remorses that attend them ; but the heavens were. 
 
 x 
 
230 seneca's morals. 
 
 It is a kind of an to become good. 
 
 their canopy, and the glories of them their spec- 
 tacle. The motions of the orbs, the courses of 
 the stars, and the wonderful order of Providence 
 was their contemplation : there was no fear of the 
 house falling, or the rusling of a rat behind the 
 arras; they had no palaces then like cities, but 
 they had open air, and breathing- room; crystal 
 fountains, refreshing shades, the meadows drest 
 up in their native beauty, and such cottages as 
 were according to nature, and wherein they lived 
 contentedly, without fear either of losing or of 
 falling. These people lived without either soli- 
 tude or fraud, and yet I must call them rather 
 happy than wise. That men were generally bet- 
 ter before they were corrupted, than after, I 
 make no doubt, and I am apt to believe that they 
 were both stronger and hardier too; but their 
 wits were not yet come to maturity, for nature 
 does not give virtue,, and it is a kind of art to 
 become good : they had not as yet torn up the 
 bowels of the earth for gold, silver, or precious 
 stones ; and, so far were they from killing any 
 man, as we do, for a spectacle, that they were 
 not as yet come to it, either in fear or anger, 
 nay, they spared the very fishes. But, after all 
 this, they were innocent, because they were ig- 
 norant ; and there is a great difference betwixt 
 not knowing how to offend, and not being willing 
 to do it. They had, in that rude life, certain 
 
seneca's morals. 231 
 
 A temperate life is a happy one. 
 
 images and resemblances of virtue, but yet they 
 fell short of virtue itself, which comes only by 
 institution, learning, and study, as it is perfect- 
 ed by practice. It is, indeed, the end for which 
 we were born, but yet, it did not come into the 
 world with us ; and in the best of men, before 
 they are instructed, we find rather the matter 
 and the seeds of virtue, than the virtue itself. 
 It is the wonderful benignity of nature, that has 
 laid open to us all things that may do us good, 
 and only hid those things from us that may hurt 
 us: as if she durst not trust us with gold and 
 silver, or with iron, which is the instrument of 
 war, and a contention for the other. It is \re 
 ourselves that have drawn out of the earth, both 
 the causes and the instruments of our dangers; 
 and we are so vain as to set the highest esteem 
 upon those things to which nature has assigned 
 the lowest place. What can be more coarse and 
 rude in the mine than those precious metals, or 
 more slavish and dirty, than the people that dig 
 and work them ? and yet they defile our minds 
 more than our bodies, and make the possessor 
 fouler than the artificer of them. Rich men, in 
 fine, are only the greater slaves. Both the one 
 and the other wants a great deal. 
 
 Happy is that man that eats only for hunger, 
 and drinks only for thirst ; that stands upon his 
 own legs, and lives by reason, not by example, 
 
 X 2 
 
232 Seneca's morals. 
 
 Eating and drinking end in satiety. 
 
 and provides for use and necessity, not for osten- 
 tation and pomp. Let us curb our appetites, en- 
 courage virtue, and rather be beholden to our- 
 selves for riches than to fortune, who, when a 
 man draws himself into a narrow compass, has 
 the least mark at him. Let my bed be plain and 
 clean, and my clothes so too ; my meat without 
 much expence, or many waiters, and neither a 
 burden to my purse, nor to my body, nor to go 
 out the same way it came in. That which is too 
 little for luxury, is abundantly enough for na- 
 ture. The end of eating and drinking is satiety ; 
 now, what matters it, though one eats and drinks 
 more, and another less, so long as the one is not 
 a-hungry, nor the other a-thirst ? Epicurus, that 
 limits pleasure to nature, as the Stoics do virtue^ 
 is undoubtedly in the right ; and those that cite 
 him to authorize their voluptuousness, do exceed- 
 ingly mistake him, and only seek a good autho- 
 rity for an evil cause : for their pleasures of sloth, 
 gluttony, and lust, have no affinity at all with 
 his precepts, or meaning. It is true, that at first 
 sight his philosophy seems effeminate, but he that 
 looks nearer him, will find him to be a very 
 brave man, only in a womanish dress. 
 
 It is a common objection, I know, that these 
 philosophers do not live at the rate they talk, for 
 they can flatter their superiors, gather estates, 
 and be as much concerned at the loss of fortune* 
 
seneca's morals. 233 
 
 Philosophers do not live as they preach. 
 
 or of friends, as other people, as sensible of re- 
 proaches, as luxurious in their eating and drink- 
 ing, their furniture, their houses ; as magnificent 
 in their plate, servants, and officers; as profuse 
 and curious in their gardens, 6:c. Well ! and 
 what of all this, or if it were twenty times more ? 
 It is some degree of virtue for a man to condemn 
 himself, and if he cannot come up to the best, to 
 be vet better than the worst; and if he cannot 
 wholly subdue his appetites, however to check 
 and diminish them. If I do not live as I preach, 
 take notice that I do not speak of myself, but of 
 virtue ; nor am I so much offended with other 
 men's vices as with my own. All this was ob- 
 jected to Plato, Epicurus, Zeno; nor is any 
 virtue so sacred as to escape malevolence. The 
 Cynique Demetrius was a great instance of seve- 
 rity and mortification, and one that imposed upon 
 himself, neither to possess any thing, nor so much 
 as to ask it, and yet he had this scorn put upon 
 him, that his profession was poverty, not virtue. 
 Plato is blamed for asking money, Aristotle for 
 receiving it, Democritus for neglecting it, Epi- 
 curus for consuming it. How happy were we if 
 we could but come to imitate these men's vices; 
 for if we knew our own condition, we should find 
 work enough at home. But we are like people 
 that are making merry at a play, or a tavern, 
 when their own houses are on fire, and yet they 
 x 3 
 
£34 seneca's MOitAis. 
 
 We are loth u> n-Miv.in ourselves. 
 
 know nothing of it. Nay, Cato himself was said 
 to be a drunkard ; but drunkenness itself shall 
 sooner be proved to be no crime, than Cato dis- 
 honest. They that demolish temples, and over- 
 turn altars* shew their good-will, though they 
 Can do the gods no hurt; and so it fares with 
 those that invade the reputation of great men. 
 If the professors of virtue be as the world calls 
 them, avaricious, libidinous, ambitious; what 
 are they then that have a detestation for the very 
 name of it ? but malicious natures do not waist 
 wit to abuse honester men than themselves. It is 
 the practice of the multitude, to bark at eminent 
 -men, as little dogs do at strangers; for they lock 
 upon other men's virtues as the upbraiding of 
 their own wickedness. We should do well to 
 commend those that are good* if not, let us pass 
 them over; but, however, let us spare ourselves* 
 for beside the blaspheming of virtue, our rage 
 is to no purpose; But to return now to my text. 
 
 We are ready enough to limit others, but loth 
 to put bounds and restraint upon ourselves, 
 though we know that many times a greater evil is 
 cured by the less ; and the mind that will not be 
 brought to virtue by precepts, comes to it fre- 
 quently by necessity. Let us try a little to eat 
 upon a joint stool, to serve ourselves, to live 
 within compass, and accommodate our clothes to 
 the end they were made fcr. Occasional experi- 
 
 ■ v 
 
seneca's morals. 235 
 
 Let us practise frugality in plenty. 
 
 ments of our moderation, give us the best proof of 
 our firmness and virtue. A well-governed appe- 
 tite is a great part of liberty ', and it is a blessed 
 lot, that since no man can have all. things that he 
 would have, we may all of us forbear desiring 
 what we have not. It is the office of temperance 
 to over-rule us in our pleasures : some she re- 
 jects, others she qualifies, and keeps within 
 bounds. Oh ! the delights of rest, when a man 
 comes to be weary, and of meat, when he is 
 heartily hungry ! I have learned (says our au- 
 thor) by one journey, how many things we have 
 that are superfluous, and how easily they may 
 be spared ; for, when we are without them, upon 
 necessity, we do not so much as feel the want of 
 them. This is the second blessed day (says he) 
 that my friend and I have travelled together, one 
 waggon carries ourselves, and our servants ; my 
 mattress lies upon the ground, and I upon that; 
 our diet answerable to our lodging, and never 
 without our figs and our table-books. The 
 muleteer without shoes, and the mules only, 
 prove themselves to be alive by their walking. In 
 this equipage I am not willing, I perceive, to own 
 myself, but as often as we happen into better 
 company, I presently fall a blushing, which shews 
 that I am not yet confirmed in those things which 
 I approve and commend ; I am not yet come to 
 own my frugality, for he that is ashamed to be 
 
236* seneca's 'morals. 
 
 '] here is nothing ill t!,.>t is well taken. 
 
 seen in a mean condition, would be proud of a 
 splendid one. I value myself upon what passen- 
 gers think of me, and tacitly renounce my prin- 
 ciples; whereas I should rather lift up my voice, 
 to be heard by mankind, and tell them — You 
 are all mad ; your minds are set upon superflui- 
 ties, and you value no man for virtues. I came 
 one night weary home, and threw myself upon 
 the bed, with this consideration about me — 
 there is nothing ill that is well taken. My baker 
 tells me he has no bread, but, says he, I may 
 get some of your tenants, though I fear it is not 
 good. No matter, said 1, for I will stay till it 
 is better; that is to say, until my stomach be glad 
 of worse, it is discretion sometimes to practise 
 temperance, and wont ourselves to a little, for 
 there are many difficulties, both of time and 
 place, that may force us upon it: when we come 
 to the matter of patrimony, how strictly do we 
 examine what every man is worth, before we will 
 trust him with a penny : such a man, we cry, 
 has a great estate, but it is shrewdly incumbered; 
 a very fair house, but it was built with borrowed 
 money; a numerous family, but he does not 
 keep touch with his creditors ; if his debts were 
 paid, he would not be worth a groat. Why do 
 we not take the same course in other things, and 
 examine what every man is worth ? It is not 
 enough to have a long train of attendants, vasfc 
 
seneca's morals. 237 
 
 Moderation of Fabricius. 
 
 possessions, or an incredible treasure in money 
 and jewels, a man may be poor for all this. 
 There is only this difference at best — one man 
 borrows of the usurer, and the other of fortune. 
 "What signifies the carving or gilding of the cha- 
 riot ; is the master ever the better for it ? 
 
 We cannot close up this chapter with a more 
 generous instance of moderation than that of Fa- 
 bricius. Pyrrhus tempted him with a sum of 
 money to betray his country ; and Pyrrhus, his 
 physician, offered Fabricius, for a sum of money, 
 to poison his master: but he was too brave, 
 either to be overcome by gold, or to overcome 
 by poison ; so that he refused the money, and 
 advised Pyrrhus to have a care of treachery, and 
 this in the heat too of a licentious war. — Fabri- 
 cius valued himself upon his poverty, and was as 
 much above the thought of riches as of poison. 
 11 Live Pyrrhus," says he, " by my friendship, 
 and turn that to thy satisfaction, which was be- 
 fore thy trouble ;" that is to say, that Fabricius 
 could not be corrupted. 
 
 CONSTANCY OF MIND GIVES A MAN REPU- 
 TATION, AND MAKES HIM HAPPY IN 
 DESPITE OF ALL MISFORTUNES. 
 
 The whole duty of man may be reduced to 
 the two points of abstinence and patience, tem- 
 perance in prosperity, and courage in adversity. 
 
238 senega's morals. 
 
 A wise man is above injuries. 
 
 We have already treated of the former, and the 
 other follows now in course. 
 
 Epicurus will have it, that a wise man will 
 bear all injuries ; but the Stoics will not allow 
 those things to be injuries, \vhich Epicurus calls 
 so. Now, betwixt these two, there is the same 
 difference that we find betwixt two gladiators : 
 the one receives wounds, but yet maintains his 
 ground ; the other tells the people, when he is in 
 blood, that it is but a scratch, and will not suffer 
 any one to part them. An injury cannot be re- 
 ceived, but it must be done; but it may be 
 done, and yet not received; as a man may be in 
 the water and not swim, but if he swims, it is 
 presumed that he is in the water. Or if a blow 
 or shot be levelled at us, it may so happen that 
 a man may miss his aim, or some accident inter- 
 pose, that may divert the mischief. That which 
 is hurt is passive, and inferior to that which 
 hurts it; but you will say that Socrates was con- 
 demned, and put to death, and so received an 
 injury ; but I answer, that the tyrants did him an 
 injury, and yet he received none. He that steals 
 any thing from me, and hides it in my own house, 
 though I have not lost it, yet he has stolen it. 
 lie that lies with his own wife, and takes her for 
 another woman, though the woman be honest, 
 the man is an adulterer. Suppose a man gives 
 me a draught of poison, and it proves not strong 
 
seneca's morals. 239 
 
 * __ ■ 
 
 The excellency of a great mind. * 
 
 enough to kill me; his guilt is never the less for 
 the disappointment. He that makes a pass at 
 me, is as much a murderer, though I put it by, 
 as if he had struck me to the heart. It is the in- 
 tention, not the effect, that makes the wicked- 
 ness. He is a thief, that has the will of killing 
 and slaying, before his hand is dipt in blood : as 
 it is sacrilege, the very intention of laying vio- 
 lent hands upon holy things. If a philosopher 
 be exposed to torments, the axe over his head, 
 his body wounded, his guts in his hands, I will 
 allow him to groan; for virtue itself cannot 
 divest him of the nature of a man, but if his 
 mind stand firm, he has discharged his part. A 
 great mind enables a man to maintain his station 
 with honour, so that he only makes use of what 
 he meets in his way, as a pilgrim that would fain 
 be at his journey's end. 
 
 It is the excellency of a great mind to ask no- 
 thing, and to want nothing, and to say — I will 
 have nothing to do with fortune, that repulses 
 Cato, and prefers Vatinius. He that quits his 
 hold, and accounts any thing good that is not 
 honest, runs gaping after casualties, spends his 
 days in anxiety and vain expectations : that man 
 is miserable. And yet it is hard, you will say, 
 to be banished, or cast into prison, nay, what 
 if it were to be burnt, or any other way destroy- 
 ed \ We have examples, in all ages, and in all 
 
240 SENECA'S MORALS. 
 
 Cato's constancy. 
 
 cases, of great men that have triumphed over all 
 misfortunes. Metellus suffered exile resolutely, 
 Rutilius chearfully. Socrates disputed in the 
 dungeon, and though he might have made his 
 escape, refused it, to shew the world how easy a 
 thing it was to subdue the two great terrors of 
 mankind — death and a jail. Or what shall 
 •we say of Mucius Scacvola, a man only of a mi- 
 litary courage, and without the help either of 
 philosophy, or letters, who, when he found that 
 he had killed the secretary, instead of Porsenna 
 (the prince), burnt his right hand to ashes for 
 the mistake; and held his arm in the flame, 
 until it was taken away by his very enemies* 
 Porsenna did more easily pardon Mucius for his 
 intent to kill him, than Mucius forgave himself 
 for missing of his aim. He might have done a 
 luckier thing, but not a braver. 
 
 Did notCato, in the last night of his life, take 
 Plato to bed with him, with his sword at his 
 bed's head, the one, that he might have death at 
 his will, the other, that he might have it in his 
 power; being resolved that no man should be able 
 to say, either that he killed, on that he saved 
 Cato. So soon as he had composed his thoughts, 
 he took his sword — " Fortune," says he, " I 
 have hitherto fought for my country's liberty and 
 my own, and only that I might live free among 
 freemen; but the cause is now lost, and Cato 
 
SENECA 3 MORALS. 241 
 
 A great mind can only jud^ of grejt things 
 
 safe." With that word, he cast himself upon his 
 sword, and after the physicians, that pressed in 
 upon him, had bound up his wound, he tore it 
 open again, and so expired with the same great- 
 ness of soul that he lived. But these are the ex- 
 amples, you will say, of men famous in their 
 generations. Let us but consult history, and we 
 shall find, even in the most effeminate of nations, 
 and the most dissolute of times, men of all de- 
 grees, ages, and fortunes, nay, even women 
 .themselves, that have overcome the fear of 
 death: which, m truth, is so little to be feared, 
 that duly considered, it is one of the greatest be- 
 nefits in nature. It *as as great an honour for 
 Cato, when his party was broken, that he him- 
 self stood his ground, as it would have been if 
 he had carried the day, and settled an universal 
 peace : for it is an equal prudence to make the 
 best of a bad game, and to manage a good one. 
 The day he was repulsed, he played ; and the 
 niMit that he killed himself, he read, as valuing 
 the loss of his life, and the missing of an office at 
 the same rate. People, I know, are very apt to 
 pronounce upon other men's infirmities, by the 
 measure of their own, and to think it impossible, 
 that a man should be content to be burnt, wound- 
 ed, killed, or shackled, though in some cases he 
 may. It is only for a great mind to judge of 
 <reat things, for otherwise, that which is our in- 
 
 Y 
 
24-2 senega's morals. 
 
 Courage in adversity is praise-worthy. 
 
 firmity, will seem to be another body's; as a 
 straight stick in the water appears to be crooked : 
 he that yields, draws upon his own head his own 
 ruin ; for we are sure to get the better of for- 
 tune, if we do but struggle with her. Fencers 
 and wrestlers, we see what blows and bruises 
 they endure, not only for honour, but for exer- 
 cise. IT we turn our backs once, we are routed 
 and pursued : that man only is happy, that 
 draws good out of evil; that stands fast in his 
 judgment, and unmoved with any external vio^ 
 lenee; or, however, so little moved, that the 
 keenest arrow in the quiver of fortune is but as 
 the prick of a needle to him, rather than a 
 wound ; and all her other weapons fall upon him 
 only as hail upen the roof of a house, that 
 crackles and skips off again, without any da- 
 mage to the inhabitant. 
 
 A generous and a clear-sighted young man, 
 will take it for a happiness to encounter ill for- 
 tune. It is nothing for a man to hold up his 
 head in a calm j but to maintain his post, when 
 all others have quitted their ground, and there 
 to stand upright, where other men are beaten 
 down, this is divine and praise-worthy. What 
 ill is there in torments, or in those things which 
 we commonly account grievous crosses ? The 
 great evil is the want of courage, the bowing and 
 submitting to them, which can never happen to 
 
seneca's morals. 243 
 
 We mutt judge of a man by His mind. 
 
 a wise man, for he stands upright under any 
 weight, nothing that is to be borne displeases 
 him, he knows his strength, and whatsoever may 
 be any man's lot, he never complains of, if it be 
 
 his own. Nature, he says, deceives nobody; 
 she does not tell us whether our children shall bs 
 fair or foul, wise or foolish, good subjects or 
 traitors, nor whether our fortune shall be good or 
 bad. Wfi must not judge of a man by his orna- 
 ments, but strip him of all the advantages and 
 impostures of fortune, nay, of his very body too, 
 and look into his mind. If he can see a naked 
 sword at his eyes, without so much as winking; 
 if he make it a thing indifferent to him, whether 
 his life go out at his throat, or at his mouth; if 
 he can hear himself sentenced to torments, cr 
 exiles, and, under the very hand of the execu- 
 tioner, say thus to himself — " All this I am pro- 
 vided for, and it is no more than a man that is 
 to sutler the fate of humanity." This is the 
 temper of mind that speaks a man happy, and 
 without this, all the confluences of external com- 
 forts signify no more than the personating of the 
 king upon the stage, when the curtain is drawn 
 we are all players again. Not that I pretend to 
 exempt a wise man out of the number of mer, 
 as if he had no sense of pain. But I reckon him 
 as compounded of body and soul : the body is 
 irrational, and may be galled, burnt, tortured • 
 
 Y 2 
 
-44 seneca's morals. 
 
 A wise man is prepared for ihe worst. 
 
 I '.■: the rational part is fearless, invincible, and 
 i*ot to be shaken. This is it that I reckon upon 
 as the supreme good of man, which, until it be 
 perfected, is but an unsteady agitation of 
 thought, and in the perfection an immoveable 
 stability. It is not in our contentions with for- 
 tune, as in those of the theatre, where we may 
 throw down our arms and pray for quarter, but 
 here we must die firm and resolute. There 
 needs no encouragement to those things which we 
 are inclined to by a natural instinct, as the pre- 
 servation of ourselves with ease and pleasure, 
 but, if it corals to the trial of our faith by tor- 
 ments, or of courage by wounds, these are diffi- 
 culties that we must be armed against by philoso- 
 phy and precept: and yet all this is no more than 
 what we were born to, and no matter of wonder 
 at ali j so that a wise mat) prepares himself for 
 it, as expecting that whatsoever may be, will be. 
 My bod}^ is frail, and liable not only to the im- 
 pressions of violence, but to afflictions also, that 
 naturally succeed our pleasures. Full meals bring 
 crudities, whoring and drinking make the hands 
 to shake and the knees to tremble. It is only 
 the surprise and newness of the thing, which 
 makes that misfortune terrible, which by preme- 
 ditation might be made easy to us. For that 
 Which some people make light by sufferance, 
 ethers do by foresight. Whatsoever is necessary, 
 
seneca's morals. 245 
 
 Let no one wjnder at ih ■ lot of life. 
 
 we must bear patiently. It is no new thing to 
 die, no new thing to mourn, and no new thing 
 to be merry again. Must I be poor ? I shall have 
 company — in banishment, I will think myself 
 born there. If I die, I shall be no more sick ; 
 and it is a thing I can do but once. 
 
 Let us never wonder at any thing we are born 
 to, for no man has reason to complain, where 
 we are all in the same condition. He that 
 escapes, might have suffered, and it is but equal 
 to submit to the law of mortality. We must un- 
 dergo the colds of winter, the heats of summer, 
 the distempers of the air, and diseases of the 
 bod}?. A wild beast meets, us in one place, and 
 a man that is more brutal in another ; we are 
 here assaulted by fire, there by water. Deme- 
 trius was reserved by Providence for the age he 
 lived in, to shew, that neither the times could 
 corrupt him, nor he reform the people. He was 
 a man of an exact judgment, steady to his pur- 
 pose, and of a strong eloquence ; not finacal in 
 his words, but his sense was masculine and vehe- 
 ment. He was so qualified in his life and dis- 
 course, that he served both for an example and 
 a reprocich. If fortune should have offered that 
 man the government, and the possession of the 
 whole world, tuon condition not to lay it down 
 again, I dare say he would have refused it, and 
 thus have expostulated the matter with you- — 
 Y 3 
 
24') sexeca's morals. 
 
 We are ;o bear ill Occidents a* unkind seasons. 
 
 Why should you tempt a freeman to put his 
 shoulder under a burden ; or an honest man to 
 pollute himself with the dregs of mankind ? Why 
 do you offer me the spoils of princes, and of na- 
 tions, and the price, not only of your blood, but 
 of your souls? It is the part of a great mind to 
 be temperate in prosperity, resolute in adversity; 
 to despise what the vulgar admire, and to prefer 
 a mediocrity to an excess. Was not Socrates 
 oppressed vrah poverty, labour, nay, and the 
 wont of wars in his own family; a tierce and 
 t ulent woman to Lis wife? wcte not his chil- 
 dren indocible, ima like their mother? After 
 seven and twenty years spent in arms, he fell 
 under the slavery to the thirty tyrants, and most 
 of them ins bitter enemies ; he came at last to be 
 sentenced as a violater of religion, a corrupter of 
 youth, and a common enemy to God and man. 
 Alter this he was imprisoned, and put to death 
 by poison, which was all so far from working 
 upon his mind, that it never so much as altered 
 his countenance. We are to bear ill accidents as 
 unkind seasons, distempers, or diseases ; and 
 ■why may we not reckon the actions of wicked 
 men even among those accidents? Their delibe- 
 rations are not counsels, but frauds, snares, and 
 inordinate motions of the mind, and they are 
 never without a. thousand pretences and occa- 
 sions of doing a man mischief. They have their 
 
seneca's morals. 047 
 
 Thff mind is above foitune. 
 
 informers, their knights of the post; they can 
 make an interest with powerful men, and one 
 may be robbed as well upon the bench as upon 
 the highway. They lie in wait for advantages, 
 and live in perpetual agitation, betwixt hope and 
 fear; whereas he that is truly composed, will 
 stand all shocks, either of violences, flatteries, 
 or menaces, without perturbation. It is an in- 
 ward fear, that makes us curious after what we 
 hear abroad. 
 
 It is an error to attribute either good or ill to 
 fortune, but the matter of it we may, and we 
 ourselves are the occasion of it, being, in effect, 
 the artificers of our own happiness or misery : 
 for the mind is above fortune ; if that be evil, it 
 makes every thing else so too ; but if it be right 
 and sincere, it corrects what is wrong, and mol- 
 lifies what is hard, with modesty and courage. 
 There is a great ditierence among those that the 
 world calls wise men. Some take up private re- 
 solutions of opposing fortune, but they cannot go 
 through with them, for they are either dazzled 
 with splendour on the one hand, or affrighted 
 with terrors on the other : but there are others 
 that will close and grapple with fortune, and still 
 come off victorious. Mucius overcame the fire, 
 Regulus the gibbet, Socrates poison, Rutilius 
 banishment, Cato death, Fabricius riches, Tu- 
 bero poverty, and Sextius honours. But there 
 
218 sexeca's moral?. 
 
 Virtue is glorious in extremities, 
 
 are some again so delicate, that thev cannot s® 
 much as bear a scandalous report; which is the 
 .same thing as if a man should quarrel for being 
 jostled in a crowd, or dashed as he walked m the 
 streets. He that has a great way to go must ex- 
 pect a slip, to stumble, and to be tired. To the 
 luxurious man frugality is a punishment, labour 
 and industry to the sluggard, nay, study itself is 
 a torment to him : not that these things are hard 
 to us by nature, but we ourselves are vain and 
 irresolute; nay, we wonder, many of us, how 
 any man can live without wine, or endure to risa 
 so early in a morning. 
 
 A brave man must expect to be tossed, for he 
 is to steer his course in the teeth of fortune, and 
 to work against wind and weather. In the suf- 
 fering of torments, though there appears but one 
 virtue, a man exercises manv, 'that which is 
 most eminent is patience (which is but a branch 
 of fortitude). But there is prudence also in the 
 choice of the action, and in the bearing what we 
 cannot avoid: and there is constancy in bearing 
 it resolutely, and there is the same concurrence 
 also of several virtues in other generous under- 
 takings. Vv'hen Leonidas was to carry his SCO 
 men into the straits of Thermopylae to put a 
 stop to Xerxfis's huge army — " Come, fellow- 
 soldiers," says he, " eat your dinners here, as if 
 you were to sup in another world/' And they 
 
Seneca's morals. 249 
 
 Illustrated by examples. 
 
 answered his resolution. How plain and impe- 
 rious was that short speech of Caeditus to his men, 
 upon a desperate action, and how glorious a ( 
 mixture was there in it both of bravery and pru- 
 dence — " Soldiers," says he, " it is necessary for 
 us to go, but it is not necessary for us to return." 
 This brief and pertinent harangue was worth ten 
 thousand of the frivolous cavils and distinctions 
 of the schools, which rather break the mind than 
 fortify it, and when it is once perplexed, and 
 pricked with difficulties and scruples, there they 
 leave it. Our passions are numerous and strong, 
 and not to be mastered with quirks and tricks, as 
 if a man should undertake to defend the cause of 
 God and men with a bulrush. It was a remark- 
 able piece of honour, and policy together, that 
 action of Caesar's, upon the taking of Pompey's 
 cabinet, at the battle of Pharsalia : it is proba- 
 ble that the letters in it might have discovered 
 who were his friends, and who his enemies, and 
 yet he burnt it, without so much as opening it: 
 esteeming it the noblest way of pardoning, to keep 
 himself ignorant both of the offender and of the 
 offence. It was a brave presence of mind also in 
 Alexander, who, upon advice that his physician 
 Philip intended to poison him, .took the letter of 
 advice in one hand, and the cup in the other, 
 delivering Philip the letter to read, while he him- 
 self drank the potion, 
 
250 „ seneca's morals. 
 
 Vinue is invincible. 
 
 Some are of opinion, that death gives a man 
 courage to support pain, and that pain fortifies a 
 man against death: but I say rather, that a wise 
 man depends upon himself against both, and that 
 he does not either suffer with patience in hopes of 
 death, or die willingly because he is weary of 
 life; but he bears the one, and waits for the 
 other; and carries a divine mind through all the. 
 accidents of human life. He looks upon faith 
 and honesty as the most sacred good of mankind, 
 and neither to be forced by necessity, nor cor- 
 rupted by reward; kill, burn, tear him in pieces-, 
 he will be true to his trust; and the more any 
 man labours to make him discover a secret, the 
 deeper he will hide it. Resolution is the inex- 
 pugnable defence of human weakness, and it is a 
 wonderful Providence that attends it. Horatius 
 Codes opposed his single body to the whole ar- 
 my, until the bridge was cut down behind him, 
 and then leaped into the river, with his sword in 
 his hand, and came off safe to his party. There 
 was a fellow questioned about a plot upon the 
 life of a tyrant, and put to the torture to declare 
 his confederates : he named by one and one, all 
 the tyrant's friends that were about him, and still 
 as they were named, they were put to death ; 
 the tyrant asked him at last if there were any 
 more. " Yes," saye he, " you yourself were in 
 the plot; and now you have never another friend 
 
seneca's morals. 251 
 
 Noble examples excile us to n;>ble deed-. 
 
 left you in the world." Whereupon the tyrant 
 cut the throats of his own guards. He is the 
 happy man that is the master of himself, and tri- 
 umphs over the fear of death, which has overcome 
 the conquerors of the world. 
 
 OUR HAPPINESS DEPENDS IN A GREAT 
 
 MEASURE UPON THE CHOICE 
 
 OF OUR COMPANY. 
 
 The comfort of life depends upon conversa- 
 tion. Good offices and concord, and human so- 
 cietv, is like the working of an arch of stone, all 
 would fall to the ground, if one piece did not sup- 
 port another. Above all things, let us have a 
 tenderness for blood ; and it is yet too little not 
 to hurt, unless we profit one another. We are 
 " to relieve the distressed, to put the wanderer into 
 his way, and to divide our bread with the hun- 
 gry, which is but the doing of good to ourselves; 
 for we are only several members of one great 
 body. Nay, we are all of a consanguinity, form- 
 ed of the same materials, and designed to the 
 same end : this obliges us to a mutual tenderness 
 and converse; and the other, to live with a re- 
 gard to equity and justice. The love of society 
 is natural, but the choice of our company is mat- 
 ter of virtue and prudence. Noble examples stir us 
 up to noble actions; and the very history of large 
 and public souls, inspires a man with generous 
 
252 seneca's morals. 
 
 Ill example (he great corrupter of manners. 
 
 thoughts. It makes a man long to be in action, 
 and doing of something that the world may be 
 the better for; as protecting the weak, delivering 
 the oppressed, punishing the insolent. It is a 
 great blessing, the very conscience of giving a 
 good example ; beside, that it is the greatest obli- 
 gation any man can lay upon the age he lives in. 
 He that converses with the proud, shall be puffed 
 up ; a lustful acquaintance makes a man lasci- 
 vious ; and the way to secure a man from wick- 
 edness, is to withdraw from the examples of it. 
 It is too much to have them near us, but more to 
 have them within us: ill examples, pleasure and 
 ease, are, no doubt of it, great corrupters of 
 manners. A rocky ground hardens the horses' 
 hoofs : the mountaineer makes the best soldier ; 
 the miner makes the best pionier, and severity of 
 discipline fortifies the mind. In all excesses and 
 extremities of good, and of ill fortune, let us 
 have recourse to great examples, that have con- 
 temned both. Those are the best instructors, 
 that teach in their lives, and prove their words 
 by their actions. 
 
 As an ill air may endanger a good constitution, 
 so may a place of ill example endanger a good 
 man. Nay, there are some places that have a 
 kind of privilege to be licentious, and where lux- 
 ury and dissolution of manners seem to be law- 
 ful; for great examples give both authority and 
 
stneca's mohals. 253 
 
 We should avoid places of licentiousness. 
 
 excuse to wickedness. Those places are to be 
 avoided as dangerous to our manners. Hannibal 
 himself was unmanned by the looseness of Cam- 
 pania, and though a conqueror by his arms, he 
 was overcome by his pleasures. I would as soon 
 live among butchers as among cooks ; not but 
 that a mun may be temperate in any place, but, 
 to see drunken men staggering up and down every 
 where, and only the spectacles of lust, luxury, 
 and excess, before our eyes, it is not safe to ex- 
 pose ourselves to the temptation. If the vic- 
 torious Hannibal himself could not resist it, what 
 shall become of us then that are subdued, and 
 give ground to our lusts already ? He that has 
 to do with an enemy in his breast, has a harder 
 task upon him than he that is to encounter one 
 in the field : his hazard is greater if he loses 
 ground, and his duty is perpetual ; for he has no 
 place, or time for rest. If I give way to plea- 
 sure, I must also yield to grief, to poverty, to 
 labour, ambition, anger, until 1 am torn to 
 pieces by my misfortunes and my lusts. But, 
 against all this, philosophy propounds a liberty, 
 that is to say, a liberty from the service of acci- 
 dents and fortune. There is not any thing that 
 does more mischief to mankind, than mercenary 
 masters of philosophy, that do not live as they 
 teach; they give a scandal to virtue. How can 
 any man expect that a ship should steer a fortu- 
 
 z 
 
£54 senega's morals. 
 
 Practical philosopher* the best company. 
 
 Date course, when the pilot lies wallowing in his 
 own vomit ? It is an usual thing, first to learn to 
 do ill ourselves, and then to instruct others to do 
 so : but that man must needs be very wicked, that 
 has gathered into himself the wickedness of other 
 people. 
 
 . The best conversation is with the philosophers, 
 that is to say, with such of them as teach us matter, 
 not words; that preach to us things necessary, 
 and keep us to the practice of them. There can 
 -be no peace in human life, without the contempt 
 of all events. There is nothing that either puts 
 better thoughts into a man, or sooner sets him 
 right that is out of the way, than a good compa- 
 nion. For the example has the force of a pre- 
 cept, and touches the heart with an affection to 
 goodness. And not only the frequent hearing 
 and seeing of a wise man delights us, but the 
 very encounter of him suggests profitable con- 
 templations; such as a man finds himself mov- 
 ed with, when he goes into a holy place. J 
 will take more care with whom I eat and drink, 
 than what; for without a friend, the tabic is a 
 manger. Writing does well, but personal dis- 
 course and conversation does bettei ; for men 
 give great credit to tl\eir ears, and take stronger 
 impressions from example than precept. Cleanthes 
 had never hit Zeno so to the life, if he had not 
 been with him at all his privacies, if he had not 
 
seneca's morals. $55 
 
 One bad example may do mud 
 
 watched and observed him, whether or not he 
 practised as he taught. Plato got more from 
 Socrates' s manners than from his words ; and it 
 was not the school, but the company and fami- 
 liarity of Epicurus, that made Metrodorus, Her- 
 machus, and Polyasnus so famous. 
 
 Now, though it be by instinct that we covet 
 society, and avoid solitude, w r e should yet take 
 this along with us, that the more acquaintance 
 the more danger. Nay, there is not one man 
 of an hundred that is to be trusted with himself. 
 Jf company cannot alter us, it may interrupt us ; 
 and he that so much as stops upon the wav, loses 
 a great deal of a short life, which we yet make 
 shorter by our inconstancy. If an enemy were 
 at our heels, what haste should we make ? but 
 death is so, and yet we never mind it. There is 
 no venturing of tender and easy natures among 
 the people, for it is odds that they will go over to 
 the major party. It would, perhaps, shake the 
 constancy of Socrates, Cato, Lrelius, or any of 
 us all, even when our resolutions are at the 
 height, to stand the shock of vice that presses 
 upon us with a kind of public authority. It is a 
 world of mischief that may be done by one single 
 example of avarice and luxury. One voluptuous 
 palate makes a great many. A wealthy neigh- 
 bour stirs up envy, and a sneering companioia 
 moves ill nature wherever he comes. What will 
 
 Z a 
 
256 seneca's morals. 
 
 The danger of a numerous acquaintance. 
 
 become of those people then, that expose them- 
 selves to a popular violence ? which is ill both 
 ways, either if they comply with the wicked, 
 because they are many, or quarrel with the mul- 
 titude, because they are not principled alike. 
 The best way is to retire, and associate only with 
 those that may be the better for u«, and we for 
 them. These respects are mutual, for while we 
 teach we learn. To deal freely, I dare not trust 
 myself in the hands of much company : I never 
 go abroad, that I come home again the same man 
 that 1 went out. Some thing or other that I had put 
 in order is discomposed : some passion that I had 
 subdued gets head again; and it is just with our 
 minds, as it is after a long indisposition with our 
 bodies, we are grown so tender, that the least 
 breath of air exposes us to a relapse. And it is 
 no wonder if a numerous conversation be danger- 
 ous, where there is scarce any single man, but 
 by his discourse, example, or behaviour, does 
 ekher recommend to us, or imprint in us, or by 
 a kind of contagion, insensibly infect us with one 
 vice or other ; and the more people the greater is 
 the peril. Especially let us have a care of pub- 
 lic spectacles, where wickedness insinuates itself 
 with pleasure; and, above all others, let us 
 avoid spectacles of cruelty and blood, and have 
 nothing to do with those that are perpetually 
 whining and complaining, there may be faith and 
 
seneca's morals. Qj7 
 
 Friendship the most char mi ag of all felicities. 
 
 kindness there, but no peace. People that are 
 either sad or fearful, we do commonly, for their 
 own sakes, set a guard upon them, for. fear they 
 should make an ill use of being alone ; especi. 
 the imprudent, who are still contriving of mis- 
 chief, either for others, or for themselves, in che- 
 rishing their lusts, or forming their designs. So 
 much for the choice of a companion, we shall now 
 proceed to that of a friend. 
 
 THE BLESSINGS OF FRIENDSHIP. , 
 
 Of all felicities, the most charming is that of 
 a firm and gentle friendship. It sweetens all our 
 cares, dispels our sorrows, and counsels us in all 
 extremities. Nay, if there were no other com- 
 fort in it than the bare exercise of so generous a 
 virtue, even for that single reason, a man would 
 not be without it. Beside, that it is a sovereign 
 antidote against all calamities, even against the 
 fear of death itself. 
 
 But we are not yet to number our friends by 
 the visits that are made us, and to confound the 
 decencies of ceremony and commerce with the 
 offices of united affections. Caius Graccus, and 
 after him Livius Drusus, were the men that in- 
 troduced among the Romans the fashion of sepa- 
 rating their visitants : some were taken into their 
 closets, others were only admitted into the anti- 
 chamber, and some again were fain to wait in 
 z 3 
 
258 Seneca's morals. 
 
 Of ihe choice of a friend. 
 
 the hall perhaps, or in the court. So that they 
 had their first, their second,, and their third-rate 
 /friends, but none of them true; only they are 
 called so in course, as we salute strangers with 
 some title or other of respect at a venture. There 
 is no depending upon these men that only take 
 their compliment in their turn, and rather slip 
 through the door, than enter at it : he will find 
 himself in a great mistake, that either seeks for a 
 friend in a palace, or tries him at a feast. 
 
 The great difficulty rests in the choice of him* 
 that is to say, in the first place, let him be vir- 
 tuous; for vice is contagious, and there is no 
 trusting of the sound and the sick together : and 
 he ought to be a wise man too, if a body knew 
 where to find him, but, in this case, he that is 
 least ill, is best ; and the highest degree of human 
 prudence is only the most venial folly. That 
 friendship, where men's affections are cemented 
 by an equal, and by a common love of goodness, 
 it is not either hope or fear, or any private inte- 
 rest, that can ever dissolve it, but we carry it with 
 us to our graves, and lay down our lives for if- 
 with satisfaction. Paulina's good and mine (says 
 our author) were so wrapt up together, that in 
 consulting her comfort, i provided for my own ; 
 and when I could not prevail upon her to take less 
 care for me, she prevailed upon me to take more 
 care of myself. Some people make it a question 
 
I 
 
 seneca's morals. 2Ji 
 
 True friends are the whole world to one another. 
 
 — whether is the greater delight, the enjoying of 
 an old friendship, or the acquiring of a new one? 
 but, it is in preparing of a friendship, and in the 
 possession of it, as it is with a husbandman in 
 sowing and reaping, his delight is the hope of his 
 labour in the one case, and the fruit of it in the 
 other. My conversation lies among my books, 
 but yet, in the letters of a friend, methinks I 
 have his company; and when I answer them, I 
 do not only write, but speak: and, in effect, a 
 friend is an eye, a heart, a tongue, a hand, at 
 all distances. When friends see one another per- 
 sonally, they do not see one another as they do 
 when they are divided, where the meditation 
 dignifies the prospect ; but they are effectually, in 
 a great measure, absent, even when they are 
 present. Consider their nights apart, their pri- 
 vate studies, their separate employments, and 
 necessary visits, and they are almost as much 
 together, divided, as present. True friends are 
 the whole world to one another ; and he that is 
 a friend to himself, is also a friend to mankind. 
 Even in my very studies, the greatest delight I 
 take in what I learn, is the teaching of it to 
 others : for there is no relish, methinks, in the 
 possessing of any thing without a partner; nay, 
 if wisdom itself were offered me, upon condition 
 only of keeping it to myself, I should undoubtedly 
 refuse it. 
 
 4 
 
c6*0 senega's morals. 
 
 ■ ■ - . . ' — » 
 
 There must be no reserves in friendship. 
 
 Lucilius tells me, that he was \vritttn to bv a 
 friend, but cautions me withal, not to say any 
 thing to him of the affair in question, for he him- 
 self stands upon the same guard. What is this, 
 but to affirm and to deny the same thing, in the 
 same breath ; in calling a man a friend, ivhom 
 we dare not trust as our own soul ? for there 
 must be no reserves in friendship : as much deli- 
 beration as you please before the league is struck, 
 but no doubtings or jealousies after. It is a pre- 
 posterous weakness, to love a man before we 
 know him, and not to care for him after. It re- 
 quires time to consider of a friendship, but the 
 resolution once taken, entitles him to my very 
 heart : I look upon my thoughts to be as safe in 
 his breast as in my own; I shall, without any 
 scruple, make him the confident of my most se- 
 cret cares and counsels. It goes a great way to- 
 ward making a man faithful, to let him under- 
 stand that } t ou think him so ; and he that does 
 but so much as suspect that I will deceive him, 
 gives me a kind of right to cozen him. When I 
 am with my friend, methinks I am alone, and as 
 much at liberty to speak any thing, as to think 
 it ; and as our hearts are one, so must be our 
 interests and convenience : for friendship lays all 
 things in common, and nothing can be good to 
 the one, that is ill to the other. I do not speak 
 of such a community as to destroy one another's 
 
SENfcCA 8 MORALS. 20 I 
 
 ' ' - ■ ' ' i ■ ■ " • • 
 
 Temporary friends never stand the test. 
 
 propriety, but as the father and the mother have 
 two children, not one a piece, but each of them 
 two. 
 
 But, let us have a care above all things, that 
 our kindness be rightfully founded ; for where there 
 is any other invitation to friendship itself, that 
 friendship will be bought and sold. He dero- 
 gates from the majesty of it, that makes it only 
 dependent upon good fortune. It is a narrow 
 consideration, for a man to please himself in the 
 thought of a friend — " Because," says he, " I 
 shall have one to help me, when I am sick, in 
 prison, or in want." A brave man should rather 
 take delight in the contemplation of doing the 
 same offices for another. Pie that loves a man 
 for his own sake, is in an error. A friendship 
 of interest cannot last any longer than the inte- 
 rest itself; and this is the reason that men in 
 prosperity are so much followed ; and when a 
 man goes down the wind, no body comes near 
 him. Temporary friends will never stand the test. 
 One man is forsaken -for fear or profit, another is 
 betrayed. It is a negotiation, not a friendship, 
 that has an eye to advantages : only through the 
 corruption of times, that which was formerly a 
 friendship, is now become a design upon a booty; 
 alter your testament, and you lose your friend. 
 But my end of friendship is to have one dearer 
 to me than myself, and for the saving of whose 
 
$62 sen-eca's morals. 
 
 Tlie loss of a friend is hard to be repaired. 
 
 life I would chearfully lay down my own ; taking 
 this along with me, that only wise men can be 
 friends ; others are but companions, and that there 
 is a great difference also betwixt love and friend- 
 ship; the one may sometimes do us hurt, the 
 other always does us good ; for one friend is 
 helpful to another in all cases, as well in prospe- 
 rity as affliction. We receive comfort, even at a 
 thstance, from those we love, but then it is light 
 and faint; whereas presence and conversation 
 touches us to the quick, especially if we find the 
 man we love to be such a person as we wish. 
 
 It is usual with princes to reproach the living, 
 by commending the dead ; and to praise those 
 people for speaking truth, from whom there is no 
 longer any danger of hearing it. This was Au- 
 gustus's case. He was forced to banish his 
 daughter Julia, for her common and prostituted 
 impudence, and still, upon fresh informations, 
 was often heard to say — " If Agrippa, or Meca> 
 nas, had been now alive, this would never have 
 been." But yet, wh'ere the fault lay, may be a 
 question, for, perehanee, it was his own, that had 
 rather complain for the want of them, than seek 
 for others as good. The Roman losses by war, 
 and by fire, Augustus could quickly supply, and 
 repair, but for the loss of two friends he la- 
 mented his whole life after. Xerxes (a vain and 
 foolish prince), when he made war upon Greece, 
 
sen ec a's 'morals. 2(v3 
 
 On tiie sacrifice of time. 
 
 one told him it would never come to a battle. 
 Another — that he would find only empty cities 
 and countries, for they would not so much as 
 stand the very fame of his coming. Others 
 soothed him in the opinion of his prodigious num- 
 bers ; and they all concurred to puff him up to 
 his destruction. Only Demaratus advised him 
 not to depend too much upon his numbers, for 
 he would rather find them a burden to him, than 
 an advantage, and that 300 men in the straits of 
 the mountains would be sufficient to give a check 
 to his whole army, and that such an accident 
 would undoubtedly turn his vast numbers to his 
 confusion. It fell out afterward as he foretold, 
 and he had thanks for his fidelity. A miserable 
 prince, that among so many thousand subjects, 
 had but one servant to tell him truth. 
 
 HE THAT WOULD EE _ HAPPY MUST TAKE AN 
 ACCOUNT OE HIS TIME. 
 
 In the distribution of human life, we find, that 
 B great part of it passes away in evil-doing; a 
 greater yet, in doing just nothing at all ; and ef- 
 fectually the whole, in doing things beside our 
 business. Some hours we bestow upon ceremony, 
 and servile attendances; some upon our plea- 
 sures, and the remainder runs at waste. What a 
 deal of time is it that we spend in hopes and fears, 
 love and revenge ; in balls, treats, making of in- 
 
} .6i SESECa's MORA*LS. 
 
 Life rendered shorter hv idlent 
 
 terests, suing for offices, soliciting of causes, and 
 slavish flatteries! The shortness of life, 1 know, 
 is the common complaint, both of fools and phi- 
 losophers ; as if the time we have were not suffi- 
 cient for our duties. But it is with our lives as 
 with our estates, a good husband makes a little 
 go a great way ; whereas let the revenue of a 
 prince fall into the hand of a prodigal, it is gone 
 in a moment. So that the time allotted us, if it 
 were well employed, were abundantly enough to 
 answer all the ends and purposes of mankind. But 
 we squander it away in avarice, drink, sleep, lux- 
 ur} 7 , ambition, fawning addresses, envy, rambling 
 voyages, impertinent studies, change of councils, 
 and the like ; and when our portion is spent, we 
 find the want of it, though we give no heed to it 
 in the passage : insomuch, that we have rather 
 made our life short, than found it so. You shall 
 have some people perpetually playing with their 
 fingers, whistling, humming, and talking to 
 themselves; and others consume their days in 
 the composing, hearing, or reciting, of songs and 
 lampoons. How many precious mornings do we 
 spend in consultation with barbers, taylors, and 
 tire-women, patching, and painting, betwixt the 
 comb and the glass ? A council must be called 
 upon every hair we cut, and one curl amiss, is as 
 much as a body's life is worth. The truth is, we 
 are more solicitous about our dress, than our 
 
4+ 
 
 senega's morals. 265 
 
 It should be our care to live well. 
 
 manners; and about the order of our periwigs, 
 than that of the government. At this rate, let 
 us but discount, out of a life of a hundred years, 
 that time which has been spent upon popular ne- 
 gotiations, frivolous amours, domestic brawls, 
 saunterings up and down to no purpose, diseases 
 that we have brought upon ourselves, and this 
 large extent of life will not amount, perhaps, to 
 the minority of another man. It is a long being, 
 but perchance a short life. And what is the 
 reason of all this ? we live as we should never 
 die, and without any thoughts of human frailty; 
 when yet the very moment we bestow upon thie 
 man, or thing, may peradventure be our last. 
 But the greatest loss of time, is delay and ex- 
 pectation, which depends upon the future. We 
 let go the present, which we have in our own 
 power, we look forward to that which depends 
 upon fortune, and so quit a certainty for an un- 
 certainty. We should do by time, as we do by a 
 torrent, make use of it while we may have it, for 
 it will not last always. 
 
 The calamities of human nature may be divided 
 into the fear of death, and the miseries and errors 
 of life. And it is the great work of mankind to 
 master the one, and to rectify the other: and so 
 live, as neither to make life irksome to us, nor 
 death terrible. It should be our care, before we 
 are old, to live well, and when we are so, to 
 
 2 A 
 
2(76 senega's morals. 
 
 The duty of life is to prepare for deaih. 
 
 ■die well, that we may expect our end without 
 sadness; for it is the duty of life to prepare our- 
 selves for death, and there is not an hour we live 
 that does not mind us of our mortality: time runs 
 on, and all things have their fate, though it lies 
 in the dark; the period is certain to nature, but, 
 what am I the better for it, if it be not so to me ? 
 We propound travels, arms, adventures, without 
 ever considering that death lies in the way: our 
 time is set, and none of us know how near it is; 
 but we are all of us agreed, that the decree is un- 
 changeable. Why should we wonder to have that 
 befal us to-day, which might have happened to 
 us any minute since we were born? Let us there- 
 fore live as if every moment were to be our last, 
 and set our accounts right every day that passes 
 over our heads. Wc are not ready for death, and 
 therefore we fear it, because we do not know 
 what will become of us when we are gone ; and 
 that consideration strikes us with an inexplicable 
 terror. The way to avoid this distraction, is to 
 contract our business and our thoughts ; when 
 the mind is once settled, a day, or an age, is all 
 one to us, and the series of time, which is now 
 our trouble, will be then our delight; for he that 
 is steadily resolved against all uncertainties, shall 
 never be disturbed with the variety of them. Let 
 us make haste, therefore, to live, since every day 
 to a wise man is a new life : for he has done his 
 4 
 
seneca's morals-. QGf 
 
 Time, though valuable, is disregarded. 
 
 business the day before, and so prepared himself 
 for the next, that if it be not his last, he knows 
 yet that it might have been so. No man enjoys 
 the true taste of life, but he that is willing and 
 ready to quit it. 
 
 The wit of man is not able to express the blind- 
 ness of human folly, in taking so much care of 
 our fortunes, our houses, and our money, than 
 we do of our lives; every body breaks in upon 
 the one gratis, but we betake ourselves to fire 
 and sword, if any man invades the other. There 
 is no dividing in the case of patrimony, but peo- 
 ple share our time with us at pleasure ; so pro- 
 fuse are we of that only thing whereof we may be 
 honestly covetous. It is a common practice to 
 ask an hour or two of a friend, for such or such a 
 business, and it is as easily granted; both parties 
 only considering the occasion, and not the thing 
 itself. They never put time to account, which is 
 the most valuable of all precious tilings : but be- 
 cause they do not see it, they reckon upon it as 
 nothing, and yet these easy men, when they 
 come to die, would give the whale world for 
 those, hours again, which they so inconsiderately 
 cast away before, but there is no recovering of 
 them. U they could number their days that are 
 yet to come, as they can those that are already 
 past, how would those very people tremble at 
 the apprehension of death, though a hundred 
 2 a 2 
 
26s 
 
 SENECA S MORALS, 
 
 No man tajces care to live well, bin long. 
 
 years hence, that never so much as think of it at 
 present, though they know not but it may take 
 them away the next immediate minute? It is an 
 usual saying — I would give my life for such or 
 such a friend — when at the same time we do give 
 it, without so much as thinking of it, nay, when 
 that friend is never the better for it, and we our- 
 selves the worse. Our time is set, and day and 
 night we travel on; there is no baiting by the 
 way, and it is not in the power of either prince or 
 people to prolong it. Such is the love of life, 
 that even those decrepit dotards that have lost 
 the use of it, will yet beg the continuance of it, 
 and make themselves younger than they are, as 
 if they could cozen even fate itself. When they 
 fall sick, what promises of amendment if they 
 escape that bout : what exclamations against the 
 folly of their mis-spent time ? and yet, if they re- 
 cover, they relapse. No man takes care to live 
 well, but long; when it is yet in everybody's 
 power to do the former, and in no man's to do 
 the latter. We consume our lives in providing 
 the very instruments of life, and govern ourselves 
 still with a regard to the future : so that we do 
 not properly live, but we are about to live. How 
 great a shame is it, to be laying new foundations 
 of life at our last gasp, and for an old man (that 
 can only prove his age by his beard), with one 
 foot in the grave, to go to school again ? while 
 
Seneca's morals. 269 
 
 Time present, pas', and fuiu.e. 
 
 we are young, we may learn ; our minds are 
 tractable, and our bodies fit for labour and studv, 
 but when age comes on, we are seized with lan- 
 guor and sloth, afflicted with diseases, and at last 
 we leave the world as ignorant as we come into 
 it : only we die worse than we were born, which 
 is none of nature's fault, but our's; for our feais, 
 suspicions, perfidy, &c. are from ourselves. I 
 wish, with all my soul, that I had thought of my 
 end sooner, but I must make the more haste now, 
 and spur on, like those that set out late upon a 
 journey ; it will be better to learn late than not 
 at all, though it be only to instruct me, how 1 may 
 leave the stage with honour. 
 
 Jn the division of life, there is time present, 
 past, and to come. What we do is short, what we 
 shall do is doubtful, but what we have done is 
 certain, and out of the power of fortune. The 
 passage of time is wonderfully quick, and a man 
 must look backward to see it: and in that re- 
 trospect he has all past ages at a view. But the 
 present gives us the slip unperceived. It is but a 
 moment that we live, and yet we are dividing it 
 into childhood, youth, man's estate, and old age, 
 all which degrees we bring- into that narrow com- 
 pass. If we do not watch, we lose our opportu- 
 nities ; if we do not make haste, we are left be- 
 hind ; our best hours escape us, the worst are to 
 come. The purest part of our life runs first, and 
 2 a 3 
 
270 seneca's morals. 
 
 We can call nothing, but time, our own. 
 
 leaves only the dregs at the bottom; and that time 
 which is good for nothing else, we dedicate to vir- 
 tue, and only propound to begin to live, at an age 
 that very few people arrive at. What greater 
 folly can there be in the world, than this loss of 
 time, the future being so uncertain, and the da- 
 mages so irreparable? If death be necessary, 
 why should any man fear it : and if the time of it 
 be uncertain, why should not we always expect 
 it? We should therefore first prepare ourselves by 
 a virtuous life, against the dread of an inevitable 
 death ; and it is not for us to put off being good,, 
 until such, or such a business is over; for one 
 business draws on another, and we do as good as- 
 sow it, one grain produces more. It is not 
 enough to philosophize when we have nothing else 
 to do, but we must attend wisdom, even to the 
 neglect of all things else ; for we are so far from 
 having time to spare, that the. age of the world' 
 would be yet too narrow for our business ; nor is 
 it sufficient not to omit it,, but we must not so 
 much as intermit it. 
 
 There is nothing that we can properly call our 
 own, but our time, and yet every body fools u& 
 out of it, that has a mind to it. If a man bor- 
 rows a paltry sum of money, there must be bonds- 
 and securities, and every common civility is pre- 
 sently charged upon account; but he that has 
 my time, thinks lie owes me nothing for it, thou gk 
 
SEX EC ,\'* MO HALS. C~ I 
 
 Company, ivc. great devourers of lime 
 
 it be a debt that gratitude itself can never repay. 
 I cannot call any man poor that has enough still 
 left, be it ever so little : it is good advice yet to 
 those that have the world before them, to play 
 the good husbands betimes, for it is too late to 
 spare at the bottom, when all is drawn out to the 
 lees. He that takes away a day from me, takes 
 away what he can never restore me. But our 
 time is either forced away from us, or stolen from 
 us, or lost: of which, the last is the foulest mis- 
 carriage. It is in life as in a journey; a book, or 
 a companion, brings us to our lodging before we 
 thought we were half way. Upon the whole 
 matter, we consume ourselves, one upon another r 
 without any regard at all to our own particular. 
 1 do not speak of such as live in notorious scan- 
 dal, but even those men themselves, whom the 
 world pronounces happy, are smothered in their 
 felicities ; servants to their professions and cli- 
 ents, and drowned in their lusts. V\ r e are apt to 
 complain of the haughtiness of great men, when 
 ' yet there is hardly any of them all so proud, but 
 that at some time or other a man may yet have 
 access to him, and perhaps a good word, or look, 
 into the bargain. Why do we not rather com- 
 plain of ourselves, for being, of all other, even to 
 ourselves, the most deaf and inaccessible? 
 
 Company and business are great devourers of 
 time, and our vices destroy our lives, as well a» 
 
272 senega's morals. 
 
 Man consumes hi* life i-iy. 
 
 our fortunes. The present is but a moment, and 
 perpetually in flux; the time past we call to mind 
 when we please, and it will abide the examina- 
 tion and inspection. But the busy man has not 
 leisure to look back, or, if he has, it is an un- 
 pleasant thing to reflect upon a life to be repent- 
 ed of: whereas the conscience of a good life puts 
 a man into a secure and perpetual possession of 
 a felicity never to be disturbed, or taken away : 
 but he that has led a wicked life is afraid of his 
 own memory, and in the review of himself he 
 finds only appetite, avarice, or ambition, instead 
 of virtue. But still he that is not at leisure many 
 times to live, must, when his fate comes, whether 
 he will or no, be at leisure to die. Alas! what 
 is time to eternity? the age of a man to the age 
 of the world? and how much of this little do we 
 spend in fears, anxieties, tears, childhood? nay, 
 we sleep away the one half. How great a part 
 of it runs away in luxury and excess, the rang- 
 ing of our guests, our servants, and our dishes, 
 as if we were to eat and drink not for satiety, 
 but ambition? The nights may well seem short 
 that are so dear bought, and bestowed upon wine 
 and women : the day is lost in expectation of the 
 night, and the night in the apprehension of the 
 morning. There is a terror in our very plea- 
 sures, and this vexatious thought in the very 
 height of them— that they will not last always : 
 
Seneca's morals. 173 
 
 The blessings of privacy. 
 
 which is a canker in the delights even of the 
 greatest arid the most fortunate of men. 
 
 HAPPY IS THE MAN THAT MAY CIIUSE HIS 
 OWN BUSINESS. 
 
 On ! the blessings of privacy and leisure ! the 
 wish of the powerful and eminent, but the privi- 
 lege only of inferiors, who are the only people 
 that live to themselves : nay, the very thought 
 and hope of it is a consolation, even in the mid- 
 dle of all the tumults and hazards that attend 
 greatness. It was Augustus's prayer that he 
 might live to retire, and deliver himself from 
 public business ; his discourses were still pointing 
 that way, and the highest felicity which this 
 mighty prince had in prospect, was the divesting 
 himself of that illustrious state, which, how glo- 
 rious soever in show, had at the bottom of it 
 only anxiety and care. But it is one thing to retire 
 for pleasure and another for virtue, which must be 
 active, even in that retreat, and give proof of 
 what it has learned; for a good and a wise man 
 does in privacy consult the well-being of posterity. 
 Zeno and Chrysippus did greater things in their 
 studies, than if they had led armies, born offices, 
 or given laws; which in truth they did, not to 
 one city alone, but to all mankind : their quiet 
 contributed more to the common benefit than 
 the sweat and labour of other people. That re- 
 
274 seneca's morals. 
 
 Philo ophy is a quiet study; 
 
 treat is not worth the while, which does not af- 
 ford a man greater and nobler work than busi- 
 ness. There is no slavish attendance upon great 
 Officers, no canvassing for places, no making of 
 parties, no dissappointments in my pretension to 
 this charge, to that regiment, or to such or such 
 a title, no envy of any man's favour or fortune, 
 but a calm enjoyment of the general bounties of 
 Providence, in company with a good conscience. 
 A wise man is never so busy as in the solitary 
 contemplation of God, and the works of nature. 
 lie withdraws himself to attend tie service of 
 future ages. And those counsels which he finds 
 salutary to himself he commits to writing, for the 
 good of after-times, as we do the receipts of so- 
 vereign antidotes, or balsams. He that is well 
 employed in study, though he may seem to do 
 nothing at all, does the greatest things yet of all 
 others, in affairs both human and divine. To 
 suppJy a friend with a sum of money, or give my 
 voice for an office, these are only private and 
 particular obligations; but he that lays down 
 precepts for the governing of our lives and the 
 moderating of our passions, obliges human na- 
 ture, not only in the present, but in all succeed- 
 ing generations. 
 
 He that would be quiet, let him repair to his 
 philosophy, a study that has credit with all sorts 
 u niLii. The eloquence of the hax 3 Q* whats. 
 
Seneca's morals. 27 •> 
 
 But nm-t be handled mo{1e>il)'. 
 
 ever else addresses to the people, is never with- 
 out enemies: but philosophy minds its own busi- 
 ness, and even the worst have an esteem for it. 
 There can never be such a conspiracy against 
 virtue ; the world can never be so wicked, but 
 the very name of a philosopher shall still conti- 
 nue venerable and sacred. And yet philosophy 
 itself must be handled modestly, and with cau- 
 tion. But what sha.ll we say of Cato then, for 
 his meddling in the broil of a civil war, and in- 
 terposing himself in the quarrel betwixt two en- 
 raged princes? he, that when Rome was split 
 into two factions, between Pompey and Ca?sar, 
 declared himself against both. I speak this of 
 Cato's last part, for in his former time the com- 
 monwealth was made unfit for a wise man's ad- 
 ministration. All he could do then, was but 
 bawling and beating of the air : one while he was 
 lugged and tumbled by the rabble, spit upon, 
 and dragged out of the forum, and then again 
 hurried out of the senate house to prison. There 
 are some things which we propound originally, 
 and others that fall in as accessary to another pro- 
 position. If a wise man retire, it is no matter 
 whether he does it because the commonwealth 
 was wanting to him, or because he was wanting 
 to it. But, to what republic shall a man betake 
 himself? Not to Athens, where Socrates was 
 condemned, and whence Aristotle fled for fear he 
 
2? 6 S"ENECA*S MORALS, 
 
 Liberty a desirable tiling, 
 
 should have been condemned too, and where, 
 virtue' was oppressed by envy. Not to Carthage, 
 where there was nothing but tyranny, injustice, 
 cruelty, and ingratitude. There is scarce any 
 government to be found, that will either endure 
 a wise man, or which a wise man will endure : 
 so that privacy is made necessary, because the 
 only thing which is better, is no where to be had. 
 A man may commend navigation, and yet cau- 
 tion us against those seas that are troublesome 
 and dangerous; so that he does as good as com- 
 mand me not to weigh anchor, that commends 
 sailing only upon these terms. He that is a slave 
 to business, is the most wretched of slaves. 
 
 But how shall I get myself at liberty ? We 
 tan run any hazards for money, take any pains 
 for honour, and why do we not venture some- 
 thing, also for leisure and freedom ? without 
 which we must expect to live and die in a tu- 
 mult; for so long as we live in public, business 
 breaks in upon us, as one billow drives on an- 
 other, and there is no avoiding it with either 
 modesty or quiet. It is a kind of whirlpool, that 
 sucks a man in, and he can never disengage him- 
 self. A man of business cannot, in truth, be said 
 to live, and not one of a thousand understands 
 how to do it : for how to live, and how to die, 
 is the lesson of every moment of our lives; all 
 other arts have their masters. As a busy life is 
 
senega's morals. 
 
 Which is neither to be bought nor sold. 
 
 always a miserable life, so is it the greatest of 
 all miseries, to be perpetually employed upon 
 other people's business; for to sleep, to eat, to 
 drink at their hours, to walk their pace, and to 
 love and hate as they do, is the vilest of servi- 
 tudes. Now though business must be quitted, 
 let it not be done unseasonably ; the longer we 
 defer it, the more we endanger our liberty ; and 
 yet we must no more fly before the time, than 
 linger when the time comes, or, however, we 
 must not love business for business sake ; nor 
 indeed do we, but for the profit that goes along 
 with it: for we love the reward of misery, though 
 we hate the misery itself. Many people, I know, 
 seek business without chusing it, and they are 
 even weary of their lives without it, for want of 
 entertainment in their own thoughts : the hours 
 are long, and hateful to them, when they are 
 alone, and they seem as short on the other side 
 in their debauches. When they are no longer 
 candidates, they are suffragants: when they give 
 over other people's business, they do their own 5 
 and pretend business, but they make it, and va- 
 lue themselves upon being thought men of em- 
 ployment. Liberty is the thing which they are 
 perpetually a wishing, and never come to obtain: 
 a thing neither to be bought nor sold ; but a man 
 must ask it of himself, and give it to himself, 
 Hie that has given proof of his virtue in public, 
 
278 seneca's morals. 
 
 Retirement should be for repose ; 
 
 should do well to make trial of it in private also. 
 It is not that solitude, or a country life, teaches 
 innocence or frugality, but vice falls of itself, 
 without witnesses and spectators ; for the thing 
 it designs is to be taken notice of. Did ever any 
 man put on rich clothes not to be seen ? or 
 spread the pomp of his luxury where no body was 
 to take notice of it ? If it were not for admirers 
 and spectators, there would be no temptations 
 to excess ; the very keeping of us from exposing 
 them, cures us of desiring them, for vanity and 
 intemperance are fed with ostentation. 
 
 He that has lived at sea in a storm, let him 
 retire and die in the haven ; but let his retreat 
 be without ostentation, and wherein he may en- 
 joy himself with a good conscience, without the 
 want, the fear, the hatred, or the desire of any 
 thing; not out of a malevolent detestation of 
 mankind, but for satisfaction and repose. He 
 that shuns both business and men, either out of 
 envy, or any other discontent, his retreat is but 
 to the life of a mole; nor does he live to himself, 
 as a wise man does, but to his bed, his belly, 
 and his lusts. Many people seem to retire out 
 of a weariness of public affairs, and the trouble 
 of disappointments ; and yet ambition finds them 
 out even in that recess, into which fear and 
 weariness had cast them ; and so does luxury, 
 pride, and most of the distempers of a public 
 
 4- 
 
seneca's morals. 27$ 
 
 Without ostentation and ambition. 
 
 life. There are many that lie close, not that 
 they may live securely, but that they may trans- 
 gress more privately ; it is their conscience not 
 their states, that makes them keep a porter ; for 
 they live at such a rate, that to be seen before 
 they be aware, is to be detected. Crates saw a 
 young man walking by himself — " Have a care/' 
 says he, " of lewd company/' Some men are 
 busy in idleness, and make peace more laborious 
 and troublesome than war, nay, and more wick- 
 ed too, when they bestow it upon such lusts, and 
 other vices, which even the licence of a military 
 life would not endure. We cannot call these 
 people men of leisure, that are wholly taken up 
 with their pleasures. A troublesome life is much 
 to be preferred before a slothful one ; and it is a 
 strange thing, methinks, that any man should 
 fear death, that has buried himself alive; as 
 privacy, without letters, is but the burying of a 
 man quick. 
 
 There are some that make a boast of their re- 
 treat, which is but a kind of lazy ambition : they 
 retire to make people talk of them, whereas I 
 would rather withdraw to speak with myself. 
 And what shall that be, but that which we are 
 upt to speak of one another? I will speak ill of 
 myself, I will examine, accuse, and punish my 
 inrirmities. I have no design to be cried up for 
 a great man, that has renounced the world in a 
 2b2 
 
280 seneca's morals. 
 
 Philosophy requires privacy. 
 
 contempt of the vanity and madness of human 
 lite; I blame no body but myself, and I address 
 only to myself. He that comes to me for help is 
 mistaken, for I am not a physician, but a pa- 
 tient. And I shall be well enough content to 
 have it said, when any man leaves me — I took 
 him for a happy and a learned man, and truly I 
 find no such matter. I had rather have my re- 
 treat pardoned than envied. There are some 
 creatures that confound their footing about their 
 dens, that they may not be found out, and so 
 should a wise man in the case of his retirement. 
 When the door is open, the thief passes it by, as 
 not worth his while; but when it is bolted and 
 sealed, it is a temptation for people to be prying. 
 To have it said — that such a one is never out of 
 his study, and sees no body, &c. this furnishes 
 matter for discourse. He that makes his retire- 
 ment too strict and severe, does as good as call 
 company to take notice of it. 
 
 Every man knows his own constitutiop. One 
 eases his stomach by vomit, another supports it 
 with good nourishment; he that has the gout 
 forbears wine and bathing, and every man applies 
 to the part that is most infirm. He that shews a 
 gouty foot, a lame hand, or contracted nerves, 
 shall be permitted to lie still, and attend his 
 cure. And why not so in the vices of his mind ? 
 we -must discharge all impediments, and make 
 
Seneca's morals. 2SI 
 
 Of the contempt of death. 
 
 way for philosophy, as a study inconsistent with 
 common business. To all other things we must 
 deny ourselves openly and frankly: when we are 
 sick we refuse visits, keep ourselves close, and 
 lay aside all public cares ; and shall we not do as 
 much when we philosophize? Business is the 
 drudgery of the world, and only fit for slaves, 
 but contemplation is the work of wise men. Not 
 but that solitude and company may be allowed 
 to take their turns : the one creates in us the love- 
 of mankind, the other that of ourselves — solitude 
 relieves us when we are sick of company, and 
 conversation when we are weary of being alone — 
 so that the one cures the other. There is no man, 
 in fine, so miserable, as he that is at a loss how 
 to spend his time. He is restless in his thoughts, 
 unsteady in his counsels, dissatisfied with the 
 present, solicitous for the future; whereas he 
 that prudently computes his hours and his busi- 
 ness, does not only fortify himself against the 
 common accidents of life, but improves the most 
 rigorous dispensations of Providence to his com- 
 fort, and stands firm under all the trials of human 
 weakness. 
 
 THE CONTEMPT OF DEATH MAKES ALL THE 
 MISERIES OF LIFE EASY TO US. 
 
 It is a hard task to master the natural desire 
 of life, by a philosoptical contempt of death, and 
 to convince the worl : that there is no hurt in it, 
 
 E 3 
 
282 8»2T8CA T S MOKALS. 
 
 Deaili is n<uthat evil it appears; 
 
 and crush an opinion that was brought up with us 
 from our cradles. What help, what encourage- 
 ment, what shall we say to human frailty, to 
 carry it fearless through the fury of flames, and 
 upon the points of swords ? What rhetoric shall 
 we use> to bear down the universal consent of 
 people to so dangerous an error? The captious 
 and superfine subtilties of the schools will never 
 do the work. These speak many things sharp, 
 but utterly unnecessary, and void of effect. The 
 truth of it is, there is but one chain that holds all 
 the world in bondage, and that is the love of life. 
 It is not that I propound the making of death so 
 indifferent to us, as it is whether a man's hairs 
 be even or odd : for what with self-love, and an 
 implanted desire in every thing of preserving it- 
 gelf; and a long acquaintance betwixt the soul 
 and body, friends may be loth to part, and death 
 may carry an appearance of evil, though in truth 
 H is no evil at all. Beside that, we are to go to 
 a strange place in the dark, and under great un- 
 certainties of our future state; so that people die 
 in terror, because they do not know whither they 
 are to go, and tj^ey are apt to fancy the worst of 
 what they do not understand : these thoughts are 
 indeed sufficient to startle a man of great resolu- 
 tion, without a wonderful support from above. 
 And moreover, our natural scruples and infirmi- 
 ties are assisted by the wits and fancies of all 
 agesj in their infamous and horrid description of 
 
seneca's morals. 283 
 
 The fear of it makes us base. 
 
 another world : nay, taking it for granted, that 
 there will be no reward and punishment, they 
 are yet more afraid of annihilation than of hell 
 itself. 
 
 But, what is it we fear? — Oh! it is a terrible 
 thing to die. Well ! and is it not better once to 
 suffer it, than always to fear it ? The- earth it- 
 self suffers both with me, and before me. How 
 many islands are swallowed up in the sea? how 
 many towns do we sail over ? nay, how many 
 nations are wholly lost, either by inundations, or 
 earthquakes? and shall I be afraid of my little 
 body ? why should I, that am sure to die, and 
 that all other things are mortal, be fearful of 
 coming to my last gasp myself? It is the fear of 
 death that makes us base, and troubles and de- 
 stroys the life that we would preserve ; that ag- 
 gravates all circumstances, and makes them for- 
 midable. We depend but upon a flying moment. 
 Die we must ; but when ? what is that to us? It 
 is the law of nature, the tribute of mortals, and 
 the remedy of all evils. It- is only the disguise 
 that affrights us; as children that are terrified 
 with a vizor. Take away the instruments of 
 death, the fire, the axe, the guards, the execu- 
 tioners, the whips, and the racks, take away the 
 pomp, I say, and the circumstances that accom- 
 pany it, and death is no more than. what my slave 
 yesterday contemned : the pain is nothing to a fit 
 
28* sejteca's morals. 
 
 ; .... . ■ ,. 
 
 Tlie fear of death is easily overcome. 
 
 of the stone : if it be tolerable, it is not great ; 
 and if intolerable, it cannot last long. There is 
 nothing that nature has made necessary, which is 
 more easy than death; we are longer a-coming 
 into the world than going out of it ; and there is 
 not any minute of our lives, wherein we may not 
 reasonably expect it. Nay, it is but a moment's 
 work, the parting of the soul and body. What a 
 shame is it then to stand in fear of any thing so 
 long, that is over so soon ? 
 
 Nor is it any great matter to overcome this 
 fear, for we have examples, as well of the mean- 
 est of men, as of the greatest, that have done it. 
 There was a fellow to be exposed upon the thea- 
 tre, who, in disdain, thrust a stick down his own 
 throat, and choked himself. And another, upon 
 the same occasion, pretending to nod upon the 
 chariot, as if he were asleep, cast his head be- 
 twixt the spokes of the wheel, and kept his seat 
 until his neck was broken. Caligula, upon a dis- 
 pute with Canius Julius — " Do not flatter your- 
 self," says he, " for I have given orders to put 
 3'ou to death." — " I thank your most gracious 
 majesty for it," says Canius, giving to under- 
 stand, perhaps, that, under his government^ 
 death was a mercy; for he knew that Caligula 
 seldom failed of being as good as his word in that 
 case. He was at play when the officer carried 
 him away to his execution, and beckoning to the 
 
seneca's morals. 285 
 
 % Despair gives courage. 
 
 centurion — " Pray/'' says he, " will you bear me 
 witness, when I am dead and gone, that 1 had 
 the better of the game/' He was a man exceed- 
 ingly beloved and lamented ; and, for a farewell, 
 after he had preached moderation to his friends 
 — " You," says he, " are here disputing about 
 the immortality of the soul, and I am now going 
 to learn the truth of it ; if I discover any thing 
 upon that point, you shall hear of it." Nay, the 
 most timorous of creatures, when they see there 
 is no escaping, they oppose themselves to all dan- 
 gers; the despair gives them courage, and the 
 necessity overcomes the fear. Socrates was thirty 
 days in prison after his sentence, and had time 
 enough to have starved himself, and have pre- 
 vented the poison ; but he gave the world the 
 blessing of his life as long as he could, and took 
 that fatal draught in the meditation and contempt 
 of death. Marcellinus, in a deliberation upon 
 death, called several of his friends about him: 
 one was fearful, and advised what he himself 
 would have done in the case ; another gave the 
 counsel which he thought Marcellinus would like 
 best; but a friend of his, that was a Stoic, and 
 a stout man, reasoned the matter to him after 
 this maner — " Marcellinus, do not trouble your- 
 self, as if it were such a mighty business that you 
 have now in hand ; it is nothing to live, all youi* 
 servants do it, nay, your very beasts too \ but to 
 
286* seneca's morals. 
 
 - ■ ■ • ■ " aaei 
 
 He that despises death fear^ nothing. 
 
 die honestly, and resolutely, that is a great point. 
 Consider with yourself, there is nothing pleasant 
 in life, but what you have tasted already, and 
 that which is to come is but the same thing over 
 again ; and how many men are there in the world 
 that rather chuse to die, than to suffer the nause- 
 ous tediousness of the repetition;" upon which 
 discourse he fasted himself to death. It was the 
 custom of Pacuvius to solemnize, in a kind of 
 pageantry, every day, his own funeral. When 
 he had swilled and gormandized to a luxurious 
 and beastly excess, he was carried away from 
 supper to bed, with this exclamation — " He ha* 
 lived, he has lived." That which he did in lewd- 
 ness, would become us to do in sobriety and pru- 
 dence. If it shall please God to add another day 
 to our lives, let us thankfully receive it; but, 
 however, it is our happiest, and securest course, 
 so to compose ourselves to-night, that we may 
 have no anxious dependance upon to-morrow. He 
 that can say — I have lived this day, makes the 
 next clear again. 
 
 Death is the worst that either the severity of 
 the laws, or the cruelty of tyrants, can impose 
 upon us, and it is the utmost extent of the domi- 
 nion of fortune. He that is fortified against that, 
 must consequently be superior to all other diffi- 
 culties that are but in the way to it. Nay, and 
 011 some occasions, it requires more courage to 
 
Seneca's morals. 28? 
 
 All in.li in ... . die. 
 
 live than to die. He that is not prepared for 
 death, shall be perpetually troubled, as well with 
 vain apprehensions, as with real dangers. It is 
 not death itself that is dreadful, but the fear of 
 it that goes before it. "When the mind is under a 
 consternation, there is no state of life that can 
 please us ; for we do not so much endeavour to 
 avoid mischiefs, as to run awav from them : and 
 the greatest slaughter is upon a flying enemy. 
 Had not a man better breathe out his last, onee 
 for all, than lie agonizing in pains, consuming by 
 inches, losing his blood by drops, and yet, how 
 many are there, that are ready to betray their 
 country, and their friends, and to prostitute their 
 very wives and daughters, to preserve a misera- 
 ble carcase r Madmen and children have no ap- 
 prehension of Heath, and it were a shame that 
 our reason should not do as much toward our 
 security as their folly. But, the great matter is 
 to die considerately, and chearfully upon the 
 foundation of virtue ; for life, in itself, is irk- 
 some, and only eating and drinking in a circle. 
 
 How many are there, that betwixt the appre- 
 hensions of death, and the miseries of life, are at 
 their wits end what to do with themselves ? Where- 
 fore let us fortify ourselves against those calami- 
 ties, from which the prince is no more exempt 
 than the beggar. Pompey the Great had his 
 head taken oft' by a boy, and an eunuch (young 
 
2S8 seneca's morals. 
 
 The greatest are as liable to suffer, as to do mischief. 
 
 Ptolemy and Photinus). Caligula commanded 
 the tribune Daecimus to kill Lepidus ; and an- 
 other tribune (Choereus) did as much for Cali- 
 gula. Never was any man so great, but he was 
 as liable to suffer mischief, as he was able to do 
 it. Has not a thief, or an enemy, your throat 
 at his mercy ? nay, and the meanest of servants 
 has the power of life and death over his master, 
 for whosoever contemns his own life, may be the 
 master of another body's. You will find in his* 
 tory, that the displeasure of servants has been as 
 fatal as that of tyrants: and what matters it, the 
 power of him we fear, when the thing we fear is 
 in every body's power ? Suppose I fall into the 
 hands of an enemy, and the conqueror condemns 
 me to be led in triumph : it is but carrying me 
 thither, whither I should have gone without him; 
 that is to say, toward death, whither I have 
 been marching ever since I was bom. It is the 
 fear of our last hour that disquiets all the rest. 
 By the justice of all constitutions, mankind is 
 condemned to a capital punishment : now, how 
 despicable would that man appear, who being 
 sentenced to death in common with the whole 
 world, should only petition that he might be the 
 last man brought to the block ? Some men are 
 particularly afraid of thunder, and yet extremely 
 careless of other, and of greater dangers : as if 
 that were all they have to fear. Will not a 
 
seneca's morals. $sg 
 
 Life is a email matter. 
 
 sword, a stone, a fever, do the work as well ? 
 Suppose the bolt should hit us, it were yet braver 
 to die with a stroke, than with the bare appre- 
 hension of it; beside the vanity of imagining that 
 heaven and earth should be put into sueh a dis- 
 order only for the death of one man. A good, 
 and a brave man, is not moved with lightning, 
 tempest, or earthquakes : but perhaps he would 
 voluntarily plunge himself into that gulph, where 
 otherwise he should only fall; the cutting of a 
 corn, or the swallowing of a fly, is enough to 
 dispatch a man; and it is no matter how great 
 that is, that brings me to my death, so long as 
 death itself is but little. Life is a small matter, 
 but it is a matter of importance to contemn it. 
 Nature that begat us, expels us, and a better 
 and a safer place is provided for us. And what 
 is death, but a ceasing to be what we were be- 
 fore? We are kindled, and put out: to cease to 
 be, and not to be^in to be, is the same thine 
 We die daily, and while we are growing, our life 
 decreases : every moment that passes takes away 
 part of it ; all that is past is lost, nay, we divide 
 with death the very instant that we live. As the 
 last sand in the glass does not measure the 
 hour, but finishes it, so the last moment that we 
 live does not make up. death, but concludes. There 
 are some that pray more earnestly for death, than 
 we do for life; but it is better to receive it chea-r- 
 
 2 c 
 
290 SENECA 9 MORALS. 
 
 To what end should we covet life ? 
 
 fully when it comes, than to hasten it before the 
 time. 
 
 But — what is it that we live any longer for ? 
 Not for our pleasures, for those we have tasted 
 over and over, even to satiety : so that there is 
 no point of luxury that is new to us ; but a man 
 would be loth to leave his country and his 
 friends behind him ; that is to say, he would have 
 them go first, for that is the least part of his care. 
 Well ! but I would fain live to do more good, and 
 discharge myself in the offices of life; as if to die 
 were not the duty of every man that lives. We 
 are loth to leave our possessions, and no man 
 swims well with his luggage. We are all of us 
 equally fearful of death, and ignorant of life, but 
 what can be more shameful, than to be solicitous 
 upon the brink of security? If death be at any 
 time to be feared, it is always to be feared ; but 
 the way never to fear it, is to be often thinking 
 of it. To what end is it to put off, for a little 
 while, that which we cannot avoid ? He that dies 
 does but follow him that is dead. Why are we 
 then so long afraid of that which is so little a while 
 a doing ? How miserable are those people that 
 spend their lives in the dismal apprehensions of 
 death ? for they are beset on all hands, and every 
 minute in dread of a surprize. We must, there- 
 fore, look about us, as if we were in an enemy's 
 country, and consider our last hour not as ~ pu- 
 
seneca's morals. ?Q1 
 
 To die, is to obey nature. 
 
 nishment, but as the law of nature ; the fear of it 
 is a continual palpitation of the heart, and he that 
 overcomes that terror shall never be troubled with 
 any other. Life is a navigation, we are perpe- 
 tually wallowing and dashing one against another; 
 sometimes we suffer shipwreck, but we are al- 
 ways in danger and in expectation of it. And 
 what is it when it comes, but either the end of a 
 journey, or a passage ? It is as great a folly to 
 fear death as to fear old age, nay, as to fear life 
 itself; for he that would not die, ought not to 
 live, since death is the condition of life. Beside, 
 that it is a madness to fear a thing that is certain ; 
 for where there is no doubt there is no place for 
 fear. 
 
 We are still chiding of fate, and even those that 
 exact the most rigorous justice betwixt man and 
 man, are yet themselves unjust to Providence. 
 Why was such a one taken away in the prime of 
 his years ? as if it were the number of years that 
 makes death easy to us, and not the temper of 
 the mind. He that would live a little longer to- 
 day, would be as loth to die a hundred years 
 hence. But, which is more reasonable, for us o 
 obey nature, or for nature to obey us? go we 
 must at last, and no matter how soon. It is the 
 work of fate to make us live long, but it is the 
 business of virtue to make a short life sufficient. 
 Life is to be measured by action, not by time ; a 
 2c2 
 
592 senecaV MORALS. 
 
 ■ I ■ ■■■»■ 
 
 IH> childish to die lamenting. 
 
 man may die old at thirty, and young at four- 
 score ; nay, the one lives after death, and the 
 other perished before he died. I look upon age 
 among the effects of chance. How long I shall 
 live is in the power of others, but it is in my own 
 how well. The largest space of time is to live 
 until a man is wise. He that dies of old age, 
 oes no more than go to bed when he is weary. 
 Death is the test c-f life, and it is that only which 
 discovers what we are, and distinguishes betwixt 
 ostentation and virtue. A man may dispute, cite 
 great authorities, talk learnedly, huff it out, and 
 yet be rotten at heart. But let us soberly attend 
 our business, and since it is uncertain when or 
 where we shall die, let us look for death in all 
 places, and at all times ; we can never study that 
 -point too much, which we can never come to ex- 
 periment whether we know it or no. It is a 
 blessed thing to dispatch the business of life be- 
 fore we die, and then to expect death in the pos-. 
 session of a happy life. He is the great man, 
 that is willing to die when his life is pleasant to 
 him. An honest life is not a greater good than 
 an honest death. How many brave young men, 
 by an instinct of nature, are carried on to great 
 actions, and even to the contempt of all hazards? 
 
 It is childish to go out of the world groaning 
 and wailing, as we came into it. Our bodies 
 must be thrown away, as the secundine tha,t 
 
seneca's morals. 203 
 
 Some people wish for death. 
 
 wraps up the infant, the other being only the 
 covering of the soul. We shall then discover 
 the secrets of nature ; the darkness shall be 
 discussed, and our souls irradiated with light 
 and glory: a glory without a shadow; a glory 
 that shall surround us, and from whence we 
 shall look down and see day and night beneath 
 us. If we cannot lift up our eyes toward the 
 lamp of heaven without dazzling, what shall we 
 do when we come to behold the divine light in its 
 illustrious original ? That death, which we so 
 much dread and decline, is not a determination, 
 but the intermission of a life, which will return 
 again. All those things that are the very cause 
 of life, are the way to death : we fear it, as v,e 
 do fame, but it is a great folly to fear words. 
 Some people are so impatient of life, that they 
 are still wishing for death ; but he that wishes to 
 die, does not desire it; let us rather wait God's 
 pleasure, and pray for health and life. If we 
 have a mind to live, why do we wish to die ? If 
 we have a mind to die, we may do it without 
 talking of it. Men are a <zreat deal more resolute 
 in the article of death itself, than they are about 
 the circumstances of it. For it gives a man cou- 
 rage to consider that his fate is inevitable: the 
 slow approaches of death are the most trouble- 
 fcome to us; as we see many a gladiator, who; 
 upon his wounds, will direct his adversary's wea* 
 2 C 3 
 
294 Seneca's morals. 
 
 This life is but a prelude to eternity. 
 
 pon to bis very heart, though but timorous per- 
 haps in the combat. There are some that have 
 not the heart either to live or die, that is a sad 
 case. But this we are sure of — the fear of death 
 is a continual slavery, as the contempt of it is 
 certain liberty. 
 
 CONSOLATIONS AGAINST DEATH, FROM THE 
 PROVIDENCE AND THE NECESSITY OF IT. 
 
 This life is only a prelude to eternity, where 
 we are to expect another original, and another 
 state of things : we have no prospect of heaven 
 here, but at a distance; let us therefore expect 
 our last and decretory hour with courage. The 
 last, 1 say, to our bodies, but not to our minds: 
 our luggage we must leave behind us, and return 
 as naked out of the world as we came into it. The 
 day which we fear as our last is but the birth- 
 day of our eternity, and it is the only way to it: 
 so that what we fear as a rock, proves to be but 
 a port, in many cases to be desired, never to be 
 refused; and he that dies young has only made a 
 quick voyage of it. Some are becalmed, others 
 cut it away before the wind, and we live just as 
 we sail : first, we run our childhood out of sight, 
 our youth next, and then our middle age, after 
 that follows old age, and brings us to the com- 
 mon end of mankind. It is a great Providence 
 that we have more ways out of the world than 
 we have into it. Our security stands upon a 
 
senega's morals. 2£5 
 
 Death is the law of nature. 
 
 point, the very article of death. It draws a 
 great many blessings into a very narrow com- 
 pass", and although the fruit of it does not seem 
 to extend to the defunct, yet the difficulty of it 
 is more than balanced by the contemplation of 
 the future. Nay, suppose that all the business 
 of this world should be forgotten, or my memory 
 traduced, what is all this to me ? I have done 
 my duty. Undoubtedly, that which puts an end 
 to all other evils cannot be a very great evil itself, 
 and yet it is no easy thing for flesh and blood to 
 despise life. What if death comes ; if it does not 
 stay with us, why should we fear it } One hangs 
 himself for a mistress, another leaps the garret 
 window to avoid a choleric master, a third runs 
 away and stabs himself, rather than he will be 
 brought back again. We see the force even of 
 our infirmities, and shall we not then do greater 
 things for the love of virtue? To suffer death is 
 but the law of nature, and it is a great comfort 
 that it can be done but once ; in the very convul- 
 sions of it we have this consolation, that ouf 
 pain is near an end, and that it frees us from all 
 the miseries of life. What it is, we know not, 
 and it were rash to condemn what we do not 
 understand; but this we presume, either that we 
 shall pass out of this into a-better life, where we 
 shall live with tranquillit}' and splendour in di- 
 viner mansions, or else return to our first prin- 
 
29$ senega's morals. 
 
 Life is but a journey to death. 
 
 ciples, free from the sense of any inconvenience. 
 There is nothing immortal, nor many things last- 
 ing; but by divers ways every thing comes to an 
 end. What an arrogance is it then, when the 
 world itself stands condemned to a dissolution, 
 that man alone should expect to live for ever ? 
 It is unjust not to allow unto the giver the power 
 of disposing of his own bounty; and a folly only 
 to value the present. Death is as much a debt 
 as money, and life is but a journey towards it. 
 Some dispatch it sooner, others later, but we 
 must all have the same period. The thunder- 
 bolt is undoubtedly just, that draws, even from 
 those that are struck with it, a veneration. A 
 great soul takes no delight in staying with the 
 body, it considers whence it came, and know*s 
 whither it is to go. The day will come that shall 
 separate this mixture of soul and body, of divine 
 and human; my body I will leave where I found 
 it, my soul I will restore to heaven, which would 
 have been there already, but for the clog that 
 keeps it down ; and beside, how many men have 
 been the worse for longer living, that might 
 have died with reputation, if they had been 
 sooner taken away? how many disappointments 
 of hopeful youths, that have proved dissolute 
 men ? over and above the ruins, shipwrecks, 
 torments, prisons, that attend long life: a bless- 
 ing so deceitful, that if a child were in condition 
 2 
 
seneca's storais, 297 
 
 We are born helpless. 
 
 to judge of it, and at liberty to refuse it, he would 
 not take it. 
 
 What Providence has made necessary, human 
 prudence should comply with chearfully: as 
 there is a necessity of death, so that necessity is 
 Equal and invincible. No man has cause of com- 
 plaint for that which every man must suffer as 
 well as himself. When we should die we will not, 
 and when we would not, we must : but our fate 
 is fixed, and unavoidable is the decree. Why 
 do we then stand trembling when the time comes ? 
 why do we not as well lament that we did not 
 live a thousand years ago, as that we shall not 
 live a thousand years hence? it is but travelling 
 the great road, and to the place whither we must 
 all go at last. It is but submitting to the law of 
 nature, and to that, lot which the whole world 
 lias suffered, that is gone before us ; and so must 
 they too, that are to come after us. Nay, how 
 many thousands, when our time comes, will ex- 
 pire in the same moment with us? He that will 
 not follow shall be drawn by force: and is it not 
 much better now to do that willingly, which we 
 shall otherwise be made to do, in spite of our 
 hearts ? The sons of mortal parents must expect 
 a mortal posterity ; death is the end of great and 
 small. We are born helpless, and exposed to the 
 injuries of all creatures, and of all weathers. The 
 very necessaries of life are deadly to us. We meei 
 
298 seneca's morals. 
 
 We have se\ <*ral ways to our end. 
 
 with our fate in our dishes, in our cups, and in 
 the very air we breathe, nay, cur very birth is 
 inauspicious, for we came into the world weep- 
 ing ; and in the middle of our designs, white we 
 are meditatipg great matters, and stretching of 
 our thoughts to after- ages, death cuts us off, and 
 our longest date is only the revolution of a few 
 years. One man dies at the table, another goes 
 away in his sleep, a third in his mistress's arms, 
 a fourth is stabbed, another is stung with an ad* 
 der, or crushed with the fall of a house. We 
 have several ways to our end, but the end itself, 
 which is death, is still the same. Whether we 
 die by a sword, by a halter, by a potion, or by a 
 disease, it is all but death. A child dies in the 
 clouts, and an old man at a hundred, they are 
 both mortal alike, though the one goes sooner 
 than the other. All that lies betwixt the cradle 
 and the grave is uncertain. If we compute the 
 troubles, the life even of a child is long ; if the 
 sweetness of the. passage, that of an old man is 
 short; the whole is slippery and deceitful, and 
 only death certain; and yet all people complain 
 of that which never deceived any man. Senecio 
 raised himself from a small beginning to a vast 
 fortune, being very well skilled in the faculties, 
 both of getting and of keeping, and either of them 
 was sufficient for the doing of his business.. He 
 was a man infinitely careful, both of his patri- 
 
Seneca's morals. ?q£ 
 
 All things have their seasons. 
 
 mony and of his body. He gave me a morning visit 
 (says our author) and after that visit he went 
 away, and spent the rest of the day with a friend 
 of his that was desperately sick. At night he was 
 merry at supper, and seized immediately after 
 with a quinsy, which dispatched him in a few 
 hours. This man, that had money at use in all 
 places, and in the very course and height of his 
 prosperity, was thus cut off. How foolish a thing 
 is it then, for a man to flatter himself with long 
 hopes, and to pretend to dispose of the future ? 
 Nay, the very present slips through our fingers, 
 and there is not that moment which we can call 
 our own. How vain a thing is it for us to enter 
 upon projects, and to say to ourselves — well, 1 
 will go build, purchase, discharge such offices, 
 settle my affairs, and then retire. We are all of 
 us born to. the same casualties, all equally frail, 
 and uncertain of to-morrow. At the very altar, 
 where we pray for life, we learn to die, by seeing 
 the sacrifices killed before us. But there is no 
 need of a wound, or searching the heart for it, 
 when the noose of a cord, or the smothering of a 
 pillow, will do the work. All tilings have their 
 seasons, they begin, they increase, and they die. 
 The heavens and the earth grow old, and are ap- 
 pointed their periods. That which we call death, 
 is but a pause, or suspension ; and, in truth, a 
 progress to life ; only our thoughts look downward 
 
300 senega's morals. 
 
 A great mind submits itself to God. 
 
 upon the body, and not forward upon things to 
 come. All things under the sun are mortal, ci- 
 ties, empires, and the time will come, when it 
 shall be a question where they were, and, per- 
 chance, whether ever they had a being or no. 
 Some will be destroyed by war, others by luxury, 
 iire, inundations, earthquakes; why should it 
 trouble me then to die, as a forerunner of an uni- 
 versal dissolution ? A great mind submits itself 
 to God, and suffers willingly what the law of the 
 universe will otherwise bring to pass upon neces- 
 sity. That good old man Bassus, though with 
 one foot in the grave, how chearful a mind does 
 he bear ? he lives in the view of death, and con- 
 templates his own end with less concern of thought 
 or countenance than he would do another man's. 
 It is a hard lesson, and we are a long time a 
 learning of it, to receive our death without trou- 
 ble, especially in the case of Bassus. In other 
 deaths there is a mixture of hope, a disease may 
 be cured, a fire quenched, a falling house either 
 propped or avoided ; the sea may swallow a man, 
 and throw him up again. A pardon may inter- 
 pose betwixt the axe and the body, but in the 
 case of old age there is no place for either hope 
 or intercession. Let us live in our bodies there- 
 fore, as if we were only to lodge in' them this 
 night, and to leave them to-morrow. It is the 
 frequent thought of death that must fortify us 
 
seneca's morals. 301 
 
 against the necessity of it. He that has armed 
 himself against poverty, may perhaps come to 
 live in plenty. A man may strengthen himself 
 against pain, and yet live in a state of health; 
 against the loss of friends, and never lose any : 
 but he that fortifies himself against the fear of 
 death, shall most certainly have occasion to em- 
 ploy that virtue. It is the care of a wise and 
 good man to look to his manners and actions, and 
 rather how well he lives, than how long; for to 
 die sooner or later is not the business, but to 
 die well, or ill— for death brings us to immor- 
 tality. 
 
 AGAINST IMMODERATE SORROW FOR THS 
 DEATH OF FRIENDS. 
 
 Next to the encounter of death in our own 
 bodies, the most sensible calamity, to an honest 
 man, is the death of a friend ; and we are not, in 
 truth, without some generous instances of those 
 that have preferred a friend's life to their own; 
 and yet this affliction, which by nature is so griev- 
 ous to us, is by virtue and providence made fami- 
 liar and easy. 
 
 To lament the death of a friend is both natural 
 and just, a sigh, or a tear, I would allow to his 
 memory, but no profuse or obstinate sorrow, 
 Clamorous and public lamentations are not so 
 much the effects of grief, as vain-glory. He that 
 
 2 D 
 
302 SENECA S MORALS. 
 
 Of ostentatious grief. 
 
 is sadder in company than alone, shews rather 
 the ambition of his sorrow, than the piety of it. 
 Nay, and in the violence of his passion, there fall 
 out twenty things that set him a laughing. At the 
 long run, time cures all, but it were better done 
 by moderation and wisdom. Some people do as 
 good as set a watch upon themselves, as if they 
 were afraid that their grief would make an escape. 
 The ostentation of grief is many times more than 
 the grief itself. When any body is within hear- 
 ing, what groans and outcries? when they are 
 alone and private, all is hush and quiet : so soon 
 as any body comes in, they are at it again, and 
 down they throw themselves upon the bed, fall 
 to wringing of their hands, and wishing of them- 
 selves dead, which they might have executed by 
 themselves ; but their sorrow goes off with their 
 company. We forsake nature, and run over to 
 the practice of the people, that never were the 
 authors of any thing that is good. If destiny 
 were to be wrought upon by tears, I would allow 
 you to spend your days and nights in sadness and 
 mourning, tearing of your hair, and beating of 
 your breast ; but if fate be inexorable, and death 
 will keep what he has taken, grief is to no pur- 
 pose. And yet I would not advise insensibility 
 and hardness ; it were inhumanity, and not vir- 
 tue, not to be moved at the separation of familiar 
 friends, and relations: now, in such cases, we 
 
seneca's morals. 303 
 
 There is a decorum in sorrow. 
 
 cannot command ourselves, we cannot forbear 
 weeping, and we ought not to forbear : but let us 
 not pass the bounds of affection, and run into 
 imitation ; within these limits it is some ease to 
 the mind. 
 
 A wise man gives way to tears in some cases, 
 and cannot avoid them in others, when one is 
 struck with the surprise of ill news, as the death 
 of a friend, or the like; or upon the last embrace 
 of an acquaintance under the hand of an execu- 
 tioner, he lies under a natural necessity of weep- 
 ing and trembling. In another case we may in- 
 dulge our sorrow, as upon the memory of a dead 
 friend's conversation, or kindness, we may let 
 fall tears of generosity and joy. We favour the 
 one, and we are overcome by the other, and this 
 is well ; but we are not upon any terms to force 
 them ; they may flow of their own accord, with- 
 out derogating from the dignity of a wise man, 
 who at the same time both preserves his gravity, 
 and obeys nature. Nay, there is a certain deco- 
 rum even in weeping; for excess of sorrow is as 
 foolish as profuse laughter. Why do we not as 
 well cry, when our trees that we took pleasure in 
 shed their leaves, as at the loss of other satisfac- 
 tions ? when the next season repairs them, either 
 with the same again, or others in their places. 
 W r e may accuse fate, but we cannot alter it, for 
 it is hard and inexorable, and not to be removed, 
 2 D 2 
 
304> seneca's morals. 
 
 To mourn without measure is folly. 
 
 either with reproaches or tears. They may carry 
 us to the dead, but never bring them back again 
 to us. If reason does not put an end to our sor- 
 rows, fortune never will : one is pinched with 
 poverty, another solicited with ambition, and 
 fears the very wealth that he coveted. One is 
 troubled for the loss of children, another for the 
 -want of them, so that we shall sooner want tears 
 than matter for them; let us therefore spare that 
 jfor which we have so much occasion. I do con- 
 fess, that in the very parting of friends there is 
 something of an uneasiness and trouble, but it is 
 rather voluntary than natural, and it is custom 
 more than sense that affects us: we do rather im- 
 pose a sorrow upon ourselves, than submit to it ; 
 as people cry when they have company, and when 
 nobody looks on, all is well again. To mourn 
 without measure is folly, and not to mourn at all 
 is insensibility. The best temper is betwixt piety 
 and reason; to be sensible, but neither transported 
 nor cast down. He that can put a stop to his 
 tears and pleasures when he will, is safe. It is 
 an equal infelicity to be either too soft or too 
 hard. We are overcome by the one, and we are 
 put to a struggle with the other. There is a cer- 
 tain intemperance in that sorrow that passes the 
 rules of modesty, and yet great piety is in many 
 cases a dispensation to good manners. The loss 
 of a son, or of a friend, cuts a man to the heart. 
 
sextca's morals. 305 
 
 -'■ .■:■ , i . ' - 
 
 Some teats are ridiculous. 
 
 and there is no opposing the first violence of this 
 passion; but when a man comes once to deliver 
 himself wholly up to lamentations, he is to un- 
 derstand, that though some tears deserve com- 
 passion, others are yet ridiculous. A grief, that 
 is fresh, finds pity and comfort; but when it is in- 
 veterate it is laughed at, for it is either counter- 
 feit, or foolish. Beside, that to weep excessively 
 for the dead is an affront to the living. The most 
 justifiable cause of mourning is to see good men 
 come to ill ends, and virtue opprest by the ini- 
 quity of fortune. But in this case too, they either 
 suffer resolutely, and yield us delight in their 
 courage and example; or meanly, and so give us 
 the less trouble for the loss. He that dies chear- 
 fully dries up my tears, and he that dies whiningly 
 does not deserve them. I would bear the death 
 of friends and children with the same constancy 
 that I would expect my own; and no more la- 
 ment the one than fear the other. lie that be- 
 thinks himself how often friends have been part- 
 ed, will find more time lost among the living 
 than upon the dead ; and the most desperate 
 mourners are they that cared least for their friends 
 when they were living ; for they think to redeem 
 their credits for want of kindness to the living, by 
 extravagant ravings after the dead. Some, I 
 know, will have grief to be only the perverse de- 
 light of a restless mind, and sorrows and pleasure* 
 2p3 
 
S06 seneca's morals. 
 
 It is an idle thing to grieve. 
 
 to be near akin ; and there are, I am confident, 
 that find joy even in their tears. But, which is 
 more barbarous, to be insensible of grief for the 
 death of a friend, or to fish for pleasure in grief, 
 when a son perhaps is burning, or a friend expir- 
 ing? to forget one's friend, to bury the memory 
 with the body, to lament out of measure, is in- 
 human. He that is gone, either would not have 
 his friend tormented, or does not know that he is 
 so: if he does not feel it, it is superfluous; if he 
 does, it is unacceptable to him. If reason cannot 
 prevail, reputation may; for immoderate mourn- 
 in 2 lessens a man's character. It is a shameful ■ 
 thing for a wise man to make the weariness of 
 grieving the remedy of it. In time the most stub- 
 born grief will leave us, if in prudence we do not 
 leave that first. 
 
 But do I grieve for my friend's sake, or for my 
 own ? why should I afflict myself for the loss of 
 him that is either happy, or not at all in being? 
 In the one case it is envy, and in the other it is 
 madness. We are apt to say — What would I give 
 to see him again, and to enjoy his conversation ! 
 I was never sad in his company; my heart leaped 
 whenever 1 met him: I want him wherever I 
 go. All that is to be said is — the greater the 
 loss,' the greater is the virtue to overcome it. If 
 grieving will do no good, it is an idle thing to 
 grieve; and if that which has befallen one man 
 
seneca's morals. 307 
 
 Present blessings should suffice for the past. 
 
 remains to all, it is as unjust to complain. The 
 whole world is upon the march to the same point. 
 "Why do we not cry for ourselves that are to fol- 
 low, as well as for him that is gone first ? Why 
 do we not as well lament before hand, for that 
 which we know will be, and cannot possibly but 
 be ? he is not gone, but sent before. As there 
 are many things that he has lost, so there are 
 many things that he does not fear; as anger, jea- 
 lousy, envy, &c. Is he not more happy in de- 
 siring nothing, than miserable in what he has 
 lost ? We do not mourn for the absent, why then 
 for the dead, who are effectually no other? We 
 have lost one blessing, but we have many left ; 
 and shall not all these satisfactions support us 
 against one sorrow ? 
 
 The comfort of having a friend may be taken 
 away, but not that of having had one. As there 
 is a sharpness in some fruits, and a bitterness in 
 some wines that please us, so there is a mixture 
 in the remembrance of friends, where the loss of 
 the company is sweetened again by the contem- 
 plation of their virtues. In some respects I have 
 lost what I had ; and in others, I retain still what 
 I have lost. It is an ill construction of Provi- 
 dence, to reflect only upon my friend's being 
 taken away, without any regard to the benefit of 
 his being once given me. Let us therefore make 
 the best of our friends while we have them j for 
 
308 seneca's morals. 
 
 The first transports of sorrow not t-.. be appeas d. 
 
 how long we shall keep them is uncertain. I 
 have lost a hopeful son, but, how many fathers 
 have been deceived in their expectations, and 
 many noble families have been destroyed by lux- 
 ury and riot? He that grieves for the loss of a 
 son, what if he had lost a friend ; and yet he that 
 has lost a friend, has more cause of joy that he 
 once had him, than of grief that he is taken 
 away. Shall a man bury his friendship with his 
 friend ? We are ungrateful for that which is past, 
 in hopes of what is to come ; as if that which is 
 to come would not quickly be past too. That 
 which is past we are sure of. We may receive 
 satisfaction, it is true, both from the future, and 
 what is already past; the one by expectation, and 
 the other by memory; only the one may possibly 
 not come to pass, and it is impossible to make 
 the other not to have been. 
 
 But there is no applying of consolation to fresh 
 and bleeding sorrow ; the very discourse irritates 
 the grief, and inflames it.' It is like an unsea- 
 sonable medicine in a disease ; when the first vio- 
 lence is over, it will be more tractable, and en- 
 dure the handling. Those people, whose minds 
 are weakened by long felicity, may be allowed to 
 groan and complain, but it is otherwise with 
 those that have led their- days in misfortunes.' 
 A long course of adversity has this good in it, 
 that though it vexes a body a great while, it 
 
seneca's morals. 30$ 
 
 To draw good out of evil is a masterpiece. 
 
 comes to harden us at last: as a raw soldier 
 shrinks at every wound, and dreads the surgeon 
 more than an enemy; whereas the veteran sees 
 his own body cut, and lamed, with as little con- 
 cern as if it were another's. With the same re- 
 solution should we stand the shock, and cure of 
 all misfortunes; we are never the better for our 
 experience, if we have not yet learned to be mi- 
 serable. And there is no thought of curing us 
 by the diversion of sports and entertainments ; we 
 are apt to fall into relapses ; wherefore we had 
 better overcome our sorrow than delude it. 
 
 CONSOLATIONS AGAINST BANISHMENT AND 
 BODILY PAIN. 
 
 It is a masterpiece to draw good out of evil, 
 and by the help of virtue to improve misfortunes 
 into blessings. It is a sad condition, you will 
 say, for a man to be barred the freedom of his 
 own country. And is not this the case of thou- 
 sands that we meet every day in the streets ? 
 Some for ambition, others to negotiate, or for 
 curiosity, delight, friendship, study, experience, 
 luxury, vanity, discontent; some to exercise 
 their virtues, others their vices, and not a few 
 to prostitute either their bodies, or their elo- 
 quence. To pass now from pleasant countries 
 into the worst of islands, let them be ever so 
 barren or rocky, the people ever so barbarous, or 
 
310 sexeca's morals. 
 
 The mind of man is naturallv curious. 
 
 the clime ever so intemperate, he that is banished 
 thither, shall find many strangers to live there for 
 their pleasure. The mind of man is naturally 
 curious and restless, which is no wonder, consi- 
 dering their divine original: for heavenly things 
 are always in motion, witness the stars and the 
 orbs, which are perpetually moving, rolling, and 
 changing of place, and according to the law and 
 appointment of nature. But here are no woods, 
 you will say, no rivers, no gold, no pearl, no 
 commodity for traffic or commerce, nay, hardly 
 provision enough to keep the inhabitants from 
 starving. It is very right, here are no palaces, 
 no artificial grottos, or materials for luxury and 
 excess; but we lie under the protection of heaven, 
 and a poor cottage for a retreat, is more worth 
 than the most magnificent temple, when that cot- 
 tage is consecrated by an honest man, under the 
 guard of his virtue. Shall any man think banish- 
 ment grievous, when he may take such company 
 along with him ? Nor is there any banishment 
 but yields enough for our necessities, and no king- 
 dom is sufficient for superfluities. It is the mind 
 that makes us rich in a desart ; and if the body 
 be but kept alive, the soul enjoys all spiritual feli- 
 cities in abundance. What signifies the being 
 banished from one spot of ground to another, to 
 a man that has his thoughts above, and can look 
 forward and backward, and wherever he pleases ; 
 
seneca's morals. 311 
 
 Insatiable appetites are a di ease. 
 
 and that wherever he is, has the same matter 
 to work upon? The body is but the prison, or 
 the clog of the mind, subjected to punishments, 
 robberies, diseases; but the mind is sacred and 
 spiritual, and liable to no violence. Is it that a 
 man shall want garments, or covering, in banish- 
 ment ? The body is as easily clothed as fed, and 
 nature has made nothing hard that is necessary. 
 But if nothing will serve us but rich embroideries 
 and scarlet, it is none of fortune's fault that we 
 are poor, but our own. Nay, suppose a man 
 should have all restored him back again that he 
 has lost, it will come to nothing, for he will want 
 more after that, to satisfy his desires, than he did 
 before to supply his necessities. Insatiable appe- 
 tites are not so much a thirst as a disease. 
 
 To come lower now, where is that people, or 
 nation, that have not changed their place of 
 abode ? some by the fate of war ; others have 
 been cast by tempests, shipwrecks, or want of 
 provisions, upon unknown coasts. Some have 
 been forced abroad by pestilence, sedition, earth- 
 quakes, surcharge of people at home. Some tra- 
 vel to see the world ; others for commerce; but, 
 in fine, it is clear, that, upon some reason or 
 other, the whole race of mankind have shifted 
 their quarters, changed their very names, as well 
 as their habitations, insomuch that we have lost 
 the very memorials of what they were. All these 
 5 
 
312 seneca's morals. 
 
 Pain aftects the body not the mind. 
 
 transportations of people, what are they, but 
 public banishments? The very founder of the 
 Roman empire was an exile : briefly, the whole 
 world has been transplanted, and one mutation 
 treads upon the heel of another. That which 
 one man desires, turns another man's stomach ; 
 and he that proscribes me to-day, shall himself 
 be cast out to-morrow. We have, however, this 
 comfort in our misfortune, we have the same na- 
 ture, the same Providence, and we carrv our 
 virtues along with us. And this blessing we owe 
 to the Almighty Power, call it what you will, 
 either a God, or an incorporeal reason, a divine 
 spirit, or fate, and the unchangeable course of 
 causes and effects: it is, however, so ordered, 
 that nothing can be taken from us, but what we 
 can well spare ; and that which is most magnifi- 
 cent and valuable, continues with us. Wherever 
 we go, we have the heavens over our heads, and 
 no farther from us than they were before ; and so 
 long as \ve can entertain our eyes and thoughts 
 with those glories, what matter is it what ground 
 we tread upon ? 
 
 In the case of pain, or sickness, it is only the 
 body that is affected: it may take off the speed of 
 a footman, or bind the hands of a cobler, but 
 the mind is still at liberty to hear, learn, teach, 
 advise, and to do other good offices. It is an ex- 
 ample of public benefit, a man that is in pain and 
 
sekeca's morals. .313 
 
 In pain may be found some comfort. 
 
 r i * 
 
 patient. Virtue may shew itself as well in the bed 
 as in the field ; and he that cheerfully encounters 
 the terrors of death, and corporal anguish, is a3 
 great a man as he that most generously hazards 
 himself in a battle. A disease, it is true, bars 
 us of some pleasures, but procures others. Drink 
 is never so grateful to us as in a burning fever, 
 nor meat as when we have fasted ourselves sharp 
 and hungry. The patient may be forbidden some 
 sensual satisfaction, but no physician will forbid 
 us the delight of the mind. Shall we call any 
 sick man miserable, because he must give over 
 his intemperance of wine and gluttony, and be- 
 take himself to a diet of more sobriety, and less 
 expence, and abandon his luxury, which is the 
 distemper of the mind as well as of the body ? It 
 is troublesome, I know, at first, to abstain from 
 the pleasures we have been used to, and to en- 
 dure hunger and thirst; but in a' little time we 
 lose the very appetite, and it is no trouble then 
 to be without that which we do not desire. In 
 diseases there are great pains ; but if they be Ion** 
 they remit, and give us some intervals of ease; 
 if short and violent, either they dispatch us, or 
 consume themselves : so that either their respites 
 make them tolerable, or the extremity makes 
 them short. So merciful is God Almighty to us, 
 that our torments cannot be very sharp and last- 
 ing. The acutest pains are those that affect the 
 nerves, but there is this comfort in them too 
 
 2 £ 
 
314 sexeca's morals. 
 
 Three tilings grievous in sickness. 
 
 that they will quickly make us stupid and insen- 
 sible. In cases of extremity, let us call to 
 mind' the most eminent instances of patience and 
 courage, and turn our thoughts from our afflic- 
 tions to the contemplation of virtue, Suppose it 
 be the stone, the gout, nay, the rack itself ; how 
 many have endured it without so much as a groan, 
 or word speaking; without so much as asking for- 
 relief, or giving an answer to a question! nay, 
 they have laughed at the tormentors upon the 
 very torture, and provoked them to new experi- 
 ments of their cruelty, which they have had still 
 in derision. The asthma I look upon, as of all 
 diseases, the most importune; the plrysicians call 
 it — the meditation of death, as being rather an 
 agony than a sickness: the fit holds not above an 
 hour, as no body is long in expiring. There are 
 three things grievous in sickness, the fear of 
 death, bodily pain, and the intermission of our 
 pleasures : the first is to be imputed to nature, 
 not to the disease ; for we do not die because we 
 are sick, but because we live. Nay, sickness it- 
 self has preserved many a man from dying. 
 
 POVERTY, TO A WISE MAN, IS RATHER A 
 BLESSING THAN A MISFORTUNE. 
 
 No man shall ever be poor, that goes to him- 
 self f( r what he wants, and that is the readiest 
 way to riches; nature indeed will have her due, 
 but yet, whatsoever is beyond necessity is preca- 
 
SENECA'S MORALS. 31 
 
 No man poor that has enough. 
 
 rious, and not necessary. It is not her business 
 to gratify the palate, but to satisfy a craving sto- 
 mach: bread, when a man is hungry, does his 
 work, let it be ever so coarse, and water when 
 lie is a-dry; let his thirst be quenched, and na- 
 ture is satisfied, no matter whence it comes, or 
 whether he drinks in gold, silver, or in the hol- 
 low of his hand. To promise a man riches, and 
 to teach him poverty, is to deceive him : b*it, 
 shall I call him poor, that wants nothing, though 
 he may be beholden for it to his patience, rather 
 than to his fortune ? or shall any man deny him 
 to be rich, whose riches can never be taken away? 
 "Whether is it better to have much, or enough ? 
 lie that has much desires more, which shews 
 that he has not yet enough; but he that has 
 enough is at rest. Shall a man be reputed the 
 less rich for not having that for which he shall be 
 banished ; for which his very wife, or sen, shall 
 poison him: that which gives him security in 
 war, and quiet in peace; which he possesses with- 
 out danger, and disposes of without trouble? No 
 man can be poor that has enough, nor rich, that 
 covets more than he has. Alexander, after all 
 his conquests, complained that he wanted more 
 worlds; he desired something more, even when 
 he had gotten all : and that which was sufficient 
 for human nature, was not enough for one man. 
 Money never made any man rich; for the more 
 ke had, the more he still coveted. The richest 
 
3l6 seneca's morals. 
 
 Poverty only troublesome in opinion. 
 
 man that ever lived is poor, in my opinion, and 
 in any man's may be so : but he that keeps him- 
 self to the stint of nature, does neither feel no- 
 verty, nor fear it; nay, even in poverty itself, 
 there are some things superfluous. Those which 
 the world calls happy, their felicity is a false 
 splendour, that dazzles the eyes of the vulgar ; 
 but our rich man is glorious, and happy within. 
 There is no ambition in hunger, or thirst: let 
 there be food, and no matter for the table, the 
 dish, and the servants, nor with what meats na- 
 ture is satisfied. Those are the torments of lux- 
 ury, that rather stuff ihe stomach than fill it : it 
 studies rather to cause an appetite, than to allay 
 it. It is not for us to say — this is not handsome, 
 that is common, the other offends my eye. Na- 
 ture provides for health, not delicacy. When the 
 trumpet sounds a charge, the poor man knows 
 that he is not aimed at: when they cry out fire, 
 his body is all he has to look after; if he be to 
 take a journey, there is no blocking up of streets,, 
 and thronging of passages for a parting compli- 
 ment: a small matter fills his belly, and contents 
 his mind; he lives from hand to mouth, without 
 carkiiig or fearing for to-morrow. The temper- 
 ate rich man is but his counterfeit; his wit is 
 quicker, and his appetite calmer. 
 
 No man finds poverty a trouble to hirti, but he 
 that thinks it so: and he that thinks it so, makes 
 it so. Does not a rich man travel more ut eu.se 
 
se'N'ECa's morale. 317 
 
 GranHeur insures not felicity. 
 
 with less luggage and fewer servants ? does he not 
 eat many tunes as little, and as coarse in the field, 
 as a poor man? does he not, for his own plea- 
 sure, sometimes, and for variety, feed upon the 
 ground, and use only earthen vessels r is not he 
 a madman then, that always fears what he often 
 desires, and dreads the thing that he delights to 
 imitate ? He that would know the worst of po- 
 verty, let him but compare the looks of the rich 
 and of the poor, and he shall rind the poor man 
 to have a smoother brow, and to be more merry 
 at heart, or, if any trouble befals him, it passes 
 over like a cloud : whereas the other, either his 
 good-humour is counterfeit, or his melancholy 
 deep and ulcerated, and the worse, because he 
 dares not publicly own his misfortune, but he is 
 forced to play the part of a happy man, even with 
 a cancer in his heart. His felicity is but personated, 
 and if he were but stripped of his ornaments, he 
 would be contemptible. In buying of a horse we 
 take off his clothes and his trappings, and examine 
 his shape and body, for fear of being cozened ; 
 and shall we put an estimate upon a man for be? 
 ing set off by his fortune and quality ? nay, if we 
 see any thing of ornament about him, we are to 
 suspect him the more for some infirmity under it, 
 He that is not content in poverty, would not be 
 so neither in plenty, for the fault is not in the 
 thing, but in the mind. If that be sickly, remove 
 hirn from a kennel to a palace, he is at the- 
 2U 
 
3"! 8 seneca's morals. 
 
 Competency is a fair degrfee of plenty. 
 
 same pass, for he carries his disease along with 
 him. What c?m be happier than that condition, 
 both of mind and of fortune, from which we can- 
 not fall ? what can be a greater felicity, than in 
 a covetous, designing age, for a man to live 
 • among informers and thieves ? it puts a poor 
 man into the very condition of Providence, that 
 gives all, without reserving any thing to itself. 
 How happy is he that owes nothing but to himself, 
 and only that which he can easily refuse, or easily 
 pay ! I do not reckon him poor that has but a 
 little ! but he is so that covets more; it is a fair 
 degree of plenty, to have what is necessary. 
 V/hether had a man better find saturity in want, 
 or hunger in plenty? It is not the augmenting of 
 our fortunes, but the abating of our appetites 
 that makes us rich. Why may not a man as well 
 contemn riches in his own colfers, as in another 
 m:u/s ; and rather hear that they are his, than 
 ic el them to be so ? though it is a great matter 
 rw t to be corrupted, even by having them under 
 the same roof. He is the greater man that is 
 honestly poor in the middle of plenty, but he is 
 the most secure that is free from the temptation 
 of that plenty, and has the least matter for an- 
 < t her to design upon. It is no great business for 
 a poor man to preach the contempt of riches, or 
 for a rich man to extol the benefits of poverty, 
 because we do not know how either the one or the 
 Other would behave himself in the contrary con^ 
 
seneca's morals. 319 
 
 Mediocrity thebe-t state of fortune. 
 
 dition. The best proof is, the doing of it by- 
 choice, and not by necessity ; for the practice of 
 poverty in jest is a preparation toward the bear- 
 ing of it in earnest. But it is yet a generous dis- 
 position so to provide for the worst of fortunes, 
 as what may be easily borne : the premeditation 
 makes them not only tolerable, but delightful to 
 us; for there is that in them, without which no- 
 thing can be comfortable, that is to say, security. 
 If there were nothing else in poverty, but the 
 certain knowledge of our friends, it were yet a 
 most aesirable blessing — when every man leaves 
 , ms but those that lo\e us. It is a shameto place 
 the happiness of life in gold and silver, for which 
 bread and water is sufficient ; or, at the worst, 
 hunger puts an end to hunger. For the honour 
 ef poverty, it was both the foundation and the 
 cause of the Roman empire; and no man was 
 ever yet so poor, but he had enough to carry him 
 to his journey's end. - 
 
 All I desire is, that my poverty may not be a 
 burden to myself, or make me so to others; and 
 that is the best state of fortune, that is neither 
 -directly necessitous, nor far from it. A medio- 
 crity of fortune, with a gentleness of mind, will 
 preserve us from fear or envy; which is a desir- 
 able condition, for no man wants power to do 
 mischief. We never consider the blessing of co- 
 veting nothing, and the glory of being full in 
 Ourselves, without depending upon fortune. With 
 
320 seneca's morals. 
 
 Frugality makes a poor man rich. 
 
 parsimony a little is sufficient, and without it- 
 nothing; whereas frugality makes a poor man 
 rich. It we lose an estate, we had better never 
 have had it: he that has least to lose, has least 
 to fear; and those are better satisfied whom for- 
 tune never favoured, than those whom she has 
 forsaken. The state is most commodious that 
 lies betwixt poverty and plenty. Diogenes under- 
 stood this very well, when he put himself into an 
 incapacity of losing any thing.. That course of 
 life is most commodious, which is both safe and 
 wholesome ; the body is to be indulged no farther 
 than for health, and rather mortified than not 
 kept in subjection to the mind. It is necessary 
 to provide against hunger, thirst, and cold y and 
 somewhat for a covering to shelter us against 
 other inconveniencies,'but not a pin matter whe- 
 ther it be of turf, or of marble. A man may lie 
 as warm, and as dry, under a thatched as under 
 a gilded roof. Let the mind be great and glo- 
 rious, and all other things are despicable in com- 
 parison. The future is uncertain, and I had ra- 
 ther beg of mvself not to desire any thing, than of 
 fortune to bestow it. 
 
Seneca's morals. 521 
 
 A neer described. 
 
 ^=* 
 
 OF ANGER. 
 
 a.vger described; it is against nature, 
 and only to be found in man. 
 
 VV E are here to encounter the most outrage* 
 ous, brutal, dangerous, and intractable of all 
 passions, the most loathsome and unmannerly, 
 nay, the most ridiculous too ; and the subduing 
 of this monster will do a great deal toward the 
 establishment of human peace. It is the method 
 of physicians to begin with a description of the 
 disease, before they meddle with the cure ; and 
 I know not why this may not do as well in the 
 distempers of the mind, as in those of the bodj\ 
 
 The Stoics will have anger to be — a desire of 
 punishing another for some injury done. Against 
 which it is objected, that we are many times an- 
 gry with those that never did hurt us, but possi- 
 bly may, though the harm be not as yet done. 
 13 Lit, I say, that they hurt us already in conceit, 
 
322 seneca's morals. 
 
 It is against nature ,• 
 
 and the very purpose of it is an injury in thought, 
 before it breaks out into an act. It is opposed 
 again — that if anger -were a desire of punishing, 
 mean people would not be angry with great ones, 
 that are out of their reach ; for no man can be 
 said to desire any thing which he judges impos- 
 sible to compass. But, I answer to this, that 
 anger is the desire, not the power, and faculty of 
 revenge : neither is any man so low, but that the 
 greatest man alive may, peradventure, lie at his 
 mercy." 
 
 Aristotle takes anger to be — a desire of pay- 
 ing sorrow for sorrow, and of plaguing those that 
 have plagued us. It is argued against both, that 
 beasts are angry, though neither provoked by any 
 injury, nor moved with a desire of any body's 
 grief, or punishment; nay, though they cause it, 
 they do not design or seek it. Neither is anger 
 (how unreasonable soever in itself) found any 
 where but in reasonable creatures. It is true, that 
 beasts have an impulse of rage and fierceness, as 
 they are more affected also than men with some 
 pleasures; but we may as well call them luxuri- 
 ous and ambitious, as angry ; and yet they are not 
 without certain images of human affections. They 
 have their likings and their loathings, but neither 
 the passions of reasonable nature, nor their vir- 
 tues, nor their vices. They are moved to fury 
 
seneca's morals. 32S 
 
 On y Id be f<>- nd in man. 
 
 by some objects, they are quieted by others; 
 they have their terrors and their disappointments, 
 but without reflection; and let them be ever so 
 irritated, or affrighted, so soon as ever the occa- 
 sion is removed, the)" fall to their meat again, 
 lie down, and take their rest. Wisdom and 
 thought are the goods of the mind, whereof 
 brutes are wholly incapable ; and we are as un- 
 like them within, as we are without : they have 
 an odd kind of fancy, and they have a voice too, 
 but inarticulate and confused, and incapable of 
 those variations which are familiar to us. 
 
 Anger is not only a vice, but a vice point 
 blank against nature, for it divides instead of 
 joining, and, in some measure, frustrates the end 
 of Providence in human society. One man was 
 born to help another : anger makes us destroy 
 one another; the one unites, the other separates; 
 the one is beneficial to us, the other mischievous; 
 the one succours even strangers, the other de- 
 stroys even the most intimate friends ; the one 
 ventures all to save another, the other ruins him- 
 self to undo another. Nature is bountiful, but 
 anger is pernicious ; for it is not fear, but mutual 
 love that binds up mankind. „ . 
 
 There are some motions that look like anger, 
 which cannot properly be called so ; as the pas- 
 sion of the people against the gladiators, when 
 they hang off, and will not make so quick a dis- 
 2 
 
'324 seneca's morals. 
 
 Several sort.- of anger. 
 
 patch as the spectators would have them : there 
 is something in it of the humour of children, that 
 if they get a fall, will never leave bawling until 
 the haughty ground is beaten, and then all is well 
 again. They are angry without any cause, or in- 
 jury ; they are deluded by an imitation of strokes, 
 and pacified with counterfeit tears. A false, and 
 a childish sorrow, is appeased with as false and 
 as childish a revenge. They take it for a con- 
 tempt, if the gladiators do not immediately cast 
 themselves upon the sword's point. They look 
 presently about them, from one to another, as 
 who should say — Do but see, my masters, how 
 these rogues abuse us. 
 
 To descend to the particular branches and va- 
 rieties, would be unnecessary and endless. There 
 is a stubborn, a vindictive, a quarrelsome, a vio- 
 lent, a froward, a sullen, a morose kind of an- 
 ger ; and then we have this variety in complica- 
 tion too. One goes no farther than words; an- 
 other proceeds immediately to blows, without a 
 word speaking; a third sort breaks out into 
 cursing and reproachful language ; and there are 
 that content themselves with chiding and com- 
 plaining. There is a conciliable anger, and there- 
 is an implacable; but in what form or degree so- 
 ever it appears, all anger, without exception, is 
 vicious. 
 
seneca's morals. 325 
 
 Of its variou? m )tions. 
 
 THE RISE OF ANGER. 
 
 The question will be here — Vv'hether anger 
 takes its rise from impulse, or judgment? That 
 is, whether it be moved of its own accord, or, as 
 many other things are, from within us, that arise 
 we know not how ? The clearing of this point 
 will lead us to greater matters. 
 
 The first motion of anger is, in truth, involun- 
 tary, and only a kind of menacing preparation to- 
 wards it. The second deliberates, as who should 
 say — this injury should not pass without a re- 
 venge, and there it stops. The third is impo- 
 tent, and, right or wrong, resolves upon ven- 
 geance. The first motion is not to be avoided, 
 nor indeed the second, any more than yawning 
 for company : custom and care may lessen it, but 
 season itself cannot overcome it. The third, as 
 it rises upon consideration, it must fall so too ; 
 for that motion which proceeds with judgment, 
 may be taken away with judgment. A man thinks 
 himself injured, and hath a mind to be revenged, 
 but for some reason lets it rest. This is not pro- 
 perly anger, but an affection over-ruled by rea- 
 son: a kind of proposal disapproved. And what 
 are reason and affection, but only changes of the 
 miad, for the better, or for the worst? Eeasoa 
 
3?6* seneca's morals. 
 
 Anaer is a precipitate | as ion. 
 
 •deliberates before it judges ; but auger passes 
 sentence without deliberation. Reason qnly at- 
 tends the matter in hand ; but anger is startled 
 at every accident: it passes the bounds of reason, 
 and carries it away with it. In short — anger is 
 an agitation of the mind that proceeds to the re- 
 solution of a revenge, the mind assenting to it. 
 There is no doubt but anger is moved by the spe- 
 cies of an injury, but whether the motion be 
 voluntary, or involuntary, is the point in debate; 
 though it seems manifest to me, that anger does 
 nothing but where the mind goes along with it. 
 For, first, to take an offence, and then to medi- 
 tate a revenge; and, after that, to lay both pro- 
 positions together, and say to myself — this in- 
 jury ought not to have been doiie ; but as the 
 case stands, I must do myself right. This dis- 
 course can never proceed without the concurrence 
 of the will. The first motion indeed is single, 
 but all the rest is deliberation and superstructure: 
 there is something understood and condemned ; 
 an indignation conceived, and a revenge pro- 
 pounded. This can never be without the agree- 
 ment of the mind to the matter in deliberation*. 
 The end of this question is, to know the nature 
 and quality of anger. If it be bred in us, it will 
 never yield to reafeon, for all involuntary motions 
 are inevitable and invincible, as a kind of horror 
 
seneca's morals. 327 
 
 It truly be i vercome by goad counsel. 
 
 and shrugging upon the sprinkling of cold water;, 
 the hair standing on end at ill news ; giddiness at 
 the sight of a precipice ; blushing at lewd dis- 
 course. In these cases, reason can do no good, 
 but anger may undoubtedly be overcome bv 
 caution and good counsel ; for it is a voluntary 
 vice, and not of the condition of those accidents 
 that befal us as frailties of our humanity: 
 amongst which must be reckoned the hrst motions 
 of the mind, after the opinion of an injury re- 
 ceived, which it is not in the power of human 
 nature to avoid : and this is it that affects us 
 upon the stage, or in a story. Can any man 
 read the death of Pompey, and not be touched 
 with an indignation ? The sound of a trumpet 
 rouses the spirits, and provokes courage. It 
 makes a man sad to see the shipwreck even of an 
 enemy; and we are much surprised by fear in 
 other cases : all these motions are not so much 
 affections, as preludes to them. The clashing of 
 arms, or the beating of a drum, excites a war- 
 horse. Nay, a song from Xenophantes would 
 make Alexander take his sword in his hand. In 
 all these cases, the mind rather suffers than acts, 
 and therefore it is not an affection to be moved, 
 but to give way to that motion, and to follow will- 
 ingly what was started by chance. These are not 
 auctions, but impulses of the body. The bravest 
 2e 2. 
 
32$ Seneca's morals. 
 
 Ofihosewho have governed their rage. 
 
 man in the world may look pale when he puts on 
 his armour, his knees knock, and his heart work, 
 before the battle is joined, but these are only 
 motions ; whereas anger is an excursion, and 
 proposes revenge or punishment, which cannot 
 be without the mind. As fear flies, so anger as- 
 saults; and it is not possible to resolve, either 
 upon violence, or caution, without the concur- 
 rence of the will. 
 
 ANGER MAY BE SUPPRESSED. 
 
 It is an idle thing, to pretend that we cannot 
 govern our anger: for some things that we do, 
 are much harder than others that we ought to 
 do ; the wildest affections may be tamed by dis- 
 cipline, and there is hardly any thing which the 
 mind will do, but it may do. There needs no 
 more argument in this case, than the instances of 
 several persons, both powerful and impatient, that 
 have gotten the absolute mastery of themselves in 
 this point. 
 
 Thrasippus, in his drink, fell foul upon the 
 cruelties of Pisistratus, who, when he was urged 
 by several about him to make an example of him, 
 returned this answer — " Why should I be angry 
 with a man who stumbles upon me blindfold ?" 
 In effect, most of our quarrels are of our own 
 making, either by mistake, or by aggravation, 
 
sf.nf.ca's morals. 329- 
 
 The moderatipn.of Antieonus. 
 
 Anger comes sometimes upon us, but we go oftner 
 to it, and instead of rejecting it, we call it. 
 
 Augustus was a great master of his passion, 
 for Timagenus, an historian, who wrote several 
 bitter tilings against his person and his family, 
 which passed among the people plausible enough^ 
 as pieces of rash wit commonly do : Caesar ad- 
 vised him several times to forbear, and when 
 that would not do, forbad him his roof. After 
 this Asinius Pollio gave him entertainment, and 
 he was so well beloved in the city, that every 
 man's house was open to him. Those things that 
 he had written in honour of 1 Augustus, he recited 
 and burnt, and publicly professed himself Caesar's 
 enemy : Augustus, for all this, never fell out 
 with any man that received him; only once he 
 told Pollio that he had taken a snake into his 
 bosom : and as Pollio was about to excuse him- 
 self — " No," says Caesar, interrupting him, 
 " make your best of him ;" and offering to cast 
 him oft' at that very moment, if Caesar pleased, 
 " Do you think/' says Caesar, " that I will ever 
 contribute to the parting of you, that made you : 
 friends?" for Pollio was angry with him before, . 
 and only entertained him now, because Caesar had 
 discarded him. 
 
 The moderation of Antigonuswas remarkable, 
 some of his soldiers were railing at him one night, 
 where there was but a hanging betwixt them; 
 %? 3 
 
330 seneca's morals. 
 
 . - =s 
 
 Pcciius Pollio masters his anger through fear. 
 
 Antigonus overheard them, and putting it gently 
 aside — " Soldiers," says he, " stand a little far- 
 ther- off, for fear the king should hear you." And 
 we are to consider not only violent examples but 
 moderate, where there wanted neither cause of 
 displeasure, nor power of revenge : as in the case 
 of Antigonus, who, the same night, hearing his 
 soldiers cursing him for bringing them into so foul 
 a way, he went to them, and, without telling 
 them who he was, helped them out of it, 
 tl Now/' says he, " you may be allowed to curse 
 him that brought you into the mire, provided 
 you bless him that took you out of it." 
 
 It was a notable story, that of Pedius Pollio, 
 upon his inviting Augustus to supper. One of 
 his boys happened to break a glass, and his mas- 
 ter, in a rage, commanded him to be thrown into 
 a pond, to feed his lampreys. This action of his 
 might be taken for luxury, though, in truth, it 
 was cruelty. The boy was seized, but brake 
 loose, and threw himself at Augustus's feet, only 
 desiring that he might not die that death ! Caesar, 
 in abhorrence of the barbarity, presently ordered 
 all the rest of the glasses to be broken, the boy 
 to be released, and the pond to be filled up, that 
 there might be no farther occasion for an inhu- 
 manity of that nature. This was an authority 
 we'll employed. Shall the breaking of a glass 
 cost a man his life ? Nothing but a predominant. 
 
senega's morals. 351 
 
 Pra-\aspes dissembles hi s rj.^e. 
 
 fear could ever have mastered his choleric and 
 sanguinary disposition. This man deserved to 
 die a thousand deaths, either for eating human 
 flesh at second hand, in his lampreys, or for 
 keeping of his fish to be so fed. 
 
 It is written of Prrexaspes (a favourite of Cam- 
 byses, who was much given to wine), that he 
 took the freedom to tell his prince of his hard 
 drinking, and to lay before him the scandal and 
 the inconveniencies of his excesses, and how that, 
 in those distempers, he had not the command of 
 himself. " Now," says Cambyses, " to shew you 
 your mistake, you shall see me drink deeper than 
 ever I did, and yet keep the use of my eyes and 
 of my hands, as well as if I were sober/' Upon 
 this, he drank to a higher pitch than ordinary,, 
 and ordered Praxaspes his son to go out, and 
 stand on the other side of the threshold, with his 
 left arm over his head— " and," says he, " if I 
 have a good aim, have at the heart of him." He 
 shot, and upon cutting up the young man, they 
 found indeed that the arrow had struck him 
 through the middle of the heart. " What do you 
 think now," says Cambyses, " is my hand steady 
 or no ?" — " Apollo himself," says Praexaspes, 
 could not have outdone it." It may be a ques- 
 tion now, which was the greater impiety, the 
 murder itself, or the commendation of it j for 
 
332 seneca's morals. 
 
 Harpagus suppresses Ins choler 
 
 lnm to take the heart of his sun, while it was yet 
 reeking and panting under the wound, for an oc- 
 casion of flattery. Why was there not another 
 experiment made upon the father, to try if Cam- 
 bybes could not have yet mended his shot? This 
 was a most unmanly violation of hospitality, but 
 the approbation of the fact was still worse than 
 the crime itself. This example of Praxaspes 
 proves sufficiently that a man may repress his an- 
 ger, for he returned not one ill word, no not so 
 much as a complaint, but he paid dear for his 
 good counsel. He had been wiser, perhaps, if 
 he had let the king alcne in his cups,, for he had- 
 better have drunk wine than blood, it is a dan- 
 gerous office to give good advice to intemperate 
 princes. 
 
 Another instance of anger suppressed we have 
 in Harpagus,. who was commanded to expose Cy- 
 rus upon a mountain, but the child was preserv- 
 ed; which when Astyages came afterwards to 
 understand, he invited Harpagus to a dish o£ 
 meat; and when he had eaten his fill, he told 
 him it was a piece of his son, and asked him how 
 he liked the seasoning. " Whatever pleases your 
 majesty/' said Harpagus, " must please me/' and 
 he made no more words of it. It is most certain 
 that we might govern our anger if we would; for 
 the same thing that galls us at home ? gives us up 
 
SENECa's MORALS. 333 
 
 Anger a short madness. 
 
 offence at all abroad ; and what is the reason of 
 h, but that we are patient in one place and fro- 
 ward in another ? 
 
 It was a strong provocation that which was 
 given to Philip of Macedon, the father of Alex- 
 ander : — the Athenians sent their ambassadors to 
 him, and they were received with this compliment 
 — " Tell me, gentlemen/' says Philip, " What 
 is there that I can do to oblige the Athenians V 
 Democharas, one of the ambassadors told him, 
 that they would take it for a great obligation, if 
 he would be pleased to hang himself. This inso- 
 lence gave an indignation to the by-standers, but 
 Philip bad them not to meddle with him, but 
 even to let that foulmouthed fellow go as he 
 came. " And for you, the rest of the ambassa- 
 dors," says he, " pray tell the Athenians, that 
 it is worse to speak such things, than to hear and 
 forgive them." This wonderful patience under 
 contumelies was a great means of Philip's se- 
 curity. 
 
 IT IS A SHORT MADNESS, AND A DEFORMED 
 VICE. 
 
 He was much in the right, whoever it was, 
 that first called anger a short madness, for they 
 have both of them the same symptoms, and there 
 is so wonderful a resemblance betwixt the trans- 
 ports of choler and those of phrensy, that it is 
 
334 seneca's morals. 
 
 Anger 3 deformed vice. 
 
 a hard matter to know the one from the other. 
 A bold, fierce, and threatening countenance, as 
 pale as ashes, and in the same moment as red as 
 blood ; a glaring eye, a wrinkled brow, violent 
 motions, the hands restless, and perpetually in 
 action, wringing and menacing, snapping of the 
 joints, stamping with the feet, the hair staring, 
 trembling lips, a forced and squeaking voice, the 
 speech false and broken, deep and frequent sighs, 
 and ghastly looks; the veins swell, the heart 
 pants, the knees knock, with a hundred dismal 
 accidents that are common to both distempers. 
 Neither is anger a bare resemblance only of that 
 madness, but many times an irrevocable transition 
 into the thing itself. How many persons have we 
 known, read, and heard of, that have lost their 
 wits in a passion, and never came to themselves 
 again ? it is therefore to be avoided, not only for 
 moderation sake, but also for health. Now if 
 the outward appearance of anger be so foul and 
 hideous, how deformed must that miserable 
 mind be that is harassed with it? for it leaves 
 no place either for counsel or friendship, honesty, 
 or good manners ; noplace either for the exer- 
 cise of reason, or for the offices of life. If I 
 were to describe it, I would draw a tiger bathed 
 in blood, sharp set, and ready to take a leap at 
 his prey ; or dress it up as the poets represent the 
 furies, with whips, snakes and flames : it should 
 
SF,NF,C.\'s MORALS. 335 
 
 1 renders all terrible creatures more fierce. 
 
 be sour, livid, fall of scars, and wallowing in 
 gore, raging up and down, destroying, grinning, 
 bellowing, and pursuing, sick of all other things, 
 and most of all of itself. It turns beauty into de- 
 formity, and the calmest counsels into fierceness : 
 it disorders our very garments, and fills the mind 
 with horror. How abominable is it in the soul 
 then, when it appears so hideous even through 
 the bones, the skin, and so many impediments? 
 Is not he a madman, that has lost the govern- 
 ment of himself, and is tossed hither and thither 
 by his fury, as by a tempest; the executioner of 
 his own revenge, both with his heart and hand, 
 and the murderer of his nearest friends? The 
 smallest matter moves it, and makes us insoci- 
 able and inaccessible. It does all things by vio- 
 lence, as well upon itself as others, and it is, in 
 short, the master of all passions. 
 
 There is not any creature so terrible and dan* 
 gerous by nature, but it becomes fiercer by an- 
 ger. Not that beasts have human affections, but 
 certain impulses they have, which come very 
 near them. The boar foams, champs, and whets 
 his tusks ; the bull tosses his horns in the air, 
 bounds, and tears up the ground with his feet; 
 the lion roars, and swinges himself with his tail ; 
 the serpent swells, and there is a ghastly kind of 
 fellness in the aspect of a mad dog. How great 
 a wickedness is it now to indulge a violence, that 
 
335 seneca's morals. 
 
 Anger is a wild impetuous blast. 
 
 does not only turn a man into a beast, but makes 
 even the most outrageous of beasts themselves to 
 be more dreadful and mischievous! a vice, that 
 carries along with it neither pleasure nor profit, 
 neither honour nor security, but, on the contrarv, 
 destroys us to all the comfortable and glorious 
 purposes of our reasonable being. Some there 
 are, that will have the root of it to be greatness 
 of mind. And why may we not as well entitle 
 impudence to courage : whereas the one is proud, 
 the other brave ; the one is gracious and gentle, 
 the other rude and furious? At the same rate 
 we may ascribe magnanimity to avarice, luxury, 
 and ambition, which are all but splendid impo- 
 tencies, without measure and without foundation. 
 There is nothing great but what is virtuous, nor 
 indeed truly great, but what is also composed 
 and quiet. Anger, alas ! is but a wild impetuous 
 blast, an empty tumour, the very infirmity of 
 women and children, a brawling clamorous evil : 
 and the more noise the less courage ; as we find 
 it commonly, that the boldest tongues have the 
 faintest hearts. 
 
 ANGER IS NEITHER WARRANTABLE, 
 NOR USEFUL. 
 
 In the first place, anger is unwarrantable, as 
 it is unjust: for it falls many times upon the 
 vfrrong person, and discharges itself upon the in- 
 
seneca's morals. 337 
 
 It isinsociaMe. 
 
 nocent, instead of the guilty ; beside the dispro- 
 portion of making the most trivial offences to be 
 capital, and punishing an inconsiderate word 
 perhaps with torments, fetters, infamy, or death. 
 It allows a man neither time, nor means of de- 
 fence, but judges a cause without hearing it, and 
 admits of no mediation. It flies into the face of 
 truth itself, if it be of the adverse party ; and 
 turns obstinacy in an error, into an argument of 
 justice. It does every thing with agitation and 
 tumult; whereas reason and equity can destroy 
 whole families, if there be occasion for it, even 
 to the extinguishing of their names and memo- 
 ries, without any indecency, either of counte- 
 nance or action. 
 
 Secondly, it is insociable to the highest point, 
 for it spares neither friend nor foe, but tears all 
 to pieces, and casts human nature into a perpe- 
 tual state of war. It dissolves the bond of mutual 
 society, insomuch that our very companions and 
 relations dare not come near us; it renders us 
 unfit for the ordinary offices of life, for we can 
 neither govern our tongues, our hands, nor any 
 part of our body. It tramples upon the laws of 
 hospitality and of nations, leaves every man to 
 be his own carver, and all things, public and 
 private, sacred and profane, suffer violence. 
 
 Thirdly, it is to no purpose. It is a sad thing, 
 we cry, to put up these injuries, and .we are not 
 
 2 ft 
 
338 SENECA S MORALS. 
 
 Anger is un profitable. 
 
 able to bear them; as if any man that can bear 
 anger, could not bear an injury, which is much 
 more supportable. You will say, that anger 
 does some good yet, for it keeps people in awe, 
 and secures a man from contempt ; never consi- 
 dering that it is more dangerous to be feared 
 than despised. Suppose that an angry man could 
 do as much as he threatens ; the more terrible, 
 he is still the more odious; and, on the other 
 side, if he wants power, he is the more despic- 
 able for his anger ; for there is nothing more 
 wretched than a choleric huff, that makes a 
 noise, and nobody cares for it. If anger should 
 be valuable, because men are afraid of it, why 
 not an adder, a toad, or a scorpion as well ? it 
 makes us lead the life of gladiators; we live, and 
 we fight together. We hate the happy, despise 
 the miserable, envy our superiors, insult upon 
 our inferiors, and there is nothing in the world 
 which we will not do, either for pleasure or pro- 
 fit. To be angry at offenders, is to make our- 
 selves the common enemies of mankind, which 
 is both weak and wicked, and we may as well be 
 angry that our thistles do not bring forth apples, 
 or that every pebble in our ground is not an ori- 
 ental pearl. If we are angry, both with young; 
 men and with old, because they do offend, why 
 not with infants too, because they will offend ? 
 It is laudable to rejoice for any thing that is well 
 
seneca's morals. 359 
 
 Ami in no case allowable. 
 
 done ; but, to be transported for another man's 
 doing ill, is narrow and sordid. Nor is it for the 
 dignity of virtue to be either angry, or sad. It 
 is with a tainted mind as with an ulcer, not only 
 the touch, but the very offer at it makes us 
 shrink and complain ; when we come once to be 
 carried off from our poize, we are lost. In the 
 choice of a sword, we take care that it be wieldy, 
 and well mounted ; and it concerns us as much 
 to be wary of engaging in the excesses of ungo- 
 vernable passions. It is not the speed of a horse 
 altogether that pleases us, unless we find that he 
 can stop and turn at pleasure. It is a sign of 
 weakness and a kind of stumbling, for a man to 
 run when he intends only to walk ; and it be- 
 hoves us to have the same command of our mind 
 that we have of our bodies. Besides that, the 
 greatest punishment of an injury is the conscience 
 of having done it; and no man suffers more, than 
 he that is turned over to the pain of a repentance. 
 How much better is it to compose injuries than 
 to revenge them ; for it does not only spend time, 
 but the revenge of one injury exposes us to more. 
 In fine, as it is unreasonable to be angry at a 
 crime, it is foolish to be angry without one. 
 
 But, -may not an honest man then be allowed 
 to be angry at the murder of his father, or the 
 ravishing of his sister, or daughter, before his 
 face? No, not at all; 1 will defend my parents, 
 
 S g S 
 
 « V 4 
 
340 senega's morals. 
 
 There is no need of anger. 
 
 and 1 will repay the injuries that are done them ; 
 but it is my piety, and not my anger, that moves 
 me to it. I will do my duty without fear or con- 
 fusion; Twill not rage, I will not weep, but dis- 
 charge the office of a good man, without forfeit- 
 ing the dignity of a man. If my father be as- 
 saulted, I will endeavour to rescue him ; if he 
 be killed, I will do right to his memory ; and ail 
 this not in any transport of passion, but in honour 
 and conscience. Neither is there any need of an- 
 ger, where reason does the same thing. A man 
 may be temperate, and yet vigorous, and raise 
 his mind according to the occasion, more or less, 
 as a stone is thrown according to the discretion 
 and intent of the caster. How outrageous have 
 I seen some people for the loss of a monkey, or 
 a spaniel ? and were it not a shame to have the 
 same sense for a friend that we have for a puppy, 
 -and to cry like children, as much for a bauble as 
 •for the ruin of our country ? this is not an effect 
 of reason, but of infirmity. For a man indeed 
 to expose his person for his prince, or for his 
 parents, or his friends, out of a sense of honesty, 
 and a judgment of duty, it is, without dispute, 
 a worthy and a glorious action; but it must be 
 done then with sobriety, calmness, and resolu- 
 tion. It is high time to convince the world of 
 the indignity and uselessness of this passion, when 
 it has the authority and recommendation of no 
 
Seneca's morals. 341 
 
 -Bu; it may be counterfeited. 
 
 less than Aristotle himself, as an affection very 
 much conducing to all heroic actions, that re- 
 quire heat and vigour. Now, to shew on the 
 other side, that it is not in any case profitable, 
 we shall lay open the obstinate and unbridled 
 madness of it ; a wickedness, neither sensible of 
 infamy, nor of glory ; without either modesty or 
 fear ; and if it passes once from anger into a 
 hardened hatred, it is incurable. It is cither 
 stronger than reason, or it is weaker. If stronger, 
 there is no contending with it; if weaker, reason 
 will do the business without it. Some will have 
 it that an angry man is good-natured and sin- 
 cere, whereas, in truth, he only lays himself 
 open out of heedlessness, and want of caution* 
 If it were in itself good, the more of it the bet- 
 ter ; but in this case, the more the worse ; and 
 a wise man does his duty without the aid of any 
 thing that is ill. It is objected by some, that 
 those are the most generous creatures which are 
 the most prone to anger. But first, reason in 
 man, is impetuous in beasts. Secondly, without 
 discipline, it runs into audaciousness and teme- 
 rity ; over and above that, the same thing does not 
 help all. If anger helps the lion, it is fear that 
 saves the stag, swiftness the hawk, and flioht the 
 pigeon : but man has God for his example (who 
 is never angry), and not the creatures. And yet 
 it is not amiss sometimes to counterfeit anger, as 
 2o 3 
 
34-2 Seneca's morals. 
 
 ■ - - ■ ■ ■ I r*T 
 
 A i^e> is never to be convinced. 
 
 upon the stage; nay, upon the bench, and in the 
 pulpit, where the imitation of it is more effectual 
 than the thing itself. But it is a great error, to 
 take this passion either for a companion or for 
 an assistant to virtue ; that makes a man incapa- 
 ble of those necessary counsels by which virtue 
 is to govern herself. Those are false and inaus- 
 picious powers, and destructive of themselves, 
 ■which arise only from the accession and fervour 
 jof a disease. Reason judges according to right; 
 anger will have every thing seem right whatever 
 it does, and when it has once pitched upon a mis- 
 take, it is never to be convinced, but prefers a 
 pertinacy, even in the greatest evil, before the 
 jnost necessary repentance. 
 
 Some people are of opinion, that anger inflames 
 and animates the soldier, that it is a spur to bold 
 and arduous undertakings, and that it were bet- 
 ter to moderate than wholly suppress it, for fear 
 of dissolving the spirit and force ot the mind. To 
 this I answer, lhat virtue does not need the help 
 of vice, but where there is any ardour of mind 
 necessary, we may rouse ourselves, and be more 
 or less busk and vigorous, as there is occasion, 
 but all without anger still. It is a mistake, to 
 say, that we may make use of anger as a com- 
 mon soldier, but not as a commander ; for if it 
 hears reason and follows orders, it is not properly 
 anger; and if it does not, it is contumacious and 
 
Seneca's moral?. 343 
 
 It is dangerons in the field. 
 
 mutinous. By this argument, a man must be 
 angry to be valiant, covetous to be industrious, 
 timorous to be safe, which makes our reason 
 confederate with our affections. And it is all one, 
 whether passion be inconsiderate without reason, 
 or reason ineffectual without passion, since the 
 one cannot be without the other. It is true, the 
 less the passion, the less is the mischief; for a 
 little passion is the smaller evil. Nay, so far is 
 it from being of use or advantage in the field, 
 that it is the place of all others where it is the 
 most dangerous; for the actions of war are to be 
 managed with order and caution, not precipita- 
 tion and fancy : whereas anger is heedless and 
 heady, and the virtue only of barbarous nations, 
 which, though their bodies were much stronger, 
 and more hardened, were still worsted by the 
 moderation and discipline of the Romans. There 
 is not upon the face of the earth a bolder, or a 
 more indefatigable nation than the Germans ; not 
 a braver upon a charge, not a hardier against 
 colds and heats ; their only delight and exercise 
 is arms, to the utter neglect of ail things else ; 
 and yet, upon the encounter, they are broken 
 and destroyed through their own undisciplined 
 temerity, even by the most effeminate of men. 
 The huntsman is not angry with the wild boar, 
 when he either pursues or receives him ; a good 
 sword-man watches his opportunity, and keeps 
 
44« seneca's morals. 
 
 Anger is not courage. 
 
 himself upon his guard, whereas passion lays a 
 man open : nay, it is one of the prime lessons in 
 a fencing school, to learn not to be angry. If 
 Fabius had been choleric, Rome had been lost : 
 and before he conquered Hannibal, he overcame 
 himself. If Scipio had been angry, he would 
 never* have left Hannibal and his army (who 
 were the proper objects of his displeasure), to 
 carry the war into Africa, and so compass his end 
 by a more temperate way; nay, he was so slow, 
 that it was charged upon him for want of mettle 
 and resolution. And what did the other Scipio ? 
 (Africanus I mean). How much time did he spend 
 before Numantia, to the common grief both of 
 his country and himself ? though he reduced it 
 at last, by so miserable a famine, that the inha- 
 bitants laid violent hands upon themselves, and 
 left neither man, woman, nor child, to survive 
 the ruins of it. If anger makes a man fight 
 better, so does wine, frenzy, nay, and fear it- 
 self; for the greatest coward in despair does the 
 greatest wonders. No man is courageous in his 
 anger, that was not so without it. But put the 
 case, that anger, by accident, may have done 
 some good, and so have fevers removed some 
 distempers ; but it is an odious kind of remedy, 
 that makes us indebted to a disease for a cure. 
 How many men have been preserved by poison, 
 by a fall from a precipice, by a shipwreck, by a 
 
seneca's morals. 54-5 
 
 The end of it is sorrow. 
 
 tempest ? Does it therefore follow that we are 
 to recommend the practice of these experiments ? 
 But in case of an exemplary and prostitute dis- 
 solution of manners, when Clodius shall be pre- 
 ferred, and Cicero rejected; when loyalty shall 
 be broken upon the wheel, and treason sit trium- 
 phant upon the bench, is not this a subject to 
 move the choler of any virtuous man ? No, by 
 no means, virtue will never allow of the correct- 
 ing of one vice by another; or that anger, which 
 is the greater crime of the two, should presume 
 to punish the less. It is the natural property of 
 virtue to make a man serene and chearful, and 
 it is not for the dignity of a philosopher to be 
 transported either with grief or anger; and then 
 the end of am>er is sorrow, the constant effect of 
 disappointment and repentance. But to my pur- 
 pose — if a man should be angry at wickedness, 
 the greater the wickedness is, the greater must 
 be his anger ; and so long as there is wickedness 
 in the world, he must never be pleased ; which 
 makes his quiet dependent upon the humour or 
 manners of others. There passes not a day over 
 our heads, but he that is choleric shall have some 
 cause or other of displeasure, either from men, 
 accidents, or business. He shall never stir out 
 his house, but he shall meet with criminals of all 
 sorts, prodigal, impudent, covetous, perfidious, 
 «ontentious; children persecuting their parents. 
 
340 SENECA S MORALS. 
 
 Justice is calm and temperate. 
 
 parents cursing their children; the innocent ac- 
 cused, the delinquent acquitted, and the judge 
 practising that in his chamber, which he con- 
 demns upon the bench : in fine, wherever there 
 are men there are faults; and, upon these terms, 
 Socrates himself should never bring the same 
 countenance home again that he carried out with 
 him. 
 
 If anger were sufferable in any case, it might 
 be allowed against an incorrigible criminal under 
 the hand of justice; but punishment is not matter 
 of anger, but of caution. The law is without 
 passion, and strikes malefactors as we do serpents 
 and venomous creatures, for fear of greater mis- 
 chief. It is not for the dignity of a judge, when 
 he comes to pronounce the fatal sentence, to ex- 
 press any motions of anger in his looks, words, 
 or gestures : for he condemns the vice, not the 
 man; and looks upon the wickedness without an- 
 ger, as he does upon the prosperity of wicked 
 men without envy. But though he be not angry, 
 I would have him a little moved, in point of hu- 
 manity ; but yet without any offence either to his 
 place or wisdom. Our passions vary, but reason 
 is equal; and it were a great folly for that which 
 ift stable, faithful, and sound, to repair for suc- 
 cour to that which is uncertain, false, and dis- 
 tempered, li the offender be incurable, take liim 
 out of the world, that if he will not be good, he 
 
sknf.ca's morals. 347 
 
 Coi rert'on must be within bounds. 
 
 may cease to be evil; but this must be without 
 anger too. Does any man hate an arm, or a leg, 
 when he cuts it off ? or reckon that a passion, 
 which is only a miserable cure ? We knock mad 
 dogs on the head, and remove scabbed sheep out 
 of the fold ; and this is not anger still, but reason, 
 to separate the sick from the sound. Justice can- 
 not be angry ; nor is there any need of an angry 
 magistrate, for the punishment of foolish and 
 wicked men. The power of life and death must 
 not be managed with passion. We give a horse 
 the spur, that is restifY, or jadish, and tries to cast 
 his rider ; but this is without anger too, and only 
 to take down his stomach, and bring him by cor- 
 rection to obedience. 
 
 It is true, that correction is necessary, yet 
 within reason and bounds ; for it docs not hurt, 
 but profit us under an appearance of harm. Ill 
 dispositions in the mind are to be dealt with as 
 those in the body; the physician first tries purg- 
 ing and abstinence ; if this will not do, he pro- 
 ceeds to bleeding, nay, to dismembering, rather 
 than fail ; for there is no operation too severe 
 that ends in health. The public magistrate be- 
 gins with persuasion, and his business is, to beget 
 a detestation for vice, and a veneration for vir- 
 tue, from thence, if need be, he advances to ad- 
 monition and reproach, and then to punishments ; 
 but moderate, and revocable, unless the wicked- 
 4 
 
34-S senega's morals. 
 
 The medicine must be suited to the disease. 
 
 ness be incurable, and then the punishment must 
 be so too. There is only this difference, the 
 physician, when he cannot save his patient's life, 
 endeavours to make his death easy; but the ma- 
 gistrate aggravates the death of the criminal with 
 infamy and disgrace, not as delighting in the se- 
 verity of it (for no good man can be so barba- 
 rous), but for example, and to the end that they 
 that will do no good living, may do some dead. 
 The end of all correction is, either the amend- 
 ment of wicked men, or to prevent the influence 
 of ill example: for men are punished with a re- 
 spect to the future, not to expiate offences com- 
 mitted, but for fear of worse to come. Public 
 offenders must be a terror to others ; but still, all 
 this while, the power of life and death must not 
 be managed with passion. The medicine, in the 
 mean time, must be suited to the disease : infamy 
 cures one, pain another, exile cures a third, 
 beggary a fourth, but there are some that are 
 only to be cured by the gibbet. I would be no 
 more angry with a thief, or a traitor, than I am 
 with myself when I open a vein. All punishment 
 is but a moral, or civil remedy. 1" do not do 
 any thing that is very ill, but yet I transgress 
 often. Try me first with a private reprehension, 
 then with a public ; if that will not serve, see 
 what banishment "will do; if not that either, 
 load me with chains, lay me in prison ; but if I 
 
seneca's morals. 3i$ 
 
 v« - . 
 
 Anucr is a turbulent luimou'. 
 
 should prove wicked, even for wickedness sake, 
 and leave no hope of reclaiming me, it would be 
 a kind of mercy to destroy me. Vice is incorpo- 
 rated with me, and there is no remedy, but the 
 taking of both away together ; but still, without 
 anger. 
 
 ANGER IN GENERAL, WITH THE DANGER 
 AND EFFECTS OF IT. 
 
 There is no surer argument of a great mind, 
 than not to be transported to anger by any acci- 
 dent ; the clouds and the tempests are formed be- 
 low, but all above is quiet and serene, which is 
 the emblem of a brave man, that suppresses all 
 provocations, and lives within himself, modest, 
 venerable, and composed : whereas anger is a 
 turbulent humour, which at first dash casts off all 
 shame, without any regard to order, measure, or 
 food manners, transporting a man into misbe- 
 coming violences, with his tongue, his hands, 
 and every part of his body. And whoever consi- 
 ders the foulness and the brutality of this vice, 
 must acknowledge that there is no such monster 
 in nature, as one man raging against another, and 
 labouring to sink that which can never be drown- 
 ed, but with himself for company. It renders us 
 incapable either of discourse, or of other common 
 duties. It is of all passions the most powerful: 
 for it makes a man that is in love to kill his mis- 
 
 2 H 
 
®$G seneca's morals. 
 
 Rage is ihe cause of m .tiny. 
 
 tress; the ambitious man to trample upon his 
 honours, and the'Covetous to throw away his for- 
 tune. There is not any mortal that lives free 
 from the danger of it, for it makes even the 
 lieavy and the good-natured to be fierce and out- 
 rageous : it invades us like a pestilence, the lusty 
 as well as the weak ; and it is not either strength 
 of body, or a good diet, that can secure us 
 against it; nay, the learnedest, and men other- 
 wise of exemplary sobriety, are infested with it. 
 It is so potent a passion, that Socrates durst not 
 trust himself with it. " Sirrah," says he to his 
 man, " now would I beat you, if I were not an- 
 ory with you." There is no age, or sect of men, 
 that escapes it. Other vices take us one by one, 
 but this, like an epidemical contagion, sweeps 
 all; men, women, and children, princes and 
 beggars, are carried away with it in shoals and 
 troops, as one man. It was never seen, that a 
 whole nation was in love with one woman, or 
 unanimously bent upon one vice, but here and 
 there, some particular men are tainted with some 
 particular crimes: whereas in anger, a single 
 word many times inflames the whole multitude, 
 •and men betake themselves presently to fire and 
 sword upon it; the rabble take upon them to 
 give laws to their governors, the common soldi- 
 ers to their officers, to the ruin, not only of pri- 
 vate families, but of kingdoms, turning their 
 
setjeca's MORALS. oM 
 
 It is mun.' injurious than ili.u which provokes it. 
 
 arms against their own leaders, and cbusing their 
 own generals. There is no public council, no 
 putting ef tilings to the vote, but, in a rage, the 
 mutineers divide from the senate, name their 
 head, force the nobility into their own houses, 
 and put them to death with their own hands. The 
 laws of nations are violated, the persons of pub- 
 lic ministers affronted, whole cities infected with 
 a general madness, and no respite allowed for the 
 abatement or discussing of this public tumour. 
 The ships are crowded with tumultuary soldiers ; 
 and, in this rude and ill-boding manner they 
 march, and act under the conduct only of their 
 own passions. Whatever comes next serves them 
 for arms, until at last, they pay for their licenti- 
 ous rashness, with the slaughter of the whole 
 party : this is the event of a heady and inconsi- 
 derate war. When men's minds are struck with 
 the opinion of an injury, they fall on immediately 
 wheresoever their passion leads them, without ei- 
 ther order, fear, or caution ; provoking their own 
 mischief; never at rest until they come to blows, 
 and pursuing their revenge even with their bodies 
 upon the points of their enemies weapons. So 
 that the anger itself is much more hurtful to us 
 than the injury that provokes it; for the one is 
 bounded, but where the other will stop, no man 
 living knows. There are no greater slaves cer- 
 tainly, than those that serve anger, for they im- 
 2h 2 
 
352 seneca's morals. 
 
 Choler is unhealthful. 
 
 prove their misfortunes by an impatience more 
 insupportable than the calamity that causes it. 
 
 Nor does it rise by degrees, as other passions, 
 but flashes like gunpowder, blowing up all in a 
 moment. Neither does it only press to the mark, 
 but overbears every thing in the way to it. Other 
 vices drive us, but this hurries us headlong ; 
 other passions stand firm themselves, though per- 
 haps we cannot resist them, but this consumes 
 and destroys itself: it falls like thunder, or a 
 tempest, with an irrevocable violence, that ga- 
 thers strength in the passage, and then evapo- 
 rates in the conclusion. Other vices are unrea- 
 sonable, but this is unhealthful too; other dis- 
 tempers have their intervals and degrees, but in 
 this we are thrown down as from a precipice : 
 there is not any thing so amazing to others, or so 
 destructive to itself; so proud and insolent if it 
 succeeds, or so extravagant if it be disappointed. 
 No repulse discourages it, and for want of other 
 matter to work upon, it falls foul upon itself, and 
 let the ground be ever so trivial, it is sufficient 
 for the wildest outrage imaginable. It spares 
 neither age, sex, nor quality. Some people 
 would be luxurious, perchance, but that they 
 are poor ; and others lazy, if they were not per- 
 petually kept at work. The simplicity of a coun- 
 try life keeps many men in ignorance of the frauds 
 and impieties of courts and camps ; but no na- 
 
SF.NECa's MORALS. 
 
 353 
 
 ii is a sacrifice <>f time. 
 
 tion, or condition of men, is exempt from the 
 impressions of anger, and it is equally dangerous 
 as well in war as in peace. We find that ele- 
 phants will be made familiar, bulls will sutler 
 children to ride upon their backs and play with 
 their horns, bears and lions, by good usage, will 
 be brought to fawn upon their masters : how de- 
 sperate a madness is it then for men, after the 
 reclaiming of the fiercest of beasts, and the bring- 
 ing of them to be tractable and domestic, to be- 
 come yet worse than beasts to one another? 
 Alexander had two friends, Clytus and Lysima- 
 chus, the one he exposed to a lion, the other to 
 himself; and he that was turned loose to the 
 beaot escaped. Why do we not rather make the 
 best of a short life, and render ourselves amiable 
 to all while we live, and desirable when we die ? 
 
 Let us bethink ourselves of our mortality, and 
 not squander away the little time that we have 
 upon animosities and feuds, as if it were never to 
 be at an end. Had we not better enjoy the plea- 
 sure of our own life, than be still contriving how 
 to gall and torment another's? In all our brawl- 
 ings and contentions, never so much as dreaming 
 of our weakness. Do we not know that these 
 implacable enmities of ours lie at the mercy of a 
 fever, or any petty accident to disappoint ? Our 
 fate is at hand, and the very hour that we have 
 set for another man's death, may, peiadventure, 
 2 n 3 
 
354- seneca's morals. 
 
 ■ , , . ^ 
 
 Our wrath cannot go beyond death. 
 
 be prevented by our own. What is it that we 
 make all this bustle for, and so needlessly dis- 
 quiet our minds? We are offended with our ser- 
 vants, our masters, our princes, our clients: it 
 is but a little patience, and we shall be all of us 
 equal; so that there is no need either of am- 
 bushes, or combats. Our wrath cannot <io be- 
 yond death ; and death will mest undoubtedly 
 come, whether we be peevish or quiet. It is 
 time lost, to take pains to do that, which will in- 
 fallibly be done without us. But, suppose that 
 we would only have our enemy banished, dis- 
 graced, or damaged, let his punishment be more 
 or less, it is yet too long, either for him to be 
 inhumanly tormented, or for us ourselves to be 
 most barbarously pleased with it. It holds in an- 
 ger as in mourning, it must and will at last fall 
 of itself; let us look to it then betimes, for when 
 it is once come to an ill habit, we shall never 
 want matter to feed it ; and it is much better to 
 overcome our passions than to be overcome by 
 them: some way or olher, either our parents, 
 children, servants, acquaintances, or strangers, 
 will be continually vexing us. We are tossed 
 hither and thither by our affections, like a feather 
 in a storm, and by fresh provocations the mad- 
 ness becomes perpetual. Miserable creatu/es ! 
 that ever our precious hours should be so ill em- 
 ployed 1 how prone and eager are we in our ha- 
 
senega's morals. 555 
 
 [I may easier he kepi out than gov 
 
 trod, and how backward in our love! Were it 
 not much better now to be making of friendships, 
 pacifying of enemies, doing of good offices, both 
 public and private, than to be still meditating of 
 mischief, and designing how to wound one man 
 in his* fame, another in his fortune, a third in bis 
 person ? the one being so easy, innocent and sate, 
 and the other so difficult, impious, and. hazard- 
 ous. Nay, take a man in chains, and at the foot 
 of his oppressor, how many are there, who, even 
 in this case, have maimed themselves in the heat 
 of their violence upon others ? 
 
 This untraceable passion is much more easily 
 kept out, than governed when it is once admit- 
 ted ; for the stronger will give laws to the weaker ; 
 and make reason a slave to the appetite. It car- 
 ries us headlong, and, in the course of our fury, 
 we have no more command of our minds, than. 
 we have of our bodies down a precipice, when 
 they are once in motion, there is no stop until 
 they come to the bottom. Not but that it is- 
 possible for a man to be warm in winter, and not 
 to sweat in summer, either by the benefit of the 
 place, or the hardiness of the body, and, in like 
 manner, we may provide against anger. But, 
 certain it is, that virtue and vice can never agree 
 in the same subject ; and one may be as well a 
 sick man and a- sound at the same time, as a 
 good man and an angry. Beside, if we will needs 
 
 2 
 
355 seneca's morals. 
 
 It is honourable to exchange a feud ftw a frie : Isl >]>. 
 
 be quarrelsome, it must be with our superior, 
 our equal, or inferior. To contend with our su- 
 periors is folly and madness, with our equals it is 
 doubtful and dangerous, and with our inferiors it 
 is base. Nor does any man know but that he 
 that is now our enemy, may come hereafter to 
 be our friend, over and above the reputation of 
 clemency and good-nature. And what can be 
 more honourable, or comfortable, than to ex- 
 change a feud for a friendship ? The people of 
 Rome never had more faithful allies than those 
 that were at first the most obstinate enemies :. 
 neither had the Roman empire ever arrived at 
 that height of. power, if Providence had not min- 
 gled the vanquished with the coiftmerors. There 
 is an end of the contest when one side deserts it j 
 so that the paying of anger with benefits puts a 
 period to the controversy. But, however, if it- 
 be our fortune to transgress, let not our anger 
 descend to the children, friends, or relations, 
 even of our bitterest enemies.. The very cruelty 
 of.Sylla was heightened by that- instance of inca- 
 pacitating the issue of the proscribed. It is in- 
 human to intail the hatred we have for the father, 
 upon his posterity. A good and a wise man is 
 not to be an enemy of wicked men, but a re- 
 prover of them ; and he is to look upon all the 
 drunkards, the lustful, the thankless, covetous,, 
 and ambitious, that he meets with, no otherwise 
 
seneca's morals. 3.57 
 
 .-■-. at k test tbte of all « 
 
 than as a physician looks upon his patients ; for 
 he that will be angry with any man, must be dis- 
 pleased with all ; which were as ridiculous, as to 
 quarrel with a body for stumbling in the dark ; 
 with one that is deaf, for not doing as you bid 
 him; or with a school-boy, for loving his play 
 better than his book. Democritus laughed, and 
 Heraclitus wept, at the folly and wickedness of 
 the world, but we never read of an angry philo- 
 sopher, 
 
 Thi3 is undoubtedly the most detestable of 
 vices, even compared with the worst of them. 
 Avarice scrapes and gathers together, that which 
 some body may be the better for: but anger 
 lashes out, and no man comes off gratis. An 
 angry master makes one servant run away, and 
 another hang himself ; and his choler causes him 
 much greater loss than he suffered in the occa- 
 sion of it. It is the cause of mourning to the 
 father, and of divorce to the husband ; it makes 
 the magistrate odious, and gives the candidate a 
 repulse. And it is worse than luxury too, which 
 only aims at its proper pleasure; whereas the 
 other is bent upon another body's pain. The 
 malevolent, and the envious, content themselves 
 only to wish another man miserable ; but it is the 
 business of anger to make him so, and to wreak 
 the mischief itself, not so much desiring the 
 hurt of another, as to inflict it. Among the 
 
358 senega's morals. 
 
 The miserable effects of rage. 
 
 powerful it breaks out into open war, and into a 
 private one with the common people, but with- 
 out force, or arms. In engages us in treacheries, 
 perpetual troubles and contentions :. it alters- the 
 very nature of a man, and punishes itself in the 
 persecution of others. Humanity excites us to 
 love, this to hatred ; that to be beneficial to 
 others, this to hurt them ; beside that, though it 
 proceeds from too high a conceit of ourselves, it 
 is yet, in effect, but a narrow and contemptible 
 affection, especially when it meets with a mind 
 that is hard, and impenetrable, and returns the 
 dart upon the head of him that casts it. 
 
 To take a farther view now of the miserabla 
 consequences, and sanguinary effects of this hide- 
 ous distemper, from hence come slaughters and 
 poisons, wars and desolations, the razing and 
 burning of cities, the unpeopling of nations, and 
 the turning of populous countries into deserts, 
 public massacres and regicides, princes led in tri- 
 umph, some murdered in their bed-chambers, 
 others stabbed in the senate, or cut off, in the 
 security of their spectacles and pleasures. Some 
 there are that take anger for a princely quality, 
 as Darius, who, in his expedition against the 
 Scythians, being besought by a nobleman that 
 bad three sons, that he would vouchsafe to ac- 
 cept of two of them into his service, and leav® 
 the third at home for a comfort to his father. " I 
 
seneca's morals. 35§ 
 
 Irascible characters. 
 
 will do more for you than that," says Darius, 
 " for you shall have them all three again:" so 
 he ordered them to be slain before his face, and 
 left him their bodies. But Xerxes dealt a 
 little better with Pythius, who had five sons, 
 and desired only one of them for himself. Xerxes 
 bid him take his choice, and he named the eld- 
 est, whom he immediately commanded to be cut 
 in halves, and one half of the body to be laid on 
 each side of the way, when his army was to pass 
 betwixt them. Undoubtedly a most auspicious 
 sacrifice; but he came afterward to the end that 
 he deserved, for he lived to see that prodigious 
 power scattered and broken, and instead of mili- 
 tary and victorious troops, to be encompassed 
 with carcasses. But these, you will say, were 
 only barbarous princes, that knew neither civility 
 nor letters ; and these salvage cruelties will be 
 imputed, perchance, to their rudeness of man- 
 ners and want of discipline. But what will you 
 say then of Alexander the Great, that was trai.n- 
 .ed up under the institution of Aristotle himself, 
 and killed Clytus, his favourite and school-fellow, 
 with his own hand, under his own roof, and 
 over the freedom of a cup of wine f And what 
 was his crime ? he was loth to degenerate from a 
 Macedonian liberty in a Persian slavery, that is 
 to say, he could not flatter. Lysimachus, an- 
 other of his friends, he exposed to a lion ; and 
 
360 Seneca's morals. 
 
 The cruelty of S3 11a. 
 
 this very Lysimachus, after he had escaped this 
 danger, was never the more merciful, when he 
 came to reign himself; for he cut off the ears and 
 nose of his friend Telesphorus, and when he had 
 disfigured him, that he had no longer the face of 
 a man, he threw him into a dungeon, and there 
 kept him to be shewed for a monster, as a 
 strange sight. The place was so low, that he 
 was fain to creep upon all four, and his sides 
 were galled too with the straitness of it. In this 
 misery he lay half famished in his own filth, so 
 odious, so terrible, and so loathsome a specta- 
 cle, that the horror of his condition had even ex- 
 tinguished all pity for him. Nothing was ever so 
 unlike a man, as the poor wretch that suffered 
 this, saving the tyrant that acted it. 
 
 Nor did this merciless hardness only exercise 
 itself among foreigners, but the fierceness of their 
 outrages and punishments, ns well as their vices, 
 brake in upon the Romans. C. Marius, that had 
 his statue set up every where, and was adored as 
 a god : L. Sylla commanded his bones to be 
 broken, his eyes to be put out, his hands to be 
 cut off, and, as if every wound had been a seve- 
 ral death, his body to be torn in pieces, and Ca- 
 taline was the executioner. A cruelty, that was 
 only tit for Marius to suffer, Sylla to command, 
 and Cataline to act ; but most dishonourable 
 and tatal to the commonwealth, to fall incliiTer- 
 
seneca's morals. SGi 
 
 The severity of Piso, &c. 
 
 ently upon the sword's points both of citizens and 
 of enemies. 
 
 It was a severe instance, that of Piso too : — A 
 soldier that had leave to go abroad with his com- 
 rade, came back to the camp at his time, but 
 without his companion; Piso condemns him to 
 die, as if he had killed him, and appoints a cen- 
 turion to see the execution. Just as the heads- 
 man was ready to do his office, the other soldier 
 appeared, to the great joy of the whole field, and 
 the centurion bid the executioner hold his hand : 
 hereupon Piso, in a rage, mounts the tribunal, 
 and sentences all three to death : the one because 
 he was condemned, the other because it was for 
 his sake that his fellow-soldier was condemned, 
 and the centurion for not obeying the order of 
 his superior. An ingenious piece of inhumanity, 
 to contrive how to make three criminals, where 
 effectually there were none. There was a Per- 
 sian king, that caused the noses of a whole na- 
 tion to be cut off, and they were to thank him 
 that he spared their heads. And this, perhaps, 
 would have been the fate of the Macrobii (if 
 Providence had nothinderea it), for the freedom 
 they used to Cambyses's ambassadors, in not ac- 
 cepting the slavish terms that were offered them. 
 This put Cambyses into such a rage, that he pre- 
 sently listed into his service every man that was 
 able to bear arms^ and without either provisions, 
 
 2i 
 
36*2 seneca's morals. 
 
 Occasions of anger considered. 
 
 or guides, marched immediately through dry and 
 barren deserts, and where never any man had 
 passed before him, to take his revenge. Before 
 he was a third part of the way his provisions 
 failed him ; his men, at first, made shift with 
 the buds of trees, boiled leather, and the like, 
 but soon after there was not so much as a root, 
 or a plant, to be gotten, nor a living creature to 
 be seen ; and then, by lot, every tenth man was 
 to die, for a nourishment to the rest, which was 
 still worse than the famine; but yet this pas- 
 sionate king went on so far, until one part of his 
 army was lost, and the other devoured, and un- 
 til he feared that be himself might come to be 
 served with the same sauce. So that at last he 
 ordered a retreat, wanting no delicates all this 
 ■while for himself, while his soldiers were taking 
 their chance who should die miserable, or live 
 worse. Here was an anger taken up against a 
 whole nation, that neither deserved any ill from 
 him, nor was so much as known to him, 
 
 THE ORDINARY GROUNDS AND OCCASIONS 
 OF ANGER. 
 
 In this wandering state of life we meet with 
 many occasions of trouble and displeasure, both 
 great and trivial, and not a day passes, but from 
 men, or things, we have some cause or other for 
 cfience ; as a man must expect to be justice!, dash- 
 
seneca's morals. 36*3 
 
 Most of our quarrels of our own contriving. 
 
 ed, and crowded, in a populous city. One man 
 deceives our expectation, another delays it ; and 
 if every thing does not succeed to our wish, we 
 presently fall out, either with the person, the 
 business, the place, our fortune, or ourselves. 
 Some men value themselves upon their wit, and 
 will never forgive any one that pretends to lessen 
 it ; others are inflamed by wine ; and some are 
 distempered by sickness, weariness, watchings, 
 love, care, &c. Some are prone to it by heat 
 of constitution; but moist, dry, and cold com- 
 plexions, are more liable to other affections, as 
 suspicion, despair, fear, jealousy, &c. But most 
 of our quarrels are of our own contriving. One 
 while we suspect upon mistake, and another 
 while we make a greater matter of trifles. To 
 say the truth, most of thGse things that exaspe- 
 rate us, are rather subjects of disgust than of 
 mischief. There is a large difference betwixt 
 opposing a man's satisfaction, and not assisting 
 it; betwixt taking away, and not giving ; but we 
 reckon upon denying and deferring as the same 
 thing, and interpret another's being for himself, 
 as if he were against us. Nay, \ve do many 
 times entertain an ill opinion of well-doing, and 
 a good one of the contrary : and we hate a man 
 for doing that very thing which we should hate 
 him for on the other side, if he did not do it. 
 AVe take it ill to be opposed, when there is a fa- 
 
 tit h. A 
 
36"4 seneca's morals. 
 
 --■■' '" '' * ■ i ■ ' « ■ « » 
 
 The subject matter of quarrels worthless, 
 
 ther, perhaps a brother, or a friend, in the 
 case against us, when we should rather love a 
 man for it, and only wish that he could fee ho- 
 nestly of our party. We approve of the fact, and 
 detest the doer of it. It is a base thing to hate 
 the person whom we cannot but commend ; but 
 it is a great deal worse yet, if we hate him for 
 the very thing that deserves commendation. The 
 things that we desire, if they be such as cannot 
 be given to one, without being taken away from 
 another, must needs set those people together by 
 the ears, that desire the same thing. One man 
 Jias a design upon my mistress, another upon 
 mine inheritance, and that which should make 
 friends, makes enemies; our being all of a mind. 
 The general cause of anger is, the sense, or opi- 
 nion of an injury ; that is, the opinion either of an 
 injury simply done, or of an injury done which 
 we have not deserved. Some are naturally given 
 to anger, others are provoked to it by occasion ; 
 the anger of women and children is commonly 
 sharp, but not lasting ; old men are rather queru- 
 lous and peevish. Hard labour, diseases, an- 
 xiety of thought, and whatsoever hurts the bod}--, 
 or the mind, disposes a man to be froward, but 
 we must not add fire to fire. 
 
 He that duly considers the subject matter of all 
 controversies and quarrels, will find them low 
 and mean, not worth the thought of a generous 
 
seneca's morals. 36*5 
 
 rm — ■ 
 
 And ridiculous. 
 
 mind; but the greatest noise of all is about mo- 
 ney. This is it that sets fathers and children to- 
 gether by the ears, husbands and wives, and 
 makes way for sword and poison : this is it that 
 tires our courts of justice, enrages our princes, 
 and lays cities in the dust, to seek for gold and 
 silver in the ruins of them. This is it that rinds 
 work for the judge, to determine which side is 
 least in the wrong ; and whose is the most plau- 
 sible avarice, the plaintiff, or the defendant's: 
 and what is it that we contend for all this while, 
 but those baubles that make us cry, when we 
 should laugh ? To see a rich old cuff, that Las 
 nobody to lt-ave his estate to, break his heart for 
 a handful of dirt, and a gouty usurer, that has 
 no other use of his fingers left him but to count 
 withal, to see him, I say, in the extremity of his 
 fit, wrangling for the odd money in his interest : 
 —if all thdt is precious in nature were gathered 
 into one mass, it were not worth the trouble of a 
 sober mind. It were endless to run over all 
 those ridiculous passions that are moved about 
 meats and dnnks, and the matter of our luxury; 
 nay, about words, looks, actions,, jealousies, 
 mistakes, which are all of them as contemptible 
 fooleries as those very baubles that children 
 scratch and cry tor. There is nothing great, or seri- 
 ous, in ail that which we keep up such a clutter 
 about ; the madness of it is, that we set too great 
 2 i 3 
 
366 seneca's morals. 
 
 - ' ' — ■ ."_■■ * ' • 
 
 h v"i, t. an has tvgtPeak side. 
 
 a value upon trifles. One man flies out upon a 
 salute, a letter, a speech, a question, a gesture, 
 a wink, a look. An action moves one man, a 
 word affects another; one man is tender of his 
 family, another of his person; one sets up for 
 an orator, another for a philosopher ; this man 
 will not bear pride, nor that man opposition. He 
 that plays the tyrant at home, is as gentle as a 
 lamb abroad. Some take offence if 'one man ask 
 a favour of them, and others if he does not. 
 Every man has his weak side, let us learn which 
 that is, and take care of it ; for the same thins 
 dees not work upon all men alike. We ave moved 
 like beasts, at the idle appearance of things ; 
 and the fiercer the creature, the more is it star- 
 tled. The sight of a red cloth enrages a bull. 
 A shadow provokes the asp, nay, so unreasonable 
 are some men, that they take moderate benefits 
 for injuries, and squabble about it, with their 
 nearest relations : — they have done this and that 
 for others, they cry, and they might have dealt 
 better with us if they had pleased. Very good ! 
 And if it be less than we looked for, it may be 
 yet more than we deserve. Of all unquiet hu- 
 mours, this is the worst, that will never sutler any 
 man to be happy, so long as he sees a happier man 
 than himself. I have known some men so weak, 
 as to think themselves contemned, if a horse 
 did but play the jade with,-them, that is yet obe» 
 
seneca's morals. 367 
 
 We are angry for trifle? 
 
 dient to another rider. A brutal folly, to be of- 
 fended at a mute animal ; for no injury can be 
 done us without the concurrence of reason. A 
 beast may hurt us, as a sword, or a stone, and 
 no otherwise. Nay, theie are, that will com- 
 plain of foul weather, a raging sea, a biting win- 
 ter, as if it were expressly directed to them ; and 
 this they charge upon Providence, whose opera- 
 tions are all oi them so tar from being injurious,, 
 that they are beneficial to us. 
 
 How vain and idle are many of those things 
 that make us stark mad ? A resty horse, the 
 overturning of a glass, the falling of a key, the 
 dragging of a chair, a jealousy, a misconstruction. 
 How shall that man endure the extremities of 
 hunger and thirst, that flies out in a rage for 
 putting of a little too much water into his wine ? 
 what haste is there to lay a servant by the heels, 
 or break a leg, or an arm, immediately for it, 
 as if he were not to have the same power over 
 him an hour after, that he has at that instant ? 
 The answer of a servant, a wife, a tenant, puts 
 some people out of all patience; and yet they can 
 quarrel with the government for not allowing 
 them the same liberty in public, which they 
 themselves deny to their own families. If they 
 say nothing, it is contumacy ; if they speak, or 
 
 laugh, it is insolence. As if a man had his ears 
 
 & 7 
 
 given him only for music ; whereas we must suffer 
 
r6S seneca's morals. 
 
 ■m- — rf 
 
 Luxury makes us intemperate. 
 
 all sorts of noises, good and bad, both of man 
 and beast. How idle is it to start at the tinkling 
 of a bell, or the creaking of a door, when, for 
 all this delicacy, wc must endure thunder? 
 Neither are our eyes less curious and fantastical 
 than our ears. "When we are abroad we can bear 
 well enough with foul ways, nasty streets, noi- 
 some ditches ; but a spot upon a dish at home, or 
 an unswept hearth, absolutely distracts us. And 
 what is the reason, but that we are patient in the 
 one place, and fantastically peevish in the other? 
 Nothing makes us more intemperate than luxury, 
 that shrink? at every stroke, and starts at every 
 shadow. It is death to some to have another sit 
 above them, as if a body were ever the more or 
 the less honest for the cushion. But they are 
 only weak creatures, that think themselves 
 wounded if they be but touched. One of the 
 Sibarites, that saw a follow hard at work, a dig- 
 ging, desired him to give over, for it made him 
 weary to see him: and it was an ordinary com- 
 plaint with him — that he could take no rest, be- 
 cause the rose leaves lay double under him. 
 "When we are once weakened with our pleasures, 
 every thing grows intolerable. And we are angry, 
 as well with those that cannot hurt us, as with 
 those that do. We tear a book because it is 
 blotted, and our cloaths because they are not 
 well made : things that neither deserve our anger, 
 
seneca's morals. 36*9 
 
 Extra%agance of C. C2e<ar and Cyrus. 
 
 nor feel it. The taylor, perchance, did his best, 
 ©r, however, had no intent to displease us: if 
 so, first, why should we be angry at all ? secondly, 
 why should we be angry with the thing for the 
 man's sake ? Nay, our anger extends even to 
 dogs, horses, and other beasts. 
 
 It was a blasphemous, and a sottish extrava- 
 gance, that of Caius Caesar, who challenged Ju- 
 nker for making such a noise with his thunder 
 that he could not hear his mimics, and so in- 
 vented a machine in imitation of it, to oppose 
 thunder to thunder ; a brutal conceit, to imagine 
 either that he could reach the Almighty, or that 
 the Almighty could not reach him. 
 
 And every jot as ridiculous, though not so im- 
 pious, was that of Cyrus, who, in his desjgn upon 
 Babylon, found a river in his way that put a stop 
 to his march : the current was strong, and car- 
 ried away one of the horses that belonged to his 
 own chariot; upon this he swore, that since it 
 had obstructed his passage, it should never hin- 
 der any body else; and presently set his whole 
 army to work upon it, which diverted it into a 
 hundred and fourscore channels, and laid it dry. 
 In this ignoble and unprofitable employment, he 
 lost his time, and the soldiers their courage, and 
 gave his adversaries an opportunity of providing 
 themselves, while he was waging war with a river 
 instead of an enemy, 
 
370 seneca's morals. 
 
 Of contumely and revenge. 
 
 ADVICE IN THE CASES OF CONTUMELY 
 AND REVENGE. 
 
 Of provocations to anger there are two sorts; 
 there is an injury, and there is a contumely. 
 The former in its own nature is the heavier ; the 
 other slight in itself, and only troublesome to a 
 wounded imagination. And yet, some there are 
 that will hear blows, and death itself, rather than 
 contumelious w r ords. A contumely is an indig- 
 nity below the consideration of the very law, and 
 not worthy either of a revenge, or so much as & 
 complaint. It is only the vexation and infirmity 
 of a weak mind, as well as the practice of a 
 haughty and insolent nature, and signifies no 
 more, to a wise and sober man, than an idle 
 dream, that is no sooner past than forgotten. It 
 is true, it implies contempt; but what needs any 
 man care for being contemptible to others, if he 
 be not so to himself? For a child in the arms to ' 
 strike the mother, tear her hair, claw the face of 
 her, and call her names, that goes for nothing 
 with us, because the child knows not what he 
 does. Neither are we moved at the impudence 
 and bitterness of a buffoon, though he fall upon 
 his own master, as well as the guests; but, on 
 the contrary, we encourage and entertain the 
 freedom. Are we not mad then, to be delighted 
 
Seneca's morals. 371 
 
 ■t! . 
 
 Tiling are only ill that are ill taken. 
 
 and displeased with the same thing, and to take 
 that as ail injury from one man, which passes 
 only for a rallery from another ? He that is wise 
 will behave himself toward all men as we do to 
 our children: for they are but children too, 
 though they have grey hairs ; they are indeed of 
 a larger size, and their errors are grown up with 
 them ; they live without rule, they covet without 
 choice, they are timorous and unsteady, and if 
 at any time they happen to be quiet, it is more 
 out of fear than reason. It is a wretched condi- 
 tion, to stand in awe of every body's tongue ; and 
 whosoever is vexed at reproach, would be proud 
 if he were commended. We should look upon 
 contumelies, slanders, and ill words, only as the 
 clamour of enemies, or arrows shot at a distance, 
 that make a clattering upon our arms, but do 
 no execution. A man makes himself less than 
 his adversary, by fancying that he is contemned. 
 Things are only ill, that are ill taken ; and it is 
 not for a man of worth to think himself better or 
 worse for the opinion of others. He that thinks 
 himself injured, let him say — Either I have de- 
 served this, or 1 have not. If I have, it is a 
 judgment: if I have not, it is an injustice; and 
 the doer of it has more reason to be ashamed 
 than the sufferers. Nature has assigned every 
 man his post, which he is bound in honour to 
 maintain, let him be ever so much pressed. Dic- 
 5 
 
379, seneca's morals. 
 
 Some cannot bear a contumely. 
 
 genes was disputing of anger, and an insolent 
 young fellow, to try if he could put him beside 
 his philosophy, spit in his face. " Young man/' 
 says Diogenes, " this does not make me angry 
 yet, but I am in some doubt whether I should be 
 so or no." Some are so impatient, that they 
 cannot bear a contumely, even from a woman; 
 whose very, beauty, greatness, and ornaments, 
 are all of them little enough to vindicate her from 
 many indecencies, without much modesty and 
 discretion ; nay, they will lay it to heart even 
 from tue meanest of servants. How wretched is 
 that man, whose peace lies at the mercy of the 
 people ? A physician is not angry at the intem- 
 perance of a mad patient, nor does he take it ill to 
 be railed at by a man in a fever ; just so should a 
 wise man treat all mankind, as a physician does his 
 patient, and looking upon them only as sick and 
 extravagant; let their words and actions, whether 
 good or bad,* go equally for nothing; attending 
 Still his duty, even in the coarsest offices that 
 may conduce to their recovery. Men that are 
 proud, froward, and powerful, he values their 
 scorn as little as their quality, and looks upon 
 them no otherwise than as a pecple in the excess 
 of a fever. If a beggar worships him, or if he 
 takes no notice of him, it is all one to him ; and 
 with a rich man he makes it the same case. 
 Their honours, and their injuries, he accounts 
 
sexjlca's morals. 373 
 
 Forgiveness and patience recommended. 
 
 much alike; without rejoicing at the one, or 
 grieving at the other. 
 
 In these cases the rule is to pardon all offences, 
 where there is any sign of repentance, or hope of 
 amendment. It does not hold in injuries as in 
 benefits, the requiting of the one with the other : 
 for it is a shame to overcome in the one, and in 
 the other to be overcome. It is the part of a 
 great mind to despise injuries : and it is one kind 
 of revenge to neglect a man, as not worth it ; for 
 it makes the first aggressor too considerable. Our 
 philosophy, methinks, might carry us to the 
 bravery of a generous mastiff, that can hear the 
 barking of a thousand curs, without taking any 
 notice of them. He that receives an injury from 
 his superior, it is not enough for him to bear it 
 with patience, and without any thought of re- 
 venge, but he must receive it with a chearfu] 
 countenance, and look as if he did not under- 
 stand it too ; for if he appear too sensible, he 
 shall be sure to have more of it. It is a damned 
 humour in great men, that whom they wrong 
 they will hate. It is well answered of an old 
 courtier, that was asked how he kept so long Hi 
 favour — " Why/' says he, " by receiving in- 
 juries, and crying your humble servant for them.'' 
 Some men take it for an argument of greatness, 
 to have revenge in their power ; but so far is he 
 that U under the dominion of anger, from being 
 
 2 k 
 
>74- sexeca's morals. 
 
 Of beirfg enraged -it rajiferies. 
 
 great, that he is not so much as free. Not but 
 that anger is a kind of pleasure to some in the act 
 of revenge ; but the very word is inhuman, 
 though it may pass for honest. Virtue, in short, 
 is impenetrable, and revenge is only the confes- 
 sion of an infirmity. 
 
 It is a fantastical humour, that the same jest 
 in private should make us merry, and yet enrage 
 us in public; nay, we will not allow the liberty 
 that we take. Some railleries we account plea- 
 sant, others bitter : a conceit upon a squint eye, 
 a hunch-back, or any personal defect, passes for 
 a reproach. And why may we not as well hear 
 it as see it? Nay, if a man imitates our gate, 
 speech, or any natural imperfection, it puts us 
 out of all patience, as if the counterfeit were 
 more grievous than the doing of the thing itself. 
 Some cannct endure to Lear of their age, nor 
 others of their poverty ; and they make the thing 
 the more taken notice of, the more they desire to 
 hide it. Some bitter jest (for the purpose) was 
 broken upon you at the table; keep better com- 
 pany then. In the freedom ol cups, a sober man 
 will hardly contain himself within bounds. It 
 sticks with us extremely, sometimes, that the 
 porter will nut let us in to his great master. Will 
 any but a madman quarrel with a cur for barking, 
 when he may pacily him with a crust ? what have 
 we to do but to keep further off, and laugh at 
 
seoseca's morals. 37-5 
 
 Some jests will never be forgive. 
 
 him? Fidus Cornelius, a tall slim fellow, fell 
 downright a crying in the senate- house, at Cor- 
 bulo's saying that he looked like an estriche. He 
 was a man that made nothing of a lash upon his 
 life and manners; but if&vas worse than death to 
 him, a reflection upon his person. No man was 
 ever ridiculous to others, that laughed at himself 
 first; it prevents mischief, and it is a spiteful 
 disappointment of those that take pleasure in such 
 abuses. Vatinius, a man that was made up of 
 scorn and hatred, scurrilous and impudent to 
 the highest degree, but most abusively witty, and 
 with all this he was diseased and deformed to 
 extremity; his way was always to begin to make 
 sport with himself, and so he prevented the 
 mockery of other people. There are none more 
 abusive to others, than they that lie most open 
 to it themselves ; but the humoin- goes round, 
 and he that laughs at me to-day will have some- 
 body to laugh at him to-morrow, and revenge my 
 quarrel. But, however, there are some liberties 
 that will never go down with some men. 
 
 Asiaticus Valerius, one of Caligula's particu- 
 lar friends, and a man of stomach, that would not 
 easily digest an affront, Caligula -told him in 
 public what kind of bedfellow his wife was. Good 
 God ! that ever any man should hear this, or a 
 prince speak it, especially to a man of consular' 
 authority, a friend, and a husband; and in such' 
 
 2 k 2 
 4 
 
•37 A SENECA'S MOttALS. 
 
 We are 10 avoid nil provocai on ? . 
 
 a manner too, as at once to his own disgust, and 
 bis adultery. The tribune Chaereas had a weak 
 broken voice, like an hermaphrodite; when he 
 came to Caligula for the word, he would give 
 him sometimes Venus, otherw biles Priapus ; as 
 a slur upon him both ways. Valerius was after- 
 wards the principal instrument in the conspiracy 
 against him ; and Chaereas, to convince, him of 
 his manhood, at one blow cleft him down the 
 chine with his sword. Tso man was so forward 
 as Caligula to break a jest, and no man so un* 
 willing to bear it. 
 
 CAUTIONS AGAINST ANGER IN THE MATTER OP EDUCA* 
 TION, CONVERSE, AND OTHER GENERAL MEANS 
 OF PREVENTING IT, BOTH IN OUR- 
 SELVES AND OTHERS. 
 
 All that we have to say in particular upon 
 this subject, lies under these two heads: — first, 
 that we do not fall into anger ; and, secondly, 
 that we do not transgress in it. As in the cas<* 
 of our bodies, we have some medicines to pre- 
 serve us when we are well, and others to recover 
 us when we are sick ; so it is one thing not to ad- 
 mit it, and another thing to overcome it. We 
 are, in the first place, to avoid all provocations, 
 and the beginnings of anger : for if we be once 
 down, it is a hard task to get up again; when 
 our passion has got the better of our reason, and 
 
seneca's morals. $77 
 
 An effeminate educat.on breeds anger. 
 
 the enemy is received into the gate, v.e cannot 
 expect that the conqueror should take conditions 
 from the prisoner. And in truth,, our reason, 
 when it is thus mastered, turns effectually into 
 passion. A careful education is a great matter, 
 for our minds are easily formed in our youth, but 
 it is a harder business to cure ill habits: beside, 
 that, we are inflamed by climate, constitution, 
 company, and a thousand other accidents, that 
 we are not aware of. 
 
 The choice of a good nurse, and a well-natured 
 tutor, goes a great way ; for the sweetness both 
 of the blood and of the manners will pass into the 
 child. There is nothing breeds anger more t jthan 
 a soft and effeminate education; and it is very 
 seldom seen, that either the mother's, or the 
 schoolmaster's darling, ever comes to good. But 
 my young master, when he comes into the world, 
 behaves himself like a choleric coxcomb ; for 
 flattery, and a great fortune, nourish touchiness. 
 But it is a nice point, so to check the seeds of 
 anger in a child, as not to take off his edge, and 
 quench his spirits, whereof a principal care must 
 be taken, betwixt licence and severity, that- he 
 be neither too much emboldened nor depressed* 
 Commendation gives him courage and confidence, 
 but then the danger is, of blowing him up into 
 insolence and wrath : so that when to use the 
 bit, and when the spur, is the main difficulty. 
 2 K 3 
 
378 skneca's morals. 
 
 . . ... i ■ i — * 
 
 We should avoid provocation?. 
 
 Never put him to a necessity of begging any thing 
 basely, or if he does, let him go without it. 
 Enure him to a familiarity, where he has any 
 emulation ; and, in all his exercises, let him un- 
 derstand that it is generous to overcome his com- 
 petitor, but not to hurt him. Allow him to be 
 pleased when he does well, but not transported, 
 for that will puff him up into too high a conceit 
 of himself. Give him nothing that he cries for, 
 until the dogged fit is over, but then let him have 
 it when he is quiet; to shew him that there is 
 nothing to be gotten by being peevish. Chide 
 him for whatever he does amiss, and make him 
 betimes acquainted with the fortune that he was 
 born to. Let his diet be cleanly, but sparing; 
 and clothe him like the rest of his fellows : for 
 by placing him upon that equality at first, he 
 will be the less proud afterward, and consequently 
 the less waspish and quarrelsome. 
 
 In the next place, let us have a care of temp- 
 tations that we cannot resist, and provocations 
 that we cannot bear, and especially of sour and 
 exceptious company : for a cross humour is con- 
 tagious; nor is it all, that a man shall be the 
 better for the example of a quiet conversation; 
 but an angry disposition is troublesome, because 
 it has nothing else to work upon. We should, 
 therefore, chuse a sincere, easy, and temperate 
 companion, that will neither provoke anger nor 
 return it, nor gjve a man any occasion of exer- 
 
seneca's morals. 379* 
 
 ^f Carliits, 3 passionate nratof. 
 
 rising his distempers. Nor is it enough to be 
 gentle, submissive, and humane, without integrity 
 and plain dealing: for flattery is as offensive on 
 the other side. Some men would take a curse 
 from you better than a compliment. Caslius, a 
 passionate orator, had a friend of singular pati- 
 ence that supped with him, who had no way to 
 avoid a quarrel, but by saying amen to all that 
 Caslius said. Cajlius taking this ill — " Say some- 
 thing against me/' says he, " that you and I may 
 be two ;" and he was angry with him because he 
 would not ; and the dispute fell, as it needs must, 
 for want of an opponent. 
 
 He that is naturally addicted to anger, let him 
 use a moderate diet, and abstain from wine ; for 
 it is but adding fire to fire. Gentle exercises, re- 
 creations and sports, temper and sweeten the 
 mind. Let him have a care also of long and ob- 
 stinate disputes, for it is easier not to begin them, 
 than to put an end to them. Severe studies are 
 not good for him neither, as law, mathematics ; 
 too much intention preys upon the spirits, and 
 makes him eager. But poetry, history, and those 
 lighter entertainments, may serve him for diver- 
 sion and relief. He that would be quiet, must 
 not venture at things out of his reach, or beyond 
 his strength ; for he shall either stagger under the 
 burden, or discharge it upon the next man he 
 meets j which is the same case in civil and do- 
 
380 seneca's morals. 
 
 w: ... . , , rnac 
 
 A repi^se inliames a ^nerous mind. 
 
 mestic affairs. Business that is ready and prac- 
 ticable goes off with ease, but when it is too 
 heavy for the bearer, they fall both together. 
 Whatsoever we design, we should, first take a 
 measure of ourselves, and compare our force 
 with the undertaking, for it vexes a man not to 
 go through with his work : a repulse inflames a 
 generous nature, as it makes one that is phleg- 
 matic sad. I have known some that have ad- 
 vised looking in a glass when a man is in the fit,, 
 and the very spectacle of his own deformity has 
 cured him. Many that are troublesome in their 
 drink, and know their own infirmity, give their 
 servants order before hand, to take them away 
 by force, for fear of mischief, and not to obey 
 their masters themselves when they are hot- 
 headed. If the thing were duly considered, we 
 should need no other cure than the bare consi- 
 deration of it. We are not angry at madmen, 
 children, and fools, because they do not know 
 what they do; and why should not imprudence 
 have an equal privilege in other cases ? If a 
 horse kick, or a dog bite, shall a man kick or 
 bite again ? The one, it is true, is wholly void 
 of reason, but it is also an equivalent darkness 
 of mind that possesses the other. So long as we 
 are among men, lej: us cherish humanity ; and so 
 live, that no man may be either in fear, or in 
 clanger of us. Losses, injuries, reproaches, ca- 
 
SENECA^ MORALS. 3S1 
 
 Paucnce so'icns wratl , 
 
 lumnies, they are but short inccnvenier.cies, and 
 we should bear them with resolution. Beside 
 that, some people are above our anger, others 
 below it. To contend with our superiors were a 
 follv, and with our inferiors an indignity. 
 
 There is hardly a more effectual remedy against 
 an^er than patience and consideration. Let but 
 the first fervour abate, and that mist which 
 darkens the mind will be either lessened or dis- 
 pelled ; a day, nay, an hour, does much in the 
 most violent cases, and, perchance, totally sup- 
 presses it ; time discovers the truth of things, and 
 turns that into judgment, which at first was an- 
 ger. Plato was about to strike his servant, and 
 ■while his hand was in the air he checked himself, 
 but still held it in that menacing posture. A friend 
 of his took notice of it, and asked him what he 
 meant. " I am now," says Plato, " punishing 
 of an angry man :" so that he had left his ser- 
 vant to chastise himself. Another time, his ser- 
 vant having committed a great fault — " Speu- 
 sippus," says he, " do you beat that fellow, for 
 I am angry :" so that he forbore striking him for 
 the very reason that would have made another 
 man have done it. " I am angry," says he, 
 and shall go farther than becomes me." Nor is 
 it fit that a servant should be in his power, that 
 is not his own master. Why should any one ven- 
 ture now to trust an angry man with a revenge,* 
 
382 seneca's morals. 
 
 Moderation is profitable 
 
 when Plato durst not trust himself? Either he 
 must govern that, or that will undo him. Let us 
 do our best to overcome it; but let us, however, 
 keep it close, without giving it any vent. An 
 angry man, if he gives himself liberty at all times, 
 will go too far. If it comes once to shew itself 
 in the eye, or countenance, it has got the better 
 of us. Nay, we should so oppose it, as to put 
 on the very contrary dispositions: calm looks, 
 soft and slow speech, an easy and deliberate 
 march, and by little and little we may possibly 
 bring our thoughts into a sober conformity with 
 our actions. When Socrates was angry, he would 
 take himself in it, and speak low, in opposition to 
 the motions of his displeasure. His friends 
 would take notice of it; and it was not to his 
 disadvantage neither, but rather to his credit, 
 that so many should know that he was angry, 
 and nobody feel it ; which could never have been, 
 if he had not given his friends the same liberty of 
 admonition which he himself took. And this 
 course should we take; we should desire our 
 friends not to flatter us in our follies, but to treat 
 us with all liberties of reprehension, even when 
 we are least willing to bear it, against so power- 
 ful and so insinuating an evil ; we should call for 
 help, while we have our eyes in our head, and 
 are yet masters of ourselves. Moderation is pro- 
 fitable tor subjects, but more for princes; who 
 
se\eca's morals. 383 
 
 Scv al ways of diverting anger. 
 
 have the means of executing all that their anger 
 prompts them to. When that power comes once 
 to be exercised to a common mischief, it can 
 never long continue, a common fear joining in 
 one cause all their divided complaints. In a 
 word now, how we may prevent, moderate, or 
 master, this impotent passion in others. 
 
 It is not enough to be sound ourselves, unless 
 we endeavour to make others so, wherein we 
 must accommodate the remedy to the temper of 
 the patient. Some are to be dealt with by arti- 
 fice and address; as for example — Why will you 
 gratify your enemies to shew yourself so much 
 concerned ? It is not worth your anger; it is be- 
 low you ; I am as much troubled at it myself, as 
 you can be, butyou had better say nothing, and 
 ta'ke your time to be even with them. Anger, in 
 •some people, is to be openly opposed, in others 
 there must be a little yielding, according to the 
 disposition of the person. Some are won by in- 
 treaties, others are gained by mere shame and 
 conviction, and some by delay ; a dull way of 
 cure for a violent distemper, but this must be the 
 labt experiment. Other affections may be better 
 dealt with at leisure, for they proceed gradually, 
 but this commences and perfects itself in the 
 same moment. It does not, like other passions, 
 •solicit ai;d mislead us, but it runs away with us by 
 force, and hurries us on with an irresistible teme- 
 
384« senrca's morals. 
 
 Of th 
 
 e mos; gr;evous injuries 
 
 rity, as well to our own, as to another's ruin : 
 not only flying in the face of him that provokes 
 us, but, like a torrent, bearing all down before 
 it. There is no encountering the first heat and 
 fury of it, for it is deaf and mad. The best way 
 is (in the beginning) to give it time and rest, and 
 let it spend itself: while the passion is too hot to 
 handle, we may deceive it, but, however, let all 
 instruments of revenge be put out of the way. It 
 is not amiss, sometimes, to pretend to be angry 
 too, and join with him, not only in the opinion 
 of the injury, but in the seeming contrivance of a 
 revenge. But this must be a person then that 
 has some authority over him. This is a way to 
 get time, and by advising upon some greater pu- 
 nishment, to delay the present : if the passion be 
 outrageo'is, try what shame or fear can do ; if 
 weak, it is no hard matter to amuse it by strange 
 stories, grateful news, or pleasant discourses. 
 Deceit, in this case, is friendship; for men must 
 be cozened to be cured. 
 
 The injuries that press hardest upon us, are 
 those which either we have not deserved, or not 
 expected, or at least not in so high a degree. 
 This arises from the love of ourselves; for every 
 man takes upon him like a prince in this case, to 
 practise all liberties, and to allow none. Which 
 proceeds either from ignorance or insolence. 
 What news is it for people to do ill things ? for 
 
seneca's morals. 385 
 
 Mjii mast no; be inquisitive. 
 
 an enemy to hurt; nay, for a friend, or a ser- 
 vant, to transgress, and to prove treacherous, un- 
 ctateful, covetous, impious ? What we find in 
 one man, we may in another, and there is no 
 more security in fortune than in men. Our joys 
 are mingled with fear, and a tempest may ari^e 
 out of a calm, but a skilful pilot is always provided 
 for it. 
 
 AGAINST HASH JUDGMENT. 
 
 It is good for every man to fortify himself on 
 his weak side, and, if he loves his peace, he 
 must not be inquisitive, and hearken to tale- 
 bearers; for the man that is over curious to hear 
 and s-ee every thing, multiplies troubles to him- 
 self; for a man does not feel what he does not 
 know. He that is listening after private di&« 
 course, and what people say of him, shall never 
 be, at peace. How many things, that are innocent 
 in themselves, are made injurious, yet by mis- 
 construction r Wherefore some things we are to 
 pause upon, others to laugh at, and others again 
 to pardon. Or, if we cannot avoid the sense (. f 
 indignities, let us, however, shun the open pro- 
 fession of it ; which may easily be done, as ap- 
 pears by many examples of those that have sup- 
 pressed their anger, under the awe of a. greater 
 fear. It is a good caution, not to believe any 
 tiling until we are very certain of it; for many 
 
 2 L 
 
3S6* sexeca's morals. 
 
 Let us not be too credulous. 
 
 probable things prove false, and a short time will 
 make evidence of the undoubted truth. We are- 
 prone to believe many things which we are un- 
 willing to hear, and so we conclude, and take up 
 a prejudice before we can judge. Never condemn 
 a friend unheard, or without letting him know 
 his accuser, or his crime. It is a common thins 
 to say — Do not you tell that you had -it from me, 
 for if you do I will deny it, and never tell you 
 any thing again. By which means friends are set 
 together by the ears, and the informer slips his 
 neck out of the collar. Admit no stones upon 
 these terms; for it is an unjust thing to believe 
 in private, and to be angry openly. lie that de- 
 livers himself up to guess and conjecture, runs a 
 great hazard ; for there can be no suspicion with- 
 out some probable grounds ; so that without 
 much candour and simplicity, and making the 
 best of every thing, there is no living in society 
 with mankind. Some things that offend us we 
 have by report, others we see, or hear. In the 
 first place, let us not be too credulous : some 
 people frame stories that they may deceive us ; 
 others only tell what they hear, and are deceived 
 themselves. Some make it their sport to do ill 
 offices, others do them only to pick a thank : 
 there, are some tha^ would part the dearest friends 
 in the world ; others love to do mischief, and 
 stand aloof to sec what comes of it. If it be a 
 
SKNKCa's MOllAnS. &R? 
 
 Make the best of every thing. 
 
 Email matter, I would have witnesses; but if it 
 be a greater, I would have it upon oath, and al- 
 low time to the accused, and council too, and 
 hear it over and over again. 
 
 In those cases, where we ourselves are wit- 
 nesses, we should take into consideration all the 
 circumstances. If a child, it was ignorance—if 
 a woman, a mistake— if done by command, a 
 necessity— if a man be injured, it is but quod 
 pro quo— if a judge, he knows what he does— if 
 a prince, I must submit, either, if guilty to jus* 
 tice, or if innocent to fortune — if a brute, I 
 make myself one by imitating it— if a calamity, 
 or disease, my best relief is patience— if Provi- 
 dence, it is both impious and vain to be angry 
 at it— if a good man, I will make the best of it — 
 if a bad, I will never wonder at it. Nor is it 
 only by tales and stories that we are inflamed, 
 but suspicious countenances, nay, a look, or a 
 smile, is enough to blow us up. In these cases> 
 let us suspend our displeasure, and plead the 
 cause of the absent. Perhaps he is innocent, or, 
 if not, I have time to consider of it, and may 
 take my revenge at leisure; but when it is once 
 executed, it is not to be recalled. A jealous 
 head is apt to take that to himself which was 
 never meant him. Let us, therefore, trust to 
 nothing but what we see, and chide ourselves 
 where we are over credulous. By this course we 
 2 l2 
 
388 -seneca's Mnft.us. 
 
 Let us give way to wise men. 
 
 shall not be so easily imposed upon, nor put to 
 trouble ourselves about things not worth the 
 ivhile ; as the loitering of a servant upon an er- 
 rand, the tumbling of a bed, or the spilling of a 
 glass of drink. It is a madness to be disordered 
 at these fooleries, we consider the thing done, 
 and not the doer of it. It may be he did it un- 
 willingly, or by chance.— It was a trick put upon 
 him, or he was forced to it. — Pie did it for re- 
 ward, perhaps, not hatred, nor of his own ac- 
 cord, but he was egged on to it. Nay, some re- 
 gard must be had to the age of the person, or to 
 fortune; and we must consult humanity and can- 
 dour in the case. One does me a great mischief 
 at unawares, another does me a very small one by 
 design, or peradventure none at all, but intend- 
 ed me one. The latter was more in fault, but I 
 will be angry with neither. We must distinguish 
 betwixt what a man cannot do, and what he will 
 not. It is true he has once offended me, but 
 how often has he pleased me ? he has offended 
 me often, and in other kinds, and why should 
 not I bear it as well now as I have done ? Is he 
 my friend? why then it was against his will. Is 
 he my enemy? it is no more than I looked for, 
 Let us give way to wise men, and not squabble 
 with fools : and say thus to ourselves — We have 
 all of us our errors; no man is so circumspect, 
 so considerate, or so fearful of offending, but he 
 
seneca's morals. 3S9 
 
 W't o does an injury may receive one. 
 
 has much to answer for. A generous prisoner 
 cannot immediately comply with all the sordid 
 and laborious offices of a slave. A footman that 
 is not breathed, cannot keep pace with his mas- 
 ter's horse. He that is over watched may be 
 allowed to be drowsy. All these things are to be 
 weighed, before we give any ear to the first im- 
 pulse. If it be my duty to love my country, I 
 must be kind also to all my countrymen : if a 
 veneration be due to the whole, so is a piety also 
 to the parts, and it is the common interest to 
 preserve them. We are all members of one body, 
 and it is as natural to help one another, as for 
 the hands to help the feet, or the eyes the hands. 
 Without the love and care of the parts, the whole 
 can never be preserved ; and we must spare one 
 another, because we are born for society, which 
 cannot be maintained without a regard to parti- 
 culars. Let this be a rule to us, never to deny a 
 pardon that does no hurt eitheF to the giver or 
 receiver.* That may be well enough in one r 
 which is ill in another; and therefore we are not 
 to condemn any thing that is common to a na« 
 tion, for custom defends it* But much more 
 pardonable are those things which are common to 
 mankind. 
 
 It is a kind of spiteful comfort, that whoever 
 does me an injury, may receive one; and that 
 ihere is a power over him that is above me, A 
 H3 
 
3<)0 SENECA S MORALS. 
 
 The wisest have their failin 
 
 man should stand as firm against all indignities 
 as a rock does against the waves. As it is some sa- 
 tisfaction to a man in a mean condition, that 
 there is no security in a more prosperous ; and as 
 the loss of a son in a corner is borne with more 
 patience, upon the sight of a funeral carried out 
 of a palace, so are injuries and contempts the 
 more tolerable from a meaner person, when we 
 consider that the greatest men and fortunes are 
 not exempt. The wisest also of mortals have 
 their failings, and no mail living is without the 
 same excuse. The difference is, that we do net 
 all of us transgress the same way : but we are 
 obliged in humanity to bear with one another. 
 We should, every one of us,, bethink ourselves 
 how remiss we have been in our duties, how im- 
 modest in our discourses, how intemperate in our 
 cups, and why not as well how extravagant we 
 have been m our patulous. Let us clear, ourselves 
 of this evil, purge our minds, and utterly root 
 out all those vices, which, upon leaving the least 
 sting, will grow again, and recover. We must 
 think of every thing, expect every thing, that we 
 may not be surprised. " It is a shame," said 
 Fabius, " for a commander to excuse himself by 
 saying — 1 was not aware oi it/' 
 
seneca's morals. 301 
 
 We should b-ar one \s iih another. 
 
 TAKE NOTHING ILL FROM ANOTHER MAN, 
 
 UNTIL YOU HAVE MADE IT YOUR 
 
 OWN CASE. 
 
 It is not prudent to deny a pardon to any man 
 without first examining, if we do not stand in 
 need of it ourselves; for it may be our lot to ask 
 it, even at his feet to whom we refuse it. But we 
 are willing enough to do, what we are very un- 
 willing to suffer. It is unreasonable to charge pub- 
 lic vices upon particular persons ; for we are all of 
 us wicked, and that which we blame in others 
 we find in ourselves. It is not a paleness in one, 
 or a leanness in another, but a pestilence that 
 has laid hold upon all. It is a wicked world, 
 and we make part of it; and the way to be quiet, 
 is to bear one with another. Such a man, we 
 cry, has done me, a shrewd turn, and I never did 
 him any hurt.- 'Well, but it may be, I have mis- 
 chieved other people, or at least I may live to do 
 as much to him as that comes to me. Such 
 a one has spoken ill things of me ; but if 1 
 first speak ill of him, as I do of many others, 
 this is not an injury, but a repayment. What if 
 he did overshoot himself? he was loth to lose his 
 conceit, perhaps, but there was no malice in it; 
 and if he had not clone me a mischief, he must 
 
3£)2 senega's morals* 
 
 We should not condemn hastily. 
 
 have done himself one. How many good offices 
 are there that look like injuries? nay, how many 
 have been reconciled, and good friends^ after a 
 professed hatred ? 
 
 Before we lay any thing to heart, let us ask 
 ourselves if we have not done the same thing to 
 others. But where shall we find an equal judge? 
 He that loves another man's wife (only, perhaps, 
 because she is another's) will not suffer his own to 
 be so much as looked upon. No man so fierce 
 against calumny as the evil speaker; none so- 
 strict exacters of modesty in a servant, as those 
 that are most prodigal of their own. We carry 
 our neigbour's crimes in sight, and we throw our 
 own over our shoulders. The intemperance of a 
 bad son is chastised by a worse father ; and the 
 luxury that we punish in others we allow to our- 
 selves. The tyrant exclaims against homicide,, 
 and sacrilege against theft. We are angry with 
 the persons, but not with the faults. 
 
 Some things there are that cannot hurt us, and 
 others will not; as good magistrates, parents,, 
 tutors, judges, whose reproof, or correction, we 
 are to fake, as we do abstinence, bleeding, and 
 other uneasy things, which we are the better for* 
 In which cases, we are not so much to reckon 
 upon what we suffer, as upon what we have done, 
 I take it ill, says one; and 1 have done nothing,, 
 says another : when at the same time we make it 
 
seveca's morals. 393 
 
 N\> man can absolve bmtsetftu NscOnMiem •-. 
 
 wors*', by adding arrogance and contumacy to our 
 first error. We cry out presently — What law 
 have we transgressed ? As if the letter of the 
 law were the sum of our duty, and that piety, 
 humanity, liberality, justice, and faith, were 
 things beside our business. No, no, the rule of 
 human duty is of a greater latitude, and we have 
 many obligations upon us, that are not to be 
 found in the statute books. And yet we fall 
 short of the exactness, even of that legal inno- 
 cency. We have intended one thing, and done 
 another, wherein only the want of success has 
 kept us from being criminals. This very thing, 
 methinks, should make us more favourable to 
 delinquents, and to forgive not only ourselves, 
 but the gods too, of whom we seem to have 
 harder thoughts in taking that to be a particular 
 evil directed to us, that befals us only by the 
 common law of mortality. In fine, no man liv- 
 ing can absolve himself to his conscience, though 
 to the world perhaps he may. It is true, that we 
 are also condemned to pains and diseases, and to 
 death too, which is no more than the quitting of the 
 soul's house. But why should any man complain 
 of bondage, that wheresoever he looks, has his 
 way open to liberty? that precipice, that sea, 
 that river, that well, there is freedom in the bot- 
 tom of it. It hangs upon every crooked bou«li d 
 
3.04- senega's morals. 
 
 We should do as we would be done by. 
 
 and not only a man's throat, or his heart, but 
 every vein in his body opens a passage to it. 
 
 To conclude, where my proper virtue fails me, 
 I will have recourse to examples, and say to my- 
 self — am I greater than Philip, or Augustus, who 
 both of them put up greater reproaches? many 
 have pardoned their enemies, aud shall not I for- 
 give a neglect, a little freedom of the tongue ? 
 Nay, the patience but of a second thought does 
 the business; for, though the first shock be vio-^ 
 lent, take it in parts, and it is subdued. And, to. 
 wind up all in one word, the great lesson of man- 
 kind, as well in this, as in all other cases, is— t© 
 4o as we would be done by. 
 
 OF CRUELTY* 
 
 - There is so near an affinity betwixt anger and 
 cruelty, that many people confound them : as if 
 cruelty' were only the execution of anger in the 
 payment of a revenge \ which holds in some cases, 
 but not in others. There are a sort of men that 
 take delight in the spilling of human blood, and 
 in the death of those that never did them any in- 
 jury, nor were ever so much as suspected for it — 
 as Apollodorus, Phalaris, Sinis, Procrustus, and 
 others, that burnt men alive, whom we cannot so 
 properly call angry as brutal. For anger does 
 ttscessarily presuppose an injury either done, or 
 
Seneca's morals. 3p.5 
 
 1 lie cruehy of the Roman spectacles. ' 
 
 conceived, or feared ; but the other takes plea- 
 sure in tormenting, without so much as pretend- 
 ing any provocation to it, and kills merely for 
 killing sake. The original of this cruelty, per- 
 haps, was anger, which, by frequent exercise and 
 custom, has lost all sense of humanity and mercy ; 
 and they that are thus affected, are so far from 
 the countenance and appearance of men in anger, 
 that they will laugh, rejoice, and entertain them- 
 selves with the most horrid spectacles, as racks, 
 goals, gibbets, several sorts of chains and punish- 
 ments, dilaceration of members, stigmatizings and 
 wild beasts, with other exquisite inventions of 
 torture, and yet at last the cruelty itself is more 
 horrid and odious than the means by which it 
 works. It is a bestial madness to love mischief, 
 beside that, it is womanish to rage and tear ; a 
 generous beast will scorn to do it, when he has 
 any thing at his mercy. It is a vice for wolves and 
 tigers ; and no less abominable to the world than 
 dangerous to itself. 
 
 The Romans had their morning and their me- 
 ridian spectacles. In the former they had their 
 combats of men with wild beasts, in the latter 
 the men fought one with another. " I went," 
 says our author, " the other day to the meridian 
 spectacles, in hope of meeting somewhat of mirth 
 and diversion, to sweeten the humours of those 
 that bad been entertained with blood in the mon.« 
 
396 sf.neca's morals. 
 
 No vice keeps itself Within its proper bounds. 
 
 ing, but it proved otherwise ; for, compared with 
 this inhumanity, the former was a mercy. The 
 whole business was only murder upon murder : 
 the combatants fought naked, and every blow 
 was a wound. They did not contend for victory, 
 but for death ; and he that kills one man is to be 
 killed by another. By wounds they are forced 
 upon wounds, which they take and give upon 
 their bare breast. Burn that rogue, they cry; 
 what, is he afraid of his flesh? do but see how 
 Fneakingly that rascal dies." Look to yourselves, 
 my masters, and consider of it : who knows but 
 this may come to be your own case ? Wicked 
 examples seldom fail of coming home at last to 
 the authors. To destroy a single man may be 
 dangerous, but to murder whole nations is only a 
 more glorious wickedness. Private avarice and 
 rigour are condemned, but oppression, when it 
 comes to be authorized by an act of state, and to 
 be publicly commanded, though particularly for- 
 bidden, becomes a point of dignity and honour. 
 "What a shame is it for men to enterworry one 
 another, when yet the fiercest even of beasts are 
 at peace with those of their own kind? This 
 brutal fury puts philosophy itself to a stand. The 
 drunkard, the glutton, the covetous, may be re- 
 duced. Nay, and the mischief of it is, that no 
 vice keeps itself within its proper bounds. Lux- 
 ury runs into avarice, and when the reverence of 
 2 
 
seneca's morals. 397 
 
 due u of C. Caesar. 
 
 virtue is extinguished, men will stick at nothing 
 that carries profit along with it. Man's blood is 
 shed in wantonness ; his death is a spectacle for 
 entertainment, and his groans are music. When 
 Alexander delivered up Lysimachus to a lion, 
 how plad would he have been to have had nails 
 and teeth to have devoured him himself; it would 
 have too much derogated, he thought, from the 
 dignity of wrath, to have appointed a man for the 
 execution of his friend. Private cruelties, it is 
 true, cannot do much mischief, but in princes 
 they are a war against mankind. 
 
 C. Caesar would commonly, for exercise and 
 pleasure, put senators and Roman knights to the 
 torture, and whip several of them like slaves, or 
 put them to death with the most accurate tor- 
 ments, merely for the satisfaction of his cruelty : 
 that Caesar, that wished the people of Rome had 
 but one neck, that he might cut it off at one blow. 
 It was the employment, the study, and the joy of 
 his life. He would not so much as give the ex- 
 piring leave to groan, but caused their mouths to 
 be stopped with sponges, or, for want of them, 
 with rags of their own clothes, that they might 
 not breathe out so much as their last agonies at 
 liberty, or, perhaps, lest the tormented should 
 speak something which the tormentor had no 
 mind to hear. Nay, he was so impatient of delay, 
 that he would frequently rise from supper to have 
 
 2 M 
 
398 seneca's morals. 
 
 Of tyrannical government. 
 
 men killed by torch light; as if his life and death 
 had depended upon their dispatch before the next 
 morning. To say nothing how many fathers were 
 put to death by him in the same night with their 
 •sons, (which was a kind of mercy, in the pre- 
 vention of their mourning). And was not Syl- 
 la's cruelty prodigious too, which was only stopt 
 for want of enemies ? He caused 7,000 citizens 
 of Rome to be slaughtered at once ; and some of 
 the senators being startled at their cries, that 
 were heard in the senate-house — " Let us mind 
 our business," says Sylla, " this is nothing but a 
 few mutineers that I have ordered to be sent out 
 of the way." A glorious spectacle ! says Hanni- 
 bal, when he saw the trenches flowing with human 
 blood ; and if the rivers had run blood too, he 
 would have. liked it so much the better. 
 
 Among the famous and detestable speeches that 
 are committed to memory, I know none worse 
 than that impudent and tyrannical maxim — Let 
 them hate me, so they fear me. Not considering 
 that those that are kept in obedience by fear, are 
 both malicious and mercenary, and only wait for 
 an opportunity to change their master. Beside, 
 that whosoever is terrible to others, is likewise 
 afraid of himself. What is more ordinary, than 
 for a tyrant to be destroyed by his own guards ? 
 Which is no more than the putting those crimes 
 into practice which they learned of their masters. 
 
^eneca's morals* 399 
 
 Sylla's cruelty. 
 
 How many slaves have revenged themselves of 
 their cruel oppressors, though they were sure to 
 die for it ? but when it comes once to a popular 
 tyranny, whole nations conspire against it. For 
 whosoever threatens all, is in danger of all ; over 
 and above, that the cruelty of a prince increases 
 the number of his enemies, by destroying some of 
 them ; for it entails an hereditary hatred upon 
 the friends and relations of those that are taken 
 away. And then it has this misfortune, that a 
 man must be wicked upon necessity; for there is 
 no going back ; so that he must betake himself to 
 arms, and yet he lives in fear. He can neither 
 trust to the faith of his friends, nor to the piety 
 of his children y he both dreads death and wishes 
 it ; and becomes a greater terror to himself, than 
 he is to the people. Nay, if there were nothing else 
 to make cruelty detestable, it were enough that 
 it passes all bounds, both of custom and humanity, 
 and is followed upon the heel with sword or poi- 
 son. A private malice indeed does not move 
 whole cities; but that which extends to all, is 
 every body's mark. One sick person gives no 
 great disturbance in a family, but when it comes 
 to a depopulating plague, all people fly from it* 
 And why should a prince expect any man to be 
 good, whom he has taught to be wicked ? 
 
 But what if it were safe to be cruel? were it 
 not still a sad thing, the very state of such a go- 
 vernment ? a government that bears the image of 
 
400 seneca's morals. 
 
 Ange becomes not a s preme magistrate. 
 
 a taken city, where there is nothing but sorrow, 
 trouble, and confusion. Men dare not so much 
 as trust themselves wilh their friends, or with 
 their pleasures. There is not any entertainment 
 so innocent, but it affords pretence of crime and 
 danger. People are betrayed at their tables, and 
 in their cups, and drawn from the very theatre to 
 the prison. How horrid a madness is it to be still 
 raging and killing, to have the rattling of chains, 
 always in our ears, bloody spectacles before our 
 eyes, and to carry terror and dismay wherever 
 we <?o? If we had lions and serpents to rule over 
 us, this would be the manner of their government, 
 saving that they agree better among themselves. 
 It passes for a mark of greatness to burn cities, 
 and lay whole kingdoms waste; nor is it for the 
 honour of a prince, to appoint this or that single 
 man to be killed, unless they have whole troops, 
 or (sometimes) legions to work upon. But it is 
 not the spoils of war, and bloody trophies, that 
 make a prince glorious, but the divine power of 
 preserving unity and peace. Ruin, without dis- 
 tinction, is more properly the business of a gene- 
 ral deluge, or conflagration. Neither does a tierce 
 and inexorable anger become the supreme magis- 
 trate ; greatness of mind is always meek and hum- 
 ble, but cruelty is a note, and an effect of weak- 
 ness; and brings down a governor to the level of 
 a competitor. 
 
seneca's morals, 401 
 
 Ckmencv detined. 
 
 CLEMENCY. 
 
 JL HE humanity and excellence of this virtue is 
 confessed at all hands, as well by the men of 
 pleasure, and those that think every man was 
 made for himself: as by the Stoics, that make 
 man a sociable creature, and born for the com- 
 mon good of mankind ; for it is, of all disposi- 
 tions, the most peaceable and quiet. But before 
 we enter any farther upon, the discourse, it 
 should be first known what clemency is,, that we 
 may distinguish it from pity, which is a weak- 
 ness, though many times mistaken for a virtue ; 
 and the next thing will be, to bring the mind to 
 the habit and exercise of itt 
 
 Clemency is a favourable disposition of the 
 mind, in the manner of inflicting punishment ; or ? 
 a moderation that remits somewhat of the penalty 
 incurred ; as pardon is the total remission of a. 
 deserved punishment. We must be careful not 
 to confound clemency with pity; for as religion 
 worships God, and superstition profanes that 
 2 M 3 
 
405 seneca's morass. 
 
 Clemency profitable for all. 
 
 worship, so should we distinguish betwixt cle- 
 mency and pity ; practising the one, and avoiding 
 the other. For pity proceeds from a narrowness 
 of mind, that respects rather the fortune than the 
 cause. It is a kind of moral sickness, contracted 
 from other people's misfortunes; such another 
 weakness as laughing, or yawning for company ; 
 or, as that of sick eyes, that cannot look upon 
 others that are bleared, without dropping them- 
 selves. I will give a shipwrecked man a plank, 
 a lodging to a stranger, or a piece of money to 
 him that wants it : I will dry up the tears of my 
 friend, yet I will not weep with him, but treat 
 him with constancy and humanity, as one man 
 ought to treat another. 
 
 It is objected by some, that clemency is an in- 
 significant virtue; and that only the bad are the 
 better for it, for the good have no need of it. But 
 in the first place, as physic is in use only among 
 the sick, and yet in honour with the sound, so 
 the innocent have a reverence for clemency, 
 though criminals are properly the objects of it. 
 And then again, a man may be innocent, and yet 
 have occasion for it too : for by the accidents of 
 fortune, or the condition of times, virtue itself 
 may come to be in danger. Consider the most 
 populous city, or nation, what a solitude would 
 it be, if none should be left there but those that 
 could stand the test of a severe justice? We 
 
 1 
 
sexeca's morals. 408 
 
 It is more beneficial in a palace. 
 
 should have neither judges nor accusers, none 
 either to grant a pardon, or to ask it. More or 
 less, we are all sinners ; and he that has best 
 purged his conscience, was brought by errors to 
 repentance. And it is farther profitable to man- 
 kind, for many delinquents come to be converted. 
 There is a tenderness to be used, even toward 
 our slaves, and those that we have bought with 
 our money : how much more then to free, and 
 to honest men, that are rather under our protec- 
 tion than dominion? Not that I would have it 
 so general neither, as not to distinguish betwixt 
 the good and the bad ; for that would introduce 
 a confusion, and give a kind of encouragement to 
 wickedness. It must, therefore, have a respect 
 to the quality of the offender, and separate the 
 curable from the desperate ; for it is an equal 
 cruelty to pardon all, and to pardon none. Where 
 the matter is in balance, let mercy turn the scale: 
 if all wicked men should be punished, who should 
 escape ? 
 
 Though mercy and gentleness of nature keeps 
 all in peace and tranquillity, even in a cottage: 
 yet it is much more beneficial and conspicuous in 
 a palace. Private men, in their condition, are 
 likewise private in their virtues, and in their 
 vices; but the words and the actions of princes 
 are the subject of public rumour, and therefore 
 ihey bad need have a care what occasion they 
 
404 Seneca's morals. 
 
 Clemency does well with all, 
 
 give people for discourse, of whom people will 
 be always a talking. There is the government of 
 a prince over his people, a father over his chil- 
 dren, a master over his scholars, an officer over 
 his soldiers. He is an unnatural father, that 
 for every trifle beats his children. Who is the 
 better master, he that rages over his scholars for 
 but missing a word in a lesson ; or he that tries 
 by admonition, and fair words, to instruct and 
 reform them ? An outrageous officer makes his 
 men run from their colours. A skilful rider 
 brings his horse to obedience by mingling fair 
 means with foul, whereas to be perpetually 
 switching and spurring makes him vicious and 
 jadish : and shall we not have more care of men 
 than of beasts ? It breaks the hope of generous 
 inclinations, when they are depressed by servility 
 and terror. There is no creature so hard to be 
 pleased with ill usage, as man. 
 
 Clemency does well with all, but best with 
 princes ; for it makes their power comfortable and. 
 beneficial, which would otherwise be the pest of 
 mankind. It establishes their greatness, when 
 they make the good of the public their particular 
 care, and employ their power for the safety of 
 the people. The prince, in effect, is but the soul 
 of the community, as the community is only the 
 body of the prince : so that being merciful to 
 others, he is tender of himself. Nor is any man 
 
seneca's morals. 405 
 
 Eijv besi « ith princes. 
 
 so mean, but his master feels the loss of him, as 
 a part of his empire : and he takes care, not only 
 of the lives of his people, but also of their repu- 
 tation. Now, giving for granted, that all virtues 
 are in themselves equal, it will not yet be denied, 
 that they may be more beneficial to mankind in 
 one person, than in another. A beggar may be 
 as magnanimous as a king: for what can be 
 greater, or braver, than to baffle ill fortune ! 
 This does not hinder, but that a man in authority 
 and plenty, has more matter for his generosity to 
 work upon than a private person : and it is also 
 more taken notice of upon the bench, than upon 
 the level. When a gracious prince shews himself 
 to his people, they do not fly from him as from a 
 tiger, that roused himself out his den: but they 
 worship him as a benevolous influence, they se- 
 cure him against all conspiracies, and interpose 
 their bodies betwixt him and danger. They 
 guard him while he sleeps, and defend him in the 
 iield against his enemies. Nor is it without rea- 
 son, this unanimous agreement in love and loy- 
 alty, and this heroical zeal of abandoning them- 
 selves for the safety of their prince ; but it is us 
 well the interest of the people. In the breath of 
 a prince there is life and death ; and his sentence 
 stands good, right or wrong. If he be angry, no 
 body dare advise him; and if he does amiss, who 
 shall call him to accompt? Now for him that has 
 
406* seneca's mohals. 
 
 Let superiors regard their inferiors. 
 
 so much mischief in his power, and yet applies that 
 power to the common utility, and comfort of his 
 people, diffusing also clemency and goodness into 
 their hearts too, what can be a greater blessing 
 to mankind than such a prince ? Any man may 
 kill another against the law, but only a prince 
 can save him so. Let him so deal with his own 
 subjects, as he desires God should deal with 
 him : if heaven should be inexorable to sinners, 
 and destroy all without mercy, what flesh could 
 be safe ? But, as the faults of great men are not 
 presently punished with thunder from above, let 
 them have a regard to their inferiors here upon 
 earth. He that has revenge in his power, and 
 does not use it, is the great man. Which is the 
 more beautiful and agreeable state, that of a 
 calm, a temperate, and a clear day ; or, that of 
 lightning, thunder, and tempests? and this is the 
 very difference betwixt a moderate and a turbu- 
 lent government. It is for low and vulgar spirits 
 to brawl, storm, and transport themselves; but 
 it is not for the majesty of the prince to lash out 
 into intemperance of words. Some will think it 
 rather slavery, than empire,, to be debarred 
 liberty of speech : and what if it be, when go- 
 vernment itself is but a more illustrious servitude ? 
 He that uses his power as he should, takes as 
 much delight in making it comfortable to his 
 people as glorious to himself. He is affable and 
 
seneca's morals. 407 
 
 A prince is ihe father of his people. 
 
 easy of access, his very countenance makes him 
 the joy of his people's eyes, and the delight of 
 mankind. He is beloved, defended, and reve- 
 renced by all his subjects, and men speak as well 
 of him in private, as in public: he is safe with- 
 out guards, and is sword is rather his ornament 
 than his defence : in his duty he is like that of a 
 good father, that sometimes gently reproves a 
 son, sometimes threatens him ; nay, and perhaps 
 corrects him : but no father, in his right wits, 
 will disinherit a son for the first fault, there must 
 be many and great offences, and only desperate 
 consequences, that should bring him to that de- 
 cretory resolution : he will make many experi- 
 ments, to try if he can reclaim him first, and 
 nothing but the utmost despair must put him upon 
 extremities. It is not flattery that calls a prince 
 the father of his country : the titles of great and 
 r.ugust are matter of compliment and of honour; 
 but, in calling him father, we mind him of that 
 moderation and indulgence which he owes to his 
 children. His subjects are his members, where, 
 if there, must be an amputation, let him come 
 slowly to it, and when the part is cut off, let him 
 wish it were on again; let him grieve in the doing 
 of it. He that passes a sentence hastily, looks as 
 if lie did it willingly; and then there is an injus- 
 tice in the excess. 
 
+08 seneca's morals. 
 
 The blessings of a merciful prince. 
 
 It is a glorious contemplation for a prince, first 
 to consider the vast multitudes of his people, 
 whose seditious, divided, and impotent passions, 
 would cast all in confusion, and destroy them- 
 selves, and public order too, if the band of go- 
 vernment did not restrain them; and thence to 
 pass to the examination of his conscience, saying 
 thus to himself — It is by the choice of Providence 
 that I am here made God's deputy upon earth ; 
 the arbitrator of life and death, and that upon 
 my breath depends the fortune of my people. My 
 lips' are the oracles of their fate, and upon them 
 hangs the destiny both of cities and of men. It 
 is under my favour that people seek for either 
 prosperity, or protection : thousands of swords 
 are drawn, or sheathed, at my pleasure. What 
 towns shall be advanced, or destroyed ; who shall 
 be slaves, or who free, depends upon my will ; 
 and yet, in this arbitrary power of acting without 
 controul, I was never transported to do any cruel 
 thing, either by anger, or hot blood in myself, or 
 by the contumacy, rashness, or provocations of 
 other men, though sufficient to turn mercy itself 
 into fuiy. I was never moved by the odious va- 
 nity of making myself terrible by my power, 
 (that accursed, though common, humour of os- 
 tentation and glory, that haunts imperious na- 
 tures). My sword has not only been buried in 
 
Seneca's morals. 400 
 
 On him depends the safety or the people. 
 
 the scabbard, but in a manner bound to the 
 peace, and tender even of the cheapest blood : 
 and where I find no other motive to compassion, 
 humanity itself is sufficient. I have been always 
 slow to severity, and prone to forgive ; and un- 
 der as strict a guard to observe the laws, as if I 
 were accountable for the breaking of them. Some 
 I pardoned for their youth, others for their age. 
 I spare one man for his dignity, another for his 
 humility; and when I find no other matter to 
 work upon, 1 spare myself. So that if God should 
 at this instant call me to an account, the whole 
 world would agree to witness for me, that I have 
 not by any force, either public or private, either 
 by myself, or by any other, defrauded the com- 
 monwealth; and the reputation that I have ever 
 sought for, has been that which few princes have 
 obtained, the conscience of my proper innocence. 
 And I have not lost my labour neither, for no 
 one man was ever so dear to another, as I have 
 made myself to the whole body of 1113* people. 
 Under such a prince the subject has nothing to 
 wish for, beyond what he enjoys ; their fears are 
 quieted, and their prayers heard; and there is 
 nothing to make their felicity greater, unless to 
 make it perpetual; and there is no liberty denied 
 to the people, but that of destroying one another. 
 It is the interest of the people, by the consent 
 of all nations, to run all hazards for the safety of 
 
 2 N 
 
410 seneca's morals. 
 
 The prince and people are inseparable. 
 
 their prince, and by a thousand deaths to redeem 
 that one life, upon which so many millions de- 
 pend. Does not the whole bod} 7 serve the mind, 
 though only the one is exposed to the eye, and 
 the other not; but, thin and invisible, the very 
 seat of it being uncertain ? yet the hands, feet, and 
 eyes, observe the motions of it : we lie down, run 
 about, and ramble, as that commands us. If we 
 be covetous, we fish the seas, and ransack the 
 earth for treasure; if ambitious, we burn our 
 flesh with Sca^vola ; we cast ourselves into the 
 gulph with Curtius : so would that vast multi- 
 tude of people, which is animated but with one 
 soul, governed by one spirit, and moved by one 
 reason, destroy itself with its own strength, if it 
 were not supported by wisdom and government. 
 "Wherefore it is for their own security, that the 
 people expose their lives for their prince, as the 
 very bond that ties the republic together; the 
 vital spirit of so many thousands, which would 
 be nothing else but a burden and prey, without 
 a governor. When this union comes once to be 
 dissolved, all falls to pieces; for empire and obe- 
 dience must stand and fall together. It is no 
 wonder then, if a prince be dear to his people, 
 when the community is wrapt up in him, and 
 the good ot both as inseparable as the body and 
 the head ; the one lor strength, and the other 
 for counsel ; for what signifies the force of the 
 
seneca's motials* 41 T- 
 
 He i beloved when gracious. 
 
 body, without the direction of the understand- 
 ing ? While the prince watches, his people sleep ; 
 his labour keeps them at ease, and his business 
 keeps them at quiet. The natural intent of mo- 
 narchy appears even from the very discipline of 
 bees : they assign to their master the fairest lodg- 
 ings, the safest place ; and his office is only to 
 see that the rest perform their duties. When 
 their king is lost, the whole swarm dissolves : 
 more than one they will not admit, and then they 
 contend who shall have the best; they are of all 
 creatures the fiercest for their bigness, and leave 
 their stings behind them in their quarrels; only 
 their king himself has none, intimating, that 
 kings should neither be vindictive nor cruel. Is 
 it not a shame, after such an example of moder- 
 ation in these creatures, that men should be yet 
 intemperate? It were well, if they lost their 
 stings too in their revenge, as well as the other, 
 that they might hurt but once, and do no mischief 
 by their proxies. It would tire them out, if 
 either they were to execute all with their own 
 hands, or to wound others, at the peril of their 
 own lives. 
 
 A prince should behave himself generously in 
 the power which God has given him, of life and 
 death, especially toward those that have been at 
 any time his equals ; for the one has his revenge,, 
 and the other his punishment in it. He that 
 2n2 
 
412 seneca's morals. 
 
 Clemency is a prince's safeguard. 
 
 stands indebted for his hfe, has lost it ; but he 
 that receives his life at the foot of his enemy, 
 lives to the honour of his preserver. He lives 
 the lasting monument of his virtue ; whereas if 
 he had been led in triumph, the spectacle would 
 have been quickly over. Or, what if he should 
 restore him to his kingdom again; would it not 
 be an ample accession to his honour, to shew 
 that he found nothing about the conquered that 
 was worthy of the conqueror? there is nothing 
 more venerable, than a prince that does not re- 
 venge an injury. He that is gracious, is beloved, 
 and reverenced as a common father; but a tyrant 
 stands in fear and danger even of his own guards. 
 No prince can be safe himself, of whom all 
 others are afraid ; for to spare none is to enrage 
 all. It is an error to imagine, that any man can be 
 secure, that suffers nobody else to be so too. How 
 can any man endure to lead an uneasy, suspicious, 
 anxious life, when he may be safe if he pleases, 
 and enjoy all the blessings of power, together 
 with the prayers of his people ? Clemency pro-» 
 tects a prince without a guard, there is no need 
 of troops, castles, or fortifications: security on 
 the one side, is the condition of security on the 
 other ; and the affections of the subject are the 
 most invincible fortress. What can be fairer, than 
 for a prince to live the object of his people's love, 
 to have the vows of their heart, as well as of their 
 
sekeca's morals. 413 
 
 Punishments should be moderate. 
 
 lips; and his health and sickness, their common 
 hopes and fears ? There will be no danger of 
 plots ; nay, on the contrary,- who would not 
 frankly venture his blood to serve him, under 
 whose government justice, peace, modesty, and 
 dignity flourish; under whose influence men grow 
 rich and happy ; and whom men look upon with 
 such veneration, as they would do upon the im- 
 mortal gods, if they were capable of seeing them ? 
 and, as the true representative of the Almightv, 
 they consider him, when he is gracious and boun- 
 tiful, and employs his power to the advantage of 
 his subjects;. 
 
 "When a prince proceeds to punishment, it 
 must be either to vindicate himself, or others. It- 
 is a hard matter to govern himself in his own- 
 case. If a man should advise him not to be cre- 
 dulous, but to examine matters, and indulge the 
 innocent, this is rather a point of justice than of 
 clemency : but, in case that he be manifestly in- 
 jured, I would have him forgive, where he may 
 safely do it; and be tender even where he cannot, 
 forgive; but far more exorable in his own case, 
 however, than in another's. . It is nothing to be 
 free of another man's purse; and it is as little to 
 be merciful in another man's cause. He is the 
 great man that, masters his passion where he is 
 stung himself; and pardons when he might de*- 
 stroy. The end of punishment is ? either to com- 
 2 N 3 
 
414 seneca's morals. 
 
 The ends of punishment. 
 
 fort the party injured, or to secure him for the 
 future. A prince's fortune is above the need of 
 such a comfort, and his power is too eminent to 
 geek an advance of reputation by doing a private 
 man a mischief. This I speak, in case of an af- 
 front from those that are below us: but he, that 
 of an equal has made any man his inferior, has 
 his revenge in the bringing of him down. A 
 prince has been killed by a servant, destroyed by 
 a serpent ; but whosoever preserves a man, must 
 be greater than the person that he preserves. 
 With citizens, strangers, and people of low con- 
 dition, a prince is not to contend, for they are 
 beneath him : he may spare some out of good- 
 will, and others, as he would do some creatures 
 that a man cannot touch without fouling his fin- 
 gers : but for those that are to be pardoned, or 
 exposed to public punishment, he may use mercy 
 as he sees occasion ; and a generous mind can 
 never want inducements and motives to it; and 
 whether it be age or sex, high or low, nothing 
 comes amiss. 
 
 To pass now to the vindication of others, there 
 must be had a regard either to the amendment of 
 the person punished, or the making others better 
 for fear of punishment ; or the taking the offender 
 out of the way, for the security of others. An 
 amendment may be procured by a small punish- 
 ment ; for be lives more carefully that has some- 
 
seneca's morals. 415 
 
 Caligula's ciuclty. 
 
 thing yet to lose ; it is a kind of impunity, to be 
 incapable of a farther punishment. The corrup- 
 tions of a city are best cured by a few and spar- 
 ing severities; for the multitude of offenders 
 creates a custom of offending, and company au- 
 thorizes a crime, and there is more good to be 
 done upon a dissolute age by patience than by 
 rigour; provided that it pass not for an approba- 
 tion of ill manners, but only as an unwillingness 
 to proceed to extremities. Under a merciful 
 prince a man will be ashamed to offend, because 
 a punishment that is inflicted by a gentle gover- 
 nor seems to fall heavier, and with more re- 
 proach : and it is remarkable also, that those 
 sins are often committed, which are very often 
 punished. Caligula, in five years, condemned 
 more people to the sack than ever were before 
 him : and there were fewer parricides before that 
 law against them, than after. For our ancestors 
 did wisely presume, that the crime would never 
 be committed, until by law for punishing it they 
 found that it might be done. Parricides began 
 with the law against them, and the punishment 
 instructed men in the crime. Where there are 
 few punishments, innocency is indulged as a pub- 
 lic good, and it is a dangerous thing to shew a 
 city how strong it is in delinquents. There is a 
 certain contumacy in the nature of man, that 
 makes hiin oppose difficulties. We are better to 
 
4l6 seneca's morals. 
 
 Universal hatred unites in popular rage. 
 
 follow than to drive; as a generous horse rides 
 best with an easy bit. People obey willingly, 
 where they are commanded kindly. When Burr- 
 hus, the prefect, was to sentence two malefactors, 
 he brought the warrant to Nero to sign; who, 
 after a long reluctancy, came to it at last with 
 this exclamation— I would I could not write. A 
 speech that deserved the whole world for an audi- 
 tory, but all princes especially; and that the 
 hearts of all the subjects would conform to the 
 likeness of their masters. As the head is well, or 
 ill, so is the mind dull, or merry. What is the 
 difference betwixt a king and a tyrant, but a di- 
 versity of will under one and the same power ? 
 the one destroys for his pleasure, -the other upon 
 necessity: a distinction rather in fact than in 
 name. A gracious prince is armed as well as a 
 tyrant, but it is for the defence of his people,- and 
 not for the rum of them. No king can ever have 
 faiihful servants, that accustoms them to tortures 
 and executions : the very guilty themselves do 
 not lead so anxious a life as the persecutors; for 
 they are not only afraid of justice, both divine 
 and human, but it is dangerous for them to 
 mend their manners, so that when they are once 
 in, they "must continue to be wicked upon neces- 
 sity. An universal hatred unites in a popular 
 rage. A temperate fear may be kept in order, 
 but when it comes once to be continual and 
 
 1 
 
seneca's morals. 417 
 
 " ■ -» 
 
 A turbulent government is a perpetual trouble. 
 
 sharp, it provokes people to extremities, and 
 transports them to desperate resolutions : as wild 
 beasts, when they are prest upon the toil, 
 turn back and assault the very pursuers. A tur- 
 bulent government is a perpetual trouble, both 
 to prince and people ; and he that is a terror to 
 all others, is not without terror also to himself. 
 Frequent punishments and revenges may suppress 
 the hatred of a few, but then it stirs up the de- 
 testation of all. So that there is no destroying 
 one enemy without making many. It is good to 
 master the will of being cruel, even while there 
 may be cause for it, and matter to work upon. 
 
 Augustus was a gracious prince when he had 
 the power in his own hand, but in the triumviracy 
 he made use of his sword, and had his friends 
 ready armed to set upon Anthony, during that 
 dispute. But he behaved himself afterwards at 
 another rate, for when he was betwixt forty and 
 fifty years of age, he was told that Cinna was in 
 a plot to murder him, with the time, place, and 
 manner of the design ; and this from one of the 
 confederates. Upon this he resolved upon a re- 
 venge j and sent for several of his friends to ad- 
 vise upon it. The thought of it kept him walk- 
 ing, to consider, that there was the life of a 
 young nobleman in the case, the nephew of Pom- 
 pey, and a person otherwise innocent. He was 
 off and on several times, whether he should nut 
 
418 seneca's morals-, 
 
 Livia's advice to Augustus. 
 
 him to death or not, " What," says he, " shall 
 I live in trouble and in danger myself, and the 
 contriver of my death walk free and secure ? 
 Will nothing serve him but that life, which Pro- 
 vidence has preserved in so many civil wars, in 
 so many battles, both by sea and land ; and now, 
 in the state of an universal peace too? and not a 
 simple murder neither, but a sacrifice, for I am 
 to be assaulted at the very altar; and shall the 
 contriver of all this villainy escape unpunished ?" 
 Here Augustus made a little pause, and then re- 
 collecting himself — " No, no, Caesar," says he^ 
 " it is rather Csesar, than Cinna, that I am to 
 be angry with : why do I myself live any longer, 
 after that my death is become the interest of so 
 many people? and if I go on, what end will there 
 be of blood, and of punishment? If it be against 
 my life that the nobility arms itself, and levels 
 their weapons, my single life is not worth the 
 while, if so many must be destroyed, that I may 
 be preserved." His wife, Livia, gave him here 
 an interruption, and desired him that he would 
 for once hear a woman's counsel. — " Do," says 
 she, " like a physician, that when common re- 
 medies fail, will try the contrary. You have got 
 nothing hitherto by severity; after Salvidianus 
 there followed Lepidus, after him Muraena; C33- 
 pio followed him, and Egnetius followed Caepio : 
 try now what mercy will do, forgive Cinna* He is 
 
seneca's morals. 41$ 
 
 His address to Cinna. 
 
 discovered, and can do you no hurt in your per- 
 son ; and it will yet advantage you in your repu- 
 tation." Augustus was glad of the advice, and he 
 gave thanks for it; and thereupon countermand- 
 ed the meeting of his friends, and ordered Cinna 
 to be brought to him alone, for whom he caused 
 a chair to be set, and then discharged the rest 
 of the company. " Cinna/' says Augustus, "be- 
 fore I go any farther, you must promise not to 
 give me the interruption of one syllable, until I 
 have told you all I have to say, and you shall 
 have liberty afterward to say what you please. 
 You cannot forget, that when I found you in 
 arms against me, and not only made my enemy, 
 but born so, I gave you your life and fortune. 
 Upon your petition for the priesthood, I granted 
 it, with a repulse to the sons of those that had 
 been my fellow-soldiers ; and you are at this day 
 so happy and so rich, that even the conquerors 
 envy him that is overcome, and yet, after all 
 this, you are in a plot, Cinna, to murder me/' 
 At that word Cinna started., and interposed with 
 exclamations — " That certainly he was far from 
 being either so wicked, or so mad." — " This is 
 breach of conditions, Cinna/' says Augustus, " it 
 is not your time to speak yet. I tell you again, 
 that you are in a plot to murder me;" and so he 
 £old him the time, the place, the confederates, 
 
420 seneca's morals. 
 
 Augustus's clemency, 
 
 the order and manner of the design, and who it 
 was to do the deed. Cinna, upon this, fixed his 
 eye upon the ground, without any reply, not for 
 his word-sake, but as in a confusion of consci- 
 ence ; and so Augustus went on. " What," says 
 he, " may be your design in all this ? Is it that 
 you would pretend to step into my place ? The 
 commonwealth were in an ill condition, if only 
 Augustus were in the way betwixt you and the 
 government. You were cast the other day in a 
 cause, by one of your own freemen ; and do you 
 expect to find a weaker adversary of Cassar ? But 
 what if I were removed ? there is iEmilius Pau- 
 lus, Fabius Maximus, and twenty other families 
 of great blood and interest, that would never 
 bear it." To cut off" the story short, (for it was 
 a discourse of above two hours, and Augustu 
 lengthened the punishment in words, since he in- 
 tended that should be all). — " Well, Cinna/' 
 says he, " the life that I gave to you once as an 
 enemy, I will now repeat it to a traitor, and to 
 a parricide, and this shall be the last reproach I 
 will give you. For the time to come, there shall 
 be no other contention betwixt you and me, than 
 which shall outdo the other in point of friend- 
 ship/' After this Augustus made Cinna consul, 
 (an honour which he confessed he durst not so 
 much as desire,) and Cinna was ever affection- 
 
Seneca's morals. 421 
 
 And moderation lo his enemies. 
 
 ately faithful to him : he made Caesar his sole 
 heir; and this was the last conspiracy that ever 
 was formed against him. 
 
 The moderation of Augustus was the excel- 
 lency of his mature age ', for in his youth he was 
 passionate and sudden, and he did many things 
 which afterward he looked back upon with trou- 
 ble. After the battle of Actium, so manv na- 
 vies broken in Sicily, both Roman and strangers; 
 the Perusian altars, (where 300 lives were 
 sacrificed to the ghost of Julius,) his frequent 
 proscriptions, and other severities ; his temper- 
 ance at last seemed to be little more than a 
 weary cruelty. If he had not forgiven those that 
 he conquered, whom should he have governed? 
 He chose his very life-guard from among his 
 enemies, and the flower of the Romans owed 
 their lives to his clemency. Nay, he only pu- 
 nished Lepidus himself with banishment, and per- 
 mitted him to wear the ensigns of his dignity, 
 -without taking the pontificate to himself, so long 
 -as Lepidus was living ; for he would not possess 
 it as a spoil, but as an honour. This clemency 
 it was that secured him in his greatness, and in- 
 gratiated hirn to the people, though he laid his 
 hand upon the government before they had tho- 
 roughly submitted to the yoke; and this clemency 
 it was, that has made his name famous to pos- 
 terity. This is it, that makes us reckon him di- 
 
 50 
 
422 sexeca's morals. 
 
 Arius's son examined. 
 
 vine, without the authority of an apotheosis. He 
 was so tender and patient, that though many a 
 bitter jest was broken upon him (and contumelies 
 upon princes are the most intolerable of all in- 
 juries), yet he never punished any man upon 
 that subject.— It is then generous to be merciful, 
 when we have it in our power to take revenge. 
 
 A son of Titus Arius being examined, and 
 found guilty of parricide, was banished Rome, 
 and confined to Marseilles, where his father al- 
 lowed him the same annuity that he had before ; 
 which made all people conclude him guilty, when 
 they saw that his father had yet condemned the 
 son that he could not hate. Augustus was pleased 
 to sit upon the fact, in the house of Arius, only 
 as a single member of the council, that was to 
 examine it : if it had been in Caesar's palace, the 
 judgment must have been Caesar's, and not the 
 father's. Upon a full hearing of the matter, 
 Caesar directed that every man should write his 
 opinion, wheiher guilty or not, and without de- 
 claring his own, for fear of a partial vote. Before 
 the opening of the books, Caesar passed an oath, 
 that he would not be Arius's heir : and, to shew 
 that he had no interest in his sentence, as ap- 
 peared afterward, for he was not condemned to 
 the ordinary punishment of parricides, nor to a 
 prison, but, by the mediation of Caesar, only ba- 
 nished Rome, and confined to the place which 
 
seneca's morals. 423 
 
 Instance of a merciful judgment. 
 
 his father should name : Augustus insisting upon 
 it, that the father should content himself with ah 
 easy punishment; and arguing, that the young 
 man was not moved to the attempt by malice, 
 and that he was but half resolved in the fact, for 
 he wavered in it, and therefore to remove him 
 from the city, and from his father's sight, would 
 be sufficient. This is a glorious mercy, and wor- 
 thy of a prince, to make all things gentler where- 
 ever he comes. How miserable is that man in 
 himself, who, when he has employed his power 
 in rapine and cruelty upon others, is yet more 
 unhappy in himself? He stands in fear both of 
 his domestics and of strangers, the faU4i of his 
 f Fiends and the piety of his children, and flies to 
 actual violence to secure him from the violence 
 he fears. When he comes to look about him, and 
 to consider what he has done, what he must, 
 and what he is about to do, what with the wick- 
 edness and with the torments of his conscience, 
 many times he fears death, oftener he wishes for 
 it, and lives more odious to himself than to his 
 subjects : whereas, on the contrary, he that 
 takes a care of the public, though of one part 
 more perhaps than another, yet there is not any 
 part of it, but he looks upon as a part of himself. 
 His mind is tender and gentle, and even where 
 punishment is necessary and profitable, he comes 
 
 202 
 
fg* seneca's morais, 
 
 Clemencv is a royal virtue. 
 
 to it unwillingly, and without any rancour or en- 
 mity in his heart. Let the authority, in fine, be 
 what it will, clemency becomes it, and the greater 
 the power, the greater is the glory of it. It is a 
 truly royal virtue, for a prince to deliver hii 
 people from other men's anger, and not to op* 
 press them with his own. 
 
seneca's morals. 425 
 
 Orators should begin witli temper. 
 
 EPISTLES. 
 
 CERTAIN GENERAL DIRECTIONS FOR THE 
 GOVERNMENT OF THE VOICE. 
 
 JL OU say well, that in speaking, the very or- 
 dering of the voice (to say nothing of the actions, 
 countenances, and other circumstances that ac- 
 company it), is a consideration worthy of a wise 
 man. There are, that prescribe certain modes 
 ©f rising and falling: nay, if you will be governed 
 by them, you shall not speak a word, move a 
 step, or eat a bit, but by rule; and these perhaps 
 are too critical. Do not understand me yet, as 
 if I made no difference betwixt entering upon a 
 discourse loud or soft, for the affections do not 
 naturally rise by degrees; and,, in all disputes, 
 or pleadings, whether public or private, a muiv 
 should properly begin with modesty and temper, 
 2o3 
 
426* seneca's morals. 
 
 A precipitate speech denotes emptiness. 
 
 and so advance by little and little, if need be, 
 into clamour and vociferation. And as the voice 
 rises by degrees, let it fall so too : not snapping 
 off upon a sudden, but abating, as upon modera- 
 tion; the other is unmannerly and rude. He 
 that has a precipitate speech, is commonly violent 
 in his manners : beside, that there is in it much 
 of vanity and emptiness ; and no man takes satis- 
 faction in a flux of words without choice, where 
 the noise is more than the value. Fabius was a 
 man eminent both for his life and learning, and 
 no less for his eloquence. His speech was rather 
 easy and sliding, than quick ; which he accounted 
 to be not only liable to many errors, but to a 
 suspicion 'of immodesty. Nay, let a man have 
 words ever so much at will, he will no more 
 speak fast than he will run, for fear his tongue 
 should go before his wit. The speech of a philo- 
 sopher should be like his life, composed, without 
 pressing, or stumbling;, which is fitter for a 
 mountebank, than a man of sobriety and busi- 
 ness. And then to drop one word after another, 
 is as bad on the other side : the interruption is 
 tedious, and tires out the auditor with expecta- 
 tion. Truth and morality should be delivered in 
 words plain, and without affectation; for, like 
 remedies, unless they stay with us, we are never 
 the better for them. He that would work upoa 
 his hearers, must no more expect to do it upon 
 the post, than a physician to cure his patients 
 
S«WBOJ^S MORALS. 4*27 
 
 A wanton effeininate speech bespeaks luxury. 
 
 only in passing by them. Not but that I would 
 have a wise man, in some cases, to raise himself, 
 and mend his pace, but still with a regard to the 
 dignity of his manners ; though there may be a 
 great force also in moderation. I would have his 
 discourse smooth, and flowing like a river; not 
 impetuous, like a torrent- There is a rapid, law- 
 less, and irrevocable velocity of speech, which I 
 would scarce allow, even to an orator; for if he 
 be transported with passion, or ostentation, a 
 maii's attention cam hardly keep him company. It 
 is not the quantity, but the pertinence, that does 
 the business. Let the words of an ancient man 
 flow soft and gentle; let those of an orator come 
 off round and powerful, but not run on without 
 fear, or wit, as if a whole declamation were to 
 be but one period. Cicero wrote with care, and 
 that which will for ever stand the test. All pub- 
 lic languages are according to the humour of the 
 age. A wantonness, and effeminacy of speech, 
 denotes luxury : for the wit follows the mind; if 
 the latter be sound, composed, temperate, and 
 grave, the wit is dry and sober too ; but if the 
 one be corrupted, the other is likewise unsound. 
 Do we not see when a man's mind is heavy, how 
 he creeps, and draws his legs after him ? A finical 
 temper is read in the very gestures and cloaths; 
 if a man be choleric and violent, it is also disco- 
 vered in hii motions. An angry man speaks 
 
428 seneca's morals. 
 
 Speedi is the index of the mind. 
 
 short and quick ; the speech of an effeminate man 
 is loose and melting. A quaint, and solicitous 
 way of speaking, is the sign of a weak mind ; but 
 a great man speaks with ease and freedom, and 
 with more assurance, though less care.. Speech 
 is the index of the mind : when you see a man 
 dress, and set his cloaths in print, you shall be 
 sure to find his words so too, and nothing in them 
 that is firm and weighty ; it does not become a 
 man to be delicate. As it is in drink, the tongue- 
 never trips until the mind be overborne ; so it i3 
 with speech, so long as the mind is whole and 
 sound, the speech is masculine and strong; but 
 if one fails, the other follows. 
 
 ©F STYLES, COMPOSITIONS, AND THE CHOICE 
 OF WORDS. 
 
 You cannot expect any certain and universal 
 rule, either for the style, or for the manner of 
 speaking, or writing, because they vary accord- 
 ing to usage mid occasion; so that we must 
 content ourselves with generals. Men write and 
 speak according to the humour of the age they 
 live in:, and there is also a correspondence be- 
 twixt the language and the life of particular per- 
 sons ; as one may give a near guess at a man by 
 his very gait, furniture, and cloaths. In the first 
 place, let the sense be honest and noble; not 
 pinched up in. sentences, but substantial,, and. of 
 
SENECA S MORALS. 4?3 
 
 Compositions should be mure forcible than llowery. 
 
 higher design, with nothing in it superfluous. Let * 
 the words be fitted to the matter ; and where the 
 subject is familiar, let the style be so too. But 
 great thoughts must have suitable expressions ; 
 and there ought to be a kind of transport in the 
 one, to answer it in the other. It is not enough 
 to compose a pleasant fable, and tickle the fancy; 
 but he that treats of weighty matters, must do it 
 in the grave and sober terms. There are somjr. 
 that have not so much of the vigour of an orator, 
 or of that sententious sharpness; and }et the 
 worthiness of the sense makes amends for ths 
 lowness of the style. Our forefathers were net 
 at all delighted with fine words and flowers: but 
 their compositions were strong, equal, and manly. 
 We have, nowadays, here and there a point; 
 but the work is uneven, where only this, or that 
 particular is remarkable. We never admire this, 
 or that single tree, where the whole wood is all 
 of a height. A specious title-page may commend 
 a book to sale, but not for use. An eminent 
 author is to be taken down whole, and not here 
 and there a bit. It is a maiming of the body to 
 take the members of it apart : nor is it a hand- 
 some leg, or arm, that makes a handsome man ; 
 but the symmetry and agreement of all together. 
 It is the excellency of speaking and writing, to 
 do it close, and in words accommodate to the 
 intention ; and i would yet have somewhat more 
 
430 seneca's morals. 
 
 ^^ ■ ■ ' ' ' ' ! «* 
 
 Of propriety and harmony in word?. 
 
 to be signified than is delivered : it being also a 
 mark of strength and solidity of judgment. The 
 propriety of words, in some eases, is wonderful; 
 especially when we are well read in the know- 
 \ : ledge of things, and of duties, and there is a sin- 
 gular grace in the gentleness of numbers, when 
 they run smooth, and without perturbation. Some 
 are raised and startled at words, as a horse is at 
 a drum ; and indue the very passion of the 
 speaker. Others are moved with the beauty of 
 things ; and when they hear any thing bravely 
 urged against death, or fortune, they do secretly 
 wish for some occasion of experimenting that ge- 
 nerosity in themselves. But not one of a thou- 
 sand of them, that carries the resolution home 
 /with him, that he had conceived. It is an easy 
 matter to excite an auditory to the love of good- 
 ness, having already the foundation and the 
 seeds of virtue within themselves: so that it is 
 but awakening the consideration of it, where all 
 men are agreed beforehand upon the main. Who 
 is so sordid, as not to be roused at such a 
 speech as this ? — The poor man wants many 
 things, but the covetous man wants all. Can 
 any flesh forbear being delighted with this saying, 
 \ though a satire against his own vice ? As to 
 / forced metaphors, and wild hyperboles, I would 
 leave them to the poets. And I am utterly 
 against fooling with tinkling conceits and sounds ; 
 
seneca's morals. 431 
 
 Discourses >hould be clear and powerful. 
 
 not that I would wholly forbid the use of hyper- 
 boles, which, although they exceed the truth, 
 may yet be a means, by things incredible, to 
 bring us unto things credible. And there may 
 be great use made also of parables : for the way 
 of application does usually more affect the mind, 
 than the downright meaning. That speech which 
 gains upon the passions, is much more profitable 
 than that which only works upon the judgment^ 
 Chrysippus was a great man, and of an acute 
 wit, but the edge of it was so fine, that every 
 thing turned it ; and he might be said, in truth, 
 rather to prick the subject that he handled, than 
 to pierce it through. 
 
 As it is not for the honour of a philosopher to 
 be solicitous about words, I would not have him 
 negligent either: but let him speak with assur- 
 ance, and without affectation. If we can, let our 
 discourses be powerful ; but, however, let them 
 be clear. I like a composition that is nervous 
 and strong; but yet I would have it sweet and 
 gracious withal. There are many things, I know, 
 that please well enough in the delivery, and yet 
 will hardly abide the test of an examination^ 
 But that eloquence is mischievous, that diverts a 
 man from things to words, and Utile better than 
 a prostitution of letters. For what signifies the 
 pomp of words, or the jumbling of syllables, to 
 the making up of a wise man ? Tully's composi^ 
 
4-32 seneca's morals. 
 
 T — — — iii ■ ' ill* 
 
 Several subject* mjune several excellencies. 
 
 K -i — "- - ■ ~ ' » 
 
 tion indeed is equal, his numbers are harmonious* 
 free, and gentle, and yet he takes care not to 
 make any forfeiture of his gravity. Fabian is a 
 great man, in being second to Cicero: Pollio is 
 a great man too,though a step below him; and so 
 is Livy likewise, though he comes after the other 
 three. But several subjects require several ex- 
 cellencies. An orator should be sharp, the tra- 
 gedian great, and the comedian pleasant. When 
 a man declaims against vice, let him be bitter; 
 against danger, bold ; against fortune, proud ; 
 against ambition, reproachful : let him chide 
 luxury, defame lust; an impotency of mind must 
 be broken. Jn these cases, words are the least 
 part of an honest man's business. 
 
 In the matter of composition, I would write as 
 I speak, with ease and freedom ; for it is more 
 friendly, as well as more natural : and so much 
 my inclination, that if 1 could make my mind 
 "visible to you, I would neither speak nor write it. 
 If I put my thoughts in good sense, the matter of 
 ornament 1 shall leave to the orators. There are 
 some things that a man may write, even as he 
 travels; others, that require privacy and leisure. 
 But, however, it is good in writing, as in other 
 cases, to leave the best bit for the last. A j.Lilo- 
 lopher has no more to do than to speak properly, 
 and in wcads that expiess his meaning. Aud this 
 may be done without tossing of the hands, stamp* 
 
seneca's morals. 433 
 
 Particular authors only io,\>e read. 
 
 log, or any violent agitation of the body ; with- 
 out either the vanity of the theatre, on the one_ 
 hand, or an insipid heaviness on the other. I \ 
 would have his speech as plain and simple as his 
 life ; for he is then as good as his word, when 
 both hearing him, and seeing him, we find him 
 to be the same person. And yet, if a man can 
 be eloquent, without more pains than the thing 
 is worth, let him use his faculty : provided that 
 he value himself upon the matter, more than 
 upon the words ; and apply himself rather to the 
 understanding, than to the fancy ; for this is a 
 business of virtue, not a trial of wit. Who is 
 there that would not rather have a healing, than 
 a rhetorical physician? but for esteeming any 
 man purely upon the score of his rhetoric, I 
 would as soon chuse a pilot for a good head of 
 
 hair. 
 
 In the matter of reading, I would fix upon 
 some particular authors, and make them my own. 
 He that is every where, is no where ; but, like a 
 man that spends his life in travel, he has many 
 hosts but few friends. Which is the very condi- 
 tion of him that skips from one book to another : 
 the variety does but distract his head, and for 
 want of digesting, it turns to corruption instead 
 of nourishment. It is a good argument of a well 
 composed mind, when a man loves home, and to 
 
 2 P 
 
434. seneca's morals. 
 
 M ike choice of the best authors. 
 
 keep company with himself: whereas a rambling 
 head is a certain sign of a sickly humour. Many 
 books, and many acquaintances, bring a man to 
 a levity of disposition, and a liking of change. 
 "What is the body the better for meat, that will 
 not stay with it ? nor is there any thing more 
 hurtful in the case of diseases, or wounds, than 
 the frequent shifting of physic, or plaisters. Of 
 authors, be sure to make choice of the best ; and 
 (as I said before) to stick close to them ; and 
 though you take up others by the by, reserve 
 some select ones, however, for your study and 
 retreat. In your reading, you will every day 
 meet with consolation and support against po- 
 verty, death, and other calamities, incident to 
 human life : extract what you like, and then sin- 
 gle some particular from the rest, for that day's 
 meditation. Reading does not only feed and en- 
 tertain the understanding, but when a man is 
 dosed with one study, he relieves himself with 
 another; but still reading and writing are to be 
 taken up by turns. So long as the meat lies 
 whole upon the stomach it is a burden to us, but 
 upon the concoction, it passes into strength and 
 blood. And so it fares with our studies, so long 
 as they lie whole, they pass into the memory, 
 without affecting the understanding; but, upon 
 meditation, they become our own, and supply us 
 
seneca's morals. 4-35 
 
 Whereso v-r the <= '' ' «"«'» "O^d, so i« the mnvl. 
 
 with strength and virtue : the bee, that wanders 
 and sips from every flower, disposes what she has 
 gathered into her cells. 
 
 AGAINST ALL SORTS OF AFFECTATION IN 
 DISCOURSE. 
 
 There are many men, and some of great sense* s 
 too, that lose both the profit and the reputation 
 of good thoughts, by the uncouth manner of ex- 
 pressing them. They love to talk in mystery, 
 and take it for a mark of wisdom not to be under- 
 stood. They are so fond of making themselves 
 public, that they will rather be ridiculous, than 
 not taken notice of. When the mind grows 
 squeamish, and comes to a loathing of things 
 that are common, as if they were sordid, that 
 sickness betrays itself in our way of speaking too: 
 for we must have new words, new competitions, 
 and it passes for an ornament to borrow from 
 other tongues, where we may be better furnished 
 in our own. One man prizes himself upon being 
 concise, and talking in parables ; another runs 
 himself out in words, and that which he takes 
 only for copious, renders him to others both ri- 
 diculous and tedious. Others there are, that 
 like the error well enough, but cannpt come u\> 
 to it. Bat, take this for a rule — wheresoever 
 the speech is corrupted, so is the mind. Some, / 
 aire only for words antiquated, and long since out 
 Op2 
 
4<36 seneca's morals. 
 
 S >me studies are matter of curiosity: 
 
 of date; others only for that which is popular 
 and coarse; and they are both in the wrong, for 
 the one takes too little care, and the other too 
 much. Some are for a rough broken style, as if 
 it were a thing unmanly to please the ear ; others 
 are too nice upon the matter of number, and 
 make it rather singing than speaking. Some af- 
 fect not to be understood until the end of the 
 period, and hardly then either. It is not good, 
 a style that is either too bold, or too florid; the 
 one wants modesty, and the other effect. Some 
 are too starched and formal; others take a pride in 
 being rugged, and if they chance to let fall any 
 thing that is smooth, they will transpose and 
 mangle it on purpose, only to maim the period, 
 and disappoint a body's expectation. These er- 
 rors are commonly introduced by some person 
 that is famous for his eloquence ; others follow 
 him, and so it passes into a fashion. And we are 
 as much out in the choice of the matter as in that 
 of our words. 
 
 There are some studies which are only matter 
 of curiosity, and trials of skill; others of plea- 
 sure, and of use : but still there are many things 
 worth the knowing, perhaps, that were not worth 
 the learning. It is a huge deal of time that is 
 spent in cavilling about words and captious dis- 
 putations, that work us up to an edge, and then 
 nothing comes of it. There are some tricks of 
 
sevf.ca's morals, 437 
 
 ■n i'ty " i» . ub'ion. 
 
 wit, like slight of band, which amount to no 
 more than the tving of knots Only to loosen then? 
 again; and it is the very fallacy that pleases us, 
 for, so soon as ever we know how they are done, 
 the satisfaction is at an end. He that does not 
 understand these sophisms, is never the worse ; 
 and he that does, is never the better. If a man 
 tells me that I have horns, I can tell him again 
 that I have none, without feeling on my forehead. 
 Bion's dilemma makes all men to be sacrilegious, 
 and yet at the same time maintains, that there is 
 no such thing as sacrilege, " He that takes to 
 himself,'' says he, " what belongs to God, com- 
 mits sacrilege ; but all things belong to God, 
 therefore, he that applies any thing to his own 
 use, is sacrilegious/' On the other side, the 
 verv rifling of a temple he makes to be no sacri- 
 lege — " Fo r it is," says he, " but the taking of 
 something out of one place that belongs to God, 
 and removing it to another that belongs to him 
 too." The fallacy lies in this, that though all 
 things belong to him, all things are not yet dedi- 
 cated to him. There is no greater enemy of 
 truth, than overmuch subulty of speculation, 
 Protagoras will have every thing disputable, and 
 as much to be said for the one side, as for the 
 other. Nav, he makes it another question— 
 whether every thing be disputable or no ? There 
 are others that make it a science, to prove, that 
 2 P3 
 
43S senega's morals. 
 
 Tutors often in faulf. 
 
 man knows nothing: but the former is the more 
 tolerable error ; for the one takes away the very- 
 hope of knowledge ; and it is better to know that 
 which is superfluous, than nothing at all. And 
 yet it is a kind of intemperance to desire to know 
 mere than enough ; for it makes men trouble- 
 some, talkative, impertinent, conceited, &c 
 There-: is a certain hankering after learning, which 
 if it be not put into a right way, hinders, and 
 falls foul upon itself. Wherefore the burden must^ 
 be fitted to the shoulders, and no more than we 
 are able to bear. It is, in a great measure, the 
 fault of our tutors, that teach their disciples ra- 
 ther how to dispute than how to live: and the 
 learner himself is also to blame, for applying 
 himseli to the improvement rather of his wit than 
 of Ins mmd, by which means philosophy is now 
 turned to philology. Put a gmmroarian to a 
 Vngii, he never heeds the philosophy, but the 
 verse : every man takes notes for his own study. 
 In the same meadow the cow finds grass, the dog 
 starts a hare, and the stork snaps a lizzard. Tol- 
 ly's De Republica finds work both for the philo- 
 sopher- the philologer, and the grammarian. The 
 philosopher wonders how it was possible to speak 
 so much against jurliee. The phiioioger makes 
 this observation, that Home had two kings : the 
 one without a father, and the other without a 
 mother ; for it is a question, who was Servius's 
 
senf.ca's MO HALS. 439 
 
 Man 3 things to be Studied and learned. 
 
 mother, and of Ancus's father there is not so 
 much as any mention. The grammarian takes 
 notice that reapse is used for reipsa, and sepse 
 for seipse. And so even* man makes his notes 
 for his own purpose. These fooleries apart, let 
 us learn to do good to mankind, and to put our 
 knowledge into action. Our danger is" the being 
 mistaken in things, not in words; and in the con- 
 founding of o;ood and evil. So that our whole 
 life is but one continued error, and we live in de- 
 pendency upon to-morrow. There are a world 
 of things to be studied and learned, and there- 
 fore we should discharge the mind of things un- 
 necessary, to make way for greater matters. The 
 business of the schools is rather a play than a 
 study, and only to be done when we can do no- 
 thing else. There are many people that frequent 
 them only to hear, and not to learn; and they 
 take notes too, not to reform their manners, but 
 to pick up words, which they vent with as little 
 benefit to others as they heard them to them- 
 selves. It costs us a great deal of time, and 
 ether men's ears a great deal of trouble, to pur- 
 chase the character of a learned man ; wherefore 
 J shall even content myself with the coarser title 
 of an honest man. The worst of it is, that there 
 is a vain and idle pleasure in it, which tempts us 
 to squander away many a precious hour to very 
 little purpose. We spend ourselves upon subtil- 
 
440 &ENECA S MORALS. 
 
 Wisdom delights in openness and simplicity. 
 
 ties, winch may, perchance, make us to be 
 thought learned, but not good. Wisdom delights 
 in openness and simplicity ; in the forming of our 
 lives rather than in the niceties of the schools, 
 which, at best, do but bring us pleasure without 
 profit. And, in short, the things which the phi- 
 losophers impose upon us with so much pride and 
 vanity, are little more than the same lessons over 
 again, which they learned at school. But some 
 authors have their names up, though their dis- 
 courses be mean enough ; they dispute and wran- 
 gle, but they do not edify, any farther than as 
 they keep us from ill doing, or, perhaps, stop us 
 in our speed to wickedness. And there ought to 
 be a difference betwixt the applauses of the 
 schools, and of the theatres; the one being 
 moved with every popular conceit, which does 
 not at all consist with the dignity of the other. 
 Whereas th^re are some writings that stir up some 
 generous resolutions, and ao, as it were, inspire 
 a man with a new soul. They dsplay the bless- 
 ings of a happy life, and possess me at the same 
 time with admiration and with hope. They give 
 me a veneration for the oracles of antiquit}', and 
 a claim to them, as to a common inheritance ; 
 for they are the treasure of mankind, and it must 
 be my duty to improve the stock, and transmit it 
 to posterity. And yet I do not love to hear a 
 man cite Zeno, Cleauthes, Epicurus, without 
 
senega's morals. 441 
 
 Man's business is virtue, not words. 
 
 something of his own too. "What do I care for 
 the bare hearing of that which I may read ? Not 
 but that word of mouth makes a great impression, 
 especially when they are the speaker's own words : 
 but he that only recites another man's words, is^ 
 no more to me than a notary. Beside that, there 
 is an end of invention, if we rest upon what is in- 
 vented already ; and he that only follows another, 
 is so far from finding out any thing new, that 
 he does not so much as look for it. 1 do not pre- 
 tend all this while to be the master of truth, but 
 I am yet a most obstinate inquisitor after it. I 
 am no man's slave, but as I ascribe much to 
 great men, I challenge something to myself. Our 
 forefathers have left us not only their invention, 
 but matter also for farther enquiry, and perhaps 
 
 • thev might have found out more things that are 
 necessary, if they hud not bent their thoughts too 
 much upon superfluities. 
 
 Is not this a tine time for us to be fiddling and 
 
 fooling about words? How many useful and ne- 
 
 . cessary things are there, that we are first to learn, 
 
 : and, secondly, to imprint in our minds r For it 
 
 i is not enough to remember^ and to understand, 
 
 • unless we do what -we know. 
 
442 seneca's morals. 
 
 We should look lo ourselves, not others. 
 
 BUSINESS, AND WANT OF NEWS, ARE NO 
 
 EXCUSE AMONG FRIENDS FOR NOT 
 
 WRITING. 
 
 Your last letter was very short, and the whole 
 letter itself was little more than an excuse for 
 the shortness of it. One while you are so full of 
 business that you cannot write at all, and an- 
 other while you have so little news that you do 
 not know what to write. Now, assure yourself, 
 that whosoever has a mind to write may find 
 leisure for it : and for }'our other pretence, it looks 
 as if we ourselves were the least part of our own 
 business. Put the case, that the whole world were 
 becalmed, and that there were neither wars, 
 amours, factions, designs, disappointments, compe- 
 titors, or law-suits ; no prodigals, usurers, or forni- 
 cators in nature, there would be a large field yet 
 left for the offices of friendship, and for the ex- 
 ercise of philosophy and virtue. Let us rather 
 consider what we ourselves ought to do y than 
 hearken after the doings of other people. What 
 signifies the story of our neighbour's errors, to 
 the reforming of our own ? Is it not a more glo- 
 rious and profitable employment, to write the 
 history of Providence, than to record the usurpa- 
 tion of ambitious princes ; and rather to celebrate 
 the bounties of the Almighty, than the robberies 
 
senf.ca's morals. - 443 
 
 Abseni fri nd are by letieis brought togeth r. 
 
 of Alexander? Nor is business any excuse for 
 the neglect either of our studies, or of our friends. 
 First, we continue our own business, and then 
 we increase it ; and instead of lending, we do 
 wholly give ourselves up to it, and hunt for co- 
 lourable pretences of mis-spending our time. But 
 I say, that wherever we are, or with whomsoever, 
 or howsoever employed, we have our thoughts at 
 liberty. 
 
 You have here drawn a long letter from me, 
 and if you find it tedious, you may thank yourself 
 for calling upon me to be as good as my word. 
 Not but that 1 write by inclination too. For if 
 we love the pictures of our friends, by what hand 
 soever they may be drawn, how much more then 
 shall we joy in a friend's letter, which are un- 
 doubtedly the most lively pictures of one an- 
 other ? It is a shame, you will say, to stand in 
 need of any remembrancers of an absent friend, 
 and yet sometimes the place, a servant, a rela- 
 tion, a house, a garment, may honestly excite 
 the memory; and it renders every thing as fresh 
 to us, as if we were still joined in our embraces, 
 and drinking up one another's tears. It is by the 
 benefit of letters, that absent friends are in a 
 manner brought together; beside that, epistolary 
 discourses are much more profitable than public 
 and premeditated declamations. For they insi- 
 nuate themselves into the affections with more 
 
444 Seneca's morals. 
 
 Of dufmus Sex. ins 
 
 freedom and effect, though with less pomp and pre- 
 tence. You do expect, perhaps, that I should tell 
 you how gentle and short a winter we have had ; 
 how cold and unseasonable a spring, or some 
 other fooleries, to as little purpose. But, what 
 are you and I the better for such discourses? We 
 should rather be laying the foundations of a good 
 mind ; and learning to distinguish betwixt the 
 blessings of virtue and the amusements of imagi- 
 nation. There came in some friends to me yes- 
 terday, that made the chimney smoke a little 
 more than ordinary, but not at a rate to make 
 the neighbourhood cry out tire. We had a va- 
 riety of discourse ; and passing from one thing to 
 another, we came at last to read something of 
 Quintus Sextius, (a great man, upon my credit, 
 deny it that will); Good God! the force and 
 vigour of that man's writings ! and how much are 
 they above the common level of other philoso- 
 phers ! 1 cannot read them, methinks, without 
 challenging of fortune, and defying all the powers 
 of ambition and violence. The more I consider 
 him, the more I admire him, for 1 find in him 
 (as in the world itself), every day to be a new 
 spectacle, and to afford fresh matter still for more 
 veneration. And yet the wisdom of our fore- 
 fathers has left work enough for their posterity, 
 even if there were no more in it than the applica- 
 tion of what they have transmitted to us of their 
 
sbnsca's morals. 44 5 
 
 No man is so wise as to know all iliinsjs 
 
 own invention. As, suppose, that they had left 
 us remedies for such and such diseases, so cer- 
 tain, that we should not need to look for any 
 other medicines ; there would be some skill yet 
 required in the applying of them in the proper 
 case, proportion, and season. I have an honour 
 for the memorials of our worthy progenitors. . If 
 I meet a consul, or a praetor, upon the road, I 
 will alight from my horse, uncover my head, and 
 give him the way; and shall I have no venera- 
 tion now for the names of the governors of man- 
 kind ? No man is so wise as to know all things; 
 or, if he did, one wise man may yet be helpful 
 to another, in finding out a nearer way to the 
 finishing of his work : for, let a man make ever 
 so much haste, it is some sort of assistance, the 
 bare encouraging of him to continue his course, 
 beside the comforts and benefits of communica- 
 tion in loving and being beloved, and in the mu- 
 tual approbation of each other. 
 
 The last point, you know, that you and I had 
 in debate, was — whether or no wisdom may be 
 perfected by precept. There are some, that ac- 
 count only that part of philosophy to be profitable 
 to mankind, which delivers itself in particular 
 precepts to particular persons, without forming 
 the whole man : teaching the husband (for the 
 purpose) how to behave himself to his wife, the 
 fatty* how to train up and discipline his children, 
 
 2Q 
 
446 senega's morals. 
 
 Preceptive philosophy. 
 
 and the master how to govern his servants. As 
 if any man could be sufficiently instructed in the 
 parts of life, without comprehending the whole 
 gum and scope of it. Others (as Aristo, the 
 Stoic) are rather for the general decrees of philo- 
 sophers; which whosoever knows in the main, 
 that person understands, in every particular, how 
 to tutor himself. As he that learns to cast a dart, 
 when he has by practice and exercise gotten a 
 true aim, he will not only strike this or that 
 mark, but whatever he has a mind to: so he that 
 is well informed in the whole, will need no direc- 
 tion in the parts, but, under the principles of a 
 good life, learn how to behave himself in all the 
 circumstances of it. Cleanthes allows the Para> 
 netic, or preceptive philosophy, to be in some 
 sort proritable, but yet very short and defective, 
 unless as it flows from the universal understand- 
 ing of the heads and decrees of philosophy. Now 
 the question is — whether this alone can make a 
 good man, and whether it be superfluous itself, 
 or so sufficient as to make all other knowledge 
 appear so. They that will have it superfluous, 
 argue thus: — If the eyes be covered, there is no 
 seeing without removing the impediment, and in 
 that condition it is to no purpose to bid a man go 
 to such or such a place, or to reach this or that 
 with his hand. And so it fares with the mind, 
 so long as that continues clouded with ignorance 
 
seneca's morals. 447 
 
 VS'e should £ive iejs«.ns lor our advi:e. 
 
 and error, it is idle to give particular precepts ; 
 as if you should teach a poor man to act the part 
 of a rich, or one that is hungry how to behave 
 himself with a full stomach ; while the one is ne- 
 cessitous, and the other half-starved, they are 
 neither of them the better for it. And then, 
 shall we give precepts in manifest cases, or in 
 doubtful ? the former need none, and in the latter 
 we shall not be believed. Nor is it enough sim- 
 ply to advise, unless we also give reasons for it. 
 There are two errors which we are liable to in 
 this case, either the wickedness of perverse opi- 
 nions, which have taken possession of us ; or at 
 least a disposition to entertain error, under any 
 resemblance of truth. So that our work must 
 be, either to cure a sick mind, that is already 
 tainted ; or to prepossess an evil inclination, be- 
 fore it comes to an ill habit. Now, the decrees of 
 philosophy enable us in both these cases : nor is 
 it possible, by particulars, to obviate all particu- 
 lar occasions. One man marries a widow, an- 
 other a maid, she may be rich or poor, barren 
 or fruitful, young or ancient, superior, -inferior, 
 or equal. One man follows public business, an- 
 other flies it ; so that the same advice that is 
 profitable to the one, may be mischievous to the 
 other. Everv one's is a particular case, and must 
 be suited with a particular counsel. The laws of 
 philosophy are brief, and extend to all; hut the 
 
 2q2 
 
44S st.veca's morals. 
 
 How far wisdom may be advanced by precept. 
 
 variety of ihe other is incomprehensible, and caa 
 never make that good to all, which it promises to 
 a few. The precepts of wisdom lie open, but the 
 degrees of it are hidden in the dark. 
 
 Now, in answer, it does not hold with the 
 mind as with the eye : if there be a suffusion, it 
 is to be helped by remedy, and not by precept. 
 The eye is not be taught to distinguish colours, 
 but the mind must be informed what to do in life. 
 And yet the physician will prescribe order also to 
 the patient, as well as physic, and tell him — You 
 must bring your eye to endure the light by de- 
 grees; have a care of studying upon a full sto- 
 mach, &c. We are told, that precepts do 
 neither extinguish nor abate false opinions in us, 
 of good or evil ; and it shall be granted, that of 
 themselves they are not able to subdue vicious 
 inclinations ; but this does not hinder them from 
 being very useful to us, in conjunction with other 
 helps. First, as they refresh the memory ; and, 
 secondly, as they bring us to a more distant view 
 of the parts, which we saw but confusedly in the 
 whole. At the same rate, consolatories and ex- 
 hortations will be found superfluous, as well as 
 precepts ; which yet, upon daily experience, we 
 know to be otherwise. Nay, we are the better, 
 not only for the precepts, but for the converse of 
 philosophers; for we still carry away somewhat 
 of the tincture of virtue, whether we will or no : 
 
sen^eca's morals. 449 
 
 Advice depend- nvich upon opportunity. 
 
 but the deepest impression they make is upon 
 children. It is urged, that precepts are insuffi- 
 cient without proof; but, I say, that the very 
 authority of the adviser goes a great way in the 
 credit of the advice ; as we depend upon the opi- 
 nion of the lawyer, without demanding his rea- 
 son for it. And again, whereas the variety of 
 precepts is said to be infinite, I cannot allow it. 
 For the greatest and most necessary affairs are 
 not many; and for the application to time, places, 
 and persons, the differences are so small, that a 
 few general rules will serve the turn. Nay, let a 
 man be ever so right in his opinion, he may be 
 yet confirmed in it by admonition. There are 
 many things that may assist a cure, though they 
 do not perfect it; even madmen themselves may 
 be kept in awe by menaces and correction. But 
 it is a hard matter, I must confess, to give coun- 
 sel at a distance. For advice depends much upon 
 the opportunity; and that perhaps which was 
 proper when it was desired, may come to be per- 
 nicious before it be received. Some indeed may 
 be prescribed, as some remedies, at any distance, 
 and transmitted to posterity ; but for others, a 
 man must be upon the place, and deliberate upon 
 circumstances, and be not only present, but watch- 
 ful, to strike in with the very nick of the occasion. 
 
 2 q3 
 
450 seneca's morals. 
 
 We are all wicked before we come 10 be good. 
 
 SENECA GIVES AN ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 
 
 Your letters were old before they came to my 
 hands, so that I made no enquiry of the messen- 
 ger what you were a doing ; besides that, where- 
 ever you are, I take it for granted, that I know 
 your business, and that you are still upon the 
 great work of perfecting yourself: a thing not to 
 be done by chance, but by industry and labour. 
 We are all of us wicked, before we come to be 
 good. We are prepossessed, so that we must un- 
 learn iniquity, and study virtue. The great dif- 
 ficulty is to begin the enterprize: for a weak 
 mind is afraid of new experiments. I have now 
 given over troubling myself for fear of you, be- 
 cause I have that security for your well-deirig, 
 that never failed any man. The love of truth 
 and of goodness is become habitual to you. It 
 may so fall out, that fortune perhaps may do you 
 an injury ; but there is no fear of your doing your- 
 self one. Go on as you have begun, and com- 
 pose your resolutions, not to an effeminate ease, 
 but to a frame of virtuous quiet. It is a double 
 kindness that vou call me to so strict an account 
 
 if 
 
 of my time, that nothing less than a diary of my 
 life will satisfy you: for I take it as a mark, both 
 of your good opinion and of your friendship ; the 
 former, in believing that I do nothing which I 
 
SEVF.Ca's M0P.A1.S. 451 
 
 Ti;e errors it antiquity. 
 
 care to conceal ; and the other, in assuring your- 
 self that I will make you the confident of all my 
 secrets. I will hereafter set a watch upon my- 
 self, and do as you would have me ; and acquaint 
 you, not only with the course and method, but 
 with the very business of my life. 
 
 This day I have had entire to myself, without 
 any knocking at my door, or lifting up of the 
 hanging ; but 1 have divided it betwixt my book 
 and my bed, and been left at liberty to do my 
 own business: for all the impertinents were either 
 at the theatre, at bowls, or at the horse match. 
 My bodv does not require much exercise, and I 
 am beholden to mv age for it: a little makes me 
 weary, and that, is the end also of that which is 
 most robust. My dinner is a piece of dry bread, 
 without a table, and without fouling my fingers. 
 My sleeps are short, and in truth a little doubt- 
 ful, betwixt slumbering and waking. One while 
 I am reflecting upon the errors of antiquity, and 
 then 1 apply myself to the correcting of my own. 
 In my reading, with reverence to the ancients, 
 some things I take, others I alter; and some 
 again I reject, others 1 invent ; without enthrall- 
 ing myself so to another's judgment, as not to 
 preserve the freedom of my own. Sometimes of 
 a sudden, in the middle of my meditations, my 
 ears are struck with a shout of a thousand people 
 together, from some spectacle or other; the 
 
452 seneca's morals. 
 
 Reflections 
 
 noise does not at all discompose my thoughts ; it is 
 no more to me than the dashing of waves, or the 
 wind in a wood ; but possibly sometimes it may 
 ,divert them. Good Lord (think I), if men 
 would but exercise their brains as they do their 
 bodies, and take as much pains for virtue as 
 they do for pleasure ! For difficulties strengthen 
 the mind, as well as labour does the body. 
 
 You tell me, that you want my books more 
 than nry counsels; which I take just as kindly as 
 if you should have asked me for my picture. For 
 I have the very same opinion of my wit, that I 
 have of my beauty. You shall have both the 
 one, and the other, with my very self into the 
 bargain. 
 
 in the examination of my own heart, I find 
 some vices that lie open ; others more obscure, 
 and out of sight; and some that take me only by 
 fits. Which last I look upon as the most dan- 
 gerous and troublesome, for they lie upon the 
 catch, and keep a man upon a perpetual guard; 
 being neither provided against them, as in a state 
 of war; nor secure, as in any assurance of peace. 
 To say the truth, we are all of us as cruel as am- 
 bitious, and as luxurious as our fellows. But we 
 want the fortune, or the occasion, perchance, to 
 shew it. When the snake is frozen it is safe, but 
 the poison is still in it, though it be numbed. 
 W r e hate upstarts, that use their power with in- 
 
sxtjeca's morals. 453 
 
 o.i il-e errors of human life. 
 
 solence ; when yet, if we had the same means, it 
 is odds that we should do the same thing our- 
 selves. Only our corruptions are private, for 
 want of opportunity to employ them. Some 
 things we look upon as superfluous, and others 
 as not worth the while. But we never consider, 
 that we pay dearest for that which we pretend to 
 receive gratis: as anxiety, loss of credit, liberty, 
 and time. So cheap is every man in effect, that 
 pretends to be most dear to himself. Some are 
 dipt in their lusts as in a river, there must be a 
 hand to help them out: others are strangely 
 careless of good counsel, and yet well enough 
 disposed to follow example. Some again must 
 be forced to their duties, because there is no 
 good to be done upon them by persuasion. But, 
 out of the whole race of mankind, how few are 
 there that are able to help themselves ? Being 
 thus conscious of our own frailty, we should do 
 well to keep ourselves quiet, and not to trust 
 weak minds with wine, beauty, or pleasure. We 
 have much ado, you see, to keep our feet upon 
 dry ground : what will become of us then, if we 
 venture ourselves where it is slippery ? It is not 
 to sa y_ this is a hard lesson, and we cannot go 
 through with it. For we can, if we would en- 
 deavour it; but we cannot, because we give it 
 for granted that we cannot, without trying whe- 
 ther we can or no. And what is the meaning of 
 
454- senega's morals. 
 
 The author's haiotei 
 
 all this, but that we are pleased with our vice?, 
 and willing to be mastered by them ? so that we 
 had rather excuse, than cast them off. The true 
 reason is, we will not ; but the pretence is, that 
 we cannot. And we are not only under a neces- 
 sity of error, but the very love of it. 
 
 To give }'Ou now a brief of my own character, 
 I am none of those that take delight in tumults, 
 and in struggling with difficulties. I had rather 
 be quiet, than in arms: for I account it my duty 
 to bear up against ill fortune, but still without 
 chusing it. I am no friend to contention, espe- 
 cially to that of the bar; but I am very much a 
 servant to all honest business, that may be done 
 in a corner. And there is no retreat so unhappy 
 as not to yield entertainment for a great mind ; 
 by which a man may make himself profitable, 
 both to his country and to his friends, by his 
 wisdom, by his interest, and by his counsel. It 
 is the part of a good patriot to prefer men of 
 worth, to defend the innocent, to provide good 
 laws, and to advise in war and in peace. But, 
 is not he as good a patriot, that instructs youth 
 in virtue, that furnishes the world with precepts 
 of morality, and ke'eps human nature within the 
 bounds of right reason ? Who is the greater 
 man, he that pronounces a sentence upon the 
 bench, or he that in his study reads us a lecture 
 of justice, piety, patience, fortitude, the know- 
 
sexeca's morals. 453 
 
 Or'Catu. 
 
 ledge of heaven, the contempt of death, and the 
 blessing of a good conscience ? The soldier that 
 guards the ammunition and the baggage, is as 
 necessary as he that fights the battle. Was not 
 Cato a greater example than either Ulysses or 
 Hercules? they had the fame, you know, of 
 being indefatigable, despisers of pleasure, and 
 great conquerors, both of their enemies, and of 
 their appetites. But Cato, I must confess, had 
 no encounters with monsters, nor did he fall into 
 those times of credulity, when people believed 
 that the weight of the heavens rested upon one 
 man's shoulders. But he grappled with ambition, 
 and the unlimited desire of power ; which the 
 whole world, divided under a triumvirate, was 
 not able to satisfy. He opposed himself to the 
 vices of a degenerate city, even when it was now 
 sinking under its own weight. He stood single, 
 and supported the falling commonwealth, until 
 at last, as inseparable friends, they were crushed 
 together: for neither would Cato survive the 
 public liberty, nor did that liberty out-live Cato. 
 To give you now a farther account of myself — I 
 am naturally a friend to all the rules and me- 
 thods of sobriety and moderation. I like the 
 old-fashioned plate that was left me by my coun- 
 try father : it is plain and heavy, and yet, for all 
 this, there is a kind of dazzling, methinks, in the 
 iJStentaUons of splendour and luxury. But it 
 
4-56 seneca's morals. 
 
 Ii is madness to set our hearts upon trifles. 
 
 strikes the eye more than the mind ; and though 
 it may shake a wise man, it cannot alter him. 
 Yet it sends me home many times sadder, per- 
 haps, than 1 went out, but yet, I r hope, not 
 worse ; though not without some secret dissatis- 
 faction at my own condition. Upon these thoughts 
 I betake myself to my philosophy ; and then, me- 
 thinks, I am not well, unless I put myself into 
 some public employment: not for the honour, or 
 the profit of it, but only to place myself in a 
 station where I may be serviceable to my coun- 
 try, and to my friends. But when I come, on 
 the other side, to consider the uneasiness, the 
 abuses, and the loss of time, that attend public 
 affairs, I get me home again as fast as I can, 
 and ta,ke up a resolution of spending the re- 
 mainder of my days within the privacy of my 
 own walls. How great a madness is it to set our 
 hearts upon trifles, especially to the neglect of the 
 most serious offices of our lives, and the most 
 important end of our being ? I low miserable, as 
 well as short, is their life, that compass with 
 great labour, what they possess with greater; and 
 hold with anxiety, what they acquire with trou- 
 ble? But, we are governed in all things by opi- 
 nion, and every thing is to us as we believe it. 
 What is poverty, but a privative ; and not in- 
 tended of what a man has, but of that which he 
 has not ? The great subject of human calamities 
 
senega's morals. 43* 
 
 Ej)icurus---Caligula. 
 
 is money. Take all the rest together, as death, 
 sickness, fear, desire, pain, labour, and those 
 which proceed from money exceed them all. It 
 is a wonderful folly, that of tumblers, rope- 
 dancers, divers, what pains they take, and what 
 hazards they run, for an inconsiderable gain ! 
 and yet we have not patience for the thousandth 
 part of that trouble, though it would put us into 
 the possession of an everlasting quiet. Epicurus, 
 for experiment sake, confined himself to a nar- 
 rower allowance than that of the severest pri- 
 sons to the most capital offenders, and found 
 himself at ease too in a stricter diet, than a man 
 in the worst condition needs to fear. This was 
 to prevent fortune, and to frustrate the worst 
 which she can do. We should never know any 
 thing to be superfluous, but by the want of it. 
 How many things do we provide, only because 
 others have them, for fashion sake ? Caligula 
 offered Demetrius five thousand crowns, who re- 
 jected them with a smile, as who should say — It 
 was so little, it did him no honour the refusing 
 of it. Nothing less, says he, than the offer of 
 his whole empire would have been a temptation 
 to have tried the firmness of my virtue. By this 
 contempt of riehes, is intended only the fearless 
 possession of them. And the way to attain that, 
 is to persuade ourselves that we may live happily 
 without them. How many of those things, which 
 2 R 
 
458 seneca's morals. 
 
 The advantages of living retired. 
 
 reason formerly told us were superfluous and mi- 
 mical, do we now find to be so by experience ? 
 But Ave are misled by the counterfeit of good on 
 the one hand, and the suspicion of evil on the 
 other. Not that riches are an efficient cause of 
 mischief; but they are a precedent cause, byway 
 of irritation and attraction. For they have so 
 near a resemblance of good, that most people 
 take them to be good. Nay, virtue itself is also 
 a precedent cause of evil ; as many are envied 
 for their wisdom, or for their justice. Which 
 does not arise from the thing itself, but from the 
 irreprovable power of virtue, that forces all men 
 to admire and to love it. That is not good, that 
 is more advantageous to us, but that which is 
 only so. 
 
 THE BLESSINGS OF A VIRTUOUS RETIRE- 
 MENT. 
 
 There is no opportunity escapes me, of en* 
 quiring where you are, what you do, and what 
 company you keep : and I am well enough 
 pleased that I can hear nothing concerning you , 
 for it shews that you live retired. Not but that 
 1 durst trust you with the wide world too, but, 
 however, it is not easy, such a general conversa- 
 tion: nor is it absolutely safe neither; for, 
 though it should not corrupt you, it would yet 
 hinder you. Now, wheresoever you are, know, 
 that I am with you, and you are so to live, as if 
 
seneca's morals. 459 
 
 We should apply ourselves t<> wisdom. 
 
 I both heard and saw you. Your letters are 
 really blessings to me, and the sense of your im- 
 provements relieves me, even under the consi- 
 deration of my own decay. Remember, that as 
 I am old, so are you mortal. Be true to yourself, 
 and examine yourself, whether you be of the 
 same mind to-day that you were yesterday ; for 
 that is a sign of perfect wisdom. And yet give 
 me leave to tell you, that though change of mind 
 be a token of imperfection ; it is the business of 
 my age to unwill one day, that which I willed 
 another. And let me recommend it to your 
 practice too, in many cases; for the abatement 
 of our appetites, and of our errors, is the best 
 entertainment of mankind. It is for young men 
 to gather knowledge, and for old men to use it : 
 and assure yourself, that no man gives a fairer 
 account of his time, than he that makes it his 
 daily study to make himself better. If you be 
 in health, and think it worth the while to be- 
 come the master of yourself, it is my desire, and 
 my advice, that you apply yourself to wisdom 
 with your whole heart: and judge of your im- 
 provement, not by what you speak, or by what 
 you write, but by the firmness of your mind, and 
 the government of your passions. What extre- 
 mities have some men endured in sieges, even 
 for the ambition and interest of other people ! 
 and, shall not a man venture the crossing of an 
 2a2 
 
460 senega's moiials. 
 
 Contemplation is the best entertainment <'f peace. 
 
 intemperate lust, for the conquest of himself. 
 You do very well to betake yourself to a private 
 life, and better yet, in keeping of that privacy 
 private. For, otherwise, your retreat would look 
 like ostentation : the greatest actions of our lives 
 are those that we do in a recess from business ; 
 besides, that there are some governments and 
 employments, that a man would not have any 
 thing to do withal. And then it is. to be consi- 
 dered, that public offices and commissions are 
 commonly bought with our money; whereas the 
 great blessing of leisure and privacy cost us no~ 
 thing. Contemplation is undoubtedly the best 
 entertainment of peace, and only a shorter cut 
 to heaven itself : over and above that, business 
 makes us troublesome to others and unquiet to 
 ourselves ; for the end of one appetite, or design, 
 is the beginning of another. To say nothing of 
 the expense of time in vexatious attendances, and 
 the danger of competitors. Such a man, per- 
 haps, has more friends at court than I have, a 
 larger train, a fairer estate, more profitable of- 
 fices, and more illustrious titles. But, what do 
 1 care to be overcome by men, in some cases, so 
 long as fortune is overcome by me in all ? These 
 considerations should have been earlier, for it is 
 too late, in the article of death, to project the 
 happiness of life. And yet there is no age better 
 adapted to virtue, than that which comes by 
 
seneca's morals. 46*1 
 
 How we come to the knowledge of virtue. 
 
 many experiments and long sufferings to the 
 knowledge of it; for our lusts are then weak, 
 and our judgment strong, and wisdom is the ef- 
 fect of time. 
 
 Some are of opinion, that we come to the 
 knowledge of virtue by chance, (which were an 
 indignity). Others by observation, and compar- 
 ing matters of tact one with another; the under- 
 standing, by a kind of analogy, approving this > 
 or that, for good and honest. These are two 
 points, which others make wholly different; but 
 the Stoics only divide them. Some will have 
 every thing to be good that is beneficial to us; 
 as money, wine, and so lower, to the meanest 
 things we use. And they reckon that to be ho- 
 nest, where there is a reasonable discharge of a 
 common duty : as reverence to a parent, tender- 
 ness to a friend, the exposing of ourselves for 
 our country, and the regulating of our lives ac- 
 cording to moderation and prudence. The Stoics 
 reckon them to be two, but so as to make those 
 two yet out of one. They will have nothing to 
 be good but what is honest;, nor any thing to be 
 honest but that which is good; so that, in some 
 sort, they-are mixed and inseparable. There are 
 some things that are neither good nor bad, as 
 war, embassy, jurisdiction ; but these, in the 
 laudable administration of them, do, of doubt- 
 ful become good, which good is only a conse- 
 
 <? JEL.3 
 
462 
 
 SEXECA S MORALS. 
 
 A distinction betwixt good and honest. 
 
 quent upon honesty; but honesty is good in itself,, 
 and the other flows from it. There are some ac- 
 tions that seem to us matter of benignity, huma- 
 nity, generosity, resolution, which we are apt to 
 admire as perfect, and yet, upon farther exami- 
 nation, vre find that great vices were concealed 
 under the resemblance of eminent virtues. Glo- 
 rious actions are the images of virtue, but yet 
 many things seem to be good, that are evil ; and 
 evil, that are good ; and the skill is to distin- 
 guish betwixt things that are so much alike in 
 shew, and so disagreeing in effect. We are led 
 to the understanding of virtue by the congruity 
 we find in such and such actions to nature and 
 right reason, by the order, grace, and constancy 
 of them, and by a certain majesty and greatness, 
 that surpasses all other things. From hence pro- 
 ceeds a happy life, to which nothing comes 
 amiss ; but, on the contrary, every thing succeeds 
 to our very wish. There is no wrangling with 
 fortune, no being out of humour for accidents; 
 whatsoever befals me in my lot, and whether in 
 appearance it be good or bad, it is God's plea- 
 sure, and it is my duty to bear it. When a man 
 has once gotten a habit of virtue, all his actions 
 are equal; he is constantly one and the same 
 man, and he does well, not only upon counsel, 
 but out of custom too. Shall I tell you now, in 
 a word, the sum of human duty ? patience, where 
 1 
 
senega's morals. 46*3 
 
 The sum of human dutv. 
 
 we are to suffer ; and prudence in things we do. 
 It is a frequent complaint in the world, that the 
 things we enjoy are but few, transitory, and un- 
 certain ; so ungrateful a construction do we make 
 of the divine bounty. Hence it is, that we are 
 neither willing to die, nor contented to live ; be- 
 twixt the fear of the one, and the detestation of 
 the other. Hence it is that we are perpetually 
 shifting of counsels, and still craving of more ;' 
 because that which we call felicity is not able to. 
 611 us. And what is the reason, but that we are 
 not yet come to that immense and insuperable 
 good, which leaves us nothing farther to desire? 
 In that blessed estate we feel no want, we are 
 abundantly pleased with what we have, and what 
 we have not, we do not regard; so that every 
 thing is great, because it is sufficient, If we quit 
 this hold, there will be no place for the offices of 
 faith and piety; in the discharge whereof we 
 must both suffer many things that the world calls 
 evil, and part with many things which are com- 
 monly accounted good. True joy is everlasting, 
 pleasures are false and fugitive. It is a great en- 
 couragement to well-doing, that when we are 
 once in the possession of virtue, it is our own for 
 ever. While I speak this to you, I prescribe to 
 myself, what I write, I read ; and reduce all my 
 meditations to the ordering of my own manners. 
 There is nothing so mean and ordinary, but it is 
 
464- seveca's morals. 
 
 Sick eyes will not ei.'iure the light. 
 
 illustrated by virtue; and externals are no more 
 use to it than the light of a candle to the glory of 
 the sun. 
 
 It is often objected to me, that I advise people 
 to quit the world, to retire, and content them- 
 selves with a good conscience. But, what be- 
 comes of your precepts then, (say they) that en- 
 join us to die in action ? To whom I must an- 
 swer—that I am never more in action than when 
 I am alone in my study; where I have only 
 locked up myself in private, to attend, the busi- 
 ness of the public. I do not lose so much as one 
 day ; nay, and part of the night too I borrow for 
 my book. When my eyes will serve me no longer, 
 J fall asleep; and, until then I work. I have 
 retired myself, not only from men, but from 
 business also: and my own, in the tirst place, to 
 attend the service of posterity , in hope that what 
 I now write, may, in some measure, be profitable 
 to future generations. 
 
 But it is no new thing, f know, to calumniate 
 virtue and good men, for sick eyes will not en- 
 dure the light, but, like birds of night, they fly 
 from it into their holes. Why does such a man 
 talk so much of his philosophy, and yet live in 
 magnificence ? Of contemning riches, life, health, 
 and yet cherish and maintain them with the 
 greatest care imaginable. Banishment, he says, 
 is but an idle name; and yet he can grow old 
 
*bkeca'« moral*. 46.5 
 
 Whire ri<lnN ate wrvanti ami ttiailcu. 
 
 within his own walls. He puts no difference be- 
 twixt a long life and 6hort one, and yet he spins 
 out his own as far as it will go. The thing is 
 this, he does not contemn temporary blessings, 
 so as to refuse, or drive them away; but if they 
 come they are welcome, if not, he will never 
 break his heart for the want of them; he takes 
 them into his house, not into his soul ; and he 
 makes use of them only as matter for his virtue 
 to work upon. There is no doubt but a wise man 
 may shew himself better in riches than in po- 
 verty: that is to say, his temperance, his libe- 
 rality, his magnificence, providence, and pru- 
 dence, will be more conspicuous. He will be a 
 wise man still, if he should want a leg, or an 
 arm, but yet he had rather be perfect. He is 
 pleased at wealth, as he v/ould be at sea, with a 
 fair wind ; or with a glance of the warm sun in a 
 frosty morning ; so that the things which we call 
 indifferent, are not yet without their value, and 
 some greater than others. But, with this differ- 
 ence, betwixt the philosophers and the common 
 people, riches are the servants of the one, and 
 the masters of the other. From the one, if they 
 depart, they carry away nothing but themselves ; 
 but from the other they take away the very 
 heart and peace of the possessor along with them. 
 It is true, that if I might have my choice, I 
 would have health and strength ; and yet> if I 
 
466' seneca's morals. 
 
 There is no sporting with men in distress. 
 
 come to be visited with pain, or sickness, I would 
 endeavour to improve them to my advantage, by 
 making a righteous judgment of them;, asl ought 
 to do of all the appointments of Providence. So 
 that as they are not good in themselves, neither 
 are they evil, but matter of exercise for our vir- 
 tues; of temperance on the one hand, and of re- 
 signation on the other. 
 
 OF IMPERTINENT STUDIES AND IMPERTI- 
 NENT MEN. 
 
 He that duly considers the business of life and 
 death, will find that he has little time to spare 
 from that study ; and yet how we trifle away our 
 hours upon impertinent niceties and cavils! Will 
 Plato's imaginary ideas make me an honest man ? 
 There is neither certainty in them, nor substance. 
 A mouse is a syllable, but a syllable does not eat 
 cheese ; therefore a mouse does not eat cheese. 
 Oh ! these childish follies ! is it for this that we 
 spend our blood and our good humour, and 
 grow grey in our closets? We are a jesting, when 
 we should be helping the miserable ;, as well our- 
 selves as others. There is no sporting with men 
 in distress. The felicity of mankind depends 
 upon the counsel of philosophers. Let us rather 
 consider what nature has made superfluous, and 
 what necessary ; how easy our conditions are, 
 and how delicious that life > which is governed by 
 
seneca's morals. 4-67 
 
 Idle cu iosity. 
 
 reason rather than opinion. There are imperti- 
 nent studies, as well as impertinent men. Didy- 
 mus, the grammarian, wrote 4(X)0 books, where- 
 in he is much concerned to discover where Homer 
 was born, who was iEneas's true mother, and 
 whether Anacreon was the greater whoremaster 
 or drunkard ; with other fopperies, that a man 
 would labour to forget, if he knew them. Is it 
 not an important question, which of the two was 
 first, the mallet, or the tongues ? Some people 
 are extremely inquisitive, to know how many 
 oars Ulvsses had ; which was first written, the 
 Iliads, or the Odyssies; or if they were both done 
 by the same hand. A man is never a jot the 
 more learned for this curiosity, but much the 
 more troublesome. Am I ever the more just, 
 the moie moderate, valiant, or liberal, for 
 knowing that Curius Dentatus was the first that 
 carried elephants in triumphs ? Teach me my 
 duty to Providence, to my neighbour, and to 
 myself; to dispute with Socrates, to doubt with 
 Carneades, to set up my rest with Epicurus, to 
 master my appetites with the Stoics, and to re- 
 nounce the world with the Cynic. What a deal 
 of business there is, first, to make Homer a phi- 
 losopher ; and, secondly, in what elassis to range 
 him ? One will have him to be a Stoic, a friend 
 to virtue, and an enemy to pleasure, preferring 
 honesty even to immortality itself; another 
 
468 senega's morals* 
 
 Various humours. 
 
 makes him an Epicurean, one that loves his 
 quiet, and to spend his time in good company ; 
 some are positive in it, that he was a peripate- 
 tic, and others that he was a sceptic. But it is 
 clear, that in being all these things, he was not 
 any one of them. These divided opinions do not 
 at all hinder us from agreeing upon the main, that 
 he was a wise man. Let us, therefore, apply our- 
 selves to those things that made him so, and 
 even let the rest alone. 
 
 It was a pleasant humour of Calvicius Sabinus. 
 a rich man, and one that managed a very good 
 fortune with a very ill grace. He had neither 
 wit nor memory, but would fain pass for a learn- 
 ed man, and so took several into his family, and 
 whatsoever they knew, he assumed to himself. 
 There are a sort of people, that are never well, 
 but at theatres, spectacles, and public places ; 
 men of business, but it is only in their faces, for 
 they wander up and down without any design; 
 like pismires, eager and empty, a«d every thing 
 they do is only as it happens. This is an humour 
 which a man may call a kind of restless laziness. 
 Others you shall have, that are perpetually in 
 haste, as they were crying fire, or running for a 
 midwife ; and all this hurry, perhaps, only to 
 salute somebody, that has no mind to take notice 
 of them, or some such trivial errand. ■ At night, 
 when they come home tired and weary, ask them 
 
seneca's morals. 460 
 
 Philosophers the be^i companion-. 
 
 why they went out ? where they have been ? and 
 what they have done? it is a very slender ac- 
 count they are able to give you ; and yet, the 
 very next day they take the same jaunt over 
 again : this is a kind of fantastical industry, a 
 great deal of pains taken to no purpose at all. 
 Twenty visits made and nobody at home (they 
 themselves least of all); they that have this vice, 
 are commonly hearkeners, talebearers, news- 
 mongers, medlers in other people's affairs, and 
 curious after secrets, which a man can neither 
 safely hear, nor report. These men of idle em- 
 ployment, that run up and down, eternally vex- 
 ing others, and themselves too ; that thrust them- 
 selves into all companies, what do they get by it? 
 one man's asleep, another at supper, a third in 
 company, a fourth in haste, a fifth gives them the 
 slip ; and when their folly has gone the round, 
 they close up the day with shame and repentance. 
 Whereas Zeno, Pythagoras, Democritus, Aristo- 
 tle, Theophrastus, and all the patrons of philo- 
 sophy and virtue, they are always at leisure, and 
 in good humour, familiar, profitable; a man 
 never comes away empty-handed from them, but 
 full of comfort and satisfaction; they make all 
 past ages present to us, or us their contempora- 
 ries. The doors of these men are open night 
 and day, and in their conversation there is nei- 
 ther danger, treachery, nor expense; but we are 
 2 s 
 
470 seneca's morals. 
 
 Singularity in dress and living, 
 
 the wiser, the happier, and the richer for it. How 
 blessedly does a man spend his time in this com- 
 pany, where he may advise in all the difficul- 
 ties of life? here is counsel without reproach, 
 and praise without flattery. We cannot be the 
 chusers of our own parents, but of our friends 
 we may, and adopt ourselves into these noble 
 families. This is the way of making mortality in 
 a manner to be immortal ; the time past we make 
 to be our own by remembrance, the present by 
 use, and the future by Providence and foresight. 
 That only may properly be said to be the long 
 life, that draws all ages into one; and that a 
 short one, that forgets the past, neglects the pre- 
 sent, and is solicitous for the time to come. But 
 it is not yet sufficient to know what Plato, or 
 Zeno said, unless we make it all our own by ha- 
 bit and practice, and improve both the world ana 
 ourselves by an example of life answerable to 
 their precepts. 
 
 AGAINST SINGULARITY OF MANNERS, AND 
 BEHAVIOUR. 
 
 It is the humour of many people, to be singu- 
 lar in their dress and manner of life, only to the 
 end that they may be taken notice of. Their 
 cloaths, forsooth, must be coarse and slovenly; 
 their heads and beards neglected, their lodgings 
 upon the ground, and they live in an open defi- 
 
seneca's morals. 4-71 
 
 An ambitious vanity. 
 
 ance of money. What is all this, upon the whole 
 matter, but an ambitious vanity, that has crept 
 in at the back-door ? A wise man will keep him- 
 self clear of all these fooleries, without disturb- 
 ing public customs, or making himself a gazing- 
 stock to the people. But, will this secure him, 
 think you ? I can no more warrant it, than that 
 a temperate man shall have his health ; but it is 
 very probable that it may. A philosopher has 
 enough to do to stand right in the world, let him 
 be ever so modest ; and his outside shall be still 
 like that of other people, let them be ever so 
 unlike within. His garments shall be neither rich 
 nor sordid. No matter for arms, mottoes, and 
 other curiosities upon his plate ; but he shall not 
 yet make it a matter of conscience to have no- 
 plate at all. He that likes an earthen vessel as 
 well as a silver, has not a greater mind than he 
 that uses plate, and reckons it as dirt. It is our 
 duty to live better than the common people, but 
 not in opposition to them, as if philosophy werfr 
 a faction; for by so doing, instead of reforming, 
 and gaining upon them, we drive them away;, 
 and when they find it unreasonable to imitate us. 
 in all things, they will follow us in nothing. Our 
 business must be to live according to nature, and 
 to own the sense of outward things with other 
 people : not to torment the body, and, with ex- 
 clamations against that which is sweet and clean- 
 2 s 2 
 
472 seneca's morals. 
 
 A wise man should live as he discourses. 
 
 ly, to delight in nastiness,, and to use, not only 
 a coarse, but a sluttish and offensive diet. Wis- 
 dom preaches temperance, not mortification ; and 
 a man may be a very good husband, without 
 being a sloven. He that steers a middle course, 
 betwixt virtue and popularity; that is to say, 
 betwixt good manners and discretion, shall gain 
 both approbation and reverence. But, what if 
 a man governs himself in his cloaths, in his diet, 
 in his exercises, as he ought to do ? It is not 
 that his garments, his meat, and drink, or his 
 walking, are things simply good, but it is the 
 tenor of a man's life, and the conformity of it to 
 nature and right reason. Philosophy obliges us 
 to humanity, society, and the ordinary use of 
 external things. It is not a thing to pleasure 
 the people with, or to entertain an idle hour, but 
 a study for the forming of the mind, and the 
 guidance of human life. And a wise man should 
 also live as he discourses, and in all points be 
 like himself; and, in the first place, set a value 
 upon himself, before he can pretend to become 
 valuable to others. As well our good deeds, as 
 our evil, come home to us at last; he that i- 
 charitable, makes others so by his example, and 
 finds the comfort of that charity when he wants 
 it himself. He that is cruel, seldom finds mercy. 
 It is a hard matter for a man to be both popular 
 and virtuous ; for he must be like the people tht-.t 
 
seneca's morals. 4-73 
 
 A fool is surprised at every thing 
 
 would oblige them ; and the kindness of dishonest 
 men is not to be acquired by honest means. He 
 lives by reason, not by custom; he shuns the 
 very conversation of the intemperate and ambi- 
 tious. He knows the danger of great examples 
 of wickedness, and that public errors impose 
 upon the world, under the authority of prece- 
 dents;, for they take for granted, that they are 
 never out of the way, so long as they keep the 
 road. 
 
 We are beset with dangers, and therefore, a 
 wise man should have his virtues in continual 
 readiness to encounter them. Whether poverty,. 
 loss of friends, pains, sickness, or the like, he 
 still maintains his post: whereas a fool is sur- 
 prised at every thing, and afraid of his very suc- 
 cours; either he makes no resistance at all, or 
 he does it by halves. He will neither take ad- 
 vice from others, nor look to himself: he reckons 
 upon philosophy as a thing not worth his time ;. 
 and if he can but get the reputation of a good- 
 man among the common people, he takes no fur- 
 ther care, but accounts that he has done his 
 duty. 
 
 THE BLESSINGS OF A VIGOROUS MIND. 
 
 When I call Claranus my school-fellow, I need- 
 not say any thing more of his age, having told 
 you that he and I were contemporaries, Yoi* 
 2 s 3 
 
474 senega's morals. 
 
 Pertinent relkciions 
 
 would not imagine how green and vigorous his 
 mind is, and the perpetual conflict that it has 
 with his body. They were naturally ill-matched, 
 unless to shew that a generous spirit may be 
 lodged under any shape. He has surmounted 
 all difficulties, and, from the contempt of him- 
 self, is advanced to the contempt of all things 
 else. When I consider him well, methinks his 
 foody appears to me as fair as his mind. If na- 
 ture could have brought the soul naked into the 
 world, perhaps she would have done it ; but yet 
 she does a greater thing, in exalting that soul 
 above all impediments of the flesh. It is a great 
 happiness, to preserve Cue force of the mind in 
 the decay of the body ; and to see the loss of ap- 
 petite more than requited with the love of virtue. 
 But, whether I owe this comfort to my age, or 
 to wisdom, is the question. And whether, if I 
 could any longer, I would not still do the same 
 things over again, which I ought not to do. If 
 age had no other pleasure than this, that it 
 neither cares for any thing, nor stands in need of 
 any thing, it were a great one to me, to have 
 left all my painful and troublesome lusts behind 
 me. But, it is uneasy, you will say, to be al- 
 ways in fear of death. As if that apprehension 
 did not concern a young man as well as an old, 
 or that death only called us according to our 
 years. I am, however, beholden to my old age 5 
 
seneca's m orals. 475 
 
 Upon old age. 
 
 that has now confined me to my bed, and put me 
 out of condition of doing those things any longer 
 which I should not do. The less my mind has to 
 do with my body, the better. And if age puts 
 an end to my desires, and does the business of 
 virtue, there can be no cause of complaint ; nor 
 can there be any gentler end, than to melt away 
 in a kind of dissolution. Where fire meets with 
 opposition, and matter to work upon, it is furious, 
 and rages ; but where it finds no fuel, as in old 
 age, it goes out quietly, for want of nourishment. 
 Nor is the body the settled habitation of the 
 mind, but a temporary lodging, which we are to 
 leave whensoever the master of the house pleases. 
 Neither does the soul, when it has left the body, 
 any more care what becomes of the carcase, and 
 the several parts of it, than a man does for the 
 shavings of his beard under the hand of the bar- 
 ber. There is not any thing exposes a man to 
 more vexation and reproach, than the overmuch 
 love of the body : for sense neither looks forward 
 nor backward, but only upon the present ; nor 
 does it judge of good or evil, or foresee conse- 
 quences which give a connection to the order and 
 series of things, and to the unity of life. Not 
 but that every man has naturally a love for his 
 own carcase, as poor people love even their ow» 
 beggarly cottages; they are old acquaintances, 
 and loth to part: and I am not a swnst the in- 
 
47$ seneca's morals. 
 
 Our hopes, avarice, and ambition, are boundless. 
 
 dulging of it either, provided that I make not 
 myself a slave to it ; for he that serves it has 
 many masters. Beside that, we are in continual 
 disorder, one while with gripes, pains in the head, 
 tooth-ach, gout, stone, defluxions; sometimes 
 \vitli too much blood, other while with too little; 
 and yet this frail and putrid carcase of ours, va- 
 lues itself as if it were immortal. We put no 
 bounds to our hopes, our avarice, our ambition. 
 The same man is Vatinius to-day, and Cato to- 
 morrow ; this hour as luxurious as Apicius, and 
 the next as temperate as Tubero ; now for a mis- 
 tress, by and by for a wife ; imperious this hour, 
 servile the next; thrifty and prodigal, laborious 
 and voluptuous, by turns. But still the goods, 
 or the ills of the body, do but concern the body, 
 (which is peevish, sour, and anxious,) without 
 any effect upon a well-composed mind. 1 was 
 the other day at my villa, and complaining of 
 my charge of repairs. My bailiff told me — " It 
 was none of his fault, for the house was old, and 
 he had much ado to keep it from falling upon his 
 head." Well, thought 1, and what am I myself 
 then, that saw the laying of the first stone ? In 
 the gardens 1 found the trees as much out of 
 order, the boughs knotted and withered, and 
 their bodies over- run with moss. " This would 
 not have been," said I, " if you had trenched 
 them, and watered them, as you should have 
 
seneca's morals. 477 
 
 Time ?oes filter whh the olrl than youn^. 
 
 done." — " By my soul, master," says the poor 
 fellow, " I have done what I could, but, alas ! 
 they are all dotards, and spent." What am I 
 then (thought I to myself), that planted all these 
 trees with my own hands ? And then I come to 
 bethink myself that age is not yet without its 
 pleasures, if we did but know how to use them, 
 and that the best morsel is reserved for the last ; 
 or, at worst, it is equivalent to the enjoying of 
 pleasures, not to stand in need of any. It is but 
 yesterday, methinks, that I went to school. But 
 time goes faster with an old man than with a 
 young ; perhaps because he reckons more upon 
 it. There is hardly any man so old, but he may 
 hope for one day more yet ; and the longest life 
 is but a multiplication of days, nay, of hours, 
 nay, of moments. Our fate is set, and the first 
 breath we draw is but the first step toward our 
 last. One cause depends upon another ; and the 
 course of all things, public and private, is only a 
 long connection of providential appointments. 
 There is great variety in our lives, but all tends 
 to the same issue. Nature may use her own 
 bodies as she pleases; but a good man has this 
 consolation, that nothing perishes that he can call 
 his own. What must be, shall be; and that " 
 which is a necessity to him that struggles, is little 
 more than choice to him that is willing. Jt is 
 
478 sineca's morals. 
 
 Of habits. 
 
 bitter to be forced to any thing ; but things are 
 easy, when they are complied with. 
 
 CUSTOM IS A GREAT MATTER, EITHER IN 
 GOOD, OR EVIL. 
 
 There is nothing so hard, but custom makes 
 it easy to us. There are some that never laughed, 
 others that wholly abstain from wine and women, 
 and almost from sleep. Much use of a coach 
 makes us lose the benefit of our legs; so that we 
 must be infirm to be in the fashion, and at last 
 lose the very faculty of walking by disusing it. 
 Some are so plunged in pleasures, that they can- 
 not live without them : and in this they are most 
 miserable; that what was, at first, but super- 
 fluous, is now become necessary. But their in- 
 felicity seems to be then consummate, and in- 
 curable, when sensuality has laid hold of the 
 judgment, and wickedness is become a habit. 
 Nay, some there are, that both hate and perse- 
 cute virtue ; and that is the last act of despera- 
 tion. It is much easier to check our passions in 
 the beginning, than to stop them in their course ; 
 for if reason could not hinder us at first, they 
 will go on in despite of us. The Stoics will not 
 allow a wise man to have any passions at all. The 
 Peripatetics temper them, but that mediocrity 
 is altogether false and unprofitable. And it is ail 
 
seneca's morals. \79 
 
 We should check our passions betimes. 
 
 one, as if they said, that we may be a little mad, 
 or a little sick. If we give any sort of allowance 
 to sorrow, fear, desires, perturbations, it will 
 not be in our power to lestrain them. They are 
 fed from abroad, and will increase with their 
 causes. And if we yield ever so little to them, 
 the least disorder works upon the whole body. 
 It is not my purpose, all this while, wholly to 
 take away any thing that is either necessary, be- 
 neficial, or delightful, to human life, but to take 
 that away which may be vicious in it. When I 
 forbid you to desire any thing, 1 am yet content 
 that you may be willing to have it. So that I 
 permit you the same things ; and those very plea- 
 sures will have a better relish too, when they are 
 enjoyed with anxiety, and when you come to 
 command those appetites which before you serv- 
 ed. It is natural, you will say, to weep for the 
 loss of a friend ; to be moved at the sense of 
 a good or ill report, and to be sad in adversity. 
 All this I will grant you ; and there is no vice, 
 but something may be said for it. At first, it is 
 tractable and modest, but, if we give it entrance, 
 we shall hardly get it out again ; as it goes on, 
 it gathers strength, and becomes quickly ungo- 
 vernable. It cannot be denied, but that all af- 
 fections flow from a kind of natural principle, 
 and that it is our duty to take care of ourselves; 
 but it is then our duty also, not to be over in- 
 
4S0 seneca's morals. 
 
 Involuntary motions are invincible. 
 
 dulgent. Nature has mingled pleasures even with 
 things most necessary ; not that we should value 
 them for their own sakes, but to make those 
 things which we cannot live without to be more 
 acceptable to us. If we esteem the pleasure for 
 itself, it turns to luxury ; it is not the business of 
 nature to raise hunger or thirst, but to extinguish 
 them. 
 
 As there are some natural frailties, that by 
 care and industry may be overcome, so there are 
 others that are invincible : as for a man that va- 
 lues not his own blood, to swoon at the siaht of 
 another man's. Involuntary motions are insu- 
 perable and inevitable, as the starting of the hair 
 at ill news, blushing at a scurrilous discourse, 
 swimming of the head upon the sight of a preci- 
 pice, &c. Who can read the story of Clodius's 
 expelling Cicero, and Anthony's killing of him, 
 the cruelties of Marius, and the proscriptions of 
 Sylla, without being moved at it ? The sound of 
 a trumpet, the picture of any thing that is horrid, 
 the spectacle of an execution, strikes the mind, 
 and works upon the imagination. Some people 
 are strangely subject to sweat, to tremble, to 
 stammer, their very teeth will chatter in their 
 heads, and their lips quiver, and especially in 
 public assemblies. These are natural infirmities, 
 and it is not all the resolution in the world that 
 can ever master them. Some redden when they 
 1 
 
SENECa's moral?. 481 
 
 The course of nature is smooth and easy. 
 
 angfy; S)lla was one of those, and when the 
 blood flushed into his face, you might be sure he 
 had malice in his heart. Pompey, on the other 
 side, (that hardly ever spake in public without a 
 blush) had a wonderful sweetness of nature, and 
 it did exceedingly well with him. Your come- 
 dians will represent fear, sadness, anger, and 
 the like, but when they come to a bashful mo- 
 desty, though they will give you humbleness of 
 looks, softness of speech, and downcast eyes, to 
 the very life, yet they can never come to express 
 a blush; for it is a thing neither to be command- 
 ed, nor hindered ; but it comes and goes of its 
 own accord. The course of nature is smooth and 
 easy, but when we come to cross it, we strive 
 against the stream. It is not for one man to act 
 another's part ; for nature will quickly return, 
 and take off the mask. There is a kind of sacred 
 instinct that moves us. Even the worst have a 
 sense of virtue. We are not so much ignorant as 
 careless. Whence comes it, that grazing beasts 
 distinguish salutary plants from deadly? A 
 chicken is afraid of a kite, and not of a goose, or 
 peacock, which is much bigger : a bird of a cat, 
 and not of a dog. This is impulse, and not ex- 
 periment. The cells of bees, and the webs of 
 spiders, are not to be imitated by art, but it is 
 nature that teaches them. The stage-player has 
 his actions and gestures in readiness, but this is 
 
 2 T 
 
4S'2 SENECA S MORALS. 
 
 We are altogether in riaikness. 
 
 only an improvement by art, of what nature 
 teaches them ; who is never at a loss for the use 
 of herself. We come into the world with this 
 knowledge, and we have it by a natural institu- 
 tion, which is no other than a natural logic. We 
 brought the seeds of wisdom itself. There is the 
 goodness of God and that of man ; the one is im- 
 mortal, the other mortal ; nature perfects the one, 
 and study the other. 
 
 WE ARE DIVIDED IN OURSELVES, AND CON- 
 FOUND GOOD AND EVIL. 
 
 It is no wonder that men are generally very 
 much unsatisfied with the world, when there is 
 not one man of a thousand that agrees with him- 
 self, and that is the root of our misery ; only we 
 are willing to charge our own vices upon the 
 malignity of fortune. Either we are puffed up 
 with pride, racked with desires, dissolved in plea- 
 sures, or blasted with cares ; and which perfects 
 ourunhappiness, we are never alone, but in per- 
 petual conflict and controversy with our lusts. 
 We are startled at all accidents. We boggle at 
 our own shadows, and fright one another. Lu- 
 cretius says, that we are as much afraid in the 
 light, as children in the dark ; but I say, that 
 we are altogether in darkness, without any light 
 at all, and we run on blindfold, without so much 
 as groping out our way j which rashness in the 
 
seneca's morals. 483 
 
 Let every man examine his desires. 
 
 dark, is the worst sort of madness. He that is La 
 his way, is in hope of c ruing to his journey's 
 end, but error is endless. Let every man, there- 
 fore, examine his desires, whether they be ac- 
 cording to rectified nature or not. That man's 
 mind can never be rik.ht, whose actions disagree. 
 We must not live by chance, for there can be no 
 virtue without deliberation and election. And, 
 where we cannot be certain, let us follow that 
 which is most hopeful and probable. Faith, jus- 
 tice, piety, fortitude, prudence, are venerable, 
 and the possessions only of good men ; but a 
 plentiful estate, a brawny arm, and a firm body, 
 are many times the portion of the wicked. The 
 perfection of human nature is that state which 
 supports itself, and so is out of the fear of falling. 
 It is a great weakness for a man tc value himself 
 upon any thing wherein he shall be outdone by 
 fools and beasts. We are to consider health, 
 strength, beauty, and other advantages of that 
 kind, as only adventitious comforts : we may pre- 
 serve them with care, provided that we be al- 
 ways ready to quiet them without trouble. There 
 is a pleasure in wickedness, as well as in virtue, 
 and there are those that take a glory in it too ; 
 wherefore our forefathers prescribed us the best 
 life, and not the most plentiful; and allowed us 
 pleasure for a companion, but not for a guide. 
 We do many times take the instruments of happi- 
 
 2 t 2 
 
484- Seneca's morals. 
 
 There are nut many that know their own minds. 
 
 ness for the happiness itself, and rest upon those 
 matters that are but in the way to it. That man 
 only lives composed, who thinks of every thing 
 that may happen before he feels it. But this is 
 not yet to advise either neglect or indifference, 
 for I would avoid any thing that may hurt me, 
 where I may honourably do it. But vet I would 
 consider the worst of things before hand. Exa- 
 mine the hope and the tear, and, where things 
 are uncertain, favour yourself, and believe that 
 which you had rather should come to pass. There 
 are not many men that know their own minds, 
 but in the very instant of willing any thing. We 
 are for one thing to-day, another to-morrow, so 
 that we live and die without coming to any reso- 
 lution : still seeking that elsewhere which we may 
 give ourselves ; that is to say, a good mind. 
 And, in truth, we do persuade ourselves that, 
 in several cases, we do desire the thing, which 
 effectually we do not desire. And all this for 
 want of laying down some certain principles, to 
 make judgment inflexible and steady. When we 
 do any evil, it is either for fear of greater evil, or 
 in hope of such a good as may more than balance 
 that evil. So that we are here distracted betwixt 
 the duty of finishing our purpose, and the fear of 
 mischief and danger. This infirmity must be dis- 
 charged. In the pursuit of pleasures, we should 
 take notice, that there are not only sensual, but 
 
seneca's morals. 485 
 
 Glorv is v;iin and volatile. 
 
 sad pleasures also, which transport the mind with 
 adoration (though they do not tickle the senses), 
 sive us a veneration for those virtues that exer- 
 cise themselves in sweat and blood. All true 
 goods hold an affinity and friendship one with 
 another, and they are equal ; but false ones have 
 in them much of vanity, they are large and spe- 
 cious to the eye, but upon examination they want 
 weight. Now, though virtues are all alike, they 
 mav yet be distinguished into desirable and ad- 
 mirable; virtues of patience, and of delight: 
 but, in the matter of common accidents, there 
 is not any thing which is truly worthy, either of 
 our joy, or of our fear. For reason is immova- 
 ble, does not serve, but command our senses. 
 What is pleasure, but a low and brutish thing ? 
 glory is vain and volatile ; poverty only hard to 
 him that does not resist it; superstition is a 
 frantic error, that fears where it should love, 
 and rudely invades where it should reverentially 
 worship. Death itself is no evil at all, but the 
 common benefit and right of nature. There is a 
 great difference betwixt those things which are 
 good in common opinion, and those which are 
 so in truth and effect : the former have the name 
 of good things, but not the propriety ; they may 
 befal us, but they do not stick to us ; and they 
 may be taken away without either pain to us, or 
 diminution. We may use them, but not trust in 
 2x3 
 
4s6> senega's morals. 
 
 Pleasures, at bes', arc l>ut short-lived. 
 
 them; for they are only deposited, and they 
 must, and will forsake us. The only treasure is 
 that which fortune has no power over, and the 
 greater it is, the less envy it carries along with 
 it. Let our vices die before us, and let us dis- 
 charge ourselves of our dear-bought pleasures, 
 that hurt us, as well past, as to come, for they are 
 followed with repentance, as well as our sins. 
 There is neither substance in them, nor truth, 
 for a man can never be weary of truth, but there 
 is a satiety in error. The former is always the 
 same, but the latter is various; and if a man 
 looks near it, he may see through it. Beside 
 that, the possessions of a wise man are maintain- 
 ed with ease. He has no need of ambassadors, 
 armies, and castles, but, like God himself, he 
 does his business without either noise or tumult. 
 Nay, there is something so venerable and sacred 
 in virtue, that if we do but meet with any thing 
 like it, the very counterfeit pleases us. By the 
 help of philosophy the soul gives the slip to the 
 body, and refreshes itself in heaven. Pleasures, 
 at best, are but short-lived, but the delights of 
 virtue are secure and perpetual. Only v. e must 
 watch, labour, and attend it ourselves. For it 
 is a business not to be done by a deputy 7 . Nor is 
 it properly a \irtue, to be a little better than the 
 worst. Will any man boast of- his eyes because 
 they tell him that the sun shine? ? Neither is he. 
 
sexeca's MORALS. 487 
 
 The lewdest p-trt of our corruptions i> in private. 
 
 presently a good man, that thinks ill of the bad. 
 For wicked men do that too; and it is, perhaps, 
 the greatest punishment of sin, the displeasure 
 that it gives to the author of it. The saddest case 
 of all is, when we become enamoured of our ruin, 
 and make wickedness our study; when vice has 
 got a reputation, and when the dissolute have 
 lost the only good thing they had in their ex- 
 cesses, the shame of offending. And yet, the 
 lewdest part of our corruptions is in private, 
 which, if any body had looked on, we should never 
 have committed. Wherefore, let us bear in our 
 minds the idea of some great person, for whom 
 we have an awful respect, and his authority will 
 even consecrate the very secret of our souls, and 
 make us not only mend our manners, and purify 
 our very thoughts, but in good time render us 
 exemplary to others, and venerable to ourselves. 
 If Scipio, or La?lius, were but in our eye, we 
 should not dare to transgress. Why do we not 
 make ourselves then such persons, as in whose 
 presence we dare not offend. 
 
 WE ARE MOVED AT THE NOVELTY OF 
 THINGS FOR WANT OF UNDERSTAND- 
 ING THE REASON OF THEM. 
 
 The whole subject of natural philosophy falls 
 
 nder these three heads, the heavens, the air, 
 
 a&d the earth. The first treats of the nature of 
 
488 sexeca's morals. 
 
 Novelty excites curiosity. 
 
 the stars, their form and magnitude; the sub- 
 stance of the heavens, whether solid or not, and 
 whether they move of themselves, or be moved 
 by any thing else ; whether the stars be below 
 them, or fixed in their orbs; in what manner the 
 sun divides the seasons of the year, and the like. 
 The second part enquires into the reason of 
 things betwixt the heavens and the earth, as 
 clouds, rain, snow, thunder, and whatsoever the 
 air either does or suffers. The third handles 
 matters that have a regard to the earth, as the 
 difference of soils, minerals, metals, plants, 
 groves, &c. But these are considerations wholly 
 foreign to our purpose, in the nature of them, 
 though they may be of very proper and pertinent 
 application. There is not any man so brutal, 
 and so groveling upon the earth, but his soul is 
 roused, and carried up to higher matters and 
 thoughts, upon the appearance of any new light 
 from heaven. What can be more worthy of ad- 
 miration than the sun and the stars, in their 
 courses and glory ? and yet,, so long as nature 
 goes on in her ordinary way, there is nobody 
 takes notice of them ; but when any thing falls 
 out beyond expectation and custom, what a 
 gazing, pointing, and questioning, is there pre- 
 sently about it ! the people gather together, and 
 are at their wits end ; not so much at the import- 
 ance of the matter, as at the novelty. Every 
 
sf.xf.oa's morals. 48fl 
 
 Truth is ollcred to all. 
 
 meteor sets people agog, to know the meaning of 
 it, and what it portends, and whether it be a 
 Star, or a prodigy; so that it is worth the while 
 to enquire into the nature and philosophy or 
 these lights (though not the business of this place), 
 that by discovering the reason, we may overcome 
 the apprehension of them. There are many things 
 which we know to be, and yet we know nothing 
 at all of what they are. Is it not the mind that 
 moves us, and restrains us ? but what that ruling 
 power is, we do no more understand, than we 
 know where it is. One will have it to be a spi- 
 rit, another will have it to be a divine power, 
 some only a subtile air, others an incorporeal 
 being, and some again will have it to be only 
 blood and heat. Nay, so far is the mind from a 
 perfect understanding of other things, that it is 
 still in search of itself. It is not long since we 
 came to find out the causes of eclipses, and far- 
 ther experience will bring more things to light, 
 which are as yet in the dark; but one age is not 
 sufficient for so many discoveries. It must be the 
 work of successions, and posterity ; and the time 
 will come, when we shall wonder that mankind 
 should be so long ignorant of things, that lay so 
 open and so easy to be made known. Truth is 
 offered to all, but we must yet content ourselves 
 with what is already found, and leave some truths 
 to be retrieved by after-ages. The exact trixtH 
 
490 SENECA'Sr morals. 
 
 We should, tin,'., learn things necessary. 
 
 of things is only known to God; but it is yet 
 lawful for us to enquire, and to conjecture, though 
 not with too much confidence, nor yet altogether 
 without hope. In the first place, however, let 
 us learn things necessary, and, if we have any 
 time to spare, we may apply it to superfluities. 
 
 Why do we trouble ourselves about things 
 which possibly may happen, and peradventure 
 not ? Let us rather provide against those dan- 
 gers that watch us, and lie in wait for us.- To 
 suffer shipwreck, or to be crushed with the ruin * 
 of a house, these are great misfortunes, but they 
 seldom happen. The deadly, and the hourly 
 danger that threatens human life, is from one 
 man to another. O her calamities do commonly 
 give us some warning: the smoke gives notice of 
 a fire, the clouds bid us provide for a storm, but 
 human malice has no prognostic; and the nearer 
 it is, the fairer it looks. There is no trust to the 
 countenance, we carry the shapes of men, and 
 the hearts of beasts. Nay, we are worse than 
 beasts; for a beast has no reason at all; but 
 the other is perverted, and turns his reason to 
 mischief. Beside that, all the hurt which they 
 do is out of fear, or hunger ; but man takes de- 
 light in destroying his own kind. From the dan- 
 OCT we are in from men, we may consider pur 
 duty to them, and take care that we neither do». 
 nor suffer wrong. It is but human, to be trou- 
 
senega's morals. 491 
 
 Calumny inure grievous in aame'. 
 
 bled at the misfortunes of another, and to rejoice 
 at his prosperity. And it is likewise prudent to 
 bethink ourselves what we are to do, and what 
 we are to avoid ; by which means we may keep 
 ourselves from being either harmed, or deceived. 
 The things that most provoke one man to do hurt 
 to another, are hope, envy, hatred, fear, and 
 contempt; but contempt is the slightest. Nay, 
 many men have betaken themselves to it for their 
 security. There is no doubt, but he that is con- 
 temned shall be trod upon; but then his enemy 
 passes over him as not worth his anger. 
 
 EVERY MAX IS THE ARTIFICER OF HIS OWN 
 FORTUNE. — OF JUSTICE AND INJUSTICE. 
 
 The short of the question, betwixt you and 
 me, is this — Whether a man had better part with 
 himself, or something else that belongs to him ? 
 And it is easily resolved in all competitions be- 
 twixt the goods of sense and fortune, and those 
 of honour and conscience. Those things which 
 all men covet, are but specious outsides, and 
 there is nothing in them of substantial satis- 
 faction. Nor is there any thing so hard and ter- 
 rible in the contrary, as the vulgar imagine; only 
 the word calamity has an ill reputation in the 
 world, and the very name is more grievous than 
 the thing itself. What have 1 to complain of, if 
 I can turn that to happiness, which others count 
 4 
 
492 seneca's morals. 
 
 Every man lizs his weak side. 
 
 a misery ? A wise man either repels, or elects, 
 as he sees the matter before him, without fearing 
 the ill which he rejects, or admiring what he 
 chuses. He is never surprised, but in the midst 
 of plenty he prepares for poverty ; as a prudent 
 prince does for war, in the depth of peace. Our 
 condition is good enough, if we make the best of 
 it ; and our felicity is in our own power. Things 
 that are adventitious, have no effect upon him 
 that studies to make sure of his happiness within 
 himself. Every man should stand upon his guard 
 against fortune, and take most heed to himself 
 when she speaks him fairest. All the advantage 
 she gets upon us is at unawares ; whereas he that 
 is provided for her, and stands the first shock, 
 carries the day. It is not with common accidents 
 of life, as with fire and sword, that burn and cut 
 all alike ; but misfortunes work more or less, 
 according to the weakness or resolution of the 
 patient. He that grieves for the loss of casual 
 comforts, shall never want occasion of sorrow. 
 We say, commonly — that every man has his weak 
 side : but give me leave to tell you, that he that 
 masters one vice, may master all the rest. He 
 that subdues avarice, may conquer ambition. It 
 is not for philosophy to excuse vices. The pati- 
 ent has little hope of health, when the physician 
 prescribes intemperance : though I know, on the 
 other side, that he that does any thing above th* 
 
 
sen'eca's morals. 4<}3 
 
 In all promises there T5 a tacit reserve. 
 
 ordinary, does but set himself up for a mark to 
 malevolence and envy. Where laws are neglect- 
 ed, corruptions must inevitably be introduced : 
 for the authority of virtue is shaken. And what 
 are laws, but only precepts mingled with threats? 
 With this difference, that the former deter us 
 from wickedness, and the latter advise us to vir- 
 tue. A preamble, methinks, derogates from the 
 honour of a law, which ought to be short and 
 clear; and to command, without suffering any 
 expostulation. It is a flat, and an idle thing, a 
 law with a prologue. Let me only be told my 
 duty, and I am not to dispute, but to obey. 
 
 If I have not acquitted myself of my last pro- 
 mise to you, know, that in all promises there is 
 a tacit reserve — if I can, if I ought, or if things 
 continue in the same state : so that by the change 
 of circumstances I am discharged of my obliga- 
 tion. 1 know very well the bonds of justice, and 
 yet the practices of the world to the contrary. 
 There are no greater exacters cf faith than the 
 perfidious; no greater persecutors of falsehood, 
 than the perjurious. He that loves his neigh- 
 bour's wife, and for that very reason, because 
 she is another man's, locks up Lis own. The 
 wickedness of other men we have always in our 
 
 J 
 
 eye, but we cast our own over our shoulders. 
 A worse father chastises a better son : he that 
 denies nothing to his own luxury, will pardon 
 
 2 u 
 
4.$4 seneca*s morals. 
 
 Justice is a natural principle. 
 
 nothing in another man's. A tyrant is offended 
 at bloodshed, the sacrilegious punishes theft, and 
 the greater part of the world quarrels rather with 
 the offender, than with the offence. It is very 
 rare, that either the joy or the benefit of an es- 
 tate, injuriously gotten, continues long. Men 
 go together by the ears about the booty, and we 
 pay dear for things of little value. We live and 
 die, lugging one another, breaking one another's 
 rest, and our lives are without fruit, and without 
 pleasure. Justice is a natural principle. I must 
 live thus with my friend, thus with my fellow- 
 citizen, thus with my companion ; and why ? be- 
 cause it is just, not for design or reward; for it 
 is virtue itself, and nothing else, that pleases us. 
 There is no law extant for keeping the secrets of 
 a friend, or for not breaking faith with an enemy. 
 And yet there is just cause of complaint, if a 
 body betrays a trust. If a wicked man call upon 
 me for money that I owe him, I will make no 
 scruple of pouring it into the lap of a common 
 prostitute, if she be appointed to receive it. For 
 my business is to return the money, not to order 
 him how he shall dispose of it. I must pay it to 
 a good man when it is expedient, and to a bad 
 when he calls for it. 
 
Seneca's morals. 405 
 
 Some mo communicative, and some too reserved. 
 
 — -r 
 
 OF TRUST III FRIENDSHIP, PRAYER, AND 
 BODILY EXERCISE. 
 
 Til ere are some people, that if any thing goes 
 cross with them, though of a quality only fit for 
 the ear of a friend, out it goes at a venture to the 
 next comer : others again are so suspicious, and 
 so obstinately close, that they will rather perish 
 than trust the best friend they have with it : they 
 are, both of them, in the wrong; only the one 
 is the better-natured error, and the other the 
 safer. Now, as to the trust of a friend, there 
 are many innocent things which in their own na- 
 ture may seem to be privacies, and which custom 
 has ever reputed so ; in which cases, there is 
 place enough for the offices of friendship, in the 
 mutual communication of our most secret cares 
 and counsels. But yet, we are so to govern our- 
 selves, that even an enemy should not turn our 
 actions to reproach. For an honest man lives not 
 to the world, but to his own conscience. There 
 is a certain softness of nature and spirit that 
 steals upon a man, and, like wine, or love, 
 draws all things from him. No man will either 
 conceal, or tell, all that he hears. But he that 
 tells the thing, will hardly conceal the author : 
 so that it passes from one to another, and that? 
 2 u 2 
 
4p(> seneca's morals. 
 
 H.unianiiy makes us affable and gemle. 
 
 which was at first a secret, does presently become 
 a rumour. For this, and for many other rea- 
 sons, we should set a watch upon our lips, and 
 attend the more useful and necessary work of 
 contemplation. The first petition that we are to 
 make to God Almighty, is for a good conscience; 
 the second, for health of mind, and then of body. 
 There are somethings which we directly wish, for, 
 as joy, peace, and the like; some that we pray 
 for only in case of necessity, as patience in pain, 
 or sickness, &c. Others that concern our exter- 
 nal behaviour, as modesty of countenance, de- 
 cency of motion, and such a demeanor as may 
 become a prudent man. Many things may be 
 commodious; that is to say, they may be of 
 more use than trouble, and yet not simply good. 
 Some things we have for exercise, others for in- 
 struction and delight. These things belong to us 
 only as we are men, but not as we are good men. 
 Some things serve to correct and regulate our 
 manners, others to enquire into the nature and 
 original of them. How shall we know what a. 
 man is to do, if we do not search into his na- 
 ture, and find out what is best for him, and what 
 he is to avoid, and what to pursue ? Humanity 
 not only keeps us from being proud and covetous, 
 but it makes us affable and gentle, in our words, 
 actions, and affections. We have no precepts 
 from the liberal arts, neither for this, nor for. 
 
sexeca's morals. 4pr 
 
 Make 1'jste to be perfect. 
 
 sincerity, integrity of manners, modesty, fru- 
 gality, no nor for clemency itself, which makes 
 us as tender of another's blood as of our own, 
 and distinguishes men in society from beasts of 
 prey. Some people are ever complaining of the 
 iniquity of the times: but let no man depend 
 upon the goodness of his cause, but rather upon 
 the firmness of his courage ; there may be force, 
 or bribery ; T would hope the best, but prepare 
 for the worst. What if I have served an ungrate- 
 ful interest, and suffered wrongfully ? An honest 
 man is more troubled for the injustice of a severe 
 sentence, than for the cruelty of it; and that his 
 country has done an ill thing, rather than that 
 lie himself suffers it. If he be banished, the 
 shame is not his, but the authors of it. He tem- 
 pers his delights and his afflictions, and says to 
 himself — that if our joys cannot be long, neither 
 will our sorrows. lie is patient in his own mis- 
 fortunes, without envy at the advantages of his 
 neighbour. His virtue is bolder in the opposi- 
 tion of ill things, than tyranny itself can be in the 
 imposing of them. This is rather to tell you 
 what you do already, than what you should do. 
 Go on, as you have begun, and make haste to 
 be perfect : but take notice, that the mind is to 
 be now and then unbent; a glass of wine, a jour- 
 ney, a mouthful of fresh air, relieves it; but 
 then there is a difference betwixt a remission and 
 2 v 3 
 
4-gs seneca's morals. 
 
 We set bounds to others, and none to ourselves. 
 
 a dissolution. Without exercise a dull humour 
 invades us, and it is remarkable, that men of 
 brawny arms, and broad shoulders, have com- 
 monly weak souls. Some exercises are short and 
 gentle, and set the body right presently. But, 
 whatever we do, let "us return quickly to the 
 mind, for that must not lie idle. A little labour 
 serves it, and it works in all seasons ; in sum- 
 mer, winter, old age, nothing hinders it. And, 
 to make it more valuable, it is every day better 
 than other. Not that I would have you perpe- 
 tually poring upon a book either, but allow 
 yourself seasonable respites, and to it again. A 
 coach, or a walk, does your body good, without 
 interrupting your stud}- ; for you may discourse, 
 dictate, read, hear, at the same time. Now, 
 though the exercise be laudable and healthful, 
 vet the masters of them are, for the most part, of 
 lewd example. They divide their lives betwixt 
 the tavern and the hot- house ; and a swimming 
 debauch is a good day's work with them. But, 
 how apt are we to set bounds to others, and none 
 to ourselves ; and to observe their warts, when 
 our own bodies are covered with ulcers! What 
 is more ordinary, than for people to reverence 
 and detest the fortunate, at the same time, even 
 for doing those things which they themselves 
 would do. if they could ? There might be some 
 hope of amendment, if we would but confess our 
 
seneca's motials. 4Q<) 
 
 Knavery the ready way to riches. 
 
 faults; as a man must be awake that tells his 
 dream. There are some diseases which are ab- 
 solutely hopeless and past cure, but they may 
 yet be palliated; and philosophy, if it cannot 
 help in one case, it may in another. To a man 
 in a fever, a gentle remission is a degree of 
 health ; and it is something, if a man be not per- 
 fectly sound, to be yet more curable. But we 
 are loth to be at the pains of attending our own 
 business ; we lead the life in the world, that some 
 lazy people do m a market, they stand gaping 
 about them, without either buying or selling. 
 We slip our opportunities ; and if they be not 
 catched in the very nick, they are irrecoverably 
 lost. 
 
 THE DANGER OF FLATTERY, AND IN WHAT 
 
 CASES A MAN MAY BE ALLOWED TO 
 
 COMMEND HIMSELF. 
 
 Demetrius was wont to say — that knavery 
 was the ready way to riches, and that the casting off 
 of virtue was the first step to thriving in the world. 
 Stud) but the art of flattery, (which is now a-days 
 so acceptable, that a moderate commendation, 
 passes for a libel,) study that art, I say, and you 
 shall do your business without running any risk 
 upon the seas, or any hazards of merchandizing, 
 husbandry, or suits at law. There is not one 
 man of a million that is proof against an artificial 
 
 a 
 
500 senega's morals. 
 
 Of parasites and crafly flatterers-; 
 
 flatterer; but something or other will stick, if \*e 
 do but give him the hearing. Nay, we like him 
 well enough, though we shake him off, and the 
 quarrel is easily reconciled. We seem to oppose 
 him, but we do not shut the door against him, 
 or, if we do, it is but as a mistress will do some- 
 time upon her servant — she would be well enough, 
 content to be hindered, and take it much better 
 yet to have it broke open. Beside that r a man 
 lies commonly most open where he is attacked : 
 how shameiully are great men fawned upon by 
 slaves, and inured to fulsome praises ? when the 
 only business of those, that call themselves 
 friends, is to try who can most dexterously de- 
 ceive his master. For want of knowing their own 
 strength, they believe themselves as great as 
 their parasites represent them, and venture upon 
 broils and wars, to their irreparable destruction. 
 They break alliances, and transport themselves 
 into passions, which, for want of better counsels, 
 hurry them on to blood and confusion. They 
 pursue every wild imagination as a certainty, and 
 think it a greater disgiace to be bent, than to be 
 broken. They set up their rest upon the perpe- 
 tuity of a tottering fortune, until they come at 
 last to see the ruin of themselves and their pos- 
 sessions, and too late to understand that their 
 misfortunes and their flatteries were of the same 
 date. There is a sparing and a crafty flattery,. 
 
seneca's morals. 501 
 
 Their words 3re deceiiful. 
 
 that looks like plain-dealing. But all flatteries 
 are words of course, and he that receives them 
 will give them. Nay, let it be ever so shameless, 
 a man takes all to himself, though his very con- 
 science gives him the lye. Cruelty shall be trans- 
 lated mercy ; extortion and oppression shall be 
 called liberality ; lust and gluttony, to the high- 
 est degree in the world, shall be magnified for 
 temperance. Now, what hope is there of his 
 changing for the better, that values himself for 
 the best of men already ? The stroke of an ar- 
 row convinced Alexander that he was not the 
 son of Jupiter, but a mortal man. And thus, 
 upon the experiment of human frailty, should 
 every man say to himself — am not I sad some- 
 times, and tortured betwixt hope and fear? do I 
 not hanker after vain pleasures ? He that is not 
 yet satisfied, is not so good as he should be. The 
 words of flatterers and parasites seldom die in the 
 hearing, and when they have gained admittance, 
 they grow more and more upon you, and shortly 
 they will tell you, that virtue, philosophy, and 
 justice, are but empty sounds ; let every man live 
 while he may, and make the best of the present, 
 and not govern himself at a rate as if he were to 
 keep a diary for his father: what madness is it, to 
 enrich a man's heir, and starve himself, and to 
 turn a friend into an enemy? For his joy will be 
 proportioned to what you leave him : never trou- 
 
502 Seneca's morals. 
 
 Self commendation, 
 
 ble yourself for these superfluous censors of other 
 men's lives, and enemies of their own : these 
 pedagogues of mankind are not worth your care. 
 These are the people that draw us from our pa- 
 rents and country, our friends, and other neces- 
 sary duties. 
 
 I would neither be deceived myself, nor de- 
 ceive others ; but if a man cannot live without 
 it, let him commend himself, and say thus. — I 
 mive applied myself to liberal studies, though 
 both the poverty of my condition, and my own 
 reason, might rather have put me upon the mak- 
 ing of my fortune. I have given proof, that all 
 minds are capable of goodness, and have illus- 
 trated the obscurity of my family by the eminency 
 of my virtue. I have preserved my faith in all 
 extremities, and I have ventured my life for it. 
 I have never spoken one word contrary to my 
 conscience, and I have been more solicitous for 
 my friends than for myself: I never made any 
 base submissions to any man, and I have never 
 done any thing unworthy of a resolute and of an 
 honest man. My mind is raised so much above 
 all danger, that I have mustered all hazards, and 
 I bless myself in the Providence which gave me 
 that experiment of my virtue; for it was not lit, 
 methought, that so great glory should come 
 cheap. Nay, I did not so much as deliberate, 
 whether good faith should suffer for me, or I for 
 
S-F.N"ECA*S MORALS. 503 
 
 How far allowable. 
 
 it. I stood my ground, without laying violent 
 hands upon myself, to escape the rage of the 
 powerful; though under Caligula I saw cruelties 
 to such a degree, that to be killed outright was 
 accounted a mercy ; and yet I persisted in my 
 honesty, to shew that I was ready to do more 
 than die for it. My mind was never corrupted 
 with gifts ; and when the humour of avarice was 
 at the height, I never laid my hand on any un- 
 lawful gain ; I have been temperate in my diet, 
 modest in my discourse, courteous and affable to 
 my inferiors, and have ever paid a respect and 
 reverence to my betters. After all, what I have 
 said is either true or false : if true, I have com- 
 mended myself before a great witness, my own 
 conscience; if false, I am ridiculous, without 
 any witness at all. Let every man retire into 
 himself; for the old, the young, men, women, 
 and children, they are all wicked. Not every one 
 only, or a few, but there is a general conspiracy 
 in evil. We should therefore fly the world, with- 
 draw into ourselves, and in some sort avoid even 
 ourselves too. 
 
504 SENECA S MORALS. 
 
 Looseness of manners produces cruelty and sedition. 
 
 A GENERAL DISSOLUTION OF MANNERS, 
 WITH A CENSURE OF CORRUPT 
 MAGISTRATES. 
 
 The corruption of the present times is the 
 general complaint of all times : it ever has been 
 so, and it ever will be so ; not considering that 
 the wickedness of the world is always the same, 
 as to the degree of it, though it may change 
 places perhaps, and vary a little in the matter. 
 One while whoring is in fashion, another while 
 gluttony ; to-day excess in apparel, and more care 
 of the body than of the mind; to-morrow comes 
 up the humour of scoffing, and after that, per- 
 chance, a vein of drinking — when he shall be ac- 
 counted the bravest man, that makes himself the 
 veriest beast. This prostitute looseness of man- 
 ners makes way for sedition and cruelty. Under 
 Tiberius, the plague of your dilators, or inform- 
 ers, was worse than any civil war. It was an 
 age, wherein the words of men in their cups, the 
 most innocent railleries, and ingenious freedoms 
 of conversation were made capital. When it was 
 dangerous to be honest, and only profitable to be 
 vicious. And not only ill things, but vice itself, 
 was both commended and preferred; for all inso- 
 lences, when they come to be exemplary, they 
 pretend to be lawful. Authority in sin is an in- 
 
senega's morals* 50 j 
 
 Danger of bod example 
 
 centivc to it; and it is at least an excuse, if not 
 a warrant, to transgress after great example. 
 Beside that, we are prone to do amiss, even of 
 ourselves, without either a leader, or a compa- 
 nion. But it is a malevolent sort of comfort-, 
 that which men take in the number of the 
 wicked. • 
 
 The worst of all is— that whereas in other 
 cases the people are ashamed of their errors, in 
 that of life they are delighted with them, and so 
 become incurable. The pilot takes no pleasure 
 in running upon a rock, nor the physician in the 
 death of his patient, nor the advocate in the loss 
 of his client's cause. But, on the other side, the 
 criminal rejoices in his uncleanness, in his ambi- 
 tion, and in Ins theft; and never troubles himself 
 for the fault, but for the miscarriage. He makes 
 infamy the reward of lewdness, and values him- 
 self upon his excellency in ill- doing. The ques- 
 tion is, who shall be most impious; we have 
 every day worse appetites, and less shame. So- 
 briety and conscience are become foolish and 
 scandalous things ; and it is half the relish of our 
 lusts, that they are committed in the face of the 
 sun. Innocency is not only rare, but lost ; and 
 mankind is entered into a sort of confederacy 
 against virtue. To say nothing of intestine wars, 
 fathers and sons in league against one another, 
 poisoned fountains, troops in search of the be- 
 
 H 
 
506* seneca's morals. 
 
 Corrupt magistrates. 
 
 riished and proscribed, prisons crammed with 
 worthy men, cities demolished, rape and adul- 
 tery authorized, public perjuries and frauds, a 
 violation of common faith, and all the bonds of 
 human society cancelled. Adultery is the ready 
 way to wedlock, and marriage to a single life 
 again ; for parting is one condition of it. For 
 they divorce to marry, and they marry to be di- 
 vorced. That which they often talk and hear of, 
 they easily do. What shame can there be of in- 
 continence, when modesty is become a reproach ; 
 and when it is the mode for every wife to provide 
 herself a gallant or two, beside her husband ? It 
 is an idle thing, to think of ever converting those 
 people-, that find both advantage and reputation 
 in their wickedness. 
 
 Would any man ever have imagined, that Clo- 
 dius should have come oft* by bribery, for de- 
 bauching the wife of Caisar, and prophaning the 
 public vows for the safety of the people; but the 
 judges were corrupted, and not only with money, 
 but with the bodies of young men and women : so 
 that his absolution was fouler than his crime ; 
 the bribe was adultery, as well as the offence, 
 and he had no way to be safe, until he had made 
 his judges like himself. " Name the woman you 
 have a mind to," says he, " and you shall have 
 her ; and when you have committed the sin, con- 
 demn it if you dare. Appoint the time, and the 
 
SEXECa's MOTIALS. 50? 
 
 Justfee perverted. 
 
 place, and she shall be ready for you/' Nay, 
 the practice was so gross, that the bench desired 
 a guard of the senate, to secure them from the 
 people. Before the sentence was given he was 
 an adulterer, in the manage of the cause he was 
 a pander, and his way of escaping punishment 
 was fouler than the offence that deserved it. A 
 lust that spared not the altar, and perverted jus- 
 tice upon the very seat of judgment. The ques- 
 tion was — whether an adulterer should escape 
 unpunished? and the resolution was — that, with- 
 out being an adulterer, he could not be secure, 
 Kor is it likely that their conversation was one 
 jot honester than their sentence: these things 
 have been, done, and will be done. Discipline 
 and fear may restrain- the licence of the people ; 
 but it is not to be thought that they will ever be 
 good of their own accord. But, let us not yet 
 speak of luxury and dissolution, as the vices of 
 the age, which, in truth, are only the vices of 
 the men. The practices of our times are mode- 
 rate, compared with those r when the delinquent 
 pleaded not guilty to the bench, and the bench 
 confessed itself guilty to the delinquent; and 
 when one adultery was excused by another In 
 those days it passed for great piety, not to be 
 very impious. He that gave most, carried the 
 day; and it is but according to the laws of na- 
 tions, for him that buys, to sell. And, it is to 
 2.x 2 
 
60S seneca's morals. 
 
 Men mind iheir pleasures rnoie than manners. 
 
 be noted, that a man may be as covetous of get- 
 ting what he intends to squander away, as if he 
 were to hoard it up. The contempt of poverty in 
 others, and the fear of it in ourselves, unmerciful 
 oppressions, and mercenary magistrates, are the- 
 common grievances of a licentious government. 
 The baths and the theatres are crowded, when 
 the temples and the schools are empty ; for men 
 mind their pleasures more than their manners. 
 All vices gain upon us by the promise of reward ; 
 avarice promises money, luxury sensual satisfac- 
 tion, ambition promises preferment and power. 
 And it is no excuse to say, that a man is not very 
 covetous ; a little ambitious, choleric, inconstant, 
 lustful, and the like. He had better have one 
 great vice, than a spice of all little ones. We say 
 commonly, that a fool has all sorts of vices in 
 him ; that is to say, be is free from none ; but they 
 do not all appear, and he is more prone to one 
 than to another. One is given to avarice, an* 
 other to luxury, a third to wantonness; but we 
 are not yet to ask the Stoics, if Achilles be a 
 coward, Aristides unjust, Fabius rash, Mucins a 
 traitor, Camillus a deserter. We do not say, 
 that all vices are in all men- as some are in some 
 particulars. 
 
Seneca's morals. 5G$ 
 
 A clear conscience onl>, makes a mnn noli!?. 
 
 THE ORIGINAL OF ALL MEN IS THE SAME, 
 AND VIRTUE IS THE ONLY NOBILITY. 
 
 It is not well done, to be still murmuring 
 against nature and fortune, as if it were their un- 
 kindness that makes you inconsiderable, when it 
 is only by your own weakness that you make 
 yourself so; for it is virtue, not pedigree, that 
 renders a man either valuable, or happy. Philo- 
 sophy does not either reject or chuse any man 
 for his quality. Socrates was no patrician, 
 Cleanthes but an under-gardener ; neither did 
 Plato dignify philosophy by his birth, but by his 
 goodness. All these worthy men are our proge- 
 nitors, if we will but do ourselves the honour to 
 become their disciples. The original of all man- 
 kind was the same, and it is only a clear con- 
 science that makes any man noble, for that de- 
 rives even from heaven itself. It is the saying of 
 a great man — that if we could trace our descents, 
 we should find all slaves to come from princes, 
 and all princes from slaves. But fortune has 
 turned all things topsy-turvy, in a long story of 
 revolutions. It is most certain, that our beginning 
 had nothing before it ; and our ancestors were 
 some of them splendid, others sordid, as it hap- 
 pened. We have lost the memorials of our ex- 
 traction ; and, in truth, it matters not whence we 
 2x3 
 
5\0 seneca's morals. 
 
 Tenderness due 10 servants. 
 
 came, but whither we go. Nor is it any more to 
 our honour, the glory of our predecessors, than it 
 is to their shame, the wickedness of their pos- 
 terity. We are all of us composed of the same 
 elements; why should we then value ourselves 
 upon our nobility of blood, as if we were not all 
 of us equal, if we could but recover our evi- 
 dence ? But, when we can carry it no farther, 
 the herald provides some hero to supply the place 
 of an illustrious original, and there is the rise of 
 arms and families. For a man to spend his life in 
 pursuit of a title, that serves only, when he dies, 
 to furnish out an epitaph, is below a wise man's 
 business. 
 
 It pleases me exceedingly, to understand, by 
 all that come out of your quarters, that you de- 
 mean yourself humanely and tenderly towards 
 your servants. It is the part of a wise, and of a 
 good man, to deal with his inferior as he would 
 have his superior deal with him ; for servants are 
 not only men, but a kind of humble friends, and 
 fortune has no more power over them than over 
 their masters ; and he that duly considers how 
 many servants have come to be masters, and 
 how many masters to be servants, will lay no 
 great stress of argument either upon the one, or 
 upon the other. Some use their servants worse 
 than beasts, in slavish attendances, betwixt their 
 drink and their lusts; some are brought up only 
 
se^eca's morals. 511 
 
 Every man is a servant. 
 
 to curve, others to season, and all to serve the 
 turns of pomp and luxury. Is it not a barbarous 
 custom, to make it almost capital for a servant 
 only to cough, sneeze, sigh, or but wag his lips, 
 while he is in waiting, and to keep him the whole 
 night mute, and fasting ; yet so it comes to pass, 
 that they that dare not speak before their masters, 
 will not forbear talking of them ; and those, on 
 the other side, that were allowed a modest free- 
 dom of speech in their master's entertainments, 
 were most obstinately silent upon the torture, 
 rather than they would betray them. But we 
 live as if a servant were not made of the same 
 materials with his master, or to breathe the same 
 air, or to live and die under the same conditions. 
 It is worthy of observation, that the most impe- 
 rious masters over their own servants, are, at the 
 same time, the most abject slaves to the servants 
 of other masters. I will not distinguish a servant 
 by his office, but by his manners. The one is- , 
 the work of fortune, the other of virtue. But 
 we lock only to his a^iality, and not to his merit. 
 Why should not a brave action rather dignify the 
 condition of a servant, than the condition of a 
 servant lessen a brave action ? I would not va- 
 lue a man for his cloat^s, or degree, any more 
 than I would do a horse for his trappings. What 
 if he be a servant ! shew me any man that is not 
 so, to his lusts, his avarice, his ambition, his 
 
512 Seneca's morals. 
 
 A servint should reverence his master. 
 
 x _ _ . 
 
 palate, to his queen, nay, to other men's ser- 
 vants ; and we are all of us servants to fear ; in- 
 solent we are many of us at home, servile and 
 despised abroad ; and none are more liable to be 
 trampled upon, than those that have gotten a 
 babit of giving affronts by suffering them. What 
 matters it how many masters we have, when it 
 is but one slavery ? and whosoever contemns that, 
 is perfectly free, let his masters be ever so many. 
 That man is only free, not whom fortune has a 
 little power over, but over whom she has none at 
 all ; which state of liberty is an inestimable good ? 
 when we desire nothing that is either superfluous,- 
 or vicious. They are asses that are made for 
 burden, and not the nobler sort of horses. In 
 the civil wars, betwixt Csesir and Pompey, the 
 question was not, who should be slaves or free, 
 but who should be master. Ambition is the same 
 thing in private that it is in public ; and the du- 
 ties are effectually the same, betwixt the master 
 of a kingdom and the master of a family. As 1 
 would treat some servants kindly because they 
 are worthy, and others to make them so ; so, on 
 the other side, I would have a servant to reve- 
 rence his master, and rather to love him than 
 fear him. Some there are, that think this too 
 little for a master, though it is all that we pay, 
 even to God himself. The body of a servant may 
 be bought and sold, but his mind is free. 
 
SENECA S MORALS. 51', 
 
 Conscientious men unthankful to Providence. 
 
 WE ARE JUSTER TO MEN THAN TO GOD — 
 
 OF LIFE AND DEATH — OF GOOD 
 
 AND EVIL. 
 
 It is, without dispute, that the loss of a friend 
 is one of the greatest trials of human frailty, and 
 no man is so much exalted above the sense of 
 that calamity, as not to be affected with it. And 
 yet, if a man bears it bravely, they cry — he has 
 no sense of piety, or good nature in him : if he 
 sinks under it, they call him effeminate : so that 
 he lies both ways under a reproach. And what 
 is the ground of the trouble, I beseech you, but 
 that he might have lived longer in respect of his 
 years, and, in effect, that he ought to have done 
 so, in regard of his usefulness to the world ? I 
 cannot but wonder, to see men that are really 
 just and temperate in all their dealings with men, 
 and in business, so exceedingly to forget them- 
 selves in this point. But we have, in excuse of 
 this error, the failings of the whole world with us 
 for company. For even those that arc the most 
 scrupulously conscientious toward men, are vet 
 unthankful and injurious to Providence. 
 
 It is not the number of days that makes a life 
 long, but the full employment of them, upon the 
 main end and purpose of life: which is the per? 
 feeling of the mind, in making a man the abso- 
 
JT4 SENECA'S M0TIAL5. 
 
 Of life and death. 
 
 lute master of himself. I reckon the matter of 
 age among external things, the main point is to 
 live and die with honour. Every man that lives 
 is upon the way, and must go through with his 
 journey, without stopping, until he comes at the 
 end ; and wheresoever it ends, if it ends well, it 
 is a perfect life. There is an invincible fate that 
 attends all mortals; and one generation is con- 
 demned to tread upon the heels of another. Take 
 •away from life the power of death, and it is a 
 slavery. As Caligula was passing upon the way, 
 an old man, that was a prisoner, and with a 
 beard down to his girdle, made it his request to 
 Ca?sar that he might be put to death. "Why," 
 says Cassar to him,. " are you not dead already I"' 
 So that you see some desire it, as well as others 
 fear it :. and why not ? when it is one of the du- 
 ties of life to die, and it is one of the comforts of 
 it too; for the living are under the power of for- 
 tune, but she has no dominion at all over the 
 dead. How can life be pleasant to any man, that 
 is not prepared to part with it? Or, what loss 
 can be easier to us, than that which can never be 
 missed, or desired again ? I was brought by a 
 defluxion into a hopeless consumption, and I had 
 it many times in my thoughts to deliver myself 
 from a miserable life by a violent death. But 
 the tenderness 1 had for an aged and indulgent 
 father, held my hands : for, thought I to mvself r 
 
seneca's morals. 515 
 
 Of good and evil. 
 
 it will be very* hard for my father to be without 
 me, though 1 could most willingly part with my- 
 self. In the case of a particular disease, a phy- 
 sician may propound a remedy : but the only re- 
 medy for all diseases, is the contempt of death. 
 Though I know too, that it is the business of a 
 long life to learn that lesson. 
 
 Oh ! the happiness of distinguishing good from 
 evil, in the works of Providence! But, instead 
 of raising our thoughts to the contemplation of 
 •divine matters, and enquiring into the original, 
 •the state*, and appointed issue of created nature, 
 we are digging of the earth, and serving of cur 
 avarice, neglecting all the good things that are 
 so frankly offered us. How great a folly and 
 madness is it, for men that are dying, and in the 
 hands of death already, to extend their hopes, 
 and to carry their ambition and desires to the 
 grave unsatisfied ? for whosoever is tainted with 
 those hydropic appetites, can never have enough, 
 either of money, or power. It is a remarkable 
 thing, that among those that place their happi- 
 ness in sense, they are the most miserable that 
 seem to be happiest. The riches of nature are 
 the most precious treasures. What has any man 
 to desire more, than to keep himself from cold, 
 hunger, and thirst? It is not the quantity, but 
 the opinion, that governs in this case : that can 
 never be little, which is enough : nor does any 
 
3l6 seneca's morals. 
 
 No man happy that is not free. 
 
 man account that to be much which is too little. 
 The benefits of fortune are so far comfortable to 
 us, as we enjoy them without losing the posses- 
 sion of ourselves. Let us purge our minds, and 
 follow nature ; we shall otherwise be still either 
 fearing, or craving, and slaves to accidents. Not 
 that there is any pleasure in poverty, but it is a 
 great felicity for a man to bring his mind to be 
 contented even in that, which fortune itself can- 
 not make worse. Methinks our quarrels with 
 ambition, and profitable employments, are some- 
 what like those we have with our mistresses; we 
 do not bate them, but wrangle with them. In a 
 word, betwixt those things which are sought and 
 coveted, and yet complained of, and those things 
 which we have lost, and pretend that we cannot 
 live without, our misfortunes are purely volun- 
 tary; and we are servants, not so much by ne- 
 cessity as by choice. No man can be happy that 
 is not free and fearless; and no man be so, but 
 he, that by philosophy has got the better of for- 
 tune. In what place soever we are, we shall find 
 ourselves beset with the miseries of human na- 
 ture; some without us, that either encompass us, 
 deceive us, or force us : others within us, that eat 
 up our very hearts, in the middle of solitude. 
 •" u it is not yet, as we imagine, that fortune has 
 long arms; she meddles with nobody, that does 
 not first lay hold upon her. We should keep a dis- 
 
sineca's morals. 51/ 
 
 Death steals upon us insensibly. 
 
 tance, therefore, and withdraw into the know- 
 ledge of nature, and of ourselves : we understand 
 the original of things, the order of the world, the 
 circulation of the seasons, the courses of the stars, 
 and that the whole frame of the universe (only 
 the earth excepted) is but a perpetual motion. 
 We know the causes of day and night, of light 
 and of darkness, but it is at a distance : let us- 
 direct our thoughts then to that place, where we 
 shall see all nearer hand. And it is not this 
 hope neither, that makes a wise man resolute at 
 the point of death, because death lies in his way 
 to heaven; for the soul of a wise man is there 
 beforehand: nay, if there were nothing after 
 death to be either expected or feared, he would 
 yet leave this world with as great a mind, 
 though he were to pass into a state of annihila- 
 tion. He that reckons everv hour his last, a 
 day, or an age, is all one to him. Fate is doing 
 our work while we sleep ; death steals upon us 
 insensibly, and the more insensibly, because it 
 passes under the name of life. From childhood 
 we grow up, without perceiving it, to did age ; 
 and this increase of our life, duly considered, is 
 a diminution of it. We take death to be before 
 us, but it is behind us, and has already swallow- 
 ed up all that is past ; wherefore, make use of 
 the present, and trust nothing to the morrow, for 
 delay is just so much time lost. We catch hold 
 
 2 Y 
 
518 SENECAS MORALS. 
 
 Life is a tragi-comedy. 
 
 of hopes and flatteries of a little longer life, as 
 drowning men do upon thorns or straws, that 
 either hurt us, or deceive us. You will ask, 
 perhaps, what I do myself, that preach at this 
 rate. Truly, I do like some ill husbands, that 
 spend their estates, and yet keep their accounts : 
 I run out, but yet I can tell which way it goes. 
 And I have the fate of ill husbands too another 
 way ; for every body pities me, and nobody helps 
 me. The soul is never in the right place, so long 
 as it fears to quit the body. Why should a man 
 trouble himself to extend life, which, at best, is 
 a kind of punishment ; and at longest amounts to 
 very little more than nothing ? He is ungrateful, 
 that takes the period of pleasure for an injury; 
 and he is foolish, that knows no good but the 
 present. Nay, there are some courses of life, 
 which a man ought to quit, though with life it- 
 self: as the trade of killing others, instead of 
 learning to die himself. Life itself is neither 
 good nor evil, but only a place for good and evil ; 
 it is a kind of tragi-comedy. Let it be well act- 
 ed, and no matter whether it be long or short. 
 We are apt to be misled by the appearance of 
 things, and when they come to us recommended 
 in good terms, and by great example, they will 
 impose many times upon very wise men. The 
 mind is never right, but when it is at peace 
 within itself, and independent upon any thing 
 
seneca's morals. 5ig 
 
 Great goods a;e seldom long-lived. 
 
 from abroad. The soul is in heaven, even while 
 it is in the flesh, if it be purged of natural cor- 
 ruptions, and taken up with divine thoughts: 
 and, whether any body sees us, or takes notice 
 of us, it matters not. Virtue will of itself break 
 forth, though ever so much pains be taken to 
 suppress it. And it is all one, whether it be 
 known or no; but after-ages, however, will do us 
 right when we are dead, and insensible of the 
 veneration they allow us. He that is wise, will 
 compute the conditions of humanity, and con- 
 tract the subject both of his joys and fears. And 
 it is time well spent, so to abate of the one, that 
 he may likewise diminish the other. By this 
 practice he will come to understand bow short; 
 how uncertain, and how safe, many of those 
 things are, which we are wont to fear. When I 
 see a splendid house, or a glittering train, I look 
 upon it as I do upon courts, which are only the 
 schools of avarice and ambition; and they are, 
 at best, but a pomp which is more for shew than 
 possession. Beside that, great goods are seldom 
 long-lived ; and that is the fairest felicity, which 
 is of the shortest growth. 
 
 OF TRUE COURAGE. 
 
 Fortitude is (properly) the contempt of all 
 hazards according to reason, though it be com - 
 mohly and promiscuously used also, for a cod 
 
 o v a 
 
.j20 seneca's morals. 
 
 Of fortitude. 
 
 tempt of all hazards, even without, or against 
 reason ; which is rather a daring and a brutal 
 fierceness, than an honourable courage. A brave 
 man fears nothing more than the weakness of 
 being affected with popular glory. His eyes are 
 not dazzled either with gold, or steel ; he tram- 
 ples upon all the terrors and glories of fortune ; 
 he looks upon himself as a citizen and soldier of 
 the world, and, in despite of all accidents and 
 oppositions, he maintains his station. He does 
 not only suffer, but court the most perilous occa- 
 sions of virtue, and those adventures which are 
 most terrible to others ; for he values himself 
 upon experiment, and is more ambitious of being 
 reputed good than happy. Mucius lost his hand 
 with more honour than he could have preserved 
 it : he was a greater conqueror without it, than 
 he could have been with it; for with the very 
 stump of it he overcame two kings, Tarquin and 
 Porsenna. Rutilia followed Cotta into banish- 
 ment ; she stayed and she returned with him too, 
 and soon after she lost him, without so much as 
 shedding a tear : a great instance of her courage- 
 in his banishment, and of her prudence in his 
 death. This (says Epicurus) is the last, and 
 the blessedest day of my life ; when he was ready 
 to expirein an extreme torment of the stone. It 
 is never said of the three hundred Fabii, that 
 they were overcome, but that they were slain ; 
 
sexeca's morals. 521 
 
 Seciii heca of ii n rov n la 
 
 nor of Regulus, that he was vanquished by the 
 Carthaginians, but that he was taken. The Spar- 
 tans prohibited all exercises, where the victory 
 was declared by the voice and submission of him 
 that was worsted. When Phaeton begged of Phoe- 
 bus the government of the chariot of the sun for 
 one ■ day, the poets make him so far from being 
 discouraged by his father's telling him of the 
 danger of the undertaking, and how he himself 
 had much ado to keep his seat for fear, when he 
 looked down from the meridian, that it proved a 
 spur to his importunity. " That is the thing," 
 says Phaeton, " that I would be at; to stand firm 
 in that difficulty where Phoebus himself trem- 
 bles." Security is the caution of narrow minds j 
 but, as fire tries gold, so does difficulty and ha- 
 zard try virtuous men. Not but that he may 
 be as valiant that watches upon the tower, as he 
 that fights upon his knees ; only the one has had 
 the good fortune of an occasion for the proof of 
 his resolution. As some creatures are cruel, 
 others crafty, and some timorous, so man is en- 
 dued with a glorious and an excellent spirit, that 
 prompts him, not so much to regard a safe life, 
 as an honest. Providence has made him the 
 master of this lower world, and he reckons it his 
 duty to sacrifice his own particular to the advan- 
 tage of the whole. And yet there is a vast dif- 
 ference, even in the same action done by a brave 
 2 y 3 
 
522 seneca's morals. 
 
 It is glorious to die as we ought. 
 
 person, and by a stupid ; as the death of Cato 
 was honourable, but that of Brutus was shame- 
 ful. Nor is it death itself that we recommend for 
 glorious, but it is a glorious thing to die as we 
 ought. Neither is it poverty, banishment, or 
 pain, that we commend ; but the man that be- 
 haves himself bravely under those afflictions. 
 How were the gladiators contemned that called 
 for quarter; and those on the other side favoured 
 that despised it? Man) 7 a man saves his life by 
 not fearing to lose it, and many a man loses his 
 life for being over-solicitous to save it. We are 
 many times afraid of dying by one thing, and we 
 come to die by another. As for example, we 
 are threatened by an enemy, and we die by a 
 pleurisy. The fear of death enlarges all other 
 things that we fear. To bear it with constancy, 
 we should compute, that whether our lives be 
 long or short, it comes all to a point: seme 
 hours we lose, what if they were days, months, 
 years? What matters it, if I never arrive at 
 that which I must certainly part with when I 
 have it? Life is. but one point of flying time, 
 and that which is to come is no more mine than 
 that which is past. And we have this for our 
 comfort too, that whosoever now fears death, 
 will, some time or other, come to wish it. H 
 death be troublesome, or terrible, the fault is in 
 us, and not in death itself. It is as great mad- 
 
seneca's morals. 525 
 
 It is as hard to ^ive counsel a* to take it. 
 
 ness for a man to fear that which he is not to feel, 
 as that which he is not to suffer ; the difference 
 lies in the manner of dying, and not in the issue 
 of death itself. It is a more inglorious death to 
 be smothered with perfumes, than to be torn to 
 pieces with pincers. Provided my mind be not 
 sick, I shall not much heed my body. I am 
 prepared for my last hour, without tormenting 
 mvself when it will come. It is betwixt the 
 Stoics, and other philosophers, as betwixt men 
 and women, they are both equally necessary for 
 society ; only the one is born for government, 
 and the other for subjection. Other sects deal 
 with their disciples as plausible physicians do 
 with their patients, they flatter and humour 
 them ; whereas the Stoics go a bolder way to 
 work, and consider rather their profit than their 
 pleasure. 
 
 THE ADVANTAGES OF A PRIVATE LIFE, 
 AND THE SLAVERY OF A PUBLIC. 
 
 Let no man presume to advise others, that 
 has not first given good counsel to himself, and. 
 he may then pretend to help his neighbour. It 
 is, in short, as hard a matter to give good coun- 
 sel, as to take it: let it, however, be agreed, be- 
 twixt the two parties, that the one designs to 
 confer a benefit, and the other to receive it. 
 Some people scorn to be taught, others are 
 
Seneca's morals. 
 
 It is never too late to learn. 
 
 
 ashamed of it, as they would be of going to 
 school when they are old : but it is never too 
 late to learn, what it is always necessary to 
 know; and it is no shame to learn so long as we 
 are ignorant, that is to say, so long as we live. 
 When any thing is amiss in our bodies, or estates, 
 we have recourse presently to the physician, or 
 the lawyer,, for help: and why not to the philo- 
 sopher, in the disorders of our mind ? No man 
 lives, but he that applies himself to wisdom ; for 
 he takes into his own life the supplement of all 
 past ages. It is a fair step toward happiness and 
 virtue, to delight in the conversation of good and 
 of wise men; and where that cannot be had, the 
 next point is to keep no company at all. Soli- 
 tude affords business enough, and the entertain- 
 ment is comfortable and easy. Whereas public 
 offices are vexatious and restless. There is a great 
 difference betwixt a life of leisure and of laziness. 
 When people will express their envy of a man in a 
 happy condition, they will say — he lives at his 
 ease. When, in truth, the man is dead, alive. 
 There is a long life, and there is a long death: 
 the former, when we enjoy the benefits of a right 
 mind ; and the other, when the senses are extin- 
 guished, and the body dead before-hand. He 
 that makes me the master of my own time, and 
 places n.e in a state of freedom, lays a great obli- 
 gation upon me. As a merchant, that has a 
 
seneca's morals. 52S 
 
 Most men are bad company to themselves. 
 
 considerable fortune abroad, is more sensible of 
 the blessing of a fair wind and safe passage, than 
 he that has only ballast, or some coarse commo- 
 dity in the vessel ; so that man that employs his 
 privacy upon thoughts divine and precious, is 
 more sensible of the comforts of that freedom, 
 than he that bends his meditation an ill way. 
 For he considers all the benefits of his exemption 
 from common duties, he enjoys himself with infi- 
 nite delight, and makes his gratitude answerable 
 to his obligations. He is the best of subjects, 
 and the happiest of men ; and he lives to nature 
 and to himself. Most men are, to themselves, 
 the worst company they can keep. If they be 
 good, quiet, and temperate, they are as good 
 alone as in company, but if otherwise, let them 
 converse with others and avoid themselves: but 
 he that has made himself good company, can 
 never be too much alone. Many a ship is lost 
 in the harbour, but more in the ocean ; as many 
 an honest man is condemned, but more guilty* 
 This, however, is certain, he that cannot secure 
 himself in privacy, shall be much more exposed 
 in public. That which the world calls felicity, is 
 greedy itself, and exposed to the greediness of 
 others. Prosperity, like a fair gale upon a strong 
 current, carries a man in a trice out of the very 
 sight of peace and quiet; and, if it be not tem- 
 pered and regulated, it is so far from easing us, 
 
526 seneca's morals. 
 
 Servitude is the faie of palaces. 
 
 that it proves an oppression to us. A busy, and 
 a fortunate man in the world, calls many men 
 his friends, that are at most but his guests. And 
 if people flock to him, it is but as they do to a 
 fountain, which they both exhaust and trouble. 
 
 What greater slavery can there be, than that 
 of princes in this very respect, that they are 
 chained to their post, and cannot make them- 
 selves less ? All their words and actions are de- 
 scanted upon, and made public discourse ; and 
 there are many things allowable to a private man, 
 that are not fit for a governor. I can walk alone, 
 where I please, without a sword, without fear, 
 and without company ; whereas a prince must be 
 armed in peace, and cannot, with dignity quit his 
 guards. Fortune has him in custody, a train 
 besets him wherever he goes, and there is no 
 making of any escape, lie is little better than 
 nailed to his place, and it is the perfection of his 
 misery, that he cannot go less. He can no more 
 conceal himself than the sun in the firmament, 
 whereas his subjects may come and go, change 
 habits and humour, without being taken notice 
 of. Servitude is the fate of palaces, the splendor 
 of a crown draws all men's eyes upon it. When 
 Csesar speaks, the whole world hears his voice, 
 and trembles at his displeasure; and where it 
 falls, it shakes whatsoever is near it. His lips 
 are. the oracles of the people, and government is 
 
seneca'6 morals. 527 
 
 A prince's strength is ha people's love. 
 
 the cement that bindo them together ; but still, 
 he that is master of many, is the servant yet of 
 more. The power, it is true, of all things be- 
 longs to the prince, but the property to particu- 
 lar persons. And the same thing may be both 
 your's and mine in several respects. "We cannot 
 say that a son, or a servant, has nothing, be- 
 cause a master, or a father, may take it away if 
 he will ; or that he cannot give willingly, be- 
 cause they may hinder it, whether he will or no. 
 This is power and true dominion, and not to rule 
 and command, when we may do it when we 
 please. The strengh of a prince is in the love of 
 his people ; for there is nothing so great, but it 
 must itself perish, when it is become the com- 
 mon safety that it should be so. Tyrants are 
 hated, because they are feared; and because 
 they are hated, they will be feared. They are 
 rendered odious to posterity ; and they had bet- 
 ter never have been born, than to stand upon 
 record for the plagues of mankind. Miserable is 
 that people, where their very keepers are their 
 executioners. And it is not an armed tyranny 
 either, but the unarmed vices of avarice and 
 envv, that we oueht to be most afraid of. Some 
 will not endure to have their vices touched, but 
 will shrink and struggle under the operation, as 
 if they were under the hand of a surgeon. But 
 this shall not hinder me from lancing and prob- 
 
 5 
 
528 seneca's morals. 
 
 The ends of punishments. 
 
 ing, because of the cries and groans of the pati- 
 ent. Every man should have a monitor at his 
 elbow, to keep him from avarice, by shewing 
 him how rich a man may be with a little: from 
 ambition, by representing the disputes and ha- 
 zards that accompany greatness; which makes 
 him as great a burden to others as he is to him- 
 self. When it comes to that once, fear, anxiety, 
 and weariness, make us philosophers. A sickly 
 fortune produces wholesome councils, and we 
 reap this fruit from our adversity, that it brings 
 us at last to wisdom. 
 
 Now, though clemency in a prince be so neces- 
 sary and profitable a virtue, and cruelty so dan- 
 gerous an excess, it is yet the office of a gover- 
 nor, as of the master of an hospital, to keep 
 sick and mad men in order; and, in case of ex- 
 tremity, the very member is to be cut off with 
 the ulcer. All punishment is either for amend- 
 ment, or for example, or that others may live 
 more secure. What is the end of destroying 
 those poisonous and dangerous creatures, which 
 are never to be reclaimed, but to prevent mis- 
 chief ? and yet there may be as much hazard in 
 doing too much as too little. A particular mu- 
 tineer may be punished, but when the whole 
 army is in a revolt, there must be a general par- 
 don. The multitude of offenders is their security 
 and protection, for there is no quarrelling with a 
 
seneca'« morals. 529 
 
 How to be ha,»py. 
 
 public vice, where the custom of offending takes 
 away the shame of it: and it is not prudent 
 neither, by many punishments to shew a city, 
 that the wicked are so much the major part ; 
 beside, that it is as great a dishonour for a prince 
 to have many executions, as for a physician to 
 have many funerals. Shall a father disinherit a 
 son for the first offence ? let him first admonish, 
 then threaten, and afterward punish him. So 
 long as there is hope, we should apply gentle re- 
 medies. But some nations are intractable, and 
 never willing to serve, nor fit to command; and 
 some persons are incorrigible too. 
 
 THE TWO BLESSINGS OF LIFE ARE A SOUND 
 BODY AND A QUIET MIND. 
 
 Epicurus makes the two blessings of life to 
 be a sound body and a quiet mind, which is only 
 a compendious reduction of human felicity to a 
 state of health and of virtue. The way to be 
 happy is to make vice not only odious, but ridi- 
 culous, and every man to mind his own business; 
 ior he that torments himself for other people's 
 misfortunes, shall never be at rest. A virtuous 
 life must be all of a piece ; and not advance by 
 starts and intervals, and then go on where it left, 
 for this is losing of ground. We are to press and 
 persevere, for the main difficulties are yet to come, 
 if I discontinue my course, when shall I come to 
 
 2z 
 
530 senega's morals. 
 
 True happiness is permanent. 
 
 nounce these words — I am a conqueror ? not a 
 conqueror of barbarous enemies and savage na- 
 tions, but I have subdued avarice, ambition, 
 and those lusts that have subjected even the 
 greatest of conquerors. Who was a greater than 
 Alexander, that extended his empire from Thra- 
 cia to the utmost bounds of the east ? but yet he 
 burnt Persepolis at the request of a prostitute, to 
 gratify his lust. He overcame Darius, and slew 
 many thousands of the Persians, but yet he mur- 
 dered Calisthenes: and that single blot has tar- 
 nished the glory of all his victories. All the 
 wishes of mortals, and all the benefits which we 
 can either give or receive, are of very little con- 
 ducement to a happy life. Those things, which 
 the common people gape after, are transitory and 
 vain. Whereas happiness is permanent ; nor is 
 it to be estimated by number, measure, or parts, 
 for it is full and perfect. I do not speak as if I 
 myself were arrived at that blessed state of re- 
 pose ; but it is something yet to be on the mend- 
 ing hand. It is with me, as with a man that is 
 creeping out of a disease, he feels yet some 
 grudgings of it ; he is every foot examining of his 
 pulse, and suspects every touch of heat to be a 
 relique of his fever. Just at that rate I am jea- 
 lous ot myself. The best remedy that I know, 
 in this case, is to go on with confidence, and not 
 to be misled by the errors of other people. It is 
 
seneca's morals. 531 
 
 False notions of happiness. 
 
 with our manners, as with our healths; it is * 
 degree of virtue, the abatement of vice; as it is a 
 degree of health, the abatement of a fit. 
 
 Some place their happiness in wealth, some in 
 the liberty of the body, and others in the plea- 
 sures of the sense and palate. But, what are 
 metals, tastes, sounds, or colours, to the mind 
 of a reasonable creature ? He that sets his heart 
 upon riches, the very fear of poverty will be 
 grievous to him. He that is ambitious, shall be 
 galled with envy at any man that gets before him, 
 for, in that case, he that is not first, is last. I 
 do not speak against riches neither, for if they 
 hurt a man, it is his own folly. They may be, 
 indeed, a cause of mischief, as they are a temp- 
 tation to those that do it. Instead of courage, 
 they may inspire us with arrogance; and instead 
 of greatness of mind, with insolence ; which is, 
 in truth, but the counterfeit of magnanimity. 
 What is it to be prisoner, and in chains ? it is no 
 more than that condition to which many princes 
 have been reduced, and out of which many men 
 have been advanced to the authority of princes. 
 It is not to say — I have no master ; in time you 
 may have one. Might not Hecuba, Croesus, and 
 the mother of Darius have said as much ? And 
 where is the happiness of luxury either ? when a 
 man divides his life betwixt the kitchen and the 
 stews; betwixt an anxious conscience and a nau- 
 °> 7 9 
 
 •V ** *m 
 
532 SENECA S MORALS* 
 
 The extravagance of Roman luxury. 
 
 seous stomach ? Caligula, who was born to shew 
 the world what mischief might be done by a con- 
 currence of great wickedness and a great fortune, 
 spent near 10,0001. sterling upon a supper. The 
 works and inventions of it are prodigious, not 
 only in the counterfeiting, of nature, but even in 
 the surpassing it. The Romans had their brooks 
 even in their parlours, and found their dinners 
 under their tables. The mullet was reckoned 
 stale, unless it died in the hand of the guest; and 
 they had their glasses to put them into, that they 
 might the better observe all the changes and mo- 
 tions of them in the last agony betwixt life and 
 death. So that they fed their eyes before their 
 bodies. " Look how it reddens," says one, 
 " there is no vermillion like it. Take notice of 
 these veins, and that same grey brightness upon 
 the head of it. And now he is at his last gasp ; 
 see how pale he turns, and all of a colour." 
 These people would not have given themselves 
 half this trouble with a dying friend ; nay, they 
 would leave a father, or a brother, at his last 
 hour, to entertain themselves with the barbarous 
 spectacle of an expiring fish. And that which 
 enhances the esteem of every thing, is the price 
 of it : insomuch that water itself, which ought to 
 be gratuitous, is exposed to sale, in their conser- 
 vatories of ice and snow. Nay, we are troubled 
 that we cannot buy breath, light, and that v m 
 
Seneca's morals. 553 
 
 Women become masculine. 
 
 have the air itself gratis ; as if our conditions- 
 were evil, because nature has left something to 
 us in common. But luxury contrives ways to set 
 a price upon the most necessary and communica- 
 ble benefits in nature ; even those benefits which 
 are free to birds and beasts as well as to men, 
 and serve indifferently for the use of the most 
 sluggish creatures. But, how comes it that foun- 
 tain water is not cold enough to serve us, unless 
 it be bound up into ice ? So long as the stomach 
 is sound, nature discharges her functions without 
 trouble ; but, when the blood comes to be in- 
 flamed with excess of wine, or meats, simple 
 water is not cold enough to allay that heat, and 
 we are forced to make use of remedies, which 
 remedies themselves are vice?. We heap suppers 
 upon dinner?, and dinners upon suppers, without 
 intermission. Good God ! how easy is it to 
 quench a sound and an honest thirst ? but, when 
 the palate is grown callous, we taste nothing ; 
 and that which we take for thirst, is only the 
 ra<*e of a fever. Hippocrates delivered it as an 
 aphorism, that women were never bald, nor 
 gouty, but in one singular case. "Women have 
 not altered their nature since, but they have 
 changed the course of their lives ; for, by taking 
 the liberties of men, they partake as well of their 
 diseases, as of tlieir wickedness. They sit up as 
 Btticlij drink as much; nay, in their very appe- 
 2 z 3 
 
534 sfetfficVs morals. 
 
 Moderation siu\ rnplicity 
 
 >*■ '■ ' ' — ~— — — "■ 
 
 tites they are masculine too ; they have lost the 
 advantage of their Sex by their vices. 
 
 Our ancestors, when they were free, lived 
 either in caves, of in arbours ; but slavery came 
 in with gildings and with marble. I would have 
 him that comes into my house, take more notice 
 of the master than of the furniture. The golden 
 age was before architecture; arts came in with 
 luxury, and we do not hear of any philosopher 
 that was either a lock-smith, or a painter. Who 
 was the wiser man, think you, he that invented 
 a saw, or the other, who, upon seeing a boy 
 drink water out of the hollow of his hand, brake 
 his pitcher, with this check to himself — what a 
 fool am I to trouble myself with superfluities ? 
 Carving is one man's trade, cooking is another's j 
 only he is more miserable that teaches it for plea- 
 sure, than he that learns it for necessity. It was 
 luxury, not philosophy, that invented fish-pools, 
 as well as palaces, where, in case of foul wea- 
 ther at sea, they might have fishes to supply 
 their gluttony in harbour. We do not only pam- 
 per our lusts, but provoke them. As if we were 
 to learn the very art of voluptuousness. What 
 was it but avarice, that originally brake the 
 union of society ; and proved the cause of po- 
 verty even to those that were the most wealthy ? 
 Every man possessed all, until the world came 
 to appropriate possessions to themselves. In the 
 
seneca's morals. 535 
 
 Of former times. 
 
 first age, nature was both a law and a guide, and 
 the best governed, which was but according to 
 nature too. The largest and the strongest bull 
 leads the herd ; the goodliest elephant ; and, 
 among men too, in the blessed times of inno- 
 cence, the best was uppermost. They chose go- 
 vernors for their manners, who neither acted any 
 violence, nor suffered any. They protected the 
 weak against the mighty ; and persuaded, or dis- 
 suaded, as they saw occasion. Their prudence 
 provided for their people, their courage kept 
 them safe from dangers, their bounty both sup- 
 plied and adorned their subjects. It was a duty 
 then to command, not a government. No man, 
 in those days, had either a mind to do an injury, 
 or a cause for it. He that commanded well, was 
 well obeyed ; and the worst menace the gover- 
 nors could then make to the disobedient, was, to 
 forsake them. But, with the corruption of times, 
 tyranny crept in, and the world began to have 
 need of laws; and those laws were made by wise 
 men too, as Solon and Lycurgus, who learned 
 their trade in the school of Pythagoras. 
 
53ft senega's morals, 
 
 We set our hearts uron transitory things. 
 
 NAN IS COMPOUNDED OF SOUL AND BODY; 
 
 AND HAS NATURALLY A CIVIL 
 
 WAR WITHIN HIMSELF. 
 
 There is not so disproportionate a mixture hi 
 any creature, as that is in man, of soul and body. 
 There is intemperance joined with divinity, follv 
 with severity, sloth with activity, and unclean- 
 ness with purity. But a good sword is never the 
 worse for a» ill scabbard. We are moved more 
 by imaginary fears than truths, for truth has a 
 certainty and foundation ; but, in the other, we 
 are exposed to the licence and conjecture of a 
 distracted mind ; and our enemies are not more 
 imperious than our pleasures. We set our hearts 
 upon transitory things, as if they themselves were 
 everlasting ; or we, on the other side, to possess 
 them for ever. Why do we not rather advance 
 our thoughts to things that are eternal, and con<- 
 template the heavenly original of all beings ? 
 Why do we not, by the divinity of reason, tri- 
 umph over the weaknesses of flesh and blood ? It 
 is by Providence that the world is preserved, and 
 not from any virtue in the matter of it, for the 
 world is as mortal as we are, only the Almighty 
 Wisdom carries it safe through all the motions of 
 corruption. And so by prudence human life it- 
 
seneca's morals. 537 
 
 Our passions are violent. 
 
 self may be prolonged, if we will but stint our- 
 selves in those pleasures that bring the greater 
 part of us untimely to our end. Our passions are 
 nothing else, but certain disallowable motions of 
 the mind, sudden and eager, which, by frequency 
 and neglect, turn to a disease ; as a distillation 
 brings first to a cough, and then to a phthisic. 
 We are carried up to the heavens, and down 
 again into the deep, by turns; so long as we are 
 governed by our affections, and not by virtue ; 
 passion and reason are a kind of civil war within 
 us, and as the one cr the other has dominion, we 
 are either good or bad. So that it should be 
 our care, that the worst mixture may not pre- 
 vail. And they are lmked, like the chain of 
 causes and effects, one to another. Betwixt vio- 
 lent passion, and a fluctuation, or wambling of 
 the mind, there is such a difference, as betwixt 
 the agitation of a storm, and all the nauseous 
 sickness of a calm. And they have all of them 
 their symptoms too, as well as our bodily dis- 
 tempers : they that are troubled with the falling- 
 sickness know when the lit is a coming, by the 
 eold of the extreme parts, the dazzling of the 
 eyes, the failing of the memory, the trembling of 
 the nerves, and the giddiness of the head ; so 
 that every man knows his own disease, and 
 should provide against it. Anger, love, sadness^ 
 fear, may be read in the countenance; and ^o 
 
538 seneca's morals. 
 
 A life of pleasure, 
 
 may the virtues too. Fortitude makes the eye 
 vigorous, prudence ma.kes it intent, reverence 
 shews itself in modesty, joy in serenity, and 
 truth in openness and simplicity. There are 
 sown the seeds of divine things in moital bodies. 
 If the mind be well cultivated, the fruit answers 
 the original ; and, if not, all runs into weeds. 
 We are all of us sick of curable diseases; and it 
 costs us more to be miserable, than would make 
 us perfectly happy. Consider the peaceable state 
 of clemency, and the turbulency of anger ; the 
 softness and quiet of modesty, and the restless- 
 ness of lust. How cheap and easy to us is the 
 service of virtue, and how dear we pay for our 
 vices ! The sovereign good of man, is a mind 
 that subjects all things to itself, and is itself sub- 
 ject to nothing : his pleasures are modest, severe, 
 and reserved ; and rather the sauce, or the di- 
 version of life, than the entertainment of it. It 
 may be some question, whether such a man goes 
 to heaven, or heaven comes to him: for a good 
 man is influenced by God himself, and has a kind 
 of divinity within him. What if one good man 
 lives in pleasure and plenty, and another in want 
 and misery? it is no virtue to contemn superflui- 
 ties, but necessities; and they are both of them 
 equally good, though under several circumstances, 
 and in different stations. Cato (the censor,.) 
 wai-ed war with the manners of Home ; Scigta 
 
senega's morals. 53Q 
 
 And a life of virtue. 
 
 with the enemies. Nay, bating the very consci- 
 ence of virtue, who is there, that, upon sober 
 thoughts, would not be an honest man, even for 
 the reputation of it? Virtue you shall find in 
 the temple, in the field, or upon the walls, cc- 
 vered with dust and blood, in the defence of the 
 public. Pleasures you shall find sneaking in the 
 stews, sweating-houses, powdered and painted, 
 &c. Not that pleasures are wholly to be dis- 
 claimed, but to be used with moderation, and to 
 be made subservient to virtue. Good manners 
 always please us, but wickedness is restless, and 
 perpetually changing; not for the better, but for 
 variety. We are torn to pieces betwixt hopes and 
 fears, by which means Providence (which is the 
 greatest blessing of heaven) is turned into a mis- 
 chief. Wild beasts, when they see their dangers, 
 fly from them, and when they have escaped them 
 they are quiet : but wretched man is equally tor- 
 mented, both with things past and to come ; for 
 the memory brings back the anxiety of our past 
 fears, and our foresight anticipates the future; 
 whereas the present makes no man miserable. If 
 we fear all things that are possible, we live with** 
 out any bounds to our miseries. 
 
►40 senega's morals. 
 
 Death to be found every whejre. 
 
 WE ABUSE GOD'S BLESSINGS, AND TURN 
 THEM INTO MISCHIEFS. 
 
 There is nothing so profitable but it may be 
 perverted to an injury. Without the use of trie 
 winds, how should we do for commerce ? beside 
 that, they keep the air sweet and healthful, and 
 bring seasonable rains upon the earth. It was 
 never the intent of Providence, that they should 
 be employed for war and devastation, and yet that 
 is a great part of the use we make of them ; pur- 
 suing one hazard through another. We expose 
 ourselves to tempests, and to death, without so 
 much as the hope of a sepulchre. And all this 
 might be borne too, if we only ran these risks in 
 order to peace ; but when we have escaped so 
 many rocks and flats, thunder and storms, what 
 is the fruit of all our labour and terror ? It is 
 only war, and to burn and ravage, as if the earth 
 were not large enough for the scene of our de- 
 struction. Whereas we might live and die at 
 ease, if we had a mind to it, and draw out our 
 lives in security. Why do we press our own dan- 
 gers then, and provoke our fates ? what do we 
 look for ? only death, which is to be found every 
 where. It will find us in our beds, in our cham- 
 bers ; but, wheresoever it finds us, let it find us 
 innocent, What a madness is it to pursue mis- 
 
 5 
 
sbneca's morals. 541 
 
 Danger still under our icet. 
 
 chiefs, to fall foul upon those we do not know, to 
 be angry without a cause ; to over-run whatso- 
 ever is in our way, and, like beasts, to kill what 
 we have no quarrel to ? Nay, worse than beasts, 
 we run great hazards, only to bring us to greater. 
 We force our way to gold, without any regard 
 either to God or man. But, in all this, without 
 any cause of complaint, we abuse the benefits of 
 God, and turn them all into mischiefs. We dig 
 for gold; we leave the light, and abandon the 
 courses of a better nature ; we descend, where 
 we find a new position of things, hideous caves, 
 hollow and hanging rocks, horrid rivers, a deep 
 and perpetual darkness, and not without the ap- 
 prehensions even of hell itself. How little now, 
 and how inconsiderable are those things that men 
 venture for, with the price of their lives ? But, 
 to pass from those hazards that we may avoid, to 
 others which we cannot ; as in the case of earth- 
 quakes. 
 
 In what condition can any man be safe, when 
 the world itself is shaken, and the only thing that 
 passes for fixed and unmoveable in the universe, 
 trembles, and deceives us ? Whither shall we fly 
 for security, if wheresoever we are the danger 
 be still under our feet ? Upon the cracking of a 
 house, every man takes to his heels, and leaves 
 all to save himself : but what retreat is there, 
 where that which should support us fail* us; 
 3 a 
 
542 seveca's morals. 
 
 Of lightning— plague— and an earthquake. 
 
 when the foundation, not only of cities, but even 
 of the world itself, opens and wavers? What 
 help, or what comfort, where fear itself can never 
 carry us off? An enemy may be kept at a dis- 
 tance with a wall, a castle may put a stop to an 
 army, a port may protect us from the fury of a 
 tempest, fire it-self does not follow him that runs 
 away from it, a vault may defend us against 
 thunder, and we may quit the place in a pesti- 
 lence : there is some remedy in all these evils. 
 Or, however, no man ever knew a whole nation 
 destroyed with lightning. A plague may unpeo- 
 ple a town, but it will not carry it away. There 
 is no evil of such an extent, so inevitable, so 
 greedy, and so publicly calamitous, as an earth- 
 quake. For it does not only devour houses, fa- 
 milies, or single towns, but ruins whole countries 
 and nations: either overturning, or swallowing 
 them up, without so much as leaving any foot- 
 step, or mark, of what they were. Some people 
 have a great horror for this death, than for any 
 other — to be taken away alive, out of the num- 
 ber of the living ! As if all mortals, by what 
 means soever, were not to come to the same end. 
 Nature has eminently this justice, that when we 
 are all dead, we are all alike. And it is not a 
 pin matter, whether I be crushed to pieces by ^ 
 one stone, or by a whole mountain ; whether I 
 perish by the fall of a house, or under the burden 
 
SENECA S MORALS. 5-k3r 
 
 We should arm ourselves against tbe uurst. 
 
 of the whole earth; whether 1 be swallowed up 
 alone, or with a thousand more for company. 
 What does it signify to me, the noise and dis- 
 course that is made about my death ; when death 
 is every where, and in all cases the same ? We 
 should therefore arm ourselves against that blow, 
 that can neither be avoided, nor foreseen. And 
 it is not the forswearing of those places, that we 
 find infested with earthquakes, that will do our 
 business ; for there is no place than can be war- 
 ranted against them. What if the earth be not 
 yet moved r it is still moveable, for the whole 
 body of it lies under the same law, and exposed 
 to danger, only some part at one time, and some 
 at another. As it is in great cities, where all the 
 houses are subject to ruin, though they do not 
 all fall together : so in the body of the earth, now 
 this part falls, and then that. 1 yre was formerly 
 subject to earthquakes; in Asia twelve cities 
 were swallowed up in a night; Achaia and Ma- 
 cedonia have had their turns, and now Campag- 
 nia. The fate goes round, and strikes at last 
 where it has a great while passed by. Jt falls 
 out oftener, it is true, in some places than in 
 others, but no place is totally free and exempt. 
 And it is not only men, but cities, coasts, nay, 
 the shores and the very sea itself, that suffers 
 under the dominion of fate. And yet we are so 
 vain as to promise ourselves some sort of assur- 
 3 a 2 
 
544 seneca's morals. 
 
 The wise are fortified by reason. 
 
 ance in the goods of fortune, never considering, 
 that the very ground we stand upon is unstable. 
 And, it is not the frailty of this or that place, but 
 the quality of every spot of it: for not one inch 
 of it is so compacted, as not to admit many 
 causes of its revolution, and though the bulk of 
 the earth remain entire, the parts of it may yet 
 be broken. 
 
 There is not any thing which can promise to it- 
 self a lasting quiet: and it is no small comfort to 
 us, the certainty of our fate ; for it is a folly to 
 fear, where there is a remedy. He that troubles 
 himself sooner than he needs, grieves more also 
 than is necessary ; for the same weakness that 
 makes him anticipate his misery, makes him en- 
 large it too. The wise fortify themselves by rea- 
 son, and fools by despair. That saying, which 
 was applied to a conquered party under fire and 
 gword, might have been spoken to all mankind 
 — that man is in some sense out of danger, that 
 is out of hope. He that would fear nothing, 
 should consider, that if he fears any thing he 
 must fear every thing. Our very meat and drink, 
 sleeping and waking, without measure, are hurt- 
 ful to us. Our bodies are nice and weak, and a 
 small matter does their work. That man has too 
 high an opinion of himself, that is only afraid of 
 thunder and of earthquakes. If he were consci- 
 ous of his own infirmities, he would as much 
 
seneca's morals. 54. 
 
 Mortalitv 
 
 fear the being choaked with his own phlegm. 
 What do we see in ourselves, that heaven and 
 earth should join in a distemper to procure our 
 dissolution, when the ripping of a hang-nail is 
 sufficient to dispatch us ? We are afraid of inun- 
 dations from the sea, when a glass of wine, if it 
 goes the wrong way, is enough to suffocate us. 
 It is a great comfort in death, the very mortality 
 itself. We creep under ground for fear of thun- 
 der, we dread the sudden concussions of the 
 earth, and the rages of the sea, when yet we 
 carry death in our own veins, and it is at hand 
 in all places, and at all times. There is nothing 
 so little, but it is of force enough to bring us to 
 our last end. Nay, so far should we be from 
 dreading an eminent fate, more than a vulgar, 
 that, on the contrary, since die we must, we 
 should rather rejoice in the breathing of our last 
 under a more glorious circumstance. What it 
 the ground stand still within its bounds, and 
 without any violence ? I shall have it over me at 
 last; and it is all one to me, whether I be laid 
 under that, or that lay itself over me — but it is a 
 terrible thing for the earth to gape and swallow a 
 man up into a profound abyss. And what then ? 
 is death any easier above ground ? what cause 
 have I of complaint, if nature will do me the ho- 
 nour to cover me with a part of her self? Since 
 we must fall, there is a dignity in- the very man- 
 3 a 3 
 
54-6 seneca's morals, 
 
 Ignorance causes fear. 
 
 ner of it, when the world itself is shocked for 
 company. Not that I would wish for a public 
 calamity ; but it is some satisfaction in my death, 
 that I see the world also to be mortal. 
 
 Neither are we to take these extraordinary re- 
 volutions for divine judgments, as if such motions 
 of the heavens, and of the earth, were the de- 
 nouncings of the wrath of the Almighty: but 
 they have their ordinate and their natural causes, 
 such as, in proportion, we have in our own bo- 
 dies ; and while they seem to act a violence, they 
 suffer it. But yet, for want of knowing the causes 
 of things, they are dreadful to us ; and the more 
 so, because they happen but seldom. But why 
 are we commonly more afraid of that which we 
 are not used to ? Because we look upon nature 
 with our eyes, not with our reason ; rather com- 
 puting what she usually does, than what she is 
 able to do. And we are punished for this negli- 
 gence, by taking those things to which we are not 
 •wonted, to be new and prodigious. The eclipses 
 of the sun and moon, blazing stars and meteors, 
 while we admire them, we fear them; and since 
 we fear them, because we do not understand 
 them, it is worth our while to study them, that 
 we may no longer fear them. Why should I fear 
 a man, a beast, an arrow, or a lance, when I 
 am exposed to the encounter of greater dangers ? 
 We are assaulted by the nobler part of nature it- 
 
seneca's morals. 517 
 
 All created things are limited. 
 
 self; by the heavens, by the sea, and the land. 
 Our business is, therefore, to defy death, whether 
 extraordinary, or common. No matter for the 
 menaces of it, so long as it asks no more of us 
 than age itself will take from us, and every petty 
 accident that befals us. lie that contemns death, 
 what does he care for either fire or water, the 
 very dissolution of the universe; or if the earth 
 should open under him, and shew him all the 
 secrets of the infernal pit, he would look down 
 without trouble. In the place that we are all of 
 us to go, there are no earthquakes, or thunder- 
 claps ; no tempestuous seas ; neither war nor pes- 
 tilence. Is it a small matter ? why do we fear it 
 then ? Is it a great matter ? let it rather once 
 fall upon us, than always hang over us. Why 
 should I dread my own end, when I know that 
 an end I must have, and that all created 
 things are limited ? 
 
 A DISCOURSE OF GOD'S PROVIDENCE IN THE 
 MISFORTUNES OF GOOD MEN. 
 
 You are troubled, I perceive, that your ser- 
 vant is run away from you, but I do not hear 
 yet, that you are either robbed, or strangled, or 
 poisoned, or betrayed, or accused, by him: so 
 that you have escaped well, in comparison with 
 your fellows. And why should you complain 
 then, especially under the protection of so graci- 
 
54S Seneca's morals. 
 
 Atriicnons arc the exeicise of virtue. 
 
 ous a Providence, as suffers no man to be miser- 
 able, but by bis own fault ? Nor is this a subject 
 worthy of a wise man's consideration. Adversity, 
 indeed, is a terrible thing in sound and opinion, 
 and that is all. Some men are banished and 
 stript of their estates; others again are poor in 
 plenty, (which is the basest sort of beggary). 
 Some are overborne by a popular tumult, that 
 breaks out like a tempest, even in the highest 
 security of a calm ; or, like a thunder-clap, that 
 frights all near it : there is but one struck, per- 
 haps, but the fear extends to all, and affects 
 those that may suffer, as well as those that do. 
 As in the discharge of a piece only with powder, 
 it is not the stroke, but the crack, that frights 
 the birds. Adversity, I will grant you, is not a 
 thing to be wished, no more than war; but if it 
 be my lot to be torn with the stone, broken upon 
 the wheel, or to receive wounds, or maims, it 
 shall be my prayer, that I may bear my fortune 
 as becomes a wise and an honest man. We do 
 not pray for tortures, but for patience ; not for 
 war, but for gei.erosity and courage in all the 
 extremities of a war, if it happens. Afflictions 
 are but the exercise of virtue; and an honest 
 man is out of his element when he is idle. It 
 must be practice and patience that perfect it. 
 Do we not see how one wrestler provokes an- 
 other ? and if he find him not to be his match, he 
 
ssxbca's morals. 54.9 
 
 Good men are thus proved. 
 
 will call for somebody to help him, that may put 
 him to all his strength. 
 
 It is a common argument against the justice of 
 Providence, in the matter of reward and punish- 
 ment — the misfortune of good men in this world, 
 and the prosperity of the wicked : but it is an 
 easy matter to vindicate the cause of the gods. 
 There are many things which we call evil, which 
 turn very often to the advantage of those that 
 suffer them ; or, at least for the common good, 
 whereof Providence has the greater care. And 
 farther, they either befal those that bear them 
 willingly, or those that deserve them by their im- 
 patience under them ; and, lastly, they come by 
 divine appointment, and to those that are good 
 men, even for that very reason, because they are 
 good. Nor is there any thing more ordinary, 
 than for that which we feared as a calamity, to 
 prove the foundation of our happiness. How 
 many are there in the world that enjoy all things 
 to their own wish, whom God never thought wor- 
 thy of a trial ? If it might be imagined, that the 
 Almighty should take off his thought from the 
 care of his whole work, what more glorious spec- 
 tacle could he reflect upon, than a valiant man 
 struggling with adverse fortune : or Cato's stand- 
 ing upright, and unmoved, under the shock of a 
 public ruin ? — " Let the whole world," says he, 
 " fall into one band, and let CiEsar encompass mc: 
 
550 seneca's morals. 
 
 Cato in adversity. 
 
 with his legions by land, his shipping at sea, and 
 his guard at the gates, Cato will yet cut his way 
 out, and with that weapon, that was untainted 
 even in the civil war, give himself that liberty, 
 which fate denied to his country. Set upon the 
 great work then, and deliver thyself from the 
 clog of thy humanity. Juba and Petreius have 
 already done this good office one for the other, 
 by a generous concurrence of resolution and fate; 
 but Cato is above example, and does as much 
 scorn to ask his death of any man, as his life." 
 With what joy did this great man contemplate 
 immortality, when he took his book and hi 
 sword together, and in cold thoughts dispatched 
 himself! Let this suffice of Cato, whose virtue 
 Providence made use of to cope with all the 
 powers of the earth. His courage took delight 
 in, and sought for all occasions of hazard ; keep- 
 ing his eye still upon the end, without valuing 
 the difficulties of the passage. The sufferance is 
 one part of the glory ; and though one man may 
 escape without wounds, yet he is still more reve- 
 rend and remarkable that comes c^f bloody. The 
 malice of great men is grievous, you will say, 
 and yet he supported the oppositions of Pompey, 
 Caesar, and Crassus. It is troublesome to be re- 
 pulsed ; Vatinius was preferred before him. 
 Prosperity shews a man but one part of human 
 mature. Nobody knows what such a man is good 
 
seneca's morals. 551 
 
 Calamity the touchstone of valour. 
 
 for, neither in truth does he understand himself, 
 for want of experiment. Temporal happiness is 
 for weak and vulgar minds ; but the subduing of 
 public terrors is a work that is reserved for more 
 oenerous spirits. Calamity is the touchstone of a 
 brave mind, that resolves to live and die free, 
 and master of itself. The combatant brings no 
 mettle into the field, that was never battered ; he 
 that has lost blood, and yet keeps his stomach; 
 lie that has been under his enemy, and worsted, 
 and yet comes on again, and gathers heart from 
 his misfortunes — that is the man of hope and 
 ^courage. 
 
 But, is it not a very unjust and a rigorous fate, 
 that good men should be poor and friendless ? All 
 this is no more than the natural work of matter 
 and form. Mean souls are meanly principled; 
 but there goes more to the making up of a brave 
 man, that is to work out his way through diffi- 
 culties and storms. AVe are condemned to terri- 
 ble encounters, and because we cannot, accord- 
 ing to the course of nature, avoid them, we have 
 faculties given us, that will enable us to bear 
 them: or, at the worst, to have a retreat; if we 
 will not fight, we may fly. So that nothing is 
 made more easy to us, than that which is most 
 necessary to us, to die. No man is kept in the 
 world against his will. But adversity is the better 
 for us all : for it is God's mercy to shew the world 
 
552 seneca's morals. 
 
 A wise man may have liis feelings, 
 
 fheir errors, and that the things they fear and 
 covet are neither good nor evil, being the com- 
 mon and promiscuous lot both of good men and 
 bad. If they were good, only the good should 
 enjoy them : and if bad, only the wicked should 
 suffer them. One man is taken away in a scuffle 
 for a wench, and another in the defence of his 
 country ; and we find silver and gold both in a 
 temple, and in the stews. 
 
 Now, to shew you that the virtue which I af- 
 fect is not so imaginary and extravagant as it is 
 taken to be, I will allow a wise man to tremble, 
 to turn pale, nay, and to groan too, and to suffer 
 all the affections of his bodily sense, provided 
 that he keep his mind firm, and free from sub- 
 mission to his body, and that he do not repent of 
 his constancy, (which is in itself so great a vir- 
 tue, that there is some authority even in a perti- 
 nacious error). If the body be brought by exer- 
 cise to the contempt of bruises and wounds, how 
 much more easily then may the mind be fortified 
 against the assaults of fortune ; and though, per- 
 haps, thrown down and trod upon, yet recover 
 itself? The body must have meat and drink, 
 much labour and practice ; whereas the food and 
 the business of the mind is within itself; and 
 virtue maintained without either toil or charge. 
 If you say, that many professors of wisdom are 
 wrought upon by menaces and mischiefs ; these, 
 4 
 
Seneca's morals. 551 
 
 But stilt be constant and patient. 
 
 let me tell you, are but proficients, and not as yet 
 arrived at the state of wisdom; they are not 
 strong enough to practise what they know. It is 
 with our dispositions as with our clothes, they 
 will take some colours at one dipping, but others 
 must be steeped over and over, before they will 
 imbibe them. And so for disciplines, they must 
 soak and lie long before they take the tincture. 
 No man can receive an injury, and not be moved 
 at it, but yet he may keep himself free from per- 
 turbations; and so far from being troubled at 
 them, that he may make use of them for the ex- 
 periment and trial of his virtue, keeping himself 
 still moderate, placid, chearful, and safe, in a 
 profound quiet, and fixed in his station. But if 
 •a wise man cannot be poor, how comes it that he 
 is many times without either meat, drink, clothes, 
 or lodging ? If only fools are mad, how comes 
 it then that wise men have their alienations of 
 mind, and talk as idly in a fever as other people J 
 It is one thing, the receiving of an injury, and 
 another thing, the conceiving of an indignation 
 for it ; it is the body in this case that sutlers. 
 (which is the fool's part) but not the mind. 
 That man is never the worse pilot, that by foul 
 weather is forced behind his business. When a 
 ship springs a leak, we do not presently quarrel 
 either with the mariners, or with the vessel ; but 
 some to the pump, others into the hold, to keep 
 3 B 
 
354 seneca's morals. 
 
 Cato both forgave and forgot a blow. 
 
 to keep the ship above water. And if we cannot 
 absolutely master it, we must still work on ; for 
 it is then a great point gained, if we can but keep 
 it at a sta}^. Some men are strangely transported 
 at. the insolence of the porter, that refuses to let 
 them into a great man's house. They forget that 
 the door of a prison is not more strictly guarded 
 than that of a palace. lie that has business must 
 pay for his passage, and sweeten him, as he would 
 do a churlish cur with a sop. That which is to 
 he. sold, is to he bought : he is a weak man, that 
 rates himself according to the civility of a slave. 
 Let him have a reverence for himself, and then 
 no matter who despises him. What if he should 
 break his staff, or cause his master to turn him 
 away, or to correct him ? He that contends, sup- 
 poses an equality; and even when he has got the 
 better of him, admits that there was one. What 
 if he should receive a blow ? Cato (the greatest 
 man of his age) did not only forgive it, but for- 
 get it. 
 
 It is not to say, that this or that is tolerable to 
 a wise man, or intolerable. If we do not totally 
 subdue fortune, fortune overcomes us. It is the 
 foundation of a happy life, for a man to depend 
 upon himself; but an absolute tranquillity of 
 mind, and a freedom from errors, must be the 
 business of another world. 
 
seneca's morals. 555 
 
 Wisdom and tolly. 
 
 A WISE AND A GOOD MAN IS A PROOF 
 AGAINST ALL ACCIDENTS OF FATE. 
 
 Th e book yon promised me is now come to 
 my hand, and I opened it with an intent to read 
 it ever at leisure ; but when I was once in, I 
 could not lay it down again, until I had gone 
 through with it. At present, I shall only tell you r 
 that I am exceedingly pleased with the choice of 
 the subject, but I am transported with the spirit 
 and gentleness of it. You shall hear farther from 
 me upon a second reading ; and you need not 
 fear the hearing of the truth, for your goodness- 
 leaves a man no place for flattery,. 1 find you 
 still to be one and the same man, which is a areat 
 matter, and only proper to a wise man; for 
 fools are Various, one while thrifty and grave,, 
 another while profuse and vain. Happy is the 
 man that sets himself right at first, and continues 
 so to the end. All fools, we say, are madmen, 
 though they are not all of them m Bethlem. We 
 find some at the bar, some upon the bench, and 
 not a few even in the senate itself. One man's 
 fully is sad, another is wanton, and a third is 
 busy and impertinent. A wise man carries alt 
 his treasure within himself: what fortune gives, 
 she may take, but he leaves nothing at her mer- 
 3 b 2 
 
b56 seneca's morals. 
 
 — - ' ... ... i . . i , , ., i . i j 
 
 The good are proof against all accidents. 
 
 ey. He stands firm, and keeps his ground against 
 all misfortunes, without so much as changing 
 countenance. He is free, inviolable, unshaken^ 
 proof against all accidents ; and not only invinci- 
 ble, but inflexible. So long as he cannot lose 
 any thing of his own, he never troubles himself 
 for what is another's. He is a friend to Provi- 
 dence, and will not murmur at any thing that 
 comes to pass by God's appointment. He is not 
 only resolute, but generous and good-natured,. 
 and ready to lay down his life in a good cause,. 
 and for the public safety to sacrifice his own. He 
 does not so much consider the pleasure of his 
 life, as the need that the world has of him ; and 
 he is not so nice either, as to be weary of his 
 life, while he may either serve his wife, or his 
 friends, Nor is it all, that his life is profitable 
 to them, but it is likewise delightful to himself, 
 and carries its own reward ;. for what can be 
 more comfortable, than to be so dear to another, 
 as for that very reason to become dearer to him- 
 self? If he loses a child, he is pensive; he is 
 compassionate to the sick ; and only troubled, 
 when he sees men wallow in infamy and vice. 
 Whereas, on the other side, you shall see no- 
 thing but restlessness ; one man hankering after 
 his neighbour's wife, another in pain about his 
 own, a th'^d in grief for a repulse, another as 
 much out of humour for his success. If he loses 
 
sexeca's morals. 5 57 
 
 Prosperity renders adversity grievous. 
 
 an estate, he parts with it as a thing that wps 
 only adventitious ; or, if it was of his own ac- 
 quiring, he computes the possession and less, 
 and says thus to himself — I shall live as well 
 afterward, as I did before, Our houses, says 
 he, may be burnt, or robbed ; our hinds taken 
 from us; and we can call nothing our own, that 
 is under the dominion of fortune. It is a foolish 
 avarice, that restrains all things to a propriety, 
 and believes nothing to be a man's own that is 
 public. Whereas a wise man judges nothing so 
 much his own, as that wherein mankind is al- 
 lowed a share. It is not with the blessings of 
 Providence, as it is with a dole, where every man 
 receives so much a head, but every man there- 
 has all. That which we eat, and either gi\e, or 
 receive, with the hand, may be broken into 
 parts; but peace, and freedom of mind, are not 
 to be divided. He that has first cast off the em- 
 pire of fortune, needs not fear that of great men, 
 for they are but fortune's hands ; nor was ever 
 any man broken by adversity, that was not first 
 betrayed by prosperity. But what signifies phi- 
 losophy, you will say, if there be a fate ; if we 
 be governed by fortune, or some over-ruling 
 power? for certainties are unchangeable, and 
 there is no providing against uncertainties. If 
 what I shall do, and resolve, be determined, what 
 use of philosophy ? Yes, great use; for, taking 
 
 3 E 3 
 
558 seneca's morals. 
 
 1 hough fait* be unchangeable, 
 
 all this for granted, philosophy instructs, and ad- 
 vises us to obey God, and to follow him willingly % 
 to oppose fortune resolutely, and to bear all ac- 
 cidents. 
 
 Fate is an irrevocable, an invincible,, and an 
 unchangeable decree; a necessity of all things 
 and actions, according to eternal appointment. 
 Like the course of a river, it moves forward with- 
 out contradiction, or delay, in an irresistible 
 flux, where one wave pushes on another. He 
 knows little of God, that imagines it may be con- 
 trouled. There is no changing of the purpose- 
 even of a wise man ; for he sees beforehand what 
 will be the best for the future. How much more 
 unchangeable then is the Almighty, to whom alt 
 iuturity is always present I To what end then is 
 it, if fate be inexorable, to offer up prayers and' 
 sacrifices any farther, than to relieve the scruples 
 and the weakness of sickly minds ? My answer 
 is, first, that the gods take no delight in the sa- 
 crifices of beasts r or in the images of gold and 
 silver, but in a pious and obedient will ; and, 
 secondly, that by prayers and sacrifices, dangers 
 and afflictions may be sometimes removed, some- 
 times lessened, other whiles deferred, and all 
 this without any offence to the power, or necessity 
 of fate. There are some things which Providence 
 has left so far in suspence, that they seem to be 
 (in a manner) conditional ; in such sort,, that 
 
Seneca's morals. 559 
 
 S .1 • 'icationsare necessary. 
 
 even appearing evils may, upon our prayers and 
 supplications, be turned into goods* Which is so 
 far from being against fate, that it is even a part 
 of fate itself. You will say— that either this shall 
 eome to pass, or not ; if the former, it will be 
 the same thing if we do not pray ; and if the 
 other, it will be the same thing if we do. To 
 this I must reply, that the proposition is false,, for 
 want of the middle exception betwixt the one and 
 the other. This will be, (say I) that is, if there 
 shall any prayers interpose in the case. But then, 
 do they object on the other side, that this very 
 thing also is necessary; for it is likewise deter- 
 mined by fate, either that we shall pray, or 
 not. What if I should now grant you, that there 
 s a fate also even in our very prayers - T a deter- 
 mination that we shall pray ; and that therefore 
 we shall pray ? It is decreed that a man shall 
 be eloquent, but, upon condition that he apply 
 himself to letters ; by the same fate, it is decreed 
 that he shall so apply himself, and that therefore 
 he shall learn. Such a man shall be rich, if he 
 betake himself to navigation ; but the same fate 
 that promises him a great estate, appoints also 
 that he shall sail, and therefore he puts to sea. 
 It is the same case in expiations: a man shall 
 avoid dangers, if he can, by his prayers, avoid 
 the threatenings of divine vengeance ; but this is 
 part of his fate also, that he shall so do, and 
 
56*0 seneca's morals. 
 
 Judgments may be averted by prayers. 
 
 therefore he does it. These arguments are made 
 use of, to prove, that there is nothing left to our 
 will, but that we are all over-ruled by fatalities. 
 When we come to handle that matter,, we shall 
 shew the consistency of free-will with fate, having 
 already made it appear, that notwithstanding the 
 certain order of fate, judgments may be averted, 
 by prayers and supplications, and without any 
 repugnance to fate ; for they are part even of the 
 law of fate itself. You will say, perhaps — what 
 am I the better for the priest, or the prophet : 
 for whether he bids me sacrifice, or no, I lie 
 under the necessity of doing it. Yes,, in this I 
 am the better for it, as he is a. minister, of fate.. 
 We may as well say,, that it is matter of fate that 
 we are in health : and yet we are indebted for it 
 to the physician; because the benefit of that fate 
 is conveyed to us by his hand.. 
 
 ALL THINGS ARE PRODUCED OUT OF CAUSE 
 AND MATTER. 
 
 I had yesterday but the one half of it to my- 
 self: my distemper took up the morning; the 
 afternoon was my own. My first trial was, how 
 far I could endure reading, and when 1 saw I 
 could bear that, I fell to writing, and pitched 
 upon a subject difficult enough, for it required- 
 great intention ; but yet I was resolved not to be 
 overcome. Some of my friends coming in, toltL 
 2 
 
SEXECa's MORALS. 56l 
 
 All art is but an imitation of nature. 
 
 me that I did ill, and took me oft'; so that from 
 writing we passed into discourse, and made you 
 judge of the matter in question. The Stoics, 
 you know, will have all things to be produced 
 out of cause and matter. The matter is dull and 
 passive, susceptible of any thing, but not capa- 
 ble of doing any thing itself. The cause is that 
 power that forms the matter, this or that way, at 
 pleasure. Something there must be, of which 
 every thing is made ; and then there must be a 
 workman to form every thing. All art is but an 
 imitation of nature ; and that which I speak m 
 general of the world, holds in the case of every 
 particular person. As for example : the matter 
 of a statue is the wood, the stone, or the metal ; 
 the statuary shapes it, and is the cause of it. 
 Aristotle assigns four causes to every thing. The 
 material, which is the sine qua nan (or that with- 
 out which it could not be). — The efficient, as the 
 workman. — The formal, as that which is stamped 
 upon all operations. — And the final, which is the 
 •design of the whole work. Now to explain this. 
 The first cause of the statue (for the purpose) is 
 the copper ; for it had never been made, if there 
 had not been something to work upon. The se- 
 cond is the artificer ; for if he had not understood 
 his art, it had never succeeded. The third cause 
 is the form; for it could never properly havs 
 
562 Seneca's mora m§. 
 
 Of causes. 
 
 been the statue of sucb, or such a person, if sucb 
 a resemblance had not been put upon it. The 
 fourth cause is the end of making it, without 
 which it had never been made : as money, if it 
 were made for sale ; glory, if the workmen made 
 it for his credit; or religion, if he designed the 
 bestowing of it upon a temple. Plato adds a- 
 fifth, which he calls the idea, or the exemplar,, 
 by which the workman draws his copy. And he 
 makes God to be full of these figures, which he 
 represents to be inexhaustible, unchangeable, and 
 immortal. Now, upon the whole matter, give, 
 us your opinion. To me it seems, that here are- 
 cither too many causes assigned, or too few ; and 
 thev might as well have introduced time and 
 place, as some of the rest. Either clear the 
 matter in question, or deal plainly, and tell us 
 that you cannot j and so let us return to those 
 cases, wherein all mankind is agreed, the reform- 
 ing of our lives, and the regulation of our man- 
 ners. For these subtilties are but time lost. Let 
 us search ourselves in the first place, and after- 
 ward the world- 
 
 There is no great hurt in passing over those 
 things which we are never the better for when 
 we know ; and, it is so ordered by Providence,, 
 that there is no great difficulty in learning, or ac- 
 quiring, those tilings which make us either hap- 
 
ssneca's morals. 563 
 
 The universe noi the work of chance. 
 
 pier, or better. Beside that, whatsoever is hurt- 
 ful to us, we have drawn out of the very bowels 
 of the earth. 
 
 Every man knows, without telling, that this 
 wonderful fabric of the universe is not without a 
 governor, and that a constant order cannot be 
 the work of chance ; for the parts would then fail 
 foul one upon another. The motions of the stars, 
 and their influences, are acted by the command 
 of an eternal decree. It is by the dictate of an 
 Almighty Powep, that the heavy body of the 
 earth hangs in balance. Whence come the revo- 
 lutions of the seasons, and the flux of rivers? 
 The wonderful virtue of the smallest seeds? (as 
 un oak to arise frora-an acorn). To say nothing 
 of those things that seem to be most irregular and 
 uncertain, as clouds, rain, thunder, the erup- 
 tions of fire out of mountains, earthquakes, and 
 those tumultuary motions in the lower region of 
 the air, which have their ordinate causes; and 
 so have those things too, which appear to us 
 more admirable, because less frequent. As scald- 
 ing fountains, and new islands started out of the 
 sea; or, what shall we say of the ebbing and 
 flowing of the ocean, the constant times and mea- 
 sures of the tides, according to the changes of the 
 moon that influences most bodies ? but this needs 
 not ; for it is not that we doubt of Providence, 
 
5b*4 senega's morals. 
 
 A gallant man is fortune's match. 
 
 1 , ' i » ' ~*: 
 
 but complain of it : and it were a good office to 
 reconcile mankind to the gods, who are undoubt- 
 edly best to the best. It is against nature that 
 good should hurt good. A good man is not only 
 the friend of God, but the very image, the disci- 
 ple, and the imitator of him, and the true child 
 of his heavenly father. He is true to himself; 
 and acts with constancy and resolution. Scipio, 
 by a cross wind, being forced into the power of 
 his enemies, cast himself upon the point of his 
 sword : and, as the people werfc enquiring what 
 was become of the general — " The general," says 
 Scipio, " is very well," and so he expired. What 
 is it for a, man to fall, if we consider the end, 
 beyond which no man can fall ? We must repair 
 to wisdom for arms against fortune ; for it were 
 unreasonable for her to furnish arms against her- 
 self. A gallant man is fortune's match ; his cou- 
 rage provokes and despises those terrible appear- 
 ances, that would otherwise enslave us. A wise 
 man is out of the reach of fortune, but not free 
 frcm the malice of it; and all attempts upon him 
 are no more than Xerxes's arrows, they may 
 darken the day, but they cannot strike the sun, 
 There is nothing so holy, as to be privileged from 
 sacrilege. But, to strike, and not to wound, is 
 anger lost; and he is invulnerable, that is struck, 
 and not hurt. PI is resolution is tried ; the waves 
 
■seneca's morals. 56\5 
 
 Of thunder. 
 
 « — '- 
 
 may dash themselves upon a rock, but not break 
 it. Temples mav be prophaned and demolished, 
 but the Deity still remains untouched. 
 
 SOME TRADITIONS OF THE ANCIENTS CO VCETtN I N« 
 
 1HUNDER AND LIGHTNING; WITH THE 
 
 author's CONTEMPLATION 
 
 THEREUPON. 
 
 There is no question, but that Providence 
 has given to mortals the tokens, or forerunners, 
 of things to come, and by those means laid open, 
 in some measure, the decrees of fate; only we 
 take notice of some things, without giving any 
 heed to others. There is not any thing done, ac- 
 cording to the course of nature, which is not 
 either the cause, or the sign of something that 
 follows ; so that wheresoever there is order, there 
 is place for prediction. But there is no judgment 
 to be given upon accidents. Now, though it is a 
 very hard matter to arrive at the foreknowledge 
 Gf things to come, and to predict particularly 
 what shall hereafter fall out, upon a certain know- 
 ledge of the power and influences of the stars, it 
 is yet unquestionable that they have a power, 
 though we cannot expressly say what it is. In 
 the subject of thunder there are several opinions, 
 as to the significations of it. The Stoics hold, 
 that because the cloud is broken, therefore tl e 
 4>olt is short, (according to common speech)* 
 
 3C 
 
566 seneca's morals. 
 
 Three sorts of lightning. 
 
 Others conjecture, that the cloud is broken to 
 that very end, that it may discharge the thunder- 
 bolt, referring all in such sort to God, as if the 
 signification did not arise from the thing done, 
 but as the thing itself were done for the significa- 
 tion sake; but, whether the signification ^oes 
 before, or follows, it comes all to the same point. 
 There are three sorts of lightning: the first is so 
 pure and subtile, that it pierces through whatso- 
 ever it encounters ; the second shatters and breaks 
 every thing to pieces; the other burns, either by 
 blasting, consuming, inflaming, or discolouring, 
 and the like. Some lightnings are monitory, 
 some are menacing, and others they fancy to be 
 promising. They allot to Jupiter three sorts, the 
 first is only monitory and gentle, which he casts 
 of his own accord : the second they make to be 
 an act of counsel, as being done by the vote and 
 advice of twelve gods. — This, they say, does 
 many times some good, but not without some 
 mischief too ; as the destruction of one man may 
 prove the caution of another. The third is the 
 result of a council of the superior deities, from 
 whence proceed great mischiefs, both public and 
 private. !Now this is a great folly to imagine, 
 that Jupiter would wreak his displeasure upon 
 pillars, trees, nay, upon temples themselves, and 
 yet let the sacrilegious go free : to strike sheep, 
 and consume altars; and all this upon a consul- 
 
senega's morals. 567 
 
 Whatsoever nature dots, God does. 
 
 tation of the gods, as if he wanted either skill, or 
 justice, to govern his own affairs by himself, 
 either in sparing the guilty, or in destroying the 
 innocent. Now, what should be the mystery of 
 all this ? The wisdom of our forefathers found it 
 necessary, to keep wicked people in awe, by the 
 apprehension of a superior power ; and, to fright 
 them into their good behaviour by the fear of an 
 armed, and an avenging justice over their heads. 
 But how comes it, that the lightning, which comes 
 from Jupiter himself, should be said to be harm- 
 less ; and that which he casts upon counsel and 
 advice to be dangerous and mortal? The moral 
 of it is this, that all kings should have Jupiter's 
 example, do all good- by themselves ; and when 
 severity is necessary, permit that to be done by 
 others; beside that, as crimes are unequal, so 
 also should be the punishments. Neither did 
 they believe that Jupiter to be the thunderer, 
 whose image was worshipped in the capital, and 
 in other places ; but intended it for the Maker 
 and Governor of the universe, by what name s< - 
 ever we shall call him. Now, in truth, Jupiter 
 does not immediately cast the lightning himself, 
 but leaves nature to her ordinary method of ope- 
 ration ; so that what he does not immediately by 
 himself, he does yet cause to be done; for what- 
 soever nature does, God does. There may be 
 something gathered out of all tilings, that are 
 3 c 2 
 
66S seneca's morals. 
 
 Fortune has no power over the dead. 
 
 either said, or done, that a man may be the bet- 
 ter for ; and he does a greater thing, that mas- 
 ters the fear of thunder, than he that discovers 
 the reason of it. We are surrounded and beset 
 with ill accidents,, and since we cannot avoid the 
 stroke of them, let us prepare ourselves honestly 
 to bear them. But how must that be ? by the 
 contempt of death we do also contemn all things 
 in the way to it, as wounds, shipwrecks, the fury 
 of wild beasts, or any other violence whatsoever, 
 which, at the worst, can but part the soul and 
 the body : and we have this for our comfort* 
 though our lives are at the mercy of fortune, she 
 has yet no power over the dead. 
 
 How many are there that call for death, in the 
 distress of their heart?, even for the very fear of 
 it ? and this unadvised desire of death does, in 
 ommon, affect both the best and the worst of 
 men; only with this difference, the former de- 
 spise, and the other are weary of it. 
 
 It is a nauseous thing to serve the body, and 
 to be so many years a doing so many beastly 
 things, over and over. It is well, if in our lives 
 >ve can please others; but whatever we do in our 
 deaths, let us be sure to please ourselves. Death 
 i-s a thing which no care can avoid, no felicity can 
 time it, no power overcome it ; other things are 
 disposed of by chance and fortune, but death 
 treats all men alike* 
 
seneca's morals. 56 ( J 
 
 DitTeient philo — 
 
 The prosperous must die, as well as the unfor- 
 tunate ; and, methinks, the very despair of over- 
 coming our fate, should inspire us with courage 
 to encounter it : for there is no resolution so ob- 
 stinate, as that which arises from necessity. It 
 makes a coward as bold as Julrus Cassar, though 
 upon different principles. "We are all of us re- 
 served for death ; and, as nature brings forth one 
 generation, she calls back another. The whole 
 dispute is about the time, but nobody doubts 
 about the thing itself. 
 
 A COM TEMPTATION OF HEAVEN AND HEA- 
 VENLY THINGS — OF GOD — AND OF 
 THE SOUL. 
 
 There is a great difference betwixt philosophy 
 and other arts ; and a greater yet, betwixt that 
 philosophy itself, which is of divine contempla- 
 tion, and that which has a regard to things here 
 below. It is much hicher and braver, it takes a 
 larger scope ; and, being unsatisfied with what it 
 sees, it aspires to the knowledge of something 
 that is greater and fairer, and which nature has 
 placed out of our kem The one only .teaches us 
 what is to be done upon earth ; the other reveals 
 to us that which actually is done in heaven — the 
 one discusses our errors, and holds the light to 
 us, by which we distinguish in the ambiguities 
 of life; the other surmounts that darkness which 
 3 c 3 
 
570 Seneca's morals. 
 
 i Of God. 
 
 we are wrapt up in r and carries us up to the foun- 
 tain of light itself. And then it is that we are m 
 a special manner to acknowledge the infinite grace 
 and bounty of the nature of things; when we see 
 it not only where it is public and common, but 
 in the very secrets of it, as being admitted into 
 the cabinet of the divinity itself. There it is that 
 we are taught to understand what is the matter cf 
 the world, who is the author and preserver of it. 
 What God himself is, and whether he be wholly 
 intent upon himself, or at any time descends -to 
 consider us. "Whether he has done his work once 
 for all, or whether he be still in action ; whether 
 he be a part of the world, or the world itself;; 
 whether he be at liberty, or no, to determine any 
 thing anew to-day, and to controuT, or derogate, 
 from the law of fate ; whether it be anydiminu-' 
 tion of his wisdom, or any confession of error, to- 
 do and undo, or to have made things that were 
 afterward to be altered : for the same things 
 must of necessity always please him, who can 
 never be pleased but with that which is best. 
 Now this is no lessening, either of his liberty, or 
 of his power; for he himself is his own necessity .. 
 Without the benefit and the comfort of these 
 thoughts, it had been even as well for us never 
 to have been born. For, to what end do we 
 live; is it only to eat and to drink? To stuff upr 
 an infirm and fluid carcass^ that would perish 
 
sr.Nr.CA r s morals". 57 J 
 
 Of the soul. 
 
 without it ; and to live only to a servant to one 
 that is sick ? To fear death, to which we are all 
 born ? Take away this inestimable good, and 
 life itself is not worth the labour and the care of 
 it. Oh ! how wretched, how contemptible a 
 thino- were man, if he should not advance him- 
 self above the state of human affairs ! So long 
 as we struggle with our passions-, what is there in 
 this world that we do, which is glorious? Nay, 
 if we advance ourselves so far as to overcome 
 them, it is but the destroying of so many mon- 
 sters. And have we not then a mighty exploit to 
 value ourselves upon, when we have made our- 
 selves a little more tolerable than the worst of 
 men r Is it not a wonderous matter to brag, that 
 we are a little stronger than a man that is sick ? 
 Alas ! alas ! my friend, there is a large difference 
 betwixt strength and health. You have not a 
 wicked mind, perhaps; you may have a clear 
 brow, a tongue that will not flatter, and a single 
 heart; you have not that avarice, perchance, 
 that refuses to itself whatsoever it takes from 
 other people ; nor that luxury, that squanders 
 away money shamefully, and yet more shamefully 
 repairs it ; nor that ambition, that leads you by 
 unworthy ways to places of preferment. These 
 are only negatives ; and you have got nothing all 
 this while. You will tell me, that you have 
 escaped many things ; but you have not yet 
 
572 i seneca's morals. 
 
 Iieflections. 
 
 escaped yourself. The virtue that we recommend 
 is high and illustrious. Not that it is a happi- 
 ness in itself to be free from evil, but because it 
 dignifies and enlarges the mind ; because it pre- 
 pares for the knowledge of heavenly things, and 
 makes it capable even of conversing with God 
 himself. It is then arrived at the highest pitch 
 of human felicity, when it soars aloft, and enters 
 into the privacies of nature, trampling all that is 
 evil, or vulgar, under his feet. V\ 7 hat a delight* 
 what a transport is it, for a soul that is wander- 
 ing among the stars, to look down and laugh at 
 the palaces of princes, and the whole globe of 
 the earth, and all its treasures ! I do not speak 
 of that only that is converted into money and 
 plate, but of that also which is reserved in the 
 bowels of the earth, to gratify the insatiable co- 
 veto usness of posterity. Nor can we ever bring 
 ourselves to the absolute contempt of luxurious^ 
 ornaments, rich furniture, stately buildings, plea- 
 sant gardens and fountains, until we have the 
 x world under us, and until looking down from the 
 heavens, and beholding that spot of ground we 
 live upon, the greater part of it covered with the 
 sea, beside a great deal of it desolate, and either 
 scorched, or frozen; we shall say thus to our- 
 selves: — Is this miserable point the ball of con- 
 tention, that is divided among so many nations 
 with fire and sword ? How ridiculous are the 
 2 
 
seneca's morals. 573 
 
 bounds, as well as the contests of mortals ; Such 
 a prince must not pass such a river; nor another 
 prince those mountains; and, why do not the 
 very pismires canton out their posts and jurisdic- 
 tions too ? For, what does the bustle of troops 
 and armies amount to, more than the business- 
 of a swarm of ants upon a mole-hill ? The scene 
 of all the important actions here below, where, 
 both at sea and land, we tug and scuffle for domi- 
 nion and wealth, is but a wretched point of earth; 
 whereas the dominions of the soul above are 
 boundless. This very contemplation gives us 
 force, liberty, and nourishment : the mind is there 
 at home ; and it has this argument of its divi- 
 nity, that it takes delight in what is divine. It 
 contemplates the rising and the failing of the 
 stars, and the admirable harmony of order, even 
 in their various motions ; discussing and enquir- 
 ing into every thing, as properly appertaining 
 unto itself. With how much scorn does it then 
 reflect upon the narrowness of its former habita- 
 tion ? There it is, that it learns the end of its 
 proper being, the knowledge of God. And, what 
 is God? An immense and an almighty power; 
 great, without limits; and he does whatsoever 
 pleases him. He that applies himself to this 
 study, transcends the very lot and condition of 
 bis mortality. That almighty power is all that 
 
374 Seneca's morals. 
 
 The weakness and arrogance of some. 
 
 we do see, and all that we do not see. What is 
 the difference betwixt the divine nature and ours? 
 Man is compounded, and his best part is his 
 mind ; but the Almighty is all mind, and all rea- 
 son ; and yet mortals are so blind, that the ac- 
 tions of this incomprehensible power, so excellent 
 ior beauty,, constancy, and disposition, are look- 
 ed upon by many men only as fortuitous, and the 
 work of chance j and subject to all the tumults 
 of thunder, clouds, and tempests, that affect poor 
 mortals. And this is not only the folly and mad- 
 ness of the common people, but the weakness 
 also of the wise men. There are, that arrogate 
 to themselves the faculties of Providence and 
 reason, and the skill of disposing, as well .other 
 people's affairs as their own, and yet these very 
 men are so besotted, as to imagine the world only 
 to be governed by an unadvised rashness ; as if 
 nature knew not what she did. How profitable 
 would it be for us to know the truth of things,, 
 and to allow them their due terms and measures ? 
 To enquire into the power of the Almighty, and 
 the method of his workings ; whether he made 
 the matter itself, or found it ready to his hand ; 
 and whether was first, the matter itself, or the 
 idea of it ? Whether or no he does what he 
 pleases ; and what may be the reason of so many 
 seeming imperfections in his operations I It is. 
 
se^eca's morals. 573 
 
 Our notions of ihe diviniiy are obscure. 
 
 -well said of Aristotle, that we should handle di- 
 vine matters with modesty and reverence. When 
 we enter into a temple, or approach the altar, we 
 compose our looks and our actions to all the de- 
 cencies of humility and respect: how much more 
 then does it concern us, when we treat of heavenly 
 things, to deal candidly, and not to let one syl- 
 lable pass our lips that may savour of confidence, 
 rashness, or ignorance ? Truth lies deep, and 
 must be fetched up at leisure. How many myste- 
 ries are there, which God has placed out of our 
 sight; and which are only to be reached by 
 thought and contemplation ! The notions of the 
 ■divinity are profound and obscure; or else, per- 
 haps, we see them, without understanding them. 
 But tlie Divine Majesty is only accessible to the 
 mind. What this is (without which nothing is) 
 we are not able to determine ; and when we have 
 guessed at some sparks of it, the greater part lies 
 yet concealed from us. How many creatures 
 have we now in this age, that never were known 
 to us before ! and how many more will the next 
 age know, more than we do ! and many yet will 
 be still reserved for after-times. The very rites 
 of religion are at this day a secret, and unknown 
 to many people. Nay, the very thing that we 
 most eagerly pursue, we are not yet arrived at; 
 that is to say, a perfection in wickedness. Vice 
 
576 seneca's morals. 
 
 Philosophy disregarded. 
 
 is still upon the improvement; luxury, immo 
 desty, and a prostitute dissolution of manners will 
 find still new matter to work upon. Our men 
 are grown effeminate in their habits, in their mo- 
 tions, and in their ornaments, even to the degree 
 of whorishness. There is nobody minds philoso- 
 phy, but for want of a comedy, perhaps, or in 
 foul weather, when there is nothing else to be 
 done. 
 
senega's morals. 577 
 
 Occasional remarks. 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 JLSeFORE I take my last leave of Seneca, I will 
 here discharge my conscience, as if I were upon 
 my last leave with the whole world. I have been 
 so just, both to the reader and to the author, that 
 I have neither left out any thing in the original, 
 which I thought the one might be the better for ; 
 nor added any thing of my own, to make the 
 other fare the worse. I have done, in this collection 
 of Epistles, as a good husband does with his cold 
 meat; they are only hash, made up of the frag- 
 ments that remained of the two former parts, 
 which 1 could not well dispose of in any 
 other form; or so properly publish under any 
 other title. Let me not yet be understood to im* 
 pose this piece upon the public, as an abstract of 
 Seneca's Epistles, any more than I did the other, 
 for the abstracts of his Benefits and Happy Life. 
 It is, in works of this nature, as it is in cordial 
 waters, we taste all the ingredients, without be- 
 
 3d 
 
57$ seneca's morals. 
 
 No book pleases all palates. 
 
 ing able to separate this from that but still we 
 find the virtue of every plant in every drop. To 
 return to my allegory, books and dishes have 
 this common fate; there was never any one of 
 either of them that pleased all palates. And, in 
 truth, it is a thing as little to be wished for, as 
 expected: for an universal applause is at least 
 two-thirds of a scandal. So that, though I de- 
 liver up these papers to the press, I invite no man 
 to the reading of them; and whosoever reads, 
 and repents, it is his own fault. To conclude, as 
 I made this composition principally for myself, so 
 it agrees exceedingly well with my constitution ; 
 and yet, if any man has a mind to take part with 
 me, he has free leave and welcome. But let him 
 carry this consideration along with him — that he 
 is a very unmannerly guest, that presses upon 
 another body's table, and then quarrels with his 
 dinner. / 
 
seneca's morals. 579 
 
 Truth not to be estimated by fancy. 
 
 AFTER - THOUGHT. 
 
 T> 
 
 HIS abstract has now passed the fifth impres*- 
 sion, but ihe world has not been altogether so 
 kind, of late, to my politics as to my morals. 
 And what is the meaning of it, bat that we live 
 in an age that will better bear the image of what 
 people ought to do, than the history of what 
 they do ; and that is the difference they put be- 
 twixt the one and the other. We are not yet to 
 take an estimate of the intrinsic value of truth, 
 honesty, or reason, by fancy, or imagination ; as 
 if the standard of virtue were to be accommo- 
 dated to the various changes and vicissitudes of 
 times, interests, and contending parties: but so 
 k falls cut, that some verities, and some good of- 
 fices, will take a false colour better than others, 
 and set off an imposture with more credit and 
 countenance to the common people. Dairy ex- 
 perience tells us, that our affections are as liable 
 3 d 2 
 
680 slneca's morals. 
 
 The present work is an epitome 
 
 to be vitiated as our palates; insomuch, that the 
 most profitable of meats, drinks, or remedies, 
 lose not only their effect, but their very savour, 
 and give us a loathing at one time, for that we 
 longed for, and took delight in at another. But 
 then we are to consider, that the humour may 
 come about again ; and that writings and opinions 
 have their seasons too, and take their turns, as 
 well as all other changeable things under the sun. 
 So that let error, corruption, or iniquity, be ever 
 so strong, ever so popular ; let the ignorance of 
 things, necessary to be known, be ever so dark 
 and palpable, we may yet assure ourselves, that 
 however truth and justice may suffer a temporary 
 eclipse, they will yet, at the long run, as cer- 
 tainly vindicate themselves, and recover their 
 original glory, as the setting sun shall rise again. 
 When I speak of my Morals, let me not be un- 
 derstood to play the plagiary, and to assume the 
 subject matter of this work to myself; for it is 
 Seneca's, every thought and line of it, though it 
 would be as hard to refer each sentence, text, 
 and precept, to the very place whence it was 
 drawn, as to bring every distinct drop in a cask 
 of wine to the particular grape from whence it was 
 pressed. So that I have no other claim to the 
 merit of this composition, than the putting of 
 things in order that I found in confusion, and 
 digesting the loose minutes and the broken medi- 
 
Seneca's motials. 581 
 
 Of Seneca's philosophy concerning manners. 
 
 tations of that divine heathen, into a kind of sys- 
 tem of good counsels and of good manners. But 
 bow faithfully soever 1 have dealt with my au- 
 thor, in a just and genuine representation of his 
 sense and meaning, so have I, on the other hand, 
 with no less conscience and afiection, consulted 
 the benefit, the ease, and the satisfaction of the 
 English reader, in the plainness and simplicity of 
 the style, and in the perspicuity of the method. 
 And yet, after all this, there is somewhat still 
 wanting, methinks,- toward the doing of a full 
 right to Seneca, to the world, and to myself, and 
 to the thorough- finishing of this piece; a thing 
 that I have had in. my head long and often, and 
 and which I have as good a will to prosecute, 
 even at this instant, as ever, if I could but flatter 
 myself with day enough before me to go through 
 with it. But before I come to the point under 
 deliberation, it will do well, first, to take a view 
 ©f the true* state of the matter in hand, upon 
 "what ground we stand at present. Secondly, to 
 consider from whence it is that we are to take our 
 rise to it, and so to open, briefly > and by degrees, 
 into the thing itself. 
 
 This abstract, I say, is entirely Seneca's ; and 
 though little more in bulk than the third part of 
 the original, it is, in effect, a summary of the - 
 whole body of his philosophy concerning manners, 
 contracted into this epitome, without either over- 
 3d3 
 
582 seneca's morals. 
 
 The author's profession was to give liglits'and hints; 
 
 charging it with things idle and superfluous, or 
 leaving out any thing, which I thought might 
 contribute to the order and dignity of the work. 
 As to his school-questions, and philosophical dis- 
 quisitions upon the natural reason of things, I 
 have almost totally cast them out, as curiosities 
 that hold little or no intelligence with the govern- 
 ment of our passions, and the forming of our 
 lives ; and as matters, consequently, that are al- 
 together foreign to my province. I have taken 
 the liberty also, in many cases, where our author 
 inculcates and enforces the same conceptions over 
 and over again in variety of phrase, to extract 
 the spirit of them, and, instead of dressing up the 
 same thought in several shapes, to make some 
 one adequate word, or sentence, serve for all. 
 But when all is said that can be said, nay, and 
 when all is done too that can be done, within the 
 compass of an essay of this qualit)', though ever 
 so correct in the kind, it is, at the best, but an 
 abstract still; and a bare abstract will never do 
 the business as it ought to be done. 
 
 It is not one jot derogatory to Seneca's charac- 
 terj to observe upon him, that he made it his 
 profession rather to give lights and hints to the 
 world, than to write corpus's of morality, and 
 prescribe rules and measures in a set course of 
 philosophy, for the common instruction of man- 
 kind: so that many of his thoughts seem to spring 
 
seneca's mctrals. 583 
 
 He was a man made for ine 'ration. 
 
 only like sparks upon a kind of collision, or a 
 striking of fire within himself, and with a very 
 little dependence sometimes one upon another. 
 What if those incomparable starts, and strictures 
 of his, that no translator can lay hold of, shall 
 be yet allowed, by the common voice of man- 
 kind, to be as much superior to those parts of 
 him that will bear the turning, as the faculties 
 and operations of the soul are to the functions of 
 the body ? and no way of conveying the benignity 
 of those influences to the world, but by a specu- 
 lation upon them in paraphrase. In few words, 
 Seneca was a man made for meditation. He was 
 undoubtedly a man of choice thoughts, and he 
 employed the vigour of them upon a most illus- 
 trious subject. Beside that, that this ranging 
 humour of his (as Mr. Hobbs expresses it), is 
 accompanied with so wonderful a felicity of lively 
 and pertinent reflections, even in the most ordi- 
 nary occurrences of life; and his applications so 
 happy also, that every man reads him over again 
 within himself, and feels, and confesses in his own 
 heart, the truth of his doctrine. What can be 
 done more than this now in the whole world, to- 
 ward establishing of a right principle ? for there 
 is no test of the truth and reason of things, like 
 that which has along with it the assent of univer- 
 sal nature. As he was much given to thinking, 
 =o he wrote principally for thinking men; the pe- 
 
584 seneca's biohals. 
 
 The author's innuendns 
 
 riods that he lays most stress upon, are only so 
 many detachments of one select thought from an- 
 other, and every fresh hint furnishes a new text 
 to work upon. So that the reading of Seneca, 
 without reading upon him, does but the one half 
 of our business ; for his innuendos are infinitely 
 snore instructive than his words at length, and 
 there is no coming at him- in those heights with- 
 out a paraphrase. 
 
 It will be here objected, that a paraphrase is 
 but the reading upon a text, or an arbitrary de- 
 scant upon the original, at the will and pleasure 
 of the interpreter: if we have all of Seneca's that 
 is good already, there is no place left for a sup- 
 plement; and the animadversion wiLl be no more 
 Seneca's, at last, than our comments upon the 
 word of God are holy writ. 
 
 A paraphrase, it is true, may be loose, arbi- 
 trary, and extravagant. And so may any thing, 
 eke «hat ever was committed to writing.; nay,, 
 the best, and the most necessary of duties, facul- 
 ties, and things, may degenerate by the abuse of 
 them, into acts of. sin, shame, and folly. Men 
 may blaspheme in their prayers; they may poison, 
 one another in their cups, or in their porridge,. 
 They mav talk treason, and, in short, they may 
 do a million of extravagant things in all cases 
 and offices, that any man can imagine under the 
 sun. And what is the objector's inference now 7 . 
 
seneca's morals. 58.j 
 
 from the possibility of this abuse, but that we are 
 neither to pray, nor to eat, nor to drink, nor to 
 open our mouths, nor, in fine, to do any thing 
 else, for fear of more possibilities, as dangerous 
 as the other? It is suggested again, that the pa- 
 raphrase is foreign to the text, and that the ani- 
 madvertor may make the author speak what he 
 pleases. Now the question is not the possibility 
 of a vain, an empty, a flat, or an unedifying ex- 
 position : but the need, the use, the means, the 
 possibility, nay, and the easiness of furnishing a 
 good one ; beside that, there is no hurt at all, on 
 the one hand, to countervail a very considerable 
 advantage to all men of letters, and of common 
 honesty ,°on the other. A short, or an idle com- 
 ment, does only disgrace the writer of it, while 
 the reputation of the author stands nevertheless 
 as firm as ever it did : but he that finishes Se- 
 neca's Minutes, with proper and reasonable sup- 
 plements, where he does not speak his own 
 thoughts out at large, does a necessary right, both 
 to the dead aud to the living, and a common ser- 
 vice to mankind. 
 
 He does a right to the dead, I say, more ways 
 than one; for over and above the justice and re- 
 spect that is due to his memory, it is, in a tan- 
 equity of construction, a performance of the very 
 will of the dead. For all his fragments of hint 
 and essay, were manifestly designed for other 
 
5§6 seneca's morals. 
 
 Though a great paraphrase upon himself, 
 
 people to meditate, read, and speculate upon ; 
 and a great part of the end of them is lost, with- 
 out such an improvement; so that the very man- 
 ner of his writings call for a paraphrase ; a para- 
 phrase he expected, and a paraphrase is due to 
 him ; and, in short, we owe a paraphrase to our- 
 selves too j for the meaning of his hints and mi- 
 nutes does as well deserve to be expounded, as 
 the sense and energy of his words. Nay, and 
 when all is done, whoever considers how he diver- 
 sifies the same thing over and over, in a change 
 of phrase; how many several ways he winds and 
 moulds his own thoughts ; and now he labours 
 under the difficulty of clearing even his own mean- 
 ing : whoever considers this, I say, will find Se- 
 neca, upon the whole matter, to be in a great mea- 
 sure a paraphrase upon himself. He gives you his 
 first sense of things, and then he enlarges upon it, 
 improves it, distinguishes, expounds, dilates, &c 
 and \\ hen he finds at last that he cannot bring up 
 the force of his words to the purity and vigour of 
 his conception, so as to extricate himself in all 
 respects to h;s own satisfaction,, it is his course, 
 commonly, to draw the stress of the question to a 
 point, and there to let it rest; as a theme of 
 light that stands effectually recommended to far- 
 ther consideration. This must not be taken as if 
 Seneca could not speak his own mind as full and 
 as home as any man ; or as if he left any thing 
 
seneca's morals. 587 
 
 He -tiimilates reader to pursue.- b : . - 
 
 imperfect because be could not finish it himself; 
 but it was a turn of art in him, by breaking off 
 with an &c. to create an appetite in the reader 
 of pursuing the hint ; over and above the flowing 
 of matter so fast upon him, that it was impossi- 
 ble for his words to keep pace with his thoughts. 
 Be this now spoken with all reverence to his 
 divine Essays upon Providence, Happy Life, Be- 
 nefits, Anger, Clemency, Human Frailty, -&c. 
 where he shews as much skill in the distribution 
 of his matter, the congruity and proportion of the 
 parts, and the harmony of the whole in the con- 
 text, as he does of a natural felicity in adapting 
 the tendency and the virtue of his sententious 
 raptures to the use of human life. So that he 
 was evidently in possession of both faculties, (of 
 springing game, that is, and of flying it home,) 
 though he made choice of exercising the one of- 
 jener than the other. There is a vein in this 
 mixture, that runs through ail his discourses, 
 whether broken, or continued; albeit that there 
 is no touching any piece of Ins to advantage, after 
 he lias finished it ; there is room abundantly yet 
 'for explication, and for supplement, in other 
 cases, where he snaps off short, wiih a kind of 
 cetera desiderantur ; and so leaves a foundation 
 for those to build upon that shall come after him. 
 Now these independent thoughts are the touches 
 that I would otfer to a farther improvement ; and 
 
 4 
 
5S8 sejteca's morals. 
 
 Commentators should adhere to their theme. 
 
 only here and there one of the most elevated, 
 even of them too, which will amount to no more* 
 in the conclusion, than a discourse upon this or 
 that theme, or text, under what name or title 
 the expositor pleases. I would not, however, 
 have the comment break in upon the context; 
 and I would so scrupulously confine it to the 
 bounds of modesty and conscience, as not to de- 
 part, upon any terms, either from the intent of 
 the original, or from the reason of the matter in 
 question : this office performed, would raise an- 
 other Seneca out of the ashes of the former, and 
 make, perhaps, a manual of salutary precepts, 
 for the ordering of uur passions, and for the re- 
 gulation of our lives, not inferior to any other 
 whatsoever, the divine oracles of holy inspiration 
 only excepted. For it w r ould reach all states of 
 men, all conditions of fortune, all distresses of 
 body, all perturbations of mind ; and, in fine, it 
 would answer all the ends that are worthy of an 
 honest man's case. It was once in my head to 
 digest the whole into such an abstract as might, 
 at the same time, do the office also of a para- 
 phrase, both under one ; but what with the scru- 
 ple of either assuming any of Seneca's excellen- 
 k ies to myself, or of imputing any of my weak- 
 nesses to Seneca, I compounded the matter thus 
 within myself: that though both would do well, 
 ihe doing of them separate and apart would be 
 
seneca's morals. 5S<? 
 
 Thev arc liable to criticism. 
 
 best. Not but that the undertaker, I fear, will 
 find well nigh as much difficulty to preserve his 
 own reputation in his attempt, as to do right to 
 the author ; especially when he is sure to have 
 every cofiee-house sit upon him like a court of 
 justice, and if he shall but happen to stumble 
 upon any of the same figures or illustrations over 
 again — if the supplement shall but have so much 
 as the least tincture of any thing that is done al- 
 ready, a common criminal, for the basest sort of 
 washing, clipping, and coining, shall find better' 
 quarter. Here is the old abstract, they will cry, 
 juggled into a new paraphrase, and the same 
 thing fobbed upon the world over again, only 
 under another name. It will be hard to get clear 
 of such a cavil when it shall be started, and it will 
 be a very easy thing to find out a plausible co- 
 lour for the setting of it afoot. 
 
 As to the supposal of disparaging an excellent 
 author by a lewd paraphrase, it is as idle as to- 
 imagine that a canonical text should suffer for an 
 heretical interpretation. And so for the fancy 
 of robbing him of his due by a good one, in a 
 case where the single point is only a virtuous 
 emulation betwixt them which shall do the best 
 upon the same topic. Now where the comment 
 has a kindness for the text, there can be no in- 
 terfering upon a pique of honour, though they 
 should both happen to agree in the very selfsame 
 
 3e 
 
5f)0 senega's morals. 
 
 One thought kindles another ; 
 
 thoughts. For what is all the writing, reading y 
 discoursing, consulting, disputing, meditating, 
 compounding, and dividing, from the first quick- 
 ening breath of the Almighty into reasonable na- 
 ture, to this very moment; what is all this, I 
 say, but the lighting of one candle at another ?- 
 Make it the case, that by the benefit of that light, 
 I rind a treasure. Here is no robbing of Pete? 
 to pay* Paul : nor any particular obligation for 
 an act of common humanity. Reason works by 
 communication, and one thought kindles another,, 
 from generation to generation, as naturally as 
 one spark begets another, where the matter is 
 disposed for the impression. 
 
 This is no more than to say, that Providence, 
 for the good of mankind, has made all men neces- 
 sary to one another. He that puts a good hint 
 into my head, puts a good word into my mouth, 
 unless a blockhead has it in keeping : so that 
 there is an obligation on both sides. The text is 
 beholden to him that reads upon it, for improv- 
 ing it ; and the latter had never thought of the 
 subject, perhaps, if the former had not bolted it. 
 What is all this now, but reasoning upon first 
 motions ; and a joining of those two powers, or 
 faculties, both in one, for a public good ? Reason 
 is uniform; and where two men are in the right, 
 they must of necessity agree upon the same point, 
 and the thoughts of several men in such a case, 
 
seneca's morals. 5pl 
 
 And the thoughts of several are thus united. 
 
 are as much one, as a conflagration is one fire, by 
 how many several hands soever it was kindled : 
 so that there is no saying which was one's thought,, 
 or which the other's, but they are incorporated 
 into one common stock. The great nicety will lie 
 in a judicious choice what to take, and what to 
 leave ; where to begin, and where to end, and in 
 hitting the precise medium betwixt too much and 
 too little, without forcing the design of the au- 
 thor, or intermixing any tawdry flourishes by the 
 by, to disgrace the dignity of the matter. I would 
 not have so much as one word inserted, that 
 might not become Seneca himself if he were now 
 living, either to speak, or to approve. Once for 
 all, such a reading upon Seneca as I have here 
 propounded upon these terms, and under these 
 conditions, and in such a manner too, as to take 
 the genuine air and figure of his mind, in its na- 
 tive simplicity and beauty, such a paraphrase, I 
 say, superadded by way of supplement, where the 
 abstract falls short, would furnish us with that 
 which of all things in the world we want the most, 
 that is to say — a perfect and a lively image of 
 human nature. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 J. CVNDEE, PRINTER, 
 Ivy Lane. 
 
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