["The one is happy in himself; the happiness of the other is counterfeit."--Seneca, Ep., 115.] cowardice, irresolution, ambition, spite, and envy agitate him as much as another: "Non enim gazae, neque consularis Submovet lictor miseros tumultus Mentis, et curas laqueata circum Tecta volantes." ["For not treasures, nor the consular lictor, can remove the miserable tumults of the mind, nor cares that fly about panelled ceilings."--Horace, Od., ii. 16, 9.] Care and fear attack him even in the centre of his battalions: "Re veraque metus hominum curaeque sequaces Nec metuunt sonitus armorum, nee fera tela; Audacterque inter reges, rerumque potentes Versantur, neque fulgorem reverentur ab auro." ["And in truth the fears and haunting cares of men fear not the clash of arms nor points of darts, and mingle boldly with great kings and men in authority, nor respect the glitter of gold." --Lucretius, ii. 47.] Do fevers, gout, and apoplexies spare him any more than one of us? When old age hangs heavy upon his shoulders, can the yeomen of his guard ease him of the burden? When he is astounded with the apprehension of death, can the gentlemen of his bedchamber comfort and assure him? When jealousy or any other caprice swims in his brain, can our compliments and ceremonies restore him to his good-humour? The canopy embroidered with pearl and gold he lies under has no virtue against a violent fit of the colic: "Nee calidae citius decedunt corpore febres Textilibus si in picturis, ostroque rubenti Jactaris, quam si plebeia in veste cubandum est." ["Nor do burning fevers quit you sooner if you are stretched on a couch of rich tapestry and in a vest of purple dye, than if you be in a coarse blanket."--Idem, ii. 34.] The flatterers of Alexander the Great possessed him that he was the son of Jupiter; but being one day wounded, and observing the blood stream from his wound: "What say you now, my masters," said he, "is not this blood of a crimson colour and purely human? This is not of the complexion of that which Homer makes to issue from the wounded gods." The poet Hermodorus had written a poem in honour of Antigonus, wherein he called him the son of the sun: "He who has the emptying of my close-stool," said Antigonus, "knows to the contrary." He is but a man at best, and if he be deformed or ill-qualified from his birth, the empire of the universe cannot set him to rights: "Puellae Hunc rapiant; quidquid calcaverit hic, rosa fiat," ["Let girls carry him off; wherever he steps let there spring up a rose!"--Persius, Sat., ii. 38.] what of all that, if he be a fool? even pleasure and good fortune are not relished without vigour and understanding: