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. We must drive away this grief of hers: how
is that to be done? Shall we lay her on a bed of down; introduce a
singer; shall we burn cedar, or present here with some pleasant liquor,
and provide her something to eat? Are these the good things which
remove the most afflicting grief? For you but just now said you knew of
no other good. I should agree with Epicurus that we ought to be called
off from grief to contemplate good things, if we could only agree upon
what was good.

XX. It may be said, What! do you imagine Epicurus really meant this,
and that he maintained anything so sensual? Indeed I do not imagine so,
for I am sensible that he has uttered many excellent things and
sentiments, and delivered maxims of great weight. Therefore, as I said