Will you, then, invite Telamon to this kind of life to ease his grief?
And should you observe any one of your friends under affliction, would you rather prescribe him a sturgeon than a treatise of Socrates?
or advise him to listen to the music of a water organ rather than to Plato?
or lay before him the beauty and variety of some garden, put a nosegay to his nose, burn perfumes before him, and bid him crown himself with a garland of roses and woodbines?
Should you add one thing more, you would certainly wipe out all his grief.
XIX.

Epicurus must admit these arguments, or he must take out of his book what I just now said was a literal translation; or, rather, he must destroy his whole book, for it is crammed full of pleasures.

We must inquire, then, how we can ease him of his grief who speaks in this manner: My present state proceeds from fortune's stings; By birth I boast of a descent from kings; Hence may you see from what a noble height I'm sunk by fortune to this abject plight.
What! to ease his grief, must we mix him a cup of sweet wine, or something of that kind?
Lo! the same poet presents us with another sentiment somewhere else: I, Hector, once so great, now claim your aid.
We should assist her, for she looks out for help: Where shall I now apply, where seek support?
Where hence betake me, or to whom resort ?" No means remain of comfort or of joy, In flames my palace, and in ruins Troy; Each wall, so late superb, deformed nods, And not an altar's left t' appease the Gods.
You know what should follow, and particularly this: Of father, country, and of friends bereft, Not one of all these sumptuous temples left; Which, while the fortune of our house did stand, With rich wrought ceilings spoke the artist's hand.
O excellent poet! though despised by those who sing the verses of Euphorion.

He is sensible that all things which come on a sudden are harder to be borne.

Therefore, when he had set off the riches of Priam to the best advantage, which had the appearance of a long continuance, what does he add?
Lo! these all perish'd in one blazing pile; The foe old Priam of his life beguiled, And with his blood, thy altar, Jove, defiled.
Admirable poetry! There is something mournful in the subject, as well as in the words and measure.