e cannot. But
wherever I go, there is the sun, there is the moon, there are the stars,
dreams, omens, and the conversation ([Greek: omilia]) with gods.

Then, if he is thus prepared, the true Cynic cannot be satisfied with
this; but he must know that he is sent a messenger from Zeus to men
about good and bad things, to show them that they have wandered and are
seeking the substance of good and evil where it is not, but where it is,
they never think; and that he is a spy, as Diogenes was carried off to
Philip after the battle of Chaeroneia as a spy. For in fact a Cynic is a
spy of the things which are good for men and which are evil, and it is
his duty to examine carefully and to come and report truly, and not to
be struck with terror so as to point out as enemies those who are not
enemies, nor in any other way to be perturbed by appearances nor
confounded.

It is his duty then to be able with a loud voice, if the occasion should
arise, and appearing on the tragic stage to say like Socrates: Men,
whither are you hurrying, what are you doing, wretches? like blind
people you are wandering up and down; you are going by another road, and
have left the true road; you seek for prosperity and happiness where
they are not, and if another shows you where they are, you do not
believe him. Why do you seek it without? In the body? It is not there.
If you doubt, look at Myro, look at Ophellius. In possessions? It is not
there. But if you do not believe me, look at Croesus: look at those who
are now rich, with what lamentations their life is filled. In power? It
is not there. If it is, those must be happy who have been twice and
thrice consuls; but they are not. Whom shall we believe in these
matters? You who from without see their affairs and are dazzled by an
appearance, or the men themselves? What do they say? Hear them when they
groan, when they grieve, when on account of these very consulships and
glory and splendor they think that they are more wretched and in greater
danger. Is it in royal power? It is not: if it were, Nero would have
been happy, and Sardanapalus. But neither was Agamemnon happy, though he
was a better man than Sardanapalus and Nero; but while others are
snoring, what is he doing?

Much from his head he tore his rooted hair:
Iliad, x., 15.

and what does he say himself?

"I am perplexed," he says, "and
Disturb'd I am," and "my heart out of my bosom
Is leaping."
Iliad, x., 91.

Wretch, whic