On Anger, Book 3, Section 33 — In Plain English

Seneca — The Senator

What should we think when it's not even a bag of money, but a few pennies or a dollar written down by a slave that makes some old man explode with rage? An old man who's about to die with no one to inherit his wealth? What about a sick money-lender whose feet are twisted with gout and whose hands are too crippled to count coins? Yet he still demands his monthly interest and sends his debt collectors after every penny, even while he's writhing in pain from his illness? You could bring me all the gold from every mine we're digging right now. You could bring me everything hidden in treasure hoards, where greedy people bury money back in the earth it came from—money that should have stayed buried. All of that wealth wouldn't be worth causing even a single worry line on a good person's face. How ridiculous are the things that make us cry!

Seneca — The Senator Original

What shall we say if it be not even for a bag of money, but for a handful of coppers or a shilling scored up by a slave that some old man, soon to die without an heir, bursts with rage? what if it be an invalid money-lender whose feet are distorted by the gout, and who can no longer use his hands to count with, who calls for his interest of one thousandth a month,[13] and by his sureties demands his pence even during the paroxysms of his disease? If you were to bring to me all the money from all our mines, which we are at this moment sinking, if you were to bring to-night all that is concealed in hoards, where avarice returns money to the earth from whence it came, and pity that it ever was dug out—all that mass I should not think worthy to cause a wrinkle on the brow of a good man. What ridicule those things deserve which bring tears into our eyes!