_Cui bono ?_ Why should I care how I live my life, since in a twinkling it will all be as if it had never been?
And if Cato and Domitius and Lentulus Crus have their way with me, what matter?
What matter if a stab in the dark, or open violence, or the sham forms of justice end this poor comedy?
I and all others play.

All comedy is tragedy, and at its merriest is but dolorous stuff.

While the curtain stays down[123] we are sorry actors with the whole world for our audience, and the hoots mingle full often with the applause.
And when the curtain rises, that which is good, the painstaking effort, the labour, is quickly forgotten; the blunders, the false quantities in our lives, are treasured up to be flung against our names.

We play, but we do not know our parts; we are Oedipus, who has committed unwitting sin, and yet must reap his reward; we are Prometheus who is to be chained to the rock forever, for offending the gods; we are Orestes whom the Eumenides pursue, chasing him down for his guilt.

And all the time we vainly imagine that we are some victorious hero, some Perseus, especially favoured by the gods to fare scatheless over land and sea, and bear away the Medusa's head, and live renowned and happy forever." The reverie was becoming deeper and deeper; the Roman was beginning no longer to whisper merely to himself, he was half declaiming; then of a sudden, by a quick revolution of mind, he broke short the thread of his monologue.
"_Phui!_ Caius, you are ranting as if you were still a youth at Rhodes, and Apollonius Molo were just teaching you rhetoric! Why has no letter come from Curio to-day?
I am anxious for him.