["Let him not think himself exempt from that which is incidental to
     men in general.”—­Terence, Heauton, i. 1, 25.]

The poets, that feign all things at pleasure, dare not acquit their greatest heroes of tears: 

          “Sic fatur lacrymans, classique immittit habenas.”

     ["Thus he speaks, weeping, and then sets sail with his fleet.” 
     —­Aeneid, vi. i.]

’Tis sufficient for a man to curb and moderate his inclinations, for totally to suppress them is not in him to do.  Even our great Plutarch, that excellent and perfect judge of human actions, when he sees Brutus and Torquatus kill their children, begins to doubt whether virtue could proceed so far, and to question whether these persons had not rather been stimulated by some other passion.—­[Plutarch, Life of Publicola, c. 3.] —­All actions exceeding the ordinary bounds are liable to sinister interpretation, for as much as our liking no more holds with what is above than with what is below it.

Let us leave that other sect, that sets up an express profession of scornful superiority—­[The Stoics.]—­:  but when even in that sect, reputed the most quiet and gentle, we hear these rhodomontades of Metrodorus: 

          “Occupavi te, Fortuna, atque cepi:  omnesque aditus tuos
          interclusi ut ad me aspirare non posses;”

     ["Fortune, I have got the better of thee, and have made all the
     avenues so sure thou canst not come at me.” 
     —­Cicero, Tusc.  Quaes., v. 9.]

when Anaxarchus, by command of Nicocreon the tyrant of Cyprus, was put into a stone mortar, and laid upon with mauls of iron, ceases not to say, “Strike, batter, break; ’tis not Anaxarchus, ’tis but his sheath that you pound and bray so”; when we hear our martyrs cry out to the tyrant from the middle of the flame, “This side is roasted enough, fall to and eat, it is enough done; fall to work with the other;” when we hear the child in Josephus’ torn piece-meal with pincers, defying Antiochus, and crying out with a constant and assured voice:  “Tyrant, thou losest thy labour, I am still at ease; where is the pain, where are the torments with which thou didst so threaten me?  Is this all thou canst do?  My constancy torments thee more than thy cruelty does me.  O pitiful coward, thou faintest, and I grow stronger; make me complain, make me bend, make me yield if thou canst; encourage thy guards, cheer up thy executioners; see, see they faint, and can do no more; arm them, flesh them anew, spur them up”; truly, a man must confess that there is some phrenzy, some fury, how holy soever, that at that time possesses those souls.  When we come to these Stoical sallies:  “I had rather be mad than voluptuous,” a saying of Antisthenes.  When Sextius tells us, “he had rather be fettered with affliction than pleasure”:  when Epicurus takes upon him to play with his gout, and, refusing health and ease, defies all torments, and despising the lesser pains, as disdaining to contend with them, he covets and calls out for others sharper, more violent, and more worthy of him;