That’s enough, Samippus. Now you’ve won your big fight it’s time for your victory-feast in Babylon—I think your empire is six stades long. It is the turn of Timolaus now to wish for whatever he wants.
Well, but, Lycinus, what do you think of my wish?
Much more laborious and violent, most glorious Majesty, than Adimantus’s. He lived in luxury and bestowed on his fellow-drinkers golden cups of two talents weight each. You were wounded in single combat and were afraid and anxious night and day—you had not only your enemies to fear, but thousands of plots and envy from those around you and hatred and flattery: not one true friend did you have, but all feigned goodwill for fear or hope. You had not even a phantom enjoyment of your pleasures, only the appearance, purple embroidered with gold, a white ribbon on your brow, and bodyguards to go before you, but otherwise intolerable hardship and
Besides, it is humiliating that sickness will come to you as to ordinary folk and fever will not set you apart as a king: Death has no fear of your bodyguard, but comes when he will and takes you moaning with no respect for your diadem. From what a height you will fall when, jerked from your royal throne, you depart by the same road as the common crowd, all equal as you are driven in the herd of the dead. Above ground you will leave behind a high mound and a lofty tombstone or a pyramid with inscribed corners, honours too late for you to see. Those statues and temples which cities erect to flatter you, and your great name, all will soon disappear unnoticed and be gone, neglected. But if all remains as long as may be, what enjoyment will now come to one who is beyond feeling? Do you see what further troubles you will have in life from fear, anxiety, and labour, and what will remain with you after you depart?