humour, what I have to suffer from my affairs and servants, has not in it
something more abject, troublesome, and tormenting than there would be in
serving a man better born than myself, who would govern me with a gentle
rein, and a little at my own case:

"Servitus obedientia est fracti animi et abjecti,
arbitrio carentis suo."

["Servitude is the obedience of a subdued and abject mind, wanting
its own free will."--Cicero, Paradox, V. I.]

Crates did worse, who threw himself into the liberty of poverty, only to
rid himself of the inconveniences and cares of his house. This is what I
would not do; I hate poverty equally with pain; but I could be content to
change the kind of life I live for another that was humbler and less
chargeable.

When absent from home, I divest myself of all these thoughts, and should
be less concerned for the ruin of a tower, than I am, when present, at
the fall of a tile. My mind is easily composed at distance, but suffers
as much as that of the meanest peasant when I am at home; the reins of my
bridle being wrongly put on, or a strap flapping against my leg, will
keep me out of humour a day together. I raise my courage, well enough
against inconveniences: lift up my eyes I cannot:

"Sensus, o superi, sensus."

["The senses, O ye gods, the senses."]

I am at home responsible for whatever goes amiss. Few masters (I speak