“Why,” you ask, “does that man espouse philosophy and yet live in such opulence? Why does he say that riches ought to be despised and yet have them? Why does he think that life ought to be despised and yet live? That health ought to be despised and yet guard it most carefully, and prefer it to be excellent? And why does he think that exile is an empty name and say: ‘What evil is there in a change of country,’ and yet, if he is allowed, grow old in his native land? Why does he decide that there is no difference between a long and short existence, yet, if nothing prevents him, prolong his life and peacefully flourish in a green old age?” He says these things ought to be despised, not to keep him from having them, but to keep him from being worried about having them; he does not drive them away, but if they leave him, he escorts them to the door without the least concern. Where, indeed, will Fortune deposit riches more securely than with one who will return them without protest when she recalls them?
Marcus Cato, [38] when he was vaunting Curius and Coruncanius and that age in which it was a censorial offense to have a few small silver coins, himself possessed four million sesterces, fewer without doubt than Crassus, but more than Cato the Censor. If comparison be made, the distance by which he had outstripped his great-grandfather was greater than that by which Crassus had outstripped him, and, if greater wealth had fallen to his lot, he would not have scorned it. For indeed the wise man does not deem himself undeserving of any of the gifts of Fortune. He does not love riches, but he would rather have them; he does not admit them to his heart, but to his house, and he does not reject the riches he has, but he keeps them and wishes them to supply ampler material for exercising his virtue.