For some people the day comes when they have to declare the great Yes or the great No. It's clear at once who has the Yes ready within him; and saying it,he goes from honour to honour, strong in his conviction. He who refuses does not repent. Asked again, he would still say no. Yet that no - the right no - drags him down all his life.
Honour to those who in the life they lead define and guard a Thermopylae. Never betraying what is right, consistent and just in all they do, but showing pity also, and compassion; generous when they're rich, and when they're poor, still generous in small ways, still helping as much as they can; always speaking the truth, yet without hating those who lie.And even more honour is due to them when they foresee (as many do foresee) that Ephialtis will turn up in the end, that the Medes will break through after all.
Make sure the engraving is done skilfully. The expression serious, majestic. The diadem preferably somewhat narrow: I don't like that broad kind the Parthians wear. The inscription, as usual, in Greek: nothing excessive or pompous-- we don't want the proconsul to take it the wrong way; he's always smelling things out and reporting back to Rome-- but of course giving me due honour. Something very special on the other side: maybe a discus-thrower, young, good-looking. Above all I urge you to see to it (Sithaspis, for God's sake don't let them forget) that after "King" and "Saviour", they add "Philhellene" in elegant characters. Now don't try to be clever with your "Where are the Greeks?" and "What Hellenism here behind Zagros, out beyond Phraata?" Since so many others more barbarian than ourselves choose to inscribe it, we'll inscribe it too. And besides, don't forget that sometimes sophists do come to us from Syria, and versifiers, and other triflers of that kind. So we're not, I think, un-Hellenized.
Even if you can't shape your life the way you want, at least try as much as you can not to degrade it by too much contact with the world, by too much activity and talk.Do not degrade it by dragging it along, taking it around and exposing it so often to the daily silliness of social relations and parties, until it comes to seem a boring hanger-on.
Too bad that, cut out as you are for grand and noble acts, this unfair fate of yours never helps you out, always prevents your success; that cheap habits get in your way, pettiness, or indifference. And how terrible the day you give in (the day you let go and give in) and take the road for Susa to find King Artaxerxes, who, propitiously, gives you a place at his court and offers you satrapies and things like that - things you don't want at all, though, in despair, you accept them just the same. You're longing for something else, aching for other things: praise from the Demos and the Sophists, that hard-won, that priceless acclaim - the Agora, the Theatre, the Crowns of Laurel. You can't get any of these from Artaxerxes, you'll never find any of these in the satrapy, and without them, what kind of life will you live?