Senecio.

When, too, there’s nought worth stealing in his province.

Pis. (to Petr.). You, sir, would underrate high qualities, Being proved in them yourself. Bithynia Praises you still, though Rome forgets your zeal In the grace of your retirement. Will you never Mix in affairs again?

Pet. Nothing could tempt me. The very thought of travelling wearies me, And the occupation of the mind in matters That any clerk is fit for.—Yet I praise The world and all its fret: its vanity, Advertisement, vulgarity and dirt Are precious for one thing; they make retirement Positive joy. Blest are the gods who sit On changeless seats. I think they framed the world That they might look upon it and rejoice They lived not in it: that’s its use to me.

Luc. True, as Rome says, Petronius, thou art steeped In gross epicurism.

Pet. Bravo, stoic! I may be what men say: yet very few Are what they show the world: there’s a screw-twist In every mind. It is the sensuous man Follows asceticism: the passionate man Who is practised in reserve. Why Know thyself, Unless to hide thyself? Look at the houses Of our philosophers: the epicurean, Who holds the happiness of life depends On small accessories, lives in discomfort: The stoic, he who says all outward matters Concern him not a pin, orders his home With scrupulous care; however nice your taste, There’s not a better host.