“If we avenge an injury,” you say, “we shall be less subject to contempt.” If we must must resort to a remedy let us do so without anger — not with the plea that revenge is sweet, but that it is expedient; it is often, however, better to feign ignorance of an act than to take vengeance for it. Injuries from the more powerful must be borne, not merely with submission, but even with a cheerful countenance; they will repeat the offense if they are convinced that they have succeeded once. Men whose spirit has grown arrogant from the great favor of fortune have this most serious fault — those whom they have injured they also hate. The words of the man who had grown old in doing homage to kings are familiar to all. When someone asked him how he had attained what was so rarely achieved at court, namely old age, he replied, “By accepting injuries and returning thanks for them.” So far from its being expedient to avenge injuries, it is often inexpedient even to acknowledge them. Gaius Caesar, offended with the son of Pastor, a distinguished, Roman knight, because of his foppishness and his too elaborately dressed hair, sent him to prison; when the father begged that his son’s life might be spared, Caesar, just as if he had been reminded to punish him, ordered him to be executed forthwith; yet in order not to be wholly brutal to the father, he invited him to dine with him that day. Pastor actually came and showed no reproach in his countenance. Caesar, taking a cup, proposed his health and set someone to watch him; the poor wretch went through with it, although he seemed to be drinking the blood of his Son. Caesar then sent him perfume and garlands of flowers and gave orders to watch whether he used them: he used them. On the very day on which he had buried — no, before he had yet buried — his son, he took his place among a hundred dinner-guests, and, old and gouty as he was, drained a draught of wine that would scarce have been a seemly potion even on the birthday of one of his children, all the while shedding not a single tear nor by any sign suffering his grief to be revealed; at the dinner he acted as if he had obtained the pardon he had sought for his son. Do you ask why? He had a second son. And what did great Priam do? Did he not disguise his anger and embrace the knees of the king? Did he not carry to his lips the murderous hand all stained with the blood of his son?33 Did he not dine? True, but there was no perfume for him, no garlands, and his bloodthirsty enemy with many soft words pressed him to take food, and did not force him to drain huge beakers while someone stood over him to watch. The Roman father you would have despised if his fears had been for himself; as it was, affection curbed his anger. He deserved to be permitted to leave the banquet in order that he might gather up the bones of his son, but that striplng prince, all the while so kindly and polite, did not permit even this; pledging the old man’s health again and again, he tortured him by urging him to lighten his sorrow, while on the other hand the father made a show of being happy and oblivious of all that had been done that day. The other son was doomed, had the guest displeased the executioner.