Omissible here; the fixity of purpose being plain otherwise to Voltaire and us.

Voltaire's counter-arguments are weak, or worse: "That Roman death is not now expected of the Philosopher; that your Majesty will, in the worst event, still have considerable Dominions left, all that your Great-Grandfather had; still plenty of resources; that, in Paris Society, an estimable minority even now thinks highly of you; that in Paris itself your Majesty [does not say expressly, as dethroned and going on your travels] would have resources!" To which beautiful considerations Friedrich answers, not with fire and brimstone, as one might have dreaded, but in this quiet manner (REPONSE AU SIEUR VOLTAIRE):-- "Je suis homme, il suffit, et ne pour la souffrance; Aux rigueurs du destin j'oppose ma constance.
["I am a man, and therefore born to suffer; to destiny's rigors my steadfastness must correspond."-- Quotation from I know not whom.] But with these sentiments, I am far from condemning Cato and Otho.

The latter had no fine moment in his life, except that of his death.

[Breaks off into Verse:] "Croyez que si j'etais Voltaire, Et particulier comme lui, Me contentant du necessaire, Je verrais voltiger la fortune legere," -- Or,to wring the water and the jingle out of it, and give the substance in Prose:-- "Yes, if I were Voltaire and a private man, I could with much composure leave Fortune to her whirlings and her plungings; to me, contented with the needful, her mad caprices and sudden topsy-turvyings would be amusing rather than tremendous.
"I know the ennui attending on honors, the burdensome duties, the jargon of grinning flatterers, those pitiabilities of every kind, those details of littleness, with which you have to occupy yourself if set on high on the stage of things.

Foolish glory has no charm for me, though a Poet and King: when once Atropos has ended me forever, what will the uncertain honor of living in the Temple of Memory avail?
One moment of practical happiness is worth a thousand years of imaginary in such Temple .-- Is the lot of high people so very sweet, then?
Pleasure, gentle ease, true and hearty mirth, have always fled from the great and their peculiar pomps and labors.
"No, it is not fickle Fortune that has ever caused my sorrows; let her smile her blandest, let her frown her fiercest on me, I should sleep every night, refusing her the least worship.