Oration 3

When someone asked Socrates—an old man at Athens, and a poor one, whom you too know by report, since he lived very many years ago—whether he considered the king of the Persians happy, he replied, "Perhaps he is happy"; but he said that he himself could not know, since he had never associated with the man nor knew what his mind was like—as though happiness arose, I suppose, from no other source, neither from vessels of gold nor from cities nor from territory nor from other men, but came to each from himself and from his own mind.

Socrates, then, since he happened to be without experience of the Persian's soul, held himself also to be without experience of his happiness. But I, most noble Emperor, have associated with you, and am perhaps experienced in your nature as much as any man, knowing that you delight in truth and frank speech rather than in flattery and deceit.

To begin with, you regard the irrational pleasures with suspicion, as you do flattering men, and you endure toils, taking them to be tests of virtue. And since I see you, Emperor, consorting with the men of old and grasping prudent and exact discourses, I declare plainly that he is a blessed man who, holding the greatest power after the gods, makes the noblest use of that power.

For when a man may enjoy all things pleasant and need attempt none of the things that are laborious, may live as idly as he pleases, and—to put it briefly—may do whatever he wishes, no one preventing what he wishes, but all men praising it, and yet that man,

when he proves a more law-abiding judge than those who give judgment by lot, a more equitable king than the magistrates in the cities who are accountable, a more just general than the soldiers who follow him, more devoted to toil in all his works than those who labor under compulsion, less willing to live softly than those who have no means at all for soft living, more kindly to his subjects than affectionate fathers, more terrible to his enemies than the unconquered and invincible gods—how could one not say that this man's guardian spirit is good, not for himself alone, but for all the rest as well?

For of the many men, the private men who hold some small office, the spirit is small, and concerns the holder alone; but he whom a great multitude of cities obey, by whose judgment very many nations are governed, to whose prudence countless tribes of men, unmixed with one another, look—this man becomes the savior and guardian of all men, provided he be such. For the prudence of the man who rules and commands all is sufficient to benefit even the imprudent, since he takes counsel alike on behalf of all.

And his temperance makes even the more licentious more temperate, since he watches over all alike; and his justice imparts itself even to the unjust; and his courage is able not only to save the less stout-hearted, but to make them more confident.

For no one is so utterly cowardly that he is not emboldened when he follows a leader with whom victory is at hand; nor anyone so far relaxed that he is idle when he sees arrayed for battle the one to whom alone God has assigned command; nor again anyone so utterly shameless that he is willing to toil for another, yet unwilling to share in this man's toil.

And it seems to me that Homer too means this very thing; for, having mentioned the good king, he says at the end, "and the peoples thrive under him." For such a king has held virtue to be a fine possession for others, but for himself a necessity as well.

For who has need of more prudence than he who takes counsel about the greatest matters? Who of more exact justice than he who is greater than the laws? Who of more rigorous temperance than he to whom all things are permitted? Who of stronger courage than he by whom all things are kept safe?

And whom do the works of virtue gladden more than the man who has all mankind as spectators and witnesses of his own soul, so that he can never escape notice in anything he does, any more than the sun can travel through darkness? For while it makes all other things appear, it first displays itself.

I say this not unaware that what I have now said would require to be said over a longer time; but there is no fear that I shall ever appear to be saying anything out of flattery. For I have given no slight proof of my freedom of speech, and over no short time.

If, formerly, when all men thought it necessary to lie out of fear, I alone dared to tell the truth, and that at peril of my life, but now, when all are free to speak the truth, I lie, with no danger present, then I should know neither the occasion for frank speech nor that for flattery.

And yet all men who do anything willingly do it either for the sake of money, or of reputation, or for some other pleasure, or—lastly, I suppose—out of regard for virtue and the honorable itself.

But I have never thought fit to take money from anyone, though many wished to give it; and of my own small possessions I shall be seen not only to have shared with others, but often even to have thrown them away.

And what pleasure was I hunting after, when even those who have openly made flattery their craft confess that flattering is of all things the most disagreeable? For how is it pleasant, in order to praise another unjustly, to be justly blamed oneself?

And indeed it does not seem either reputable or honorable to flatter, that one should practice it for the sake of honor or out of virtue. For of all the vices, one might find flattery, so to speak, the most shameful.

For first, it corrupts the fairest and most just of things, praise, so that it no longer seems trustworthy or truly given; and—most dreadful of all—it gives the prizes of virtue to vice. So that flatterers do far worse than those who debase the coinage; for the latter make the coinage suspect, but the former make virtue itself untrustworthy.

And then, I think, while the wicked man is always called witless, and is so in truth, the flatterer surpasses all in folly. For alone among those who do away with truth, he is bold enough to tell falsehoods to those who best know that he is lying. For who is without experience of his own affairs? Or who is so silly that he does not know whether he delights in toils or in idleness, and whether he takes more pleasure in having the advantage or in acting justly, and whether he is mastered by pleasures or is a lover of honorable deeds?

And so the very thing he most supposes—that he gratifies those he praises—seems to me to be precisely what he most fails to do; for he rather earns hatred than gratitude from those who are not utterly frivolous.

To begin with, he who counts a poor man blessed as though rich both lies himself, and reproaches the man he calls blessed with his poverty. Again, he who praises the ugliest man as handsome—does he do anything but cast his ugliness in his teeth? Or he who calls a cripple sound—how could he gratify him by reminding him of his misfortune? But he, again, who hymns the witless man as prudent—this one would perhaps be the most persuasive of all, owing to the folly of the listener, and does proportionally greater harm; for he persuades him to take counsel for himself and not to entrust matters to the prudent.

And he who admires the coward as brave makes the most justified use of the folly of the man he flatters; for the man would most quickly perish, I think, if he believed him and attempted the deeds of courage.

But, in general, the flatterer, when detected, is not merely condemned but hated; for he seems to speak in mockery. And when he has persuaded that he speaks truly, he obtains no great thanks. For what favor does he seem to confer by speaking the truth?

He is, indeed, much more wicked than false witnesses. For they do not corrupt the judge, but only deceive him; whereas the flatterer at once bribes him with his praise.

But that I may neither incur the charge of flattery from those who wish to slander me, nor you the charge of wishing to be praised to your face, I shall make my discourse concerning the good king—what sort of man he ought to be, and what the difference is between him and the one who pretends to be a ruler,

but is furthest of all from rule and kingship. And if anyone shall say that I always make the same arguments, this would be a charge shared by me with Socrates. For they say that Hippias of Elis, once, after listening for a long while to Socrates speaking of justice and virtue,

and comparing, as was his custom, pilots and physicians and cobblers and potters, said, like the sophist he was, "What, the same things again, Socrates?" And Socrates, laughing, replied, "And about the same subjects too. For you, it seems, out of your wisdom, never say the same things about the same subjects; but to us this seems one of the finest things. For we know that liars say many things, and unlike one another;

whereas those who speak the truth cannot say anything other than the truth." But for my part, if I saw any other theme more serious, or more fitting to you, I would attempt to make that my subject. As it is, I should not rightly say that a physician hears or speaks any discourses other than those about the health and sickness of the body—for these are called the healthful discourses among physicians; nor a pilot any other than those about seasons and winds and stars—for these are justly called the pilot's discourses;

nor a ruler and king any other than those about rule and the government of men. And I shall try to say how Socrates too thought concerning these matters.

For after the answer about happiness, the man who had asked that question inquired of Socrates: "Socrates," he said, "this at least you know better than anything—that of men under the sun he is the mightiest, holding power not less than the gods themselves, since it is in his power even to make possible things that seem impossible, should he wish: to make the sea passable on foot, the mountains navigable, the rivers fail, drunk dry by men.

Or have you not heard that Xerxes, the king of the Persians, made the land sea, cutting through the greatest of the mountains and severing Athos from the mainland, and through the sea led his land army, driving upon a chariot?—as Homer, I think, says of Poseidon; and perhaps in like manner the dolphins and the sea-monsters swam beneath his bridge of boats from below, when he was driving across."

And Socrates said, "Not even this can I tell you—whether the man who does these things has the greatest power, as you say, or the least, or none at all whatever. To begin with, if he were temperate and brave and just, and did with judgment all that he did, I should hold him mighty and possessed in truth of the greatest power;

but if, on the other hand, he were cowardly and witless and licentious and lawless, and attempted these things out of insolence, then on the contrary he seems to me weaker than men utterly poor, who do not own a single clod of earth to break up with the mattock for the sake of food—let alone to break up the greatest mountains, as you say.

For he who is unable to restrain anger that often arises over trifles, unable to put a stop to desire for the most shameful things, unable to thrust away grief—sometimes when nothing grievous is present—unable to endure toils, even those undertaken for pleasure, unable to drive fear from his soul, which is of no help in dangers but does the greatest harm—

how is he not utterly unmanly, vanquished by women, vanquished by eunuchs? Or do you call that man mighty who is weaker than the softest thing of all, sleep?—by which, often fettered without any bonds, he is unable to help, not others only, but not even himself, nor to summon any ally of those willing to defend him?"

Hearing this, the man said, "But this, surely, you know, Socrates—that he is king over the greatest and best part of the whole inhabited world. For apart from Greece and Italy and a few other nations in Europe, he has brought everything else under himself,

and rules all of so-called Asia as far as the Indians—and many even of these, they say, obey him—and of the greater part of Libya; and in Europe, of Thrace and Macedonia. Over all these he holds sway; whence indeed he alone has been called the Great King."

And Socrates said, "But not even this do I know at all—whether he is king, having the rule over no single city or village." "You alone, then," the man said, "are you unacquainted with what all men know?" "I hear," he replied, "many saying what you say, both Greeks and barbarians; but what prevents me from knowing what I am speaking of is this:

I do not know, my excellent friend, whether he presides over all these lawfully and justly, and is such a man as I have often described. For if, being fair-minded and humane and law-abiding, he cares for the safety and advantage of his subjects, himself first being happy and prudent, as I said, and sharing his own happiness with the rest, not setting apart his own advantage from that of his subjects, but rejoicing most then and counting himself to fare best when he sees his subjects faring well—then he is greatest in power and a king in truth;

but if he is pleasure-loving and money-loving and insolent and lawless, supposing that he exalts only himself by possessing the most money and reaping the greatest and most numerous pleasures, passing his life idly and without toil,

accounting all his subjects slaves and ministers of his own luxury, not having even the character of a decent herdsman, who provides shelter and pasture for his flocks and besides wards off beasts and guards against thieves—but being himself the first to plunder and destroy, and permitting others to do so, as though, I think, with the spoil of enemies—then I would never call such a man either ruler, or emperor, or king, but far rather tyrant and stone-thrower, as Apollo once addressed the tyrant of Sicyon, even though he had many tiaras and many scepters obeyed him."

Such things that man used to say, ever urging men toward virtue and making both rulers and private men better. And those after him have said like things about rule and kingship, following as far as possible his most wise judgment. And the very names first reveal the difference of the things.

For rule is called the lawful government of men and the provident care of men according to law; kingship, rule that is not accountable; and the king and emperor is the same, a ruler not accountable; and the law is the king's decree.

But the tyrant and tyranny, the opposite of these, is the violent and lawless use of men by him who seems to be the more powerful.

So we too think and speak concerning the divine and god-beloved emperor and king. For three kinds—the most conspicuous—of constitutions are named, when they arise according to law and justice, with a good guardian spirit and like fortune: one, the first and most possible to come about, of which the present discourse treats—the rule of a single good man, by his judgment and virtue, over a well-governed city, or several nations, or all mankind;

the second, called aristocracy, the leadership not of one nor of some many, but of a few who are the best, already further removed from the possible and the advantageous. This, it seems to me, is what Homer meant when he said, "The rule of many is not good; let there be one ruler, one king, to whom the son of crooked-counseling Cronus has given it."

The third, almost the most impossible of all, expecting to find someday in the temperance and virtue of a people a fair and lawful order, is called democracy—a fair and gentle name, if only it were possible.

And to these three constitutions, as has been said, there are three contrary and lawless corruptions: the corruption of the first, the best, and the only possible one is tyranny, where through the insolence and violence of one, the worst of men, the rest are destroyed; next after it, oligarchy, the harsh and unjust greed of certain rich and wicked men, a few banded together against the many and the poor;

and next, the manifold and motley drift of a multitude that knows nothing whatever, but is forever stirred up and made savage by licentious demagogues—like a wild and grievous surge changed about by harsh winds. Of these, then, the discourse has made mention incidentally, being able to show many sufferings and calamities of each of them from earlier times;

but concerning the happy and divine order now prevailing, it is fitting to go through it more carefully. There are, then, many vivid images and not faint examples of this kind of rule—among herds and swarms—where Nature signifies the rule and provident care, according to nature, of the stronger over the weaker; yet there could be nothing more conspicuous or finer than the governance of the universe, which is under the first and best God. [Concerning Zeus]

And being such a man, he is first of all beloved of the gods, since he obtains from the gods the greatest honor and trust. And first and above all he will worship the divine, not only confessing but persuaded that there are gods, that he too may have rulers worthy of him.

He believes that his provident care benefits other men just as the rule of the gods benefits him. And indeed, conscious within himself that he will never accept a gift from wicked men, he believes that the gods too do not delight in the offerings or sacrifices of unjust men, but accept what is given only from the good. Accordingly, he will be eager to worship them ungrudgingly, and with such offerings; but those men—the good—he will never cease to honor for their fair works and just deeds. And each of the gods he propitiates according to that god's power.

He holds virtue to be holiness, and all vice impiety. For he counts as accursed and abominable not only those who plunder temples or say anything blasphemous about the gods, but far more the cowardly and unjust and incontinent and witless, and in general those who do anything contrary to the power and will of the gods.

And he believes not only in gods, but also in good daemons and heroes—the souls of good men, which have changed from their mortal nature;

and he confirms this doctrine, not least to gratify himself. He has regarded the care of men neither as a by-work nor as a mere employment, burdened, I suppose, by its cares, but as his own work and craft. And whenever he does anything else, he thinks he is doing nothing serious nor anything of his own; but whenever he benefits men, then he thinks he is accomplishing his proper task, as one appointed to this work by the greatest God, whom it is not lawful to disobey in anything, nor to be vexed thereat,

since he considers acts of benevolence as belonging to himself. For no one is so soft or pleasure-loving that he is not gladdened by his own activity, even should it prove laborious; as least of all would a pilot be vexed at toils on the sea, and least of all a farmer at the works of farming, and least of all a hunter at the labors one must undergo in hunting—and yet farming is exceedingly laborious, and hunting exceedingly so.

He does not, then, count it beneath him to labor and be troubled for the sake of others, nor does he think he fares the worse on this account, if he must endure the most toils and have the most affairs.

For he sees that everywhere God has appointed the better to take forethought for and rule the weaker—as art over artlessness, power over weakness; and he has made the prudent take forethought and counsel for the witless. And in all these kinds of care, ruling is by no means idle but laborious, and abounds not in ease and leisure, but in cares and toils.

To begin with, on a ship the passengers may be careless and not even look at the sea, nor know, as the saying goes, where on earth they are; and many sail in this fashion in fair weather, some playing draughts, some singing, some feasting the day through; and when a storm overtakes them, they wrap their heads and await what shall befall; and some, having fallen asleep, do not even rise until they are in harbor.

But the pilot must look out to the open sea, must gaze up at the heaven, must watch the land ahead; nor, moreover, must what lies in the deep escape him, or he will fall unawares upon sunken rocks or hidden reefs;

and he alone is permitted to sleep less by night than even swimmers; and if by day he should steal some brief snatch of sleep, even this is suspended and uncertain, so that he must often cry out, or take in the sail, or shift the rudder, or do some other of the seaman's tasks; so that even asleep he takes more care of the ship than the rest, broad awake.

So too in campaigning, each of the soldiers cares for himself alone, both for arms and food—and these not by providing them, but by expecting to have them ready; and he is concerned for his own health alone, his own safety alone.

But the general's task is that all be well armed, that all have shelter in plenty, and to fill not only the bellies of the men but those of the horses too; and if all do not have the necessaries, he is far more distressed than if he himself were sick; and their safety he counts of no less account than his own. For indeed it is impossible to conquer without the safety of the soldiers; and for the sake of victory many of the good men even choose to die.

Again, in each of us the body, being witless, is not even able to help itself nor naturally takes thought for itself—it which, when the soul has departed, cannot remain even a little, but is at once dissolved and perishes; whereas the soul thinks all its thoughts on the body's behalf, wears out all its devices, and grieves and is pained in many ways.

And the body perceives only the pain that is present; but the soul is pained before the pain has come, and often when it is not even going to come, through dread. And of death the body has never any perception; but the soul understands even this, and suffers much in rescuing the body—from sicknesses, from wars, from storm, from the sea. Thus in every way the soul is more toilsome and more wretched than the body, yet more divine and more kingly.

And indeed, of human beings everyone would agree that man is stronger and more fitted to lead than woman. But to women belong most of the works within the household, and they remain for the most part without experience of storms, without experience of wars, without experience of dangers.

But it befits men to go to war, befits them to undertake voyages, befits them to sail, and they must labor at their works in the open air. Yet not on this account would one the more count men's wives blessed.

And all who, through weakness and softness, have emulated the women's life—like Sardanapalus—are infamous to this day for their disgraces.

And, what is greatest, you see the sun—by how much, being a god, he surpasses men in blessedness; yet he does not disdain through all time to serve us and to do all things for the sake of our preservation.

For what else could one say the sun does through all time but as much as men have need of?—making and distinguishing the seasons, increasing and nourishing all living things and all plants, furnishing the fairest and sweetest of sights, light, without which there is no benefit even in the other fair things, neither heavenly nor earthly—nay, not even in living; and at this he never wearies of being gracious.

One might surely say that he serves a very hard servitude. For if he should be even a little careless and transgress his own appointed order, nothing prevents all heaven, all earth, all sea from perishing, and this whole shapely and blessed cosmos from appearing in the most shameful and grievous disorder.

But as it is, like one touching the notes on a lyre in tune, he never departs from the pure and consummate harmony, ever going the one and the same road.

And since the earth needs warmth in order to generate what grows, and to increase, and to bring to perfection, and living things need it both for the preservation of their bodies and for the pleasure that is according to nature, and we above all have need of it, as requiring the most help, he has made summer ever more and more, coming nearer to our dwelling, that he may make all things grow, nourish all, perfect all, and afford men a divine and wonderful gladness and festival.

And since again the other things, and we ourselves, come to need the opposite blend—for our bodies need to be braced by the cold, and the plants need to be made firm, and the earth needs rains—he goes away from us again, withdrawing the due measure.

And so very surely and fittingly does he keep his bounds with a view to our advantage, that if, coming nearer, he should be even a little closer, he would burn up all things, and if, departing, he should overshoot a little, all things would be frozen with the cold.

And since we are too weak to bear the change when it comes all at once, he contrives this little by little, and in a way unnoticed accustoms us through spring to endure the summer, and trains us beforehand through autumn to bear the winter, warming us little by little out of winter and cooling us out of summer, so that we may arrive painlessly at each extreme.

And since, again, light is most pleasant to behold, yet without it nothing whatever can be done, while in sleep we keep complete quiet and make no use of the light—as much time as is enough for waking he made day, and as much as is needful for sleeping he marked off as night, going round the whole earth, resting and rousing now these, now those, withdrawing from those who no longer need light, and appearing to those who ever need it. And contriving this through all time he never wearies.

But where God, the fairest and most conspicuous of all, does not disdain through all time to care for men, surely a man who is god-beloved and prudent ought not to be burdened by such a task, but should, so far as he is able, imitate that god's power and humanity?

Reasoning thus, then, he is not vexed at holding fast. He observes that toils provide health and safety, and besides a good name, but that luxury, on the other hand, brings all the opposite of these. And further, toils ever make themselves less and lighter to bear, but pleasures greater and more harmless, when they come after toils. But luxury ever makes toils seem the harder, and withers pleasures and renders them feeble.

For the man who ever lives softly, and never lays hold of any toil, would in the end endure no toil at all, and would perceive no pleasure, not even the most intense. So that the lover of toil and the man of self-control is not only more capable of being king, but lives far more pleasantly than his opposites.

Of waking and sleep the soldiers have equal share, some keeping watch in turn, others resting; but the general is more sleepless than those who keep continual watch.

And so he holds courage and self-control and prudence to be necessary even for those who neglect justice and wish to play the tyrant—if they are not to perish very quickly; nay, he sees that they need these even more, in proportion as a tyrant has more who hate him,

more who plot against him, and none faithful or caring; so much the more, if he is to survive any time, must he be sleepless and full of cares, so that, defending himself, he be not overcome by his enemies, and, being plotted against, not be ignorant of those who plot; and he must abstain from pleasures and give the least heed to belly and sleep and the things of love—even more than the man who is loved by all and has none plotting against him.

But if one must have the same cares, or even more, and far greater occupations, and likewise guard against pleasures, and likewise endure dangers, how much better to practice all these things with justice and virtue than with wickedness and injustice, and to be seen as such a man with praise rather than blame—beloved by men, beloved by the gods, rather than, on the contrary, hated?

And, indeed, the present is but a brief and incalculable moment to a man, whereas memory of the past and hope of the future occupy the greatest part of life. Which, then, of the two men shall we suppose has memory to gladden him, and which to grieve him; and which has hope to embolden him, and which to dismay him? Surely, then, the good king's life must also be the pleasanter.

Friendship, indeed, he has counted the fairest and most sacred of all his possessions. For it is not so disgraceful to be king, nor so perilous, to lack money as to lack friends; nor would he so guard his happiness by abundant supply and armies and other power as by the loyalty of his friends.

For no man alone is sufficient for anything, not even his own affairs; and for kings, the more and greater things they must do, the more they need co-workers, and with greater goodwill. For they must either entrust the greatest and most serious matters to others, or let them go.

And while, to private men, the laws afford security against being easily wronged by those with whom they have dealings—whether by trusting them with money, or committing a household to them, or sharing in some work—penalizing the wrongdoer, kings cannot seek from the laws their security against being wronged when they have placed their trust, but only from goodwill.

For it is likely that the mightiest of all are those near the kings and helping to administer the rule. And against these there is no other safeguard but to be loved; and it is not safe to share power with chance persons at random, but the stronger a man makes his friends, the stronger he himself becomes.

Observe, too, that of the other possessions, some seem to all men only necessary and useful, but afford no delight; others only pleasant, but not advantageous—on the contrary, most of the pleasant things are found unprofitable.

And so all possessions that are necessary and useful do not by any means have any pleasure for those who possess them; and all that are delightful are not for that reason at once advantageous—on the contrary, many of the pleasant things are proved unprofitable.

To begin with, walls and arms and engines and armies are among the necessary possessions for those who hold power; for without these it is not possible for the rule to be preserved; yet what delight they have, apart from their usefulness, I do not see.

Fair groves and costly houses and statues and paintings of the ancient consummate art, and golden mixing-bowls and inlaid tables, and purple and ivory and amber, and the scents of perfumes, and the delights of sights of every kind and of sounds through voice and instruments, and besides these, women in their prime and boys in their prime—all these appear to have been devised for no use, but for pleasure.

But friendship alone has the property of being at once the most advantageous and the most pleasant of all things. To begin with, I think, the greatest of the necessary things—arms and walls and armies and cities—are, without friends to administer them, neither useful nor advantageous, but even exceedingly perilous; whereas friends are beneficial even without these.

And these are useful only in war, but to those who are to live ever in peace, if it be possible, useless and burdensome;

yet without friendship it is not safe to live even in peace. And indeed, of the pleasant things I mentioned, to share them with friends is the more delightful, but to enjoy them alone in solitude is of all things the most unpleasant, and no one could endure it; and it is yet more painful, if one must share them with those who do not love him.

For what gladness is welcome, even if all the greatest things be present? What banquet is pleasant without the goodwill of those present? What sacrifice is acceptable to the gods without those who feast together?

Are not even the joys of love sweetest and least insolent which come with the friendship of those who share them, and which come to men who seek goodwill from a beloved boy or from women?

For there are many names for friendship, as indeed for its uses; but the friendship that arises with beauty and the bloom of youth is justly named Love, and seems to be the fairest of the gods.

And indeed, beneficial drugs are beneficial to the sick, but superfluous to the healthy; but friendship is always exceedingly needful both to the healthy and to the sick; it helps to guard wealth, and gives aid in poverty; it brightens good repute, and dims ill repute.

And this alone lessens all things difficult and increases all things good. For what calamity, without friendship, is not unbearable? What good fortune, without friends, is not joyless? And if solitude is gloomy and of all things most fearful, we ought not to count solitude from men such, but solitude from friends; since solitude is often better than the company of those who bear no goodwill.

For my part, I have not even counted as good fortune that which has none to rejoice in it together. For one would more easily bear the hardest calamity with friends than the greatest good fortune alone. And so I justly judge that man most wretched who in his calamities has the most to gloat over him, but in his good fortune none to rejoice with him.

For he who has the most and best friends, but the basest enemy, if indeed he has any, and many who love him, and more who praise him, and none able to blame him—how is such a man not perfectly happy? For such a man has many to rejoice with him, but none to gloat over him, both because he is fortunate in all things and because he has many friends and no enemy.

And if eyes and ears and tongue and hands are worth everything to a man—not only for living pleasantly, but for being able to live at all—friends are no less useful than these, but even more.

For through the eyes one can scarcely see what is before one, but through friends one can behold even what is at the ends of the earth. And through the ears one could not hear save what is very near, but through those of goodwill there is nowhere any necessary thing of which one is left unhearing.

And with the tongue one makes signs only to those present, and with the hands, even if one be exceedingly strong, one could do no more work than that of two men; but through friends one is able both to converse with all men and to reach all works. For those of goodwill both say and do for him all things advantageous.

And what is most paradoxical of all: though one man, it is granted to him, if he has many friends, to do many things at the same time, to take counsel about many things at once, to see many things, hear many things, be in many places at the same time—which is hard even for the gods—so that nowhere is anything left bereft of his provident care.

And so the prosperities of friends are no less apt to gladden the good man than any delight of his own. For how is it not a thing to count blessed, that one may be gladdened by taking pleasure in many bodies, take counsel by thinking with many minds, and rejoice by being fortunate in many souls?

And if reputation is much sought after by the ambitious, he would often be of good repute when his friends are praised. And if wealth is apt to gladden those who possess it, he would often be wealthy who shares his possessions with his friends.

And further, it is pleasant to confer favors on free men, when these are abundant, and pleasant to receive gifts, when one receives them justly and for one's virtue; so that he who confers favors on his friends takes pleasure both as a giver and as one acquiring something himself. For indeed the old saying declares the goods of friends to be common; so that when good things are present to the good, these would not least be common.

In other things, then, such a king does not at all wish to surpass private men, and in many respects even to have less than they—such as leisure, ease, relaxation; but in friendship alone he wishes to have the advantage.

And he counts it a blessed thing, not so much that he may possess the fairest horses, the fairest arms, the fairest raiment, and the rest likewise, but that he may have the fairest friends; and it is far more shameful to be more deficient in friendship than private men than in any of those other things.

For he to whom it belongs to choose out of all men the most faithful, and who scarcely could find anyone who would not gladly obey him when he wished to make use of them—how is it not ridiculous for him not to make use of the worthiest? For most of the men in power see only those who happen to be near and those willing to flatter, and drive all the rest away, and the best most of all.

But he makes his choice out of all, thinking it absurd to send for Nisaean horses because they are better than the Thessalian, and for Indian hounds, yet to make use of men only those near at hand. For all the means by which friendship is to be won are present to him.

For praise draws the ambitious to goodwill; a share of rule, those fit to command; the doing of some warlike thing, the warlike; the administering of affairs, the diligent;

and habitual association, the affectionate. Who, then, can better appoint rulers? Who needs more men to take charge of affairs? Who is master to share greater matters? To whom else is it more permitted to entrust the things of war? Whose honors are more conspicuous? At whose table is more repute? And if friendship could be bought, who is better provided with money, so as to have no rival?

And he not only thinks he does nothing absurd, but even glories in being loved by the younger more than parents are loved, by the elder more than they love their children, by his companions more than they love those who associate with them on equal terms, by those who only hear of him by report more than they are loved who are very near.

And, being most devoted to kin and household, in a way he has counted friendship a greater good than kinship. For without kinship friends are useful, but without friendship not even those very near are beneficial. And he judges friendship so precious that he believes no one of all men was ever wronged by a friend, but has decided that this is one of the so-called impossibilities—that one should be ill-treated by a friend, among the impossibilities.

For at the very moment a man is detected wronging, he has made it plain that he was not a friend. And all who have suffered terribly, have suffered at the hands of enemies—called friends, but not recognized to be enemies. One ought, then, to blame one's own ignorance, and not to censure the name of friendship.

And yet it is not impossible for a father to wrong a son, and a child to err toward his parents; and likewise for brothers to suffer some evil from one another. So utterly sacred has he counted friendship, that he tries to make even the gods his friends.

In all that has been said, then, one may perceive that all the contrary evils belong to tyrants, of which the goods we have mentioned belong to kings—and not least in what is now being said. For of all men the tyrant is most destitute of friendship; for he cannot even make friends. For those like himself, being wicked, he regards with suspicion, and by those unlike himself, the good, he is hated.

And he who is hated is an enemy even to the unjust. For the one sort hate him justly, and the other, desiring the same things, plot against him.

And so the Persian had some one man, called the King's Eye, and that not a serious man, but one of the chance sort—not knowing that the good king's friends are all eyes. And how should he not be exceedingly devoted to household and kin,

seeing that he has counted his household and his kin a part of his own soul?

And he takes thought not only that they may share in what is called happiness, but far more that they may seem worthy to share in the rule; and he has been earnest by every means that he be seen to honor them not for their kinship but for their virtue. And the living he loves most of all, and counts them necessary friends.

For friends one may dissolve relations with, when one has discerned some unpleasantness in them; but with kinsmen it is not possible to dissolve the kinship, but, whatever sort they may be, one must hear this name.

And his wife he has counted not merely a partner of bed or of love, but a fellow worker in counsel and in deeds and in his whole life.

He alone has counted happiness not as a life of pleasure, but far rather as nobility of character; and virtue not as compulsion but as choice; and endurance not as wretchedness but as security; and he increases his pleasures by toils and reaps them the greater on this account, while he lightens his toils by habit.

And he holds the same things to be advantageous and pleasant. For he sees that private men, if they are to be healthy and to last into old age, never bring nourishment to an idle and unexercised body, but some practice crafts—some of them involving much labor—the smiths,

the shipbuilders, the housebuilders; and all who possess land first labor at the works of farming; and all who pass their time in the city do some one of the city's tasks;

and the gymnasia and the wrestling-schools of those at leisure are full, and some are running in the courses, others wrestling, others practicing some other contest—though they are not athletes. And, to put it simply, of each class of men not utterly witless, in food and baths and healthful regimens and all things,

the ruler differs from all these in that he toils not in vain, nor only to increase his body, but for the sake of actions; for either he has come to some matter needing forethought, or has reached where speed is required, or has accomplished something not easy to accomplish, or has marshaled an army, or tamed a country, or founded a city, or bridged rivers, or made the land passable.

Since, being a man by nature distinguished among the things of life, he too must have this, like the rest, as a kind of solace; whence indeed many ignoble maladies have fallen upon many men, ravaging their souls and besides destroying the dignity of kingship;

for one man, captured by song, kept on warbling and lamenting in the theaters, and, neglecting his own kingship, was content to play the parts of the kings of old; and another became a lover of flute-playing;

but the good king never listens to such things continually; and he holds hunting to be the finest invention, and delights in it most of all, by which the body becomes more robust, the soul more brave, and all the arts of war are practiced.

For he must ride and run, and withstand many of the strong beasts, and bear heat and endure cold, and often make trial of hunger and thirst, accustoming himself through his eagerness to endure with pleasure—yet not the Persian sort of hunting.

For those men, having enclosed the beasts in parks, slew them whenever they desired, as though in a prison, so as neither to toil in seeking nor again to run any risk, the beasts being feeble and enslaved; and likewise they robbed themselves of the joy in the finding, and the eagerness in the overtaking, and the contest in the encounter.

For they acted just as if men claiming to be warlike should give up fighting their enemies, and, taking their captives at home, should slay them.