Simonides, the poet, once paid a visit to Hiero, the despot. When both found
						time to spare, Simonides said: Hiero, will you please explain something to
						me that you probably know better than I? 
					 
					 And pray what is it, said Hiero, that I can know better than one so wise
						as yourself?

I know you were born a private citizen, he answered, and are now a despot. Therefore, as you have
								experienced both fortunes, you probably know better than I how the
								lives of the despot and the citizen differ as regards the joys and
								sorrows that fall to man’s lot.

Surely, said Hiero, seeing that you are still
								a private citizen, it is for you to remind me of what happens in a
								citizen’s life; and then, I think, I could best show you the
								differences between the two.

Well, said Simonides, taking the suggestion, 
						 I think I have observed that
						sights affect private citizens with pleasure and pain through the eyes,
						sounds through the ears, smells through the nostrils, meat and drink through
						the mouth, carnal appetites—of course we all know how.

In the case of cold and heat, things hard and soft, light and heavy, our
						sensations of pleasure and pain depend on the whole body, I think. In good
						and evil we seem to feel pleasure or pain, as the case may be—sometimes
						through the instrumentality of the moral being only, at other times through
						that of the moral and the physical being together.

Sleep, it seems clear to me, affects us with pleasure; but how and by what
						means and when are puzzles that I feel less able to solve. And perhaps it is
						no matter for surprise if our sensations are clearer when we are awake than
						when we are asleep.

For my part, Simonides, said Hiero in answer to this, I cannot say how a
						despot could have any sensations apart from those you have mentioned. So
						far, therefore, I fail to see that the despot’s life differs in any respect
						from the citizen’s.

In this respect it does differ, said Simonides: the pleasures it
						experiences by means of these various organs are infinitely greater in
						number, and the pains it undergoes are far fewer. 
					 
					 It is not so, Simonides, retorted Hiero; I assure you far fewer pleasures
						fall to despots than to citizens of modest means, and many more and much
						greater pains. 
					 
					 Incredible! exclaimed Simonides.

Were it so, how should a despot’s throne be an object of desire to many,
						even of those who are reputed to be men of ample means? And how should all
						the world envy despots?

For this reason of course, said Hiero, 
						 that they speculate on the subject
						without experience of both estates. But I will try to show you that I am
						speaking the truth, beginning with the sense of sight. That was your first
						point, if I am not mistaken.

In the first place, then, taking the objects that we perceive by means of
						vision, I find by calculation that in regard to sight-seeing, despots are
						worse off. In every land there are things worth seeing: and in search of
						these private citizens visit any city they choose, and attend the national
						festivals, where all things reputed to be most worth seeing are assembled.

But despots are not at all concerned with missions to shows. For it is risky
						for them to go where they will be no stronger than the crowd, and their
						property at home is too insecure to be left in charge of others while they
						are abroad. For they fear to lose their throne, and at the same time to be
						unable to take vengeance on the authors of the wrong. Perhaps you may say:

But, after all, such spectacles come to them even if they stay at home. No,
						no, Simonides, only one in a hundred such; and what there are of them are
						offered to despots at a price so exorbitant that showmen who exhibit some
						trifle expect to leave the court in an hour with far more money than they
						get from all the rest of the world in a lifetime.

Ah, said Simonides, but if you are worse off in the matter of
						sight-seeing, the sense of hearing, you know, gives you the advantage.
						Praise, the sweetest of all sounds, is never lacking, for all your courtiers
						praise everything you do and every word you utter. Abuse, on the contrary,
						that most offensive of sounds, is never in your ears, for no one likes to
						speak evil of a despot in his presence.

And what pleasure, asked Hiero, comes, do you suppose, of this shrinking
						from evil words, when one knows well that all harbour evil thoughts against
						the despot, in spite of their silence? Or what pleasure comes of this
						praise, do you think, when the praises sound suspiciously like flattery?

Well yes, replied Simonides, in this of course I agree with you entirely,
						Hiero, that praise from the freest is sweetest. But this, now, you will not
						persuade anyone to believe, that the things which support human life do not
						yield you a far greater number of pleasures.

Yes, Simonides, and I know that the reason why most men judge that we have
						more enjoyment in eating and drinking than private citizens is this; they
						think that they themselves would find the dinner served at our table better
						eating than what they get. Anything, in fact, that is better than what they
						are accustomed to gives them pleasure.

This is why all men look forward to the festivals, except the despots. For
						their table is always laden with plenty, and admits of no extras on feast
						days. Here then is one pleasure in respect of which they are worse off than
						the private citizen, the pleasure of anticipation.

But further, your own experience tells you, I am sure, that the greater the
						number of superfluous dishes set before a man, the sooner a feeling of
						repletion comes over him; and so, as regards the duration of his pleasure
						too, the man who has many courses put before him is worse off than the
						moderate liver.

But surely, said Simonides, so long as the appetite holds out, the man who
						dines at the costlier banquet has far more pleasure than he who is served
						with the cheaper meal.

Don’t you think, Simonides, that the greater a man’s pleasure in any
								occupation the stronger is his devotion to it? 
							 
							 Certainly. 
							 
							 Then do you notice that despots fall to their meal
								with any more zest than private persons to theirs? 
							 
							 No, no, of course not; I should rather say with more
								disgust, according to the common opinion.

Well now, said Hiero, have you observed all those pickles and sauces that
						are put before despots—acid, bitter, astringent and so forth? 
					 
					 Yes, certainly; and very unnatural cates I think them for human beings.

Don’t you look on these condiments, then, as mere fads of a jaded and
								pampered appetite? I know well enough, and I expect you know too,
								that hearty eaters have no need of these concoctions.

Well, I certainly think that those costly unguents with which you anoint
						your bodies afford more satisfaction to those who are near you than to
						yourselves, just as the man who has eaten rank food is less conscious of the
						disagreeable smell than those who come near him.

Quite so, and we may add that he who has all sorts of food at all times has
						no stomach for any sort. Offer a man a dish that he seldom tastes, and he
						eats a bellyful with gusto.

It seems, remarked Simonides, as if the satisfaction of the sexual
						appetites were the only motive that produces in you the craving for
						despotism. For in this matter you are free to enjoy the fairest that meets
						your eye.

I assure you that we are worse off than private citizens in the matter to
						which you now refer. First take marriage. It is commonly held that a
						marriage into a family of greater wealth and influence is most honourable,
						and is a source of pride and pleasure to the bridegroom. Next to that comes
						a marriage with equals. A marriage with inferiors is considered positively
						degrading and useless.

Now unless a despot marries a foreign girl, he is bound to marry beneath him;
						and so the thing to be desired does not come his way. And whereas it is
						exceedingly pleasant to receive the attentions of the proudest of ladies,
						the attentions of slaves are quite unappreciated when shown, and any little
						shortcomings produce grievous outbursts of anger and annoyance.

In his relations with young boys, again, even much more than in his
						relations with women, the despot is at a disadvantage. We all know, I
						suppose, that passion increases the sweets of sex beyond measure.

Passion, however, is very shy of entering the heart of a despot, for passion
						is fain to desire not the easy prize, but the hoped-for joy. Therefore, just
						as a man who is a stranger to thirst can get no satisfaction out of
						drinking, so he who is a stranger to passion is a stranger to the sweetest
						pleasures of sex.

To this speech of Hiero’s Simonides replied, laughing:
					 
					 How say you, Hiero? You deny that love for boys springs up in a despot’s
						heart? Then how about your passion for Dailochus, whom they call most fair?

Why, Simonides, the explanation, of course, is this: I desire to get from
						him not what I may have, apparently, for the asking, but that which a despot
						should be the last to take.

The fact is, I desire of Dailochus just that which human nature, maybe,
						drives us to ask of the fair. But what I long to get, I very strongly desire
						to obtain by his goodwill, and with his consent; but I think I could sooner
						desire to do myself an injury than to take it from him by force.

For to take from an enemy against his will is, I think, the greatest of all
						pleasures, but favours from a loved one are very pleasant, I fancy, only
						when he consents.

For instance, if he is in sympathy with you, how pleasant are his looks, how
						pleasant his questions and his answers; how very pleasant and ravishing are
						the struggles and bickerings.

But to take advantage of a favourite against his will seems to me more like
						brigandage than love. Nay, your brigand finds some pleasure in his gain and
						in hurting his foe; but to feel pleasure in hurting one whom you love, to be
						hated for your affection, to disgust him by your touch, surely that is a
						mortifying experience and pitiful!

The fact is, a private citizen has instant proof that any act of compliance
						on the part of his beloved is prompted by affection, since he knows that the
						service rendered is due to no compulsion; but the despot can never feel sure
						that he is loved.

For we know that acts of service prompted by fear copy as closely as possible
						the ministrations of affection. Indeed, even plots against despots as often
						as not are the work of those who profess the deepest affection for them.

To this Simonides replied: Well, the points that you raise seem to me mere
						trifles. For I notice that many respected men willingly go short in the
						matter of meat and drink and delicacies, and deliberately abstain from
						sexual indulgence.

But I will show you where you have a great advantage over private citizens.
						Your objects are vast, your attainment swift: you have luxuries in
						abundance: you own horses unequalled in excellence, arms unmatched in
						beauty, superb jewelry for women, stately houses full of costly furniture:
						moreover you have servants many in number and excellent in accomplishments
						and you are rich in power to harm enemies and reward friends. 
					 
					To this Hiero answered:

Well, Simonides, that the multitude should be deceived by despotic power
						surprises me not at all, since the mob seems to guess wholly by appearances
						that one man is happy, another miserable.

Despotism flaunts its seeming precious treasures outspread before the gaze of
						the world: but its troubles it keeps concealed in the heart of the despot,
						in the place where human happiness and unhappiness are stored away.

That this escapes the observation of the multitude I say, I am not surprised.
						But what does seem surprising to me is that men like you, whose intelligence
						is supposed to give you a clearer view of most things than your eyes, should
						be equally blind to it.

But I know well enough by experience, Simonides, and I tell you that despots
						get the smallest share of the greatest blessings, and have most of the
						greatest evils.

Thus, for instance, if peace is held to be a greatest blessing to mankind,
						very little of it falls to the share of despots: if war is a great evil, of
						that despots receive the largest share.

To begin with, so long as their state is not engaged in a war in which all
						take part, private citizens are free to go wherever they choose without fear
						of being killed. But all despots move everywhere as in an enemy’s country;
						at any rate they think they are bound to wear arms continually themselves,
						and to take an armed escort about with them at all times.

Secondly, in the event of an expedition against an enemy’s country, private
						citizens at least think themselves safe as soon as they have come home. But
						when despots reach their own city, they know that they are now among more
						enemies than ever.

Again, suppose that strangers invade their city in superior force; true, the
						weaker are conscious of danger while they are outside the walls; yet once
						they are inside the fortress, all feel themselves bestowed in safety. But
						the despot is not out of danger even when he passes within the palace gates;
						nay, it is just there that he thinks he must walk most warily.

Once again, to private citizens a truce or peace brings rest from war; but
						despots are never at peace with the people subject to their despotism, and
						no truce can ever make a despot confident.

There are, of course, wars that are waged by states against one another, and
						wars waged by the despot against his oppressed subjects. Now the hardships
						incidental to these wars that fall on the citizen fall also on the despot.

For both must wear arms, be watchful, run risks; and the sting of a defeat is
						felt by both alike.

So far, then, both are equally affected by wars. But the joys that fall to
						the citizens of states at war are not experienced by despots.

For, you know, when states defeat their foes in a battle, words fail one to
						describe the joy they feel in the rout of the enemy, in the pursuit, in the
						slaughter of the enemy. What transports of triumphant pride! What a halo of
						glory about them! What comfort to think that they have exalted their city!

Everyone is crying: I had a share in
									the plan, I killed most ; and it’s hard to find where they
								don’t revel in falsehood, claiming to have killed more than all that
								were really slain. So glorious it seems to them to have won a great
								victory!

But when a despot harbours suspicion, and, well aware that opposition is on
						foot, puts the conspirators to death, he knows that he does not exalt the
						city as a whole; he understands that the number of his subjects will be
						less; he cannot look cheerful; nor does he boast himself of his achievement;
						nay, he belittles the occurrence as much as possible, and explains, while he
						is at the work, that there is nothing wrong in what he has done, so far are
						his deeds from seeming honourable even to himself.

Even the death of those whom he feared does not restore him to confidence; he
						is yet more on his guard afterwards than before. And now I have shown you
						the kind of war that a despot wages continually.

Turn next to friendship, and behold how despots share in it. First let us
						consider whether friendship is a great blessing to mankind.

When a man is loved by friends, I take it, they rejoice at his presence,
						delight to do him good, miss him when he is absent, greet him most joyfully
						on his return, rejoice with him in his good fortune, unite in aiding him
						when they see him tripping.

Even states
						are not blind to the fact that friendship is a very great blessing, and very
						delightful to men. At any rate, many states have a law that adulterers only
						may be put to death with impunity, obviously for this reason, because they
						believe them to be destroyers of the wife’s friendship with her husband;

although, when a woman’s lapse is the result of some
						accident, husbands do not honour their wives any less on that account,
						provided that wives seem to reserve their affection unblemished.

In my judgment, to be loved is a blessing so precious that I believe good
						things fall literally of themselves on him who is loved from gods and men
						alike.

Such, then, is the nature of this possession—a possession wherein despots
						above all other men are stinted. If you want to know that I am speaking the
						truth, Simonides, consider the question in this way.

The firmest friendships, I take it, are supposed to be those that unite
						parents to children, children to parents, wives to husbands, comrades to
						comrades.

Now you will find, if you will but observe, that private citizens are, in
						fact, loved most deeply by these. But what of despots? Many have slain their
						own children; many have themselves been murdered by their children; many
						brothers, partners in despotism, have perished by each other’s hand; many
						have been destroyed even by their own wives, aye, and by comrades whom they
						accounted their closest friends.

Seeing, then, that they are so hated by those who are bound by natural ties
						and constrained by custom to love them most, how are we to suppose that they
						are loved by any other being?

Next take confidence. Surely he who has very little of that is stinted in a
						great blessing? What companionship is pleasant without mutual trust? What
						intercourse between husband and wife is delightful without confidence? What
						squire is pleasant if he is not trusted?

Now of this confidence in others despots enjoy the smallest share. They go in
						constant suspicion even of their meat and drink; they bid their servitors
						taste them first, before the libation is offered to the gods, because of
						their misgiving that they may sup poison in the dish or the bowl.

Again, to all other men their fatherland is very precious. For citizens ward
						one another without pay from their slaves and from evildoers, to the end
						that none of the citizens may perish by a violent death.

They have gone so far in measures of precaution that many have made a law
						whereby even the companion of the bloodguilty is deemed impure; and
						so—thanks to the fatherland—every citizen lives in security.

But for despots the position is the reverse in this case too. Instead of
						avenging them, the cities heap honours on the slayer of the despot; and,
						whereas they exclude the murderers of private persons from the temples, the
						cities, so far from treating assassins in the same manner, actually put up
						statues of them in the holy places.

If you suppose that just because he has more possessions than the private
						citizen, the despot gets more enjoyment out of them, this is not so either,
						Simonides. Trained athletes feel no pleasure when they prove superior to
						amateurs, but they are cut to the quick when they are beaten by a rival
						athlete; in like manner the despot feels no pleasure when he is seen to
						possess more than private citizens, but is vexed when he has less than other
						despots; for he regards them as his rivals in wealth.

Nor even does the despot gain the object of his desire any quicker than the
						private citizen. For the private citizen desires a house or a farm or a
						servant; but the despot covets cities or wide territory or harbours or
						strong citadels, and these are far more difficult and perilous to acquire
						than the objects that attract the citizen.

And, moreover, you will find that even poverty is rarer among private
						citizens than among despots. For much and little are to be measured not by
						number, but in relation to the owner’s needs; so that what is more than
						enough is much, and what is less than enough is little.

Therefore, the despot with his abundance of wealth has less to meet his
						necessary expenses than the private citizen. For while private citizens can
						cut down the daily expenditure as they please, despots cannot, since the
						largest items in their expenses and the most essential are the sums they
						spend on the life-guards, and to curtail any of these means ruin.

Besides, when men can have all they need by honest means, why pity them as
						though they were poor? May not those who through want of money are driven to
						evil and unseemly expedients in order to live, more justly be accounted
						wretched and poverty-stricken?

Now, despots are not seldom forced into the crime of robbing temples and
						their fellow men through chronic want of cash to meet their necessary
						expenses. Living, as it were, in a perpetual state of war, they are forced
						to maintain an army, or they perish.

Despots are oppressed by yet another trouble, Simonides, which I will tell
						you of. They recognize a stout-hearted, a wise or an upright man as easily
						as private citizens do. But instead of admiring such men, they fear
						them,—the brave lest they strike a bold stroke for freedom, the wise lest
						they hatch a plot, the upright lest the people desire them for leaders.

When they get rid of such men through fear, who are left for their use, save
						only the unrighteous, the vicious and the servile,—the unrighteous being
						trusted because, like the despots, they fear that the cities may some day
						shake off the yoke and prove their masters, the vicious on account of the
						licence they enjoy as things are, the servile because even they themselves
						have no desire for freedom? This too, then, is a heavy trouble, in my
						opinion, to see the good in some men, and yet perforce to employ others.

Furthermore, even a despot must needs love his city, for without the city he
						can enjoy neither safety nor happiness. But despotism forces him to find
						fault even with his fatherland. For he has no pleasure in seeing that the
						citizens are stout-hearted and well armed; rather he delights to make the
						foreigners more formidable than the citizens, and these he employs as a
						body-guard.

Again, even when favourable seasons yield abundance of good things, the
						despot is a stranger to the general joy; for the needier the people, the
						humbler he thinks to find them.

But now, Simonides, he continued, I want to show you all those delights
						that were mine when I was a private citizen, but which I now find are
						withheld from me since the day I became a despot.

I communed with my fellows then: they pleased me and I pleased them. I
						communed with myself whenever I desired rest. I passed the time in
						carousing, often till I forgot all the troubles of mortal life, often till
						my soul was absorbed in songs and revels and dances, often till the desire
						of sleep fell on me and all the company.

But now I am cut off from those who had pleasure in me, since slaves instead
						of friends are my comrades; I am cut off from my pleasant intercourse with
						them, since I see in them no sign of good-will towards me. Drink and sleep I
						avoid as a snare.

To fear a crowd, and yet fear solitude, to fear to go unguarded, and yet fear
						the very men who guard you, to recoil from attendants unarmed and yet
						dislike to see them armed—surely that is a cruel predicament!

And then, to trust foreigners more than citizens, strangers more than Greeks,
						to long to keep free men slaves, and yet be forced to make slaves free—do
						you not think that all these are sure tokens of a soul that is crushed with
							fear?

Fear, you know, is not only painful in itself by reason of its presence in
						the soul, but by haunting us even in our pleasures it spoils them utterly.

If, like me, you are acquainted with war, Simonides, and ever had the
						enemy’s battle-line close in front of you, call to mind what sort of food
						you ate at that time, and what sort of sleep you slept.

I tell you, the pains that despots suffer are such as you suffered then. Nay,
						they are still more terrible; for despots believe that they see enemies not
						in front alone, but all around them. 
					 
					To this Simonides made answer:

Excellent words in part, I grant! War is indeed a fearsome thing:
						nevertheless, Hiero, our way, when we are on active service, is this: we
						post sentries to guard us, and sup and sleep with a good courage. 
					 
					Then Hiero answered:

No doubt you do, Simonides! For your sentries have sentries in front of
						them—the laws,—and so they fear for their own skins and relieve you of fear.
						But despots hire their guards like harvesters.

Now the chief qualification required in the guards, I presume, is
						faithfulness. But it is far harder to find one faithful guard than hundreds
						of workmen for any kind of work, especially when money supplies the guards,
						and they have it in their power to get far more in a moment by assassinating
						the despot than they receive from him for years of service among his guards.

You said that you envy us our unrivalled power to confer benefits on our
						friends, and our unrivalled success in crushing our enemies. But that is
						another delusion.

For how can you possibly feel that you benefit friends when you know well
						that he who receives most from you would be delighted to get out of your
						sight as quickly as possible? For, no matter what a man has received from a
						despot, nobody regards it as his own, until he is outside the giver’s
						dominion.

Or again, how can you say that despots more than others are able to crush
						enemies, when they know well that all who are subject to their despotism are
						their enemies and that it is impossible to put them all to death or imprison
						them—else who will be left for the despot to rule over?—and, knowing them to
						be their enemies, they must beware of them, and, nevertheless, must needs
						make use of them?

And I can assure you of this, Simonides: when a despot fears any citizen, he
						is reluctant to see him alive, and yet reluctant to put him to death. To
						illustrate my point, suppose that a good horse makes his master afraid that
						he will do him some fatal mischief: the man will feel reluctant to slaughter
						him on account of his good qualities, and yet his anxiety lest the animal
						may work some fatal mischief in a moment of danger will make him reluctant
						to keep him alive and use him.

Yes, and this is equally true of all possessions that are troublesome as well
						as useful: it is painful to possess them, and painful to get rid of them.

These statements drew from Simonides the following reply: A great thing,
						surely, Hiero, is the honour for which men strive so earnestly that they
						undergo any toil and endure any danger to win it!

And what if despotism brings all those troubles that you tell of, yet such
						men as you, it seems, rush headlong into it that you may have honour, that
						all men may carry out your behests in all things without question, that the
						eyes of all may wait on you, that all may rise from their seats and make way
						for you, that all in your presence may glorify you by deed and word alike.
						(Such, in fact, is the behaviour of subjects to despots and to anyone else
						who happens to be their hero at the moment.)

For indeed it seems to me, Hiero, that in this man differs from other
						animals—I mean, in this craving for honour. In meat and drink and sleep and
						sex all creatures alike seem to take pleasure; but love of honour is rooted
						neither in the brute beasts nor in every human being. But they in whom is
						implanted a passion for honour and praise, these are they who differ most
						from the beasts of the field, these are accounted men and not mere human
							beings.

And so, in my opinion, you have good reason for bearing all those burdens
						that despotism lays on you, in that you are honoured above all other men.
						For no human joy seems to be more nearly akin to that of heaven than the
						gladness which attends upon honours. 
					 
					To this Hiero replied:

Ah, Simonides, I think even the honours enjoyed by despots bear a close
						resemblance to their courtships, as I have described them to you.

The services of the indifferent seemed to us not acts of grace, and favours
						extorted appeared to give no pleasure. And so it is with the services
						proffered by men in fear: they are not honours.

For how can we say that men who are forced to rise from their seats rise to
						honour their oppressors, or that men who make way for their superiors desire
						to honour their oppressors?

And as for presents, most men offer them to one whom they hate, and that too
						at the moment when they have cause to fear some evil at his hands. These
						acts, I suppose, may not unfairly be taken for acts of servility; but
						honours, I should say, express the very opposite feelings.

For whenever men feel that some person is competent to be their benefactor,
						and come to regard him as the fountain of blessings, so that henceforward
						his praise is ever on their lips, everyone of them looks on him as his
						peculiar blessing, they make way for him spontaneously and rise from their
						seats, through love and not through fear, crown him for his generosity and
						beneficence, and bring him freewill offerings, these same men in my opinion,
						honour that person truly by such services, and he who is accounted worthy of
						them is honoured in very deed.

And, for myself, I count him a happy man who is honoured thus; for I perceive
						that, instead of being exposed to treason, he is an object of solicitude,
						lest harm befall him, and he lives his life unassailed by fear and malice
						and danger, and enjoys unbroken happiness. But what is the despot’s lot? I
						tell you, Simonides, he lives day and night like one condemned by the
						judgment of all men to die for his wickedness.

When Simonides had listened to all this he asked: Pray, how comes it, Hiero,
						if despotism is a thing so vile, and this is your verdict, that you do not
						rid yourself of so great an evil, and that none other, for that matter, who
						has once acquired it, ever yet surrendered despotic power?

Simonides, said he, 
						 this is the crowning misery of despotic power, that it
						cannot even be got rid of. For how could any despot ever find means to repay
						in full all whom he has robbed, or himself serve all the terms of
						imprisonment that he has inflicted? Or how could he forfeit a life for every
						man whom he has put to death?

Ah, Simonides, he cried, if it profits any man to hang himself, know what
						my finding is: a despot has most to gain by it, since he alone can neither
						keep nor lay down his troubles with profit.

Well, Hiero, retorted Simonides, 
						 I am not surprised that you are out of
						heart with despotism for the moment, since you hold that it cuts you off
						from gaining the affection of mankind, which you covet. Nevertheless, I
						think I can show you that rule so far from being a bar to popularity,
						actually has the advantage of a citizen’s life.

In trying to discover whether this is so, let us for the time being pass over
						the question whether the ruler, because of his greater power, is able to
						confer more favours. Assume that the citizen and the despot act alike, and
						consider which of the two wins the greater measure of gratitude from the
						same actions.
					 
					You shall have the most trifling examples to begin with.

First, suppose that two men greet someone with a friendly remark on seeing
						him. One is a ruler, the other a citizen. In this case which greeting, do
						you think, is the more delightful to the hearer? Or again, both commend the
						same man. Which commendation, do you think, is the more welcome? Suppose
						that each does the honours when he offers sacrifice. Which invitation, think
						you, will be accepted with the more sincere thanks?

Suppose they are equally attentive to a sick man. Is it not obvious that the
						attentions of the mightiest bring most comfort to the patient? Suppose they
						give presents of equal value. Is it not clear in this case too that half the
						number of favours bestowed by the mightiest count for more than the whole of
						the plain citizen’s gift?

Nay, to my way of thinking, even the gods cause a peculiar honour and favour
						to dance attendance on a great ruler. For not only does rule add dignity of
						presence to a man, but we find more pleasure in the sight of that man when
						he is a ruler than when he is a mere citizen, and we take more pride in the
						conversation of those who rank above us than in that of our equals.

And favourites, mark you, who were the subject of your bitterest complaint
						against despotism, are not offended by old age in a ruler, and take no
						account of ugliness in the patron with whom they happen to be associated.
						For high rank in itself is a most striking embellishment to the person: it
						casts a shade over anything repulsive in him and shows up his best features
						in a high light.

Moreover, inasmuch as equal services rendered by you rulers are rewarded with
						deeper gratitude, surely, when you have the power of doing far more for
						others by your activities, and can lavish far more gifts on them, it is
						natural that you should be much more deeply loved than private
						citizens. 
					 
					Hiero instantly rejoined:

Indeed it is not so, Simonides; for we are forced to engage far oftener than
						private citizens in transactions that make men hated.

Thus, we must extort money in order to find the cash to pay for what we want:
						we must compel men to guard whatever needs protection: we must punish
						wrongdoers; we must check those who would fain wax insolent; and when a
						crisis arises that calls for the immediate despatch of forces by land and
						sea, we must see that there is no dilly-dallying.

Further, a great despot must needs have mercenaries; and no
								burden presses more heavily on the citizens than that, since they
								believe that these troops are maintained not in the interests of
								equality, but for the despot’s personal ends.

In answer to this Simonides said: Well, Hiero, I do not deny that all these
						matters must receive attention. But I should divide a ruler’s activities
						into two classes, those that lead inevitably to unpopularity, and those that
						are greeted with thanks.

The duty of teaching the people what things are best, and of dispensing
						praise and honour to those who accomplish the same most efficiently, is a
						form of activity that is greeted with thanks. The duty of pronouncing
						censure, using coercion, inflicting pains and penalties on those who come
						short in any respect, is one that must of necessity give rise to a certain
						amount of unpopularity.

Therefore my sentence is that a great ruler should delegate to others the
						task of punishing those who require to be coerced, and should reserve to
						himself the privilege of awarding the prizes. The excellence of this
						arrangement is established by daily experience.

Thus, when we want to have a choral competition, the ruler offers prizes, but
						the task of assembling the choirs is delegated to choir-masters, and others
						have the task of training them and coercing those who come short in any
						respect. Obviously, then, in this case, the pleasant part falls to the
						ruler, the disagreeables fall to others.

Why, then, should not all other public affairs be managed on this principle?
						For all communities are divided into parts— tribes, wards, unions, as
						the case may be—and every one of these parts is subject to its appointed
						ruler.

If, then, the analogy of the choruses were followed and prizes were offered
						to these parts for excellence of equipment, good discipline, horsemanship,
						courage in the field and fair dealing in business, the natural outcome would
						be competition, and consequently an earnest endeavour to improve in all
						these respects too.

And as a matter of course, with the prospect of reward there would be more
						despatch in starting for the appointed place, and greater promptitude in the
						payment of war taxes, whenever occasion required. Nay, agriculture itself,
						most useful of all occupations, but just the one in which the spirit of
						competition is conspicuous by its absence, would make great progress if
						prizes were offered for the farm or the village that can show the best
						cultivation, and many good results would follow for those citizens who threw
						themselves vigorously into this occupation.

For apart from the consequent increase in the revenues, sobriety far more
						commonly goes with industry; and remember, vices rarely flourish among the
						fully employed.

If commerce also brings gain to a city, the award of honours for diligence in
						business would attract a larger number to a commercial career. And were it
						made clear that the discovery of some way of raising revenue without hurting
						anyone will also be rewarded, this field of research too would not be
						unoccupied.

In a word, once it becomes clear in every department that any good suggestion
						will not go unrewarded, many will be encouraged by that knowledge to apply
						themselves to some promising form of investigation. And when there is a
						wide-spread interest in useful subjects, an increase of discovery and
						achievement is bound to come.

In case you fear, Hiero, that the cost of offering prizes for many subjects
						may prove heavy, you should reflect that no commodities are cheaper than
						those that are bought for a prize. Think of the large sums that men are
						induced to spend on horse-races, gymnastic and choral competitions, and the
						long course of training and practice they undergo for the sake of a paltry
						prize.

Well, Simonides, said Hiero, 
						 I think you are right in saying that. But
						what about the mercenaries? Can you tell me how to employ them without
						incurring unpopularity? Or do you say that a ruler, once he becomes popular,
						will have no further need of a bodyguard?

No, no, he will need them, of course, said Simonides. 
						 For I know that some
						human beings are like horses—the more they get what they want, the more
						unruly they are apt to become.

The way to manage men like that is to put the fear of the bodyguard into
						them. And as for the gentlemen, you can probably confer greater benefits on
						them by employing mercenaries than by any other means.

For I presume that you maintain the force primarily to protect yourself. But
						masters have often been murdered by their slaves. If therefore the first
						duty enjoined on the mercenaries were to act as the bodyguard of the whole
						community and render help to all, in case they got wind of any such
						intention—there are black sheep in every fold, as we all know—I say, if they
						were under orders to guard the citizens as well as the depot, the citizens
						would know that this is one service rendered to them by the mercenaries.

Nor is this all: for naturally the mercenaries would also be able to give
						fearlessness and security in the fullest measure to the labourers and cattle
						in the country, and the benefit would not be confined to your own estates,
						but would be felt up and down the countryside.

Again, they are competent to afford the citizens leisure for attending to
						their private affairs by guarding the vital positions. Besides, should an
						enemy plan a secret and sudden attack, what handier agents can be found for
						detecting or preventing their design than a standing force, armed and
						organized? Or once more, when the citizens go campaigning, what is more
						useful to them than mercenaries? For these are, as a matter of course, the
						readiest to bear the brunt of toil and danger and watching.

And must not those who possess a standing force impose on border states a
						strong desire for peace? For nothing equals an organized body of men,
						whether for protecting the property of friends or for thwarting the plans of
						enemies.

Further, when the citizens get it into their heads that these troops do no
						harm to the innocent and hold the would-be malefactor in check, come to the
						rescue of the wronged, care for the citizens and shield them from danger,
						surely they are bound to pay the cost of them with a right good-will. At all
						events they keep guards in their homes for less important objects than
						these.

Nor should you hesitate to draw on your private property, Hiero, for the
						common good. For in my opinion the sums that a great despot spends on the
						city are more truly necessary expenses than the money he spends on himself.

But let us go into details. First, which do you suppose is likely to bring
						you more credit, to own a palace adorned with priceless objects of art, or
						to have the whole city garnished with walls and temples and verandahs and
						market-places and harbours?

Which will make you look more terrible to the enemy, to dazzle all beholders
						with your own glittering panoply, or to present the whole of your people in
						goodly armour?

Which plan, think you, will yield revenues more abounding, to keep only your
						own capital employed, or to contrive to bring the capital of all the
						citizens into employment?

And what about the breeding of chariot horses, commonly considered the
						noblest and grandest business in the world? By which method do you think you
						will gain most credit for that, if you out-do all other Greeks in the number
						of teams you breed and send to the festivals, or if the greatest number of
						breeders and the greatest number of competitors are drawn from your city?
						And how is the nobler victory gained, by the excellence of your team, or by
						the prosperity of the city of which you are the head?

Indeed my own opinion is that it is not even seemly for a great despot to
						compete with private citizens. For your victory would excite envy rather
						than admiration, on the ground that many estates supply the money that you
						spend, and no defeat would be greeted with so much ridicule as yours.

I tell you, Hiero, you have to compete with other heads of states, and if you
						cause your state to surpass theirs in prosperity, be well assured that you are the victor in the noblest
						and grandest competition in the world.

And in the first place you will forthwith have secured just what you really
						want, the affection of your subjects. Secondly, your victory will not be
						proclaimed by one herald’s voice, but all the world will tell of your
						virtue.

The observed of all observers’ eyes, you will be a hero,
								not only to private citizens, but to many states: you will be
								admired not only in your home, but in public among all men.

And you will be free to go wherever you choose, so far as safety is
						concerned, to see the sights, and equally free to enjoy them in your home;
						for you will have a throng of aspirants before you, some eager to display
						something wise or beautiful or good, others longing to serve you.

Everyone present will be an ally, everyone absent will long to see you.
					 
					Thus you will be not only the loved, but the adored of mankind. You will
						need not to court the fair, but to listen patiently to their suit. Anxiety
						for your welfare will fall not on yourself, but on others.

You will have the willing obedience of your subjects; you will mark their
						unsolicited care for you; and should any danger arise, you will find in them
						not merely allies, but champions and zealots. 
						Accounted worthy of many gifts, and at no loss for some man of goodwill with
						whom to share them, you will find all rejoicing in your good fortune, all
						fighting for your interests, as though they were their own.

And all the riches in the houses of your friends will be yours in fee.
					 
					Take heart then, Hiero; enrich your friends, for so you will enrich
						yourself. Exalt the state, for so you will deck yourself with power.

Get her allies for so you will win supporters for yourself . Account the
						fatherland your estate, the citizens your comrades, friends your own
						children, your sons possessions dear as life. And try to surpass all these
						in deeds of kindness.

For if you out-do your friends in kindness, it is certain that your enemies
						will not be able to resist you.
					 
					And if you do all these things, rest assured that you will be possessed of
						the fairest and most blessed possession in the world; for none will be
						jealous of your happiness.