DLIV (F IV, 5)
SERVIUS SULPICIUS TO CICERO (AT ASTURA)
Athens (March)
When I received the news of your daughter Tullia's death,
I was indeed as much grieved and distressed as I was bound
to be, and looked upon it as a calamity in which I shared.
For, if I had been at home, I should not have failed to be
at your side, and should have made my sorrow plain to you
face to face. That kind of consolation involves much distress
and pain, because the relations and friends, whose part
it is to offer it, are themselves overcome by an equal sorrow.
They cannot attempt it without many tears, so that they seem
to require consolation themselves rather than to be able to
afford it to others. Still I have decided to set down briefly
for your benefit such thoughts as have occurred to my mind,
not because I suppose them to be unknown to you, but
because your sorrow may perhaps hinder you from being so
keenly alive to them.
Why is it that a private grief should agitate you so deeply? Think how fortune has hitherto dealt with us. Reflect that we have had snatched from us what ought to be no less dear to human beings than their children—country, honour, rank, every political distinction. What additional wound to your feelings could be inflicted by this particular loss? Or where is the heart that should not by this time have lost all sensibility and learn to regard everything else as of minor importance? Is it on her account, pray, that you sorrow? How many times have you recurred to the thought—and I have often been struck with the same idea—that in times like these theirs is far from being the worst fate to whom it has been granted to exchange life for a painless death? Now what was there at such an epoch that could greatly tempt her to live? What scope, what hope, what heart's solace? That she might spend her life with some young and distinguished husband? How impossible for a man of
