What are you all whining about, you fools? You philosopher, late of the beard,—you’re as bad as any of them.

Ah, Hermes: I had thought that the soul was immortal.

He lies: that is not the cause of his distress.

What is it, then?

He knows that he will never have a good dinner again; never sneak about at night with his cloak over his head, going the round of the brothels; never spend his mornings in fooling boys out of their money, under the pretext of teaching them wisdom.

And pray are you content to be dead?

It may be presumed so, as I sought death of my own accord.—