I have to tell you about something that comes to mind. There was this old man named Turannius who was incredibly precise and careful about his work. When he turned ninety, Emperor Gaius Caesar officially retired him from his job as tax collector. What did Turannius do? He had himself laid out on his bed like a corpse and mourned as if he were dead. His entire household mourned with him — mourning the fact that their old master now had free time. They didn't stop their mourning until he got his job back. Do people really find such pleasure in working themselves to death?
I cannot pass over an an instance which occurs to me: Turannius was an old man of the most painstaking exactitude, who after entering upon his ninetieth year, when he had by G. Caesar's own act been relieved of his duties as collector of the revenue, ordered himself to be laid out on his bed and mourned for as though he were dead. The whole house mourned for the leisure of its old master, and did not lay aside its mourning until his work was restored to him. Can men find such pleasure in dying in harness?