Seneca of Anger

Seneca adopts the Stoic definition of anger as 'a desire of punishing another for some injury done' and defends this definition against objections that we anger at those who merely might harm us or whom we cannot reach.

Seneca presents Aristotle's competing definition of anger as 'a desire of paying sorrow for sorrow' and notes objections that beasts show anger-like behavior without desire for punishment.

While beasts display rage and fierceness, they lack the rational reflection required for true anger, which is unique to reasonable creatures with capacity for thought and judgment.

Anger violates the natural law that binds humans together through mutual aid and love, instead dividing us and frustrating Providence's design for human society.

Seneca illustrates that the crowd's anger at gladiators who delay their deaths is childish and based on deluded imaginings rather than genuine injury, showing anger can rest on false grounds.

Seneca catalogs diverse manifestations of anger—stubborn, vindictive, quarrelsome, violent, sullen—in different degrees and forms, but concludes all varieties are vicious without exception.

Seneca distinguishes three stages of anger—initial involuntary response, deliberation about revenge, and firm resolution—arguing the third stage is within our control because it involves judgment.

Seneca argues that anger necessarily involves the mind's concurrence and therefore cannot be purely involuntary; it requires deliberation and the will's agreement.

Because anger involves judgment and deliberation, it is subject to reason and can be suppressed through caution and good counsel, unlike purely involuntary bodily motions.

Seneca clarifies that involuntary reactions like horror at cold water or blushing are mere bodily motions, not affections; true affections require the will to follow initial impressions.

Seneca argues that anger can be mastered through discipline and discipline by citing examples of powerful, impatient men who achieved absolute mastery over themselves.

When Thrasippus railed against Pisistratus while drunk, Pisistratus declined anger, comparing the drunk man to someone stumbling blindfold, showing wisdom in refusing offense.

Augustus maintained composure when the historian Timagenes attacked him, ultimately neither breaking friendships nor exacting revenge, demonstrating masterful restraint.

Antigonus overheard soldiers cursing him but gently moved aside the hanging, and later helped them out of mud while noting they should praise he who rescued them.

Vedius Pallio ordered a slave thrown to lampreys for breaking a glass; Augustus intervened by ordering all glasses broken and the pond filled, showing how authority properly used stops cruelty.

Though Praxaspes wisely counseled Cambyses against excessive drinking, Cambyses proved his drinking control by shooting Praxaspes' son through the heart, murdering to validate his restraint.

When Astyages tricked Harpagus into eating his own son, Harpagus suppressed anger, showing that men can govern anger even under extreme provocation through inner discipline.

When the Athenian ambassador Democharas insolently told Philip to hang himself, Philip remained patient and replied that forgiveness is better than insolence, securing his safety thereby.

Seneca argues anger resembles madness in its symptoms—flushed face, glaring eyes, violent motions—and can even permanently destroy reason, making it dangerous to health.

Because anger leaves no room for counsel, friendship, or reason, the mind plagued by anger becomes deformed; Seneca compares it to a tiger in blood or the Furies.

Anger is a wickedness that transforms man into beast and makes even fierce beasts more dreadful; it carries no pleasure, profit, honor, or security.

Seneca rejects the claim that anger springs from greatness of mind, arguing it is instead infirmity similar to impudence falsely called courage.

Anger is not courage but rather a wild blast and tumorous infirmity proper to women and children; the boldest tongues show the faintest hearts.

Anger is unwarrantable because it frequently punishes the innocent instead of guilty, inflicts disproportionate punishment, denies defense, and ignores truth.

Anger spares neither friend nor foe, tears apart human bonds, renders people unfit for social duties, and tramples upon laws of hospitality and nations.

Anger accomplishes nothing; while some claim it prevents contempt, being feared is more dangerous than being despised, and threats without power are merely contemptible.

Anger at offenders makes us enemies of all mankind; it is as senseless as being angry at nature for not producing apples from thistles.

It is neither virtuous nor dignified to be angry or sad; virtue naturally produces serenity and cheerfulness, and anger's end is sorrow and repentance.

Like an ulcer that makes us shrink at touch, anger throws the mind off balance; we should be as careful controlling passions as choosing a reliable horse.

The greatest punishment for injury is the conscience of the wrongdoer; composing injuries is better than avenging them, and revenge breeds further injury.

A virtuous man defends his parents without anger but through piety and duty, acting with calm resolution and honor rather than passion or rage.

A man may be temperate and vigorous simultaneously; one can raise the mind according to occasion like a stone thrown with deliberate force, not emotional transport.

Crying as much over loss of a pet as over country's ruin shows infirmity not reason; noble actions require sobriety, calmness, and resolution, not passion.

Seneca challenges Aristotle's view that anger conduces to heroic action, showing instead that anger is an obstinate madness neither sensible of shame nor glory.

One cannot avoid daily provocations—every person encounters criminals and faults—so if one were to be angry at all wickedness, one would never achieve peace.

Punishment is a matter of caution, not anger; the law is passionless when it strikes malefactors as we do serpents, for fear of harm.

A judge pronouncing a fatal sentence must show no anger in looks, words, or gestures; he condemns the vice, not the man, and views wickedness without emotional reaction.

Reason, being stable and sound, should never repair to passion, which is uncertain and diseased; the two cannot harmonize in the same subject.

If an offender cannot be reformed, removing him from the world is like removing a diseased limb—necessary but without anger, as one doesn't hate the arm being cut off.

Public magistrates begin with persuasion and progress to admonition, then moderate and revocable punishment, reserving death only for the incurable—all without passion.

Different vices require different remedies—infamy for some, pain for others, exile or poverty for others still—but anger must never guide the magistrate's hand.

Seneca claims the truest sign of greatness is remaining calm amid provocations, like clouds and tempests below while all above is quiet and serene.

Anger at first cast destroys shame and decorum, transporting a man into unseemly violence with tongue and hands; it is the most powerful passion.

Anger is so powerful it makes a lover kill his mistress, the ambitious man abandon his honors, and the covetous throw away his fortune.

No mortal lives free from anger's danger; it invades the weak and lusty alike, the learned and the dissolute; even Socrates did not trust himself with it.

Unlike other vices which affect individuals, anger sweeps through multitudes like pestilence; a single word inflames whole nations to violence and rebellion.

When anger seizes crowds, they violate laws of nations, attack public ministers, infect whole cities with madness, and unleash soldiers on reckless, destructive campaigns.

The injury that provokes anger is bounded, but anger itself knows no limit and becomes worse than the original wrong, making those who serve it slaves.

Anger does not rise gradually like other passions but flashes like gunpowder, overrunning all obstacles and consuming itself in irrevocable violence.

Anger is unique in being both amazing to others and destructive to itself; it is proud if it succeeds and extravagant if disappointed, sparing no age or quality.

Unlike some vices tied to poverty or idleness, anger endangers equally all nations and conditions; beasts can be tamed but men grow worse than beasts toward each other.

Alexander exposed his friend Lysimachus to a lion and killed his friend Clytus in drunken anger, showing how anger destroys even the most valued relationships.

Given the shortness of life and inevitability of death, one should not waste precious time on feuds; enmities lie at the mercy of illness and accident.

Death will eventually make servants, masters, princes, and clients equal, so there is no need for battles or ambushes; even enmity cannot extend beyond death.

Anger, like mourning, will eventually fall away, but if allowed to become a habit, it will constantly find new fuel and grow perpetually madder.

By some person or circumstance—family, servants, strangers—one will be continually vexed; feathered by passions like a feather in storm, anger becomes perpetual madness.

It is much better to make friendships, pacify enemies, and do good offices than to meditate mischief and design how to wound others.

Anger is much easier to keep out than to govern when admitted; once allowed, the stronger passion enslaves reason and carries us headlong like a body down a precipice.

A good man and an angry man cannot be the same; virtue and vice are mutually incompatible, as being simultaneously sick and sound.

To contend with superiors is folly; with equals is doubtful and dangerous; with inferiors is base; moreover, enemies may become friends and bring reputation of clemency.

Paying anger with benefits puts an end to controversy; when one side deserts the conflict, contest ends, making clemency the practical victor.

Never let anger descend to the children, friends, or relations of enemies; this was highlighted as cruelty even in Sylla's extreme example of proscription.

A good man should be a reprover, not enemy, of the wicked; he must view all drunkards, lustful, covetous, and ambitious men as a physician views patients.

If one must be angry with all the wicked, one would be displeased with everyone—as absurd as quarreling with bodies for stumbling in darkness.

Democritus laughed and Heraclitus wept at mankind's folly and wickedness, but history records no angry philosopher—showing contempt for folly surpasses anger.

Anger is worse than avarice, which at least gathers things of use; anger lashes out with no one spared, causing mourning, divorce, and public odium.

While the malevolent and envious merely wish others miserable, anger's business is actively to wreak mischief and inflict harm.

Anger engages people in treacheries, troubles, and contentions; it alters man's nature, punishing itself in pursuing others.

From anger flow slaughters, poisons, wars, desolations, burning of cities, unpeopling of nations, regicides, and assassinations of princes.

Darius promised an old man he would return the three sons he offered for service, then had all three slain before his face, showing tyrannical cruelty.

Xerxes offered Pythius a choice between his five sons, and when Pythius chose the eldest, Xerxes had him cut in halves and placed on both sides of the road.

Alexander, trained by Aristotle, killed his favorite and schoolfellow Clytus with his own hand under his roof over wine because Clytus resisted Persian slavery.

Lysimachus, after being exposed to a lion by Alexander, later disfigured his friend Telesphorous by cutting off ears and nose, then imprisoned him as a monster.

Sylla, though Marius was everywhere honored like a god, ordered his bones broken, eyes pulled out, hands cut off, body torn to pieces, with Catiline as executioner.

Piso sentenced to death a soldier condemned wrongly, the comrade he was sentenced for, and the centurion who stopped the execution—an ingenious cruelty making three from none.

A Persian king caused the noses of a whole nation to be cut off, showing how anger extends to entire populations rather than individuals.

Cambyses, enraged that the Macrobii rejected his slavish terms, marched through barren deserts without provisions, losing his army to starvation and cannibalism in futile revenge.

Daily life presents many great and trivial causes for displeasure; one must expect to be jostled and crowded; people deceive, delay, or cross expectations.

Some value their wit and anger at challenges; others are inflamed by wine or distempered by sickness, weariness, love, or care; constitution also predisposes toward anger.

We suspect on mistake, magnify trifles, confuse denying with harming, interpret another's self-interest as opposition, and entertain ill opinion of good acts.

We take offense when a father, brother, or friend opposes us, though we should love them for being honest even when disagreeing.

Things that cannot be given to one without being taken from another set people together by the ears; the sameness of desire turns friends into enemies.

Some are naturally given to anger while others are provoked by occasion; women and children have sharp but brief anger; old men are querulous and peevish.

Money sets fathers and children, husbands and wives at each other's throats; it brings sword and poison, fills courts, enrages princes, and lays cities in dust.

We wrangle over gold and silver and things that should make us laugh; the richest cuff and gouty usurer waste time on worthless bauble disputes.

People become furious over salutes, letters, speeches, questions, gestures, winks, and looks—setting absurdly high value on trivial matters.

Different people are tender about different things—family, person, oratory, philosophy, pride, opposition—and we must learn which triggers apply to each.

Like beasts startled by appearances (a bull by red coat, asp by shadow), some men irrationally take moderate benefits as injuries and squabble over nothing.

The worst unquiet humor is never allowing anyone happiness if a happier man exists; some foolishly think themselves contemned if a horse obeys another rider.

A beast can only hurt us as a sword or stone does; to be offended at a horse or dog is brutal folly, for no injury happens without reason's involvement.

People irrationally complain about foul weather, raging seas, and biting winters as if directed at them personally, blaming Providence whose operations are beneficial.

A restive horse, overturned glass, fallen key, dragged chair, jealousy, or misconstruction drive men mad, yet such trifles hardly warrant immediate punishment.

A servant's silence seems contumacious; speaking is insolence; laughing is disrespect—nothing satisfies an angry master though he denies his own family such liberty.

When abroad we bear foul ways and ditches, but at home we are distracted by a spot on a dish; this is fastidious infirmity bred by luxury.

Some are mortified to have another sit above them as if a cushion affects honesty; weak creatures think themselves wounded by mere touching.

A Sybarite complained that watching work made him weary and that doubled rose-leaves prevented his rest—showing how luxury erodes tolerance for anything.

We tear books because blotted and clothes because poorly made, growing angry at things that cannot deserve anger or feel it.

Caius Caesar blasphemously challenged Jupiter for thundering loudly and invented a machine to oppose thunder to thunder, showing impious arrogance.

Cyrus, angered that a river delayed his march by carrying away a chariot horse, diverted it into 180 channels, wasting time and soldiers' courage.

Injury is objectively heavier, but contumely is subjectively troublesome to a wounded imagination; some bear blows rather than contumelious words.

Contumely, an indignity beneath law's consideration, matters only to a weak mind; a wise man dismisses it like an idle dream.

Contempt matters only to those who are contemptible to themselves; a wise man's worth is not determined by others' opinions.

We discount a child's striking and scratching his mother because he lacks understanding; we similarly entertain buffoons despite their impudence.

We delight in raillery from some and take offense from others—a foolish inconsistency; a wise man treats all as children despite their gray hairs.

All men are but children grown larger; they covet without choice, live without rule, are timorous and unsteady, rarely quiet except from fear.

It is wretched to stand in awe of everyone's speech; whoever is vexed at reproach would be proud if commended—showing dependence on opinion.

Contumelies and slanders are like enemy arrows clattering on armor without execution; a worthy man should not adjust himself by others' opinion.

One offended should consider: 'Either I deserved this—it is judgment; or I did not—it is injustice on the doer who should be shamed, not I.'

Nature assigns every man a post he is bound in honor to maintain, regardless of pressure; Diogenes exemplified this when spat upon.

When an insolent young man spat on Diogenes during a debate on anger, Diogenes calmly noted he wasn't yet angered but wondered if he should be.

Some men cannot bear contumely from women, whose beauty and ornaments should excuse them from immodesty; still less should men bear it from servants.

It is wretched for any man's peace to lie at the mercy of people; one should not be easily disturbed by opinion.

A physician does not anger at a mad patient's intemperance; a wise man similarly treats all mankind as a physician treats patients—without personal offense.

A wise man values the scorn of proud, powerful men no more than their quality, viewing them as fevered persons; he treats beggar and rich man equally.

The rule is to pardon all offenses where there is sign of repentance or hope of amendment; unlike benefits, shame comes from overcoming in this case.

It is the part of a great mind to despise injuries; neglecting a man as not worth attention is itself a kind of revenge, for it makes him insignificant.

Philosophy should teach us the bravery of a generous mastiff that hears thousands of curs barking without notice.

Receiving injury from a superior requires not only patience without revenge but cheerful countenance, appearing not to understand the injury.

An old courtier, asked how he stayed long in favor, answered: 'By receiving injuries and saying your humble servant'—showing dignified tolerance.

Some think revenge possible is greatness, but one under anger's dominion is not free; revenge is inhuman though called honest.

The same jest made in private entertains us but enrages in public; we don't allow the liberties we take; some jests we call pleasant, others bitter.

Jests about personal defects like squint-eyes or hunchbacks are considered reproachful; yet why shouldn't one hear it as easily as see it?

If a man imitates our gait, speech, or natural imperfection, we lose all patience as if the counterfeit were worse than reality.

Some cannot hear mention of age, others of poverty; people make things more noticeable by trying to hide them.

If a bitter jest was broken on you at table, simply keep better company; a sober man with a drunkard can hardly maintain bounds.

What madness to quarrel with a porter for not admitting you, when you might laugh at him as a cur—pacify rather than fight?

Fidus Cornelius, a tall slim fellow, wept in the senate when Corbulo said he looked like an ostrich—showing excessive sensitivity to personal remarks.

No man is ridiculous to others who laughs at himself first; this prevents mischief and disappoints mockers.

Vatinius, though diseased, deformed, scurrilous, and impudent, always made sport of himself, preventing mockeries of others.

Those most abusive to others lie most open to it themselves; the humor goes round—he who laughs today has someone to laugh at him tomorrow.

However, there are liberties some men will never tolerate, as shown in examples of extreme public insults that provoked justified response.

Caligula told Asiaticus publicly what kind of bedfellow his wife was—an unforgivable insult to a consular friend, causing Valerius to conspire against him.

Tribune Chæreas had a weak hermaphroditic voice; Caligula gave him alternately 'Venus' and 'Priapus' as watchwords—mocking both ways.

Valerius became principal in the conspiracy against Caligula; Chæreas, to prove his manhood, cleaved Caligula's chin with his sword in one blow.

No man was so forward as Caligula to break a jest on others, yet none so unwilling to bear jest from others.

All particular advice lies under two heads: first, not to fall into anger; second, not to transgress once in it.

As physicians have preventive and curative medicines, avoiding anger is better than overcoming it; once down, it is hard to rise.

When passion masters reason and the enemy enters the gate, reason turns effectively into passion; the conqueror takes no conditions from the prisoner.

Minds are easily formed in youth, but ill habits are harder to cure; education prevents anger's seeds while considering not to quench the child's spirits.

The sweetness of blood and manners passes into the child from a well-natured nurse and tutor; nothing breeds anger more than soft, effeminate education.

Spoiled young masters behave like choleric coxcombs; flattery and fortune nourish touchiness, yet checking anger requires balance between license and severity.

Commendation gives the child courage and confidence, but the danger is puffing him up with insolence and wrath.

Never put a child to necessity of begging basely; if he does, let him go without it until he learns patience.

Inure him to familiarity with competitors and teach him it is generous to overcome an opponent but not to hurt him.

Allow him to be pleased when he does well, but not transported with excessive joy that puffs him up with conceit.

Give him nothing he cries for until the dogged fit is over; then give when quiet, showing nothing comes from peevishness.

Chide him for whatever he does amiss and make him early acquainted with the fortune and station he was born to.

Let his diet be cleanly but sparing; clothe him like other fellows to teach equality first and prevent later pride and quarrelsomeness.

Avoid temptations that cannot be resisted and provocations that cannot be borne, especially sour and cross company, for anger is contagious.

A quiet conversation benefits a man, but an angry disposition is troublesome because it has nothing else to work upon.

Choose a companion who is sincere, easy, and temperate—one who neither provokes anger nor returns it, allowing no occasion for distemper.

Gentleness without integrity and plain-dealing is flattery, which offends some people who prefer a curse to a compliment.

Celius, a passionate orator, had a friend who said 'amen' to everything; Celius grew angry and demanded the friend oppose him to make them two.

One naturally addicted to anger should use moderate diet and abstain from wine, for it is adding fire to fire.

Gentle exercises, recreations, and sports temper and sweeten the mind; one should avoid long, obstinate disputes.

Severe studies like law and mathematics are not good for the anger-prone, as too much attention preys on spirits and makes one eager.

Poetry, history, and lighter entertainments serve for diversion and relief for the anger-prone rather than heavy studies.

One would be quiet must not venture at things out of reach or beyond strength; unfinished work vexes, and repulse inflames a generous nature.

Compare your force with the undertaking beforehand; unfinished work vexes a person, whether of generous or phlegmatic temper.

Some have found that looking in a glass during anger and seeing one's own deformity has cured them.

Many troublesome in drink, knowing their infirmity, order servants to take them away by force to prevent mischief.

If anger were duly considered, bare consideration would suffice as cure; we're not angry at madmen, children, and fools because they don't know.

If ignorance excuses, why not imprudence similarly excuse in other cases? The mind's darkness in one deserves same allowance in another.

If a horse kicks or dog bites, one shouldn't kick or bite back; both lack reason, yet it's equivalent darkness of mind that possesses the ireful person.

So long as among men, one should cherish humanity and live so that no one fears or is in danger of us.

Losses, injuries, reproaches, and calumnies are short inconveniences we should bear with resolution and understanding.

Some people are above our anger (folly to contend with superiors) and others below it (indignity to contend with inferiors).

Patience and consideration are the most effectual remedy against anger; let the first fervor abate and the mind's mist will lessen or dispel.

A day or even an hour does much in violent cases, possibly suppressing anger entirely; time discovers truth and turns anger into judgment.

Plato was about to strike his servant but held his hand menacingly in air; asked by a friend, he said he was punishing an angry man.

When his servant Speusippus committed fault, Plato asked him to beat the servant because Plato himself was angry and would go too far.

It is unfit that an angry man should have a servant in his power; either he must govern the anger or it will undo him.

One should overcome anger but keep it close without giving it vent; if the angry man allows himself liberty, he will go too far.

If anger appears in the eye or countenance, it has gotten the better of us; we should so oppose it as to put on contrary dispositions.

By adopting calm looks, soft and slow speech, and easy deliberate march, we may gradually bring our thoughts into sober conformity with our actions.

When Socrates was angry, he would take himself in it and speak low in opposition to his displeasure; friends noticed but no one felt it.

We should desire friends not to flatter us but to treat us with liberty of reprehension, even when least willing to bear it.

We should call for help against anger while we have our eyes and are still masters of ourselves.

Moderation is profitable for subjects but even more for princes who have means of executing all their anger prompts.

When princely power is exercised to common mischief, the rule cannot long continue; common fear unites divided complaints.

It is not enough to be sound oneself unless endeavoring to make others sound; remedy must accommodate the patient's temper.

Some are to be dealt with by artifice and address, others by open opposition; some won by entreaties, others by shame, others by delay.

Other affections may be better dealt with at leisure as they proceed gradually; anger commences and perfects itself in the same moment.

Anger doesn't solicit and mislead us like other passions but runs away with us by force and hurries on with irresistible temerity.

Like a torrent, anger bears down all before it, flying in the face of the offender and destroying indifferently.

There is no encountering the first heat and fury of anger; best is to give it time and rest to spend itself.

While the passion is too hot to handle, we may deceive it; but all instruments of revenge should be put out of the way.

It is not amiss sometimes to pretend anger too and join in seeming contrivance of revenge, but must be a person with authority.

By advising upon a greater punishment, one can delay the present revenge, buying time for passion to cool.

If passion be outrageous, try what shame or fear can do; if weak, it may be amused by strange stories or pleasant discourses.

Deceit in managing anger is friendship; men must be cozened to be cured of this passion.

Injuries press hardest when undeserved, unexpected, or greater than anticipated, arising from our love of ourselves.

Every man takes liberties like a prince and allows none to others, proceeding from ignorance or insolence.

What news is it for people to do ill things, for enemies to hurt us, for friends to transgress and prove ungrateful?

What we find in one man we may in another; there is more security in fortune than in men.

Our joys are mingled with fear and a tempest may arise from calm; a skillful pilot is always provided.

To fortify oneself on one's weak side and love peace, one must not be inquisitive or hearken to tale-bearers.

One who is over-curious to hear and see everything multiplies troubles; what one doesn't know one doesn't feel.

One listening after private discourse and what people say about him shall never be at peace.

How many innocent things are made injuries by misconstruction; some things to pause upon, others to laugh at, others to pardon.

If one cannot avoid the sense of indignities, at least shun their open profession, which may be done as examples show through greater fear.

Good caution is not to believe anything until very certain of it; many probable things prove false and time will reveal undoubted truth.

We are prone to believe many things we are willing to hear and conclude with prejudice before we can judge.

Never condemn a friend unheard or without letting him know his accuser and crime.

A tale-bearer's condition 'don't tell where you got it' is unjust; admitting no stories on these terms prevents friends being set at odds.

It is unjust to believe stories in private and be angry openly without hearing the accused.

He that delivers himself to guess and conjecture runs great hazard; without candor, simplicity, and making best of things, there is no living in society.

Some things that offend us come by report; others we see or hear; in the first case, we must not be credulous.

Some frame stories to deceive, others tell what they heard and are deceived; some do ill offices for sport, others to pick thank.

There are those that would part dearest friends or love mischief and stand aloof to see what comes of it.

If a small matter, require witnesses; if larger, require oath, allow time to accused, hear their counsel, and hear repeatedly.

When we are witnesses, we should consider circumstances: if a child did it—ignorance; if woman—mistake; if by command—necessity.

If a man be injured, it is but quod pro quo—a return in kind from prior injury done.

If a judge, he knows what he does in his role; we must submit to the act of authority.

If a prince, one must submit—either if guilty, to justice, or if innocent, to fortune.

If a brute acts thus, I make myself a brute by imitating its behavior.

If a calamity or disease, my best relief is patience, not anger.

If Providence, it is both impious and vain to be angry at it.

If a good man does it, I will make the best of it.

If a bad man does it, I will never wonder at it.

Not only tales and stories inflame us, but suspicions, countenances, even a look or smile is enough to provoke anger.

We should suspend displeasure and plead the cause of the absent: 'Perhaps innocent; or if not, I have time to consider.'

But when anger is executed, it cannot be recalled; therefore, suspension gives time for wisdom.

A jealous head is apt to take to himself what was never meant him; we should trust to nothing but what we see.

By this course we shall not be easily imposed upon nor troubled about things unworthy, like servant's loitering or spilling a glass.

It is madness to be disordered at fooleries; we consider the thing done, not the doer who might have acted unwillingly or under compulsion.

He might do it for reward rather than hatred, or he was urged to it, not acting of his own accord.

Regard must be had to the age of the person or his fortune; we must consult humanity and candor.

One does great mischief unawares; another does very small mischief by design or perhaps none at all; the latter more culpable but I'll forgive neither.

We must distinguish between what a man cannot do and what he will not; different capacities deserve different judgment.

It is true he has once offended, but how often has he pleased me? He has offended often and why should I not bear it?

Is he my friend? Then it was against his will; is he my enemy? It is no more than I looked for.

Let us give way to wise men and not squabble with fools; we have all of us our errors.

No man is so circumspect, considerate, or fearful of offending but he has much to answer for himself.

A generous prisoner cannot immediately comply with sordid offices of a slave; we must weigh such circumstances.

A footman not yet trained cannot keep pace with his master's horse; allowance must be made.

He that is over-watched may be allowed to be drowsy; all must be weighed before the first impulse.

If it is duty to love one's country, must also be kind to countrymen; piety to whole requires care for parts.

We are all members of one body; it is as natural to help one another as for hands to help feet.

Without love and care of the parts, the whole can never be preserved; we must spare one another for society.

Never deny a pardon that does no hurt to the giver or receiver; forgiveness costs nothing and gains much.

That which is well enough in one is ill in another; therefore we should not condemn what is common to a nation.

Much more pardonable are those things which are common to all mankind rather than particular nations.

It is a kind of spiteful comfort that whoever does me injury may receive one; there is a power above me.

A man should stand as firm against indignities as a rock does against waves.

There is some satisfaction that in a mean condition no security exists in prosperous state either.

Loss of a son in a corner is borne more patiently upon sight of a funeral at a palace, showing comparative suffering.

Injuries and contempts are more tolerable from mean persons when we consider that greatest men and fortunes are not exempt.

The wisest of mortals have their failings; no man living is without excuse.

The difference is that we do not all transgress the same way, but we are obliged in humanity to bear one with another.

We should each bethink ourselves how remiss we have been in duties, immodest in discourse, intemperate in cups; why not also in passions?

Let us clear ourselves of this evil, purge our minds, and utterly root out vices that will recover if allowed to leave any sting.

We must think of everything and expect everything so we may not be surprised.

It is a shame, says Fabius, for a commander to excuse himself by saying 'I was not aware of it.'

It is not prudent to deny pardon without first examining if you stand not in need of it yourself; the tables may turn.

We are willing enough to do what we are very unwilling to suffer; unreasonableness abounds.

It is unreasonable to charge public vices upon particular persons; we are all of us wicked, and blame in others what we find in ourselves.

It is not one man's paleness or another's leanness but a pestilence laid hold upon all; we are all infected.

It is a wicked world and we make part of it; the way to quiet is to bear one with another.

When one says 'Such a man did me shrewd turn and I never did him harm,' one should consider if they have mischieved others.

If someone spoke ill of you, but if you first spoke ill of him, this is repayment not injury.

What if he did overshoot himself? He was loth to lose his conceit perhaps, but there was no malice in it.

If he had not done you mischief, he must have done himself one; thus injury may be necessary.

How many good offices are there that look like injuries when viewed from wrong perspective?

How many have been reconciled and become good friends after a professed hatred, showing anger's transience.

Before laying anything to heart, let us ask ourselves if we have not done the same thing to others.

But where shall we find an equal judge? Most are biased by their own standards and sins.

He that loves another's wife only because she is another's will not suffer his own to be so much looked upon.

No man is so fierce against calumny as the evil speaker; he condemns in others what he practices himself.

None are such strict exactors of modesty in servants as those most prodigal of their own.

We carry our neighbors' crimes in sight and throw our own over our shoulders.

The intemperance of a bad son is chastised by a worse father; we punish in others what we allow ourselves.

The tyrant exclaims against homicide; sacrilege against theft; we are angry with persons, not with faults.

Some things cannot hurt us and others will not; good magistrates, parents, tutors, judges whose correction we must take like medicine.

In such cases, reckon upon what we have done rather than what we have suffered.

One says 'I take it ill' and another 'I have done nothing'—but we make it worse by adding arrogance and contumacy to error.

We cry out 'What law have we transgressed?' as if letter of law were sum of duty.

The rule of human duty is of greater latitude; we have obligations beyond statute-books—piety, humanity, liberality, justice, faith.

We fall short of exactness even of legal innocency and have intended one thing but done another.

Wherein only the want of success has kept us from being criminals; this should make us favorable to delinquents.

We should forgive not only ourselves but the gods too; we seem to have harder thoughts in taking particular evil from them.

That we are condemned to pains, diseases, and death is only quitting the soul's house, common law of mortality, not particular evil.

Why should any man complain of bondage when everywhere he looks his way to liberty is open?

That precipice, sea, river, well, every vein in body opens passage to freedom; there is always an exit.

Where my proper virtue fails me, I will have recourse to examples and ask if I am greater than Philip or Augustus.

Many have pardoned their enemies; shall not I forgive a neglect or little freedom of the tongue?

Nay, the patience but of a second thought does the business; though the first shock be violent, taking it in parts subdues it.

The great lesson of mankind is 'to do as we would be done by' in all cases.

There is so near an affinity between anger and cruelty that people confound them, though cruelty need not arise from anger.

Some men take delight in blood and death of innocent people without any provocation—they are brutal, not angry.

Cruelty takes pleasure in tormenting without pretending provocation and kills for killing's sake.

The origin of cruelty perhaps was anger which by frequent exercise and custom has lost all sense of humanity and mercy.

Those thus affected are far from the countenance of men in anger; they laugh and rejoice at racks, jails, gibbets, chains and torture.

The cruelty itself is more horrid and odious than the means by which it works.

It is bestial madness to love mischief; moreover it is womanish to rage and tear.

A generous beast will scorn cruelty when he has anything at his mercy.

Cruelty is a vice for wolves and tigers, no less abominable to the world than dangerous to itself.

Romans held morning spectacles with men fighting wild beasts and meridian spectacles with men fighting each other.

The meridian spectacles were pure murder; combatants fought naked for death not victory, with wounds bleeding openly.

Spectators cruelly exhort the dying combatants and encourage murder, showing collective participation in cruelty.

Wicked examples seldom fail of coming home at last to the authors; encouraging cruelty invites it upon oneself.

To destroy a single man may be dangerous, but to murder whole nations is more glorious wickedness; oppression authorized by state becomes honor.

What a shame is it for men to interworry one another when even fiercest beasts are at peace with their own kind?

This brutal fury puts philosophy itself to a stand; other vices may be reduced but cruelty's mischief extends everywhere.

The mischief is that no vice keeps itself within its proper bounds; luxury runs into avarice.

When reverence of virtue is extinguished, men will stick at nothing that carries profit along with it.

Man's blood is shed in wantonness; his death is a spectacle for entertainment and his groans are music.

When Alexander delivered Lysimachus to a lion, Alexander would have been glad to devour him himself, deeming it unworthy of his wrath to appoint a man.

Private cruelties cannot do much mischief, but in princes they are a war against mankind.

C. Cæsar would commonly, for exercise and pleasure, put senators and knights to torture or death with acute torments for satisfaction of cruelty.

That Cæsar who wished the people of Rome had but one neck that he might cut it off at one blow made cruelty his life's employment.

Caesar would not allow the expiring to groan but caused their mouths stopped with sponges or rags so they might not breathe out agonies.

Caesar was so impatient of delay that he would frequently rise from supper to have men killed by torch-light as if their dispatch before morning depended on it.

Many fathers were put to death the same night with their sons, which was a kind of mercy in preventing their mourning.

Sylla's cruelty was prodigious and only stopped for want of enemies; he slaughtered seven thousand Roman citizens at once.

When senators started at cries heard in senate-house, Sylla said 'Let us mind our business—this is nothing but mutineers being sent out of the way.'

Hannibal called it a glorious spectacle to see trenches flowing with human blood and would have liked it more if rivers ran blood too.

The maxim 'Let them hate me, so they fear me' is impudent and tyrannical, not considering that those kept by fear are malicious and mercenary.

Whosoever is terrible to others is likewise afraid of himself; fear kept by force begets mutual dread.

What is more ordinary than for a tyrant to be destroyed by his own guards who learned cruelty from their masters?

How many slaves have revenged themselves of cruel oppressors, though sure to die for it?

When tyranny becomes popular, whole nations conspire against it.

Whosoever threatens all is in danger of all; cruelty increases enemies by destroying some, entailing hereditary hatred.

Once a tyrant enters cruelty, there is no going back; he must be wicked of necessity.

The tyrant must betake himself to arms yet lives in fear; he both dreads death and wishes it.

The tyrant becomes a greater terror to himself than to his people; he can trust no one.

If there were nothing else to make cruelty detestable, it is enough that it is followed upon the heel with sword or poison.

A private malice indeed does not move whole cities; but that which extends to all is everybody's mark.

One sick person gives no great disturbance in a family; but a depopulating plague all people fly from.

Why should a prince expect any man to be good whom he has taught to be wicked?

But what if it were safe to be cruel? Were it not still a sad thing, the very state of such a government?

A government that is cruel bears the image of a taken city, where there is nothing but sorrow, trouble, and confusion.

Men dare not trust themselves with their friends or with their pleasures in a cruel state.

There is no entertainment so innocent but it affords pretence of crime and danger.

People are betrayed at their tables and in their cups, and drawn from the very theatre to the prison.

How horrid a madness is it to be still raging and killing, with chains always rattling and bloody spectacles before eyes!

To carry terror and dismay wherever we go is the mark of cruel government.

If we had lions and serpents to rule over us, this would be the manner of their government, except they agree better among themselves.

It passes for a mark of greatness to burn cities and lay kingdoms waste.

It is not for the honor of a prince to appoint a single man to be killed unless they have whole troops or legions to work upon.

It is not the spoils of war and bloody trophies that make a prince glorious.

Rather, the divine power of preserving unity and peace is what makes a prince glorious.

Ruin without distinction is more properly the business of a general deluge or conflagration.

Neither does a fierce and inexorable anger become the supreme magistrate.

Greatness of mind is always meek and humble.

Cruelty is a note and an effect of weakness and brings down a governor to the level of a competitor.