Twelve years ago when I was in Spain I was reading in some book of the exploits of Alexander the Great.

Suddenly it seemed as though I could not control myself.

I began to weep; and this was the explanation I gave to my friends, 'I have just cause to weep, when I consider that Alexander at my age had conquered so many nations, and I have all this time done nothing that is memorable.'" "But even when your excellency went into Spain," remarked Drusus, "you had done that which should have given renown.

Consider, you had won the praetorship, the office of Pontifex Maximus--" "_St_," interrupted the proconsul, "a list of titles is not a pledge from Fortune that she will grant fame.

Besides, I was about to add--what folly it was for me to weep! Do I imagine now, that Alexander was happy and contented in the midst of his conquests?
Rather, unless he were, indeed, of more than mortal stuff, for every morsel of fame, he paid a talent of care and anxiety.