It's shameful for philosophers to study nature the way runaway slaves watch a play — always looking over their shoulders. What is a master anyway? One person can't really master another. But death can master you. So can life, pleasure, and pain. If Caesar came to me without the power to hurt me, I'd show him how strong I am. But when he comes with the power to cause pain and fear, and I'm afraid — what am I doing then? I'm recognizing my master, just like that runaway slave. As long as I get breaks from these fears, I act like that slave in the theater. I take baths, I drink, I sing. But I do it all with terror and worry. If I could free myself from my masters — from the things that make masters scary — what trouble would I have left? What master could still control me?
It is shameful for philosophers thus to contemplate the works of nature. For what is a master? Man is not the master of man; but death is, and life and pleasure and pain; for if he comes without these things, bring Cæsar to me and you will see how firm I am. But when he shall come with these things, thundering and lightning, and when I am afraid of them, what do I do then except to recognize my master like the runaway slave? But so long as I have any respite from these terrors, as a runaway slave stands in the theatre, so do I. I bathe, I drink, I sing; but all this I do with terror and uneasiness. But if I shall release myself from my masters, that is from those things by means of which masters are formidable, what further trouble have I, what master have I still?