I have been especially induced to write on mercy by a single utterance of yours, Nero Caesar, which I remember, when it was made, I heard not without admiration and afterwards repeated to others — a noble, high-minded utterance, showing great gentleness, which unpremeditated and not intended for others’ ears suddenly burst from you, and brought into the open your kind-heartedness chafing against your lot. Burrus, your prefect, a rare man, born to serve a prince like you, was about to execute two brigands, and was bringing pressure upon you to record their names and the reasons why you wished their execution; this, often deferred, he was insisting should at last be done. He was reluctant, you were reluctant, and, when he had produced the paper and was handing it to you, you exclaimed, “Would that I had not learned to write.” What an utterance! All nations should have heard it — those who dwell within the Roman empire, and those on its borders who are scarcely assured of their liberty, and those who through strength or courage rise up against it. What an utterance! It should have been spoken before a gathering of all mankind, that unto it princes and kings might pledge allegiance. What an utterance! Worthy of the universal innocence of mankind, in favor whereof that long past age1 should be renewed. Now assuredly it were fitting that men, thrusting out covetousness from which springs every evil of the heart, should conspire for righteousness and goodness, that piety and uprightness along with honor and temperance should rise again, and that vice, having misused its long reign, should at length give place to an age of happiness and purity.