“Spero equidem mediis, si quid pia numina possunt,
          Supplicia hausurum scopulis, et nomine Dido
          Saepe vocaturum . . . . 
          Audiam; et haec Manes veniet mihi fama sub imos.”

["I hope, however, if the pious gods have any power, thou wilt feel thy punishment amid the rocks, and will call on the name of Dido; I shall hear, and this report will come to me below.”—­AEneid, iv. 382, 387.]

Xenophon was sacrificing with a crown upon his head when one came to bring him news of the death of his son Gryllus, slain in the battle of Mantinea:  at the first surprise of the news, he threw his crown to the ground; but understanding by the sequel of the narrative the manner of a most brave and valiant death, he took it up and replaced it upon his head.  Epicurus himself, at his death, consoles himself upon the utility and eternity of his writings: 

          “Omnes clari et nobilitati labores fiunt tolerabiles;”

     ["All labours that are illustrious and famous become supportable.” 
     —­Cicero, Tusc.  Quaes., ii. 26.]

and the same wound, the same fatigue, is not, says Xenophon, so intolerable to a general of an army as to a common soldier.  Epaminondas took his death much more cheerfully, having been informed that the victory remained to him: 

          “Haec sunt solatia, haec fomenta summorum dolorum;”

     ["These are sedatives and alleviations to the greatest pains.” 
     —­Cicero, Tusc.  Quaes., ii. 23.]

and such like circumstances amuse, divert, and turn our thoughts from the consideration of the thing in itself.  Even the arguments of philosophy are always edging and glancing on the matter, so as scarce to rub its crust; the greatest man of the first philosophical school, and superintendent over all the rest, the great Zeno, forms this syllogism against death:  “No evil is honourable; but death is honourable; therefore death is no evil”; against drunkenness this:  “No one commits his secrets to a drunkard; but every one commits his secrets to a wise man:  therefore a wise man is no drunkard.”  Is this to hit the white?  I love to see that these great and leading souls cannot rid themselves of our company:  perfect men as they are, they are yet simply men.

Revenge is a sweet passion, of great and natural impression; I discern it well enough, though I have no manner of experience of it.  From this not long ago to divert a young prince, I did not tell him that he must, to him that had struck him upon the one cheek, turn the other, upon account of charity; nor go about to represent to him the tragical events that poetry attributes to this passion.  I left that behind; and I busied myself to make him relish the beauty of a contrary image:  and, by representing to him what honour, esteem, and goodwill he would acquire by clemency and good nature, diverted him to ambition.  Thus a man is to deal in such cases.