en she was washing
Ulysses's feet, the softness of his skin and the mildness of his
discourse. If you look on these as goods, what greater encomiums can the
gravity of a philosopher be entitled to than the wild opinion of the
vulgar and the thoughtless crowd? The Stoics give the name of excellent
and choice to what the others call good: they call them so, indeed; but
they do not allow them to complete a happy life. But these others think
that there is no life happy without them; or, admitting it to be happy,
they deny it to be the most happy. But our opinion is, that it is the most
happy; and we prove it from that conclusion of Socrates. For thus that
author of philosophy argued: that as the disposition of a man's mind is,
so is the man: such as the man is, such will be his discourse: his actions
will correspond with his discourse, and his life with his actions. But the
disposition of a good man's mind is laudable; the life, therefore, of a
good man is laudable: it is honourable, therefore, because laudable: the
unavoidable conclusion from which is, that the life of good men is happy.
For, good Gods! did I not make it appear, by my former arguments,--or was I
only amusing myself and killing time in what I then said,--that the mind of
a wise man was always free from every hasty motion which I call a
perturbation, and that the most undisturbed peace always reigned in his
breast? A man, then, who is temperate and consistent, free from fear or
grief, and uninfluenced by any immoderate joy or desire, cannot be
otherwise than happy: but a wise man is always so, therefore he is always
happy. Moreover, how can a good man avoid referring all his actions and
all his feelings to the one standard of whether or not it is laudable? But
he does refer everything to the object of living happily: it follows,
then, that a happy life is laudable; but nothing is laudable without
virtue: a happy life, then, is the consequence of virtue.--And this is the
unavoidable conclusion to be drawn from these arguments.

XVII. A wicked life has nothing which we ought to speak of or glory in:
nor has that life which is neither happy nor miserable. But there is a
kind of life that admits of being spoken of, and gloried in, and boasted
of; as Epaminondas saith,--

The wings of Sparta's pride my counsels clipt.

And Africanus boasts,--

Who, from beyond Maeotis to the place
Where the sun rises, deeds like mine can trace?

If, then,