Hence it is meet that the living should yearn for these men, and bewail themselves, and pity their kindred for the life that lies before them. For what pleasure now remains for them, when such men as these are buried? These, prizing valor above all else, deprived themselves of life, widowed their wives, left their own children orphans, and brothers, fathers, mothers in a state of desolation.

Though their children have many troubles in store for them, I envy them because they are too young to know of what noble fathers they have been bereft: but I pity those whose sons they were, as being too old to forget their own misfortune.

For what woe could be more incurable than to bring forth and rear and bury one’s own children, and then in old age to be disabled in body and, having lost every hope, to find oneself friendless and resourceless? to have the very cause of former envy turned now to a matter of pity, and to regard death as more desirable than life? For the more they excelled in manhood, the greater the grief to those who are left behind.

And how should they have surcease from their sorrow? In the city’s disasters? But then, surely, the fallen will be remembered by everyone else as well. In the public successes? But it is cause enough for sorrow that after the death of their children the living should enjoy the fruits of their valor. In their private adversities? When they see their former friends deserting them in their destitution, and their enemies elated with the misfortunes of the fallen?

We have but one way, as it seems to me, of showing our gratitude to those who lie here: it is to hold their parents in the same high regard as they did, to be as affectionate to their children as though we were ourselves their fathers, and to give such support to their wives as they did while they lived. For whom could we be expected to honor in preference to those who lie here?