Moral Letters to Lucilius

​There has been found one who coveted something after having acquired everything; so great is the blindness of minds, and so great is each one’s forgetfulness of his own beginnings when he has advanced. He, who but lately was the master, not without dispute, of an ignoble corner, is sad when, having touched the end of the earth, he is about to return through a world that is his own.

​Money has made no one rich; on the contrary, it has inspired in everyone a greater desire for itself. Do you ask what is the cause of this? He who has more begins to be able to have more. In short, you may bring forward for me anyone you please of those whose names are numbered with Crassus and Licinus. Let him bring forward his property rating, and let him compute together both whatever he has and whatever he hopes for; that man, if you believe me, is poor; if you believe yourself, he can become so.

​But this man, who has conformed himself to what nature demands, is not only beyond the feeling of poverty, but beyond the fear of it. But that you may know how difficult it is to restrict one’s possessions to the natural measure, this very man of whom we speak, whom you call poor, has also something superfluous.

​But wealth blinds the people and turns their attention upon itself, if a large amount of ready money is carried out of some house, if much gold is smeared even upon its ceiling, if the household of slaves is either select in physique or spectacular in attire. The happiness of all those people looks outward; but he whom we have withdrawn both from the populace and from fortune is happy within.

​For as far as those are concerned in whose minds preoccupied poverty has falsely usurped the name of riches, they possess riches in the same way as we are said to have a fever, when it has us. On the contrary, we are accustomed to say: ‘A fever holds him.’ In the same way we should say: ‘Riches hold him.’ Therefore I should prefer to advise you of nothing more than this, of which no one is advised enough: that you measure all things by natural desires, which are satisfied either for nothing or for a small cost; only do not mix vices with your desires.

​Do you ask on what kind of table, on what kind of silver, by how well-matched and light-footed servants your food should be served? Nature desires nothing except food. “Do you, when thirst burns your throat, look for golden cups? Do you, when hungry, despise everything except peacock and turbot?”

​Hunger is not ambitious; it is content to cease; how it ceases, it does not care too much. These are the torments of unhappy luxury; it seeks how it may be hungry even after satiety, how it may not fill but stuff the stomach, how it may recall thirst that has been quenched by the first drink. Excellently therefore does Horace deny that it has anything to do with thirst in what cup or by how elegant a hand water is served. For if you judge that it concerns you how long-haired a boy and how transparent a cup hands it to you, you are not thirsty.

​Among other things, nature has granted us this principal advantage, that she has removed aversion from necessity. Superfluous things admit of choice: ‘this is not very becoming, that is not very highly praised, this hurts my eyes.’ It was so arranged by that founder of the universe who laid down for us the laws of life, that we should be safe, not that we should be luxurious. All things for our safety are prepared and ready at hand; for our luxuries, all things are procured wretchedly and with anxiety.

​Let us therefore use this benefit of nature, which should be numbered among the great ones, and let us reflect that she has deserved well of us on no account more than because whatever is desired from necessity is taken without aversion. Farewell.