1This illness of yours, so persistent, alarms me, and although I know you to be most self-controlled, I am still afraid that it may take some liberties even with your character. 2I advise you, therefore, to resist it patiently: this is praiseworthy, this is healthful. 2Human nature allows what I am urging. 3I myself, certainly, when I am in health, am accustomed to deal with my household like this: 'I hope, indeed, that if I should happen to fall into ill health, I shall want nothing deserving either shame or regret; 3if, however, the disease should get the better of me, I give you notice that you are to give me nothing unless the doctors permit it, and you are to know that if you do give it, I shall punish you as others usually punish what is refused them.' 4Indeed, once when, burnt up by a most violent fever, I had at last been relieved and anointed and was taking a draught from my doctor, I held out my hand, told him to feel my pulse, and handed back the cup when it was already raised to my lips.
5Later, when on the twentieth day of my illness I was being made ready for the bath, and suddenly saw the doctors muttering, I asked the reason. 5They replied that I could bathe safely, yet not altogether without some misgiving. 6'What need is there?' I said; 6and so, calmly and gently giving up the hope of the bath, to which I already seemed to be on my way, I composed my mind and my face for abstinence once more, just as a moment before I had for the bath. 7I have written this to you, first so that I might not advise you without an example, and then so that I myself might be held to the same self-control in future, having bound myself by this letter as if by a pledge.
7Farewell.