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and that I am no less interested in whatever concerns you than in what concerns myself.
2 Your case has hitherto suffered greater vicissitudes than people either desired or expected;[1] but as to that, considering how bad the times are, there is no reason, believe me, for you feeling aggrieved. For it is inevitable that the Republic should be eternally harassed by the clash of arms, or some day see those arms laid aside and gain a new existence, or be utterly extinguished. If the sword is to be master, you have nothing to fear, either from those who are accepting your submission, or from those whom you have supported; if the state ever breathes again, when that sword is sheathed by the terms of a settlement, or flung away in sheer weariness, or wrested from one side by the victory of the other, you will then be permitted to enjoy both your position and your prosperity; but if there is to be ruin, absolute and universal, and the final issue is to be what that most sagacious of men, Marcus Antonius, used to fear even in those early days[2] when he apprehended the imminence of all these disasters, well, there is always this consolation—a poor one, it is true, especially for a citizen and man of your type, but one we cannot but accept—that no man should make a special grievance of what happens to all alike.
3 If you consider, as I am sure you do, the inward significance of these few words—more are not to be entrusted to a despatch—you will doubtless understand without any letter from me that you have something to hope for, and nothing to fear either in this or any other stable form of government; but in the event of universal ruin, since you would not