This is all that I have to say to you; and I say even this not willingly.  Why?  Because you have not roused me.  For what must I look to in order to be roused, as men who are expert in riding are roused by generous horses?  Must I look to your body?  You treat it disgracefully.  To your dress?  That is luxurious.  To your behavior, to your look?  That is the same as nothing.  When you would listen to a philosopher, do not say to him, You tell me nothing; but only show yourself worthy of hearing or fit for hearing; and you will see how you will move the speaker.

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That logic is necessary.—­When one of those who were present said, Persuade me that logic is necessary, he replied, Do you wish me to prove this to you?  The answer was, Yes.  Then I must use a demonstrative form of speech.  This was granted.  How then will you know if I am cheating you by my argument?  The man was silent.  Do you see, said Epictetus, that you yourself are admitting that logic is necessary, if without it you cannot know so much as this, whether logic is necessary or not necessary?

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Of finery in dress.—­A certain young man, a rhetorician, came to see Epictetus, with his hair dressed more carefully than was usual and his attire in an ornamental style; whereupon Epictetus said, Tell me if you do not think that some dogs are beautiful and some horses, and so of all other animals.  I do think so, the youth replied.  Are not then some men also beautiful and others ugly?  Certainly.  Do we then for the same reason call each of them in the same kind beautiful, or each beautiful for something peculiar?  And you will judge of this matter thus.  Since we see a dog naturally formed for one thing, and a horse for another, and for another still, as an example, a nightingale, we may generally and not improperly declare each of them to be beautiful then when it is most excellent according to its nature; but since the nature of each is different, each of them seems to me to be beautiful in a different way.  Is it not so?  He admitted that it was.  That then which makes a dog beautiful, makes a horse ugly; and that which makes a horse beautiful, makes a dog ugly, if it is true that their natures are different.  It seems to be so.  For I think that what makes a Pancratiast beautiful, makes a wrestler to be not good, and a runner to be most ridiculous; and he who is beautiful for the Pentathlon, is very ugly for wrestling.  It is so, said he.  What then makes a man beautiful?  Is it that which in its kind makes both a dog and a horse beautiful?  It is, he said.  What then makes a dog beautiful?  The possession of the excellence of a dog.  And what makes a horse beautiful?  The possession of the excellence of a horse.  What then makes a man beautiful?  Is it not the possession of the excellence of a man?  And do you then, if you wish to be beautiful, young man,