“Methinks, under favour (most renowned Ptolomy) we are now slipped into a debate, a little beside the business. The question is whether Pompey should be delivered up to Cæsar, or no. That is to say, whether in reason of state it ought to be done; and we are formalising the matter, whether in point of equity and justice it may be done. Bodies politic have no souls, and never did any great prince turn a council of state into a court of conscience, but he repented it. Kingdoms are to be governed by politicians, not by casuists; and there is nothing more contrary to the true interest of crowns and empires, than in public cases to make a scruple of private duties. The argument is this: Pompey is in distress; and Ptolomy under an obligation, so that it were a violation of faith and hospitality not to relieve him. Now give me leave to reason in the other way. Pompey is forsaken, and persecuted by the Gods; Cæsar upon the heels of him, with victory and success. Shall Ptolomy now ruin himself, to protect a fugitive, against both heaven and Cæsar! I must confess, where honesty and profit are both of a side, ’tis well; but, where they disagree, the prince that does not quit his religion, for his convenience, falls into a direct conspiracy against himself. He shall lose the hearts of his soldiery, and the reputation of his power. Whereas, on the contrary, the most hateful tyrant in the world shall be able to keep his head above water, let him but give a general licence to commit all sorts of wickedness; you’ll say ’tis impious, but I say, what if it be? who shall call you to account? These deliberations are only for subjects that are under command, and not for sovereign princes whose will is a law.” Exeat Aulâ Qui volet esse pius, He was never cut out For a Court, that’s devout. “In fine, since either Pompey or Ptolomy must suffer, I am absolutely for the saving of Ptolomy, and the presenting of Pompey’s head, without any more ado, to Cæsar. A dead dog will never bite.” Photinus had no sooner made an end, but Domitian appeared in a monstrous rage, and lugging of poor Suetonius after him like a bear to the stake. “There is not in nature,” says he, “so damned a generation of scribbling rogues as these historians. We can neither be quiet for them, living nor dead: for they haunt us in our very graves; and when they have vented the humour and caprice of their own brains, that forsooth must be called, The Life of such an Emperor. And, for an instance, I’ll show ye what this impertinent chronicler says of myself. ‘He had squandered away his treasure,’ says he, ‘in expensive buildings, comedies, and donatives to the soldiers.’ “Now would I fain know which way it could have been better employed.