Dio Chrysostom, On Kingship 3.4

Once more, you see that God has everywhere appointed the superior to care for and rule over the inferior: skill, for instance, over unskillfulness, strength over weakness; and for the foolish he has made the wise to have care and thought, to watch and plan; and with all these responsibilities governing is by no means easy; nay, it is laborious and does not get the greater share of relaxation and ease, but rather of care and toil. 

Thus, on board ship the passengers may disregard the sea and not even look at it; yes, not even know "where on earth they are," as the saying is—and many do sail the sea after this fashion in fair weather, some gambling, some singing, some feasting the livelong day. Then when a storm comes on, they wrap themselves up and await the event, while some few retire and do not rise from their beds until they reach port. 

But the pilot—he must look out to sea, must scan the sky, must see the land in time; nay, nor should what is in the depths escape him either, else he will unexpectedly strike submerged rocks or hidden reefs. He is the only one who during the night has less chance to sleep than the night watch; while by day, if he does by any chance snatch a wink of sleep, even this is anxious and fitful, since he shouts out frequently, "Furl the sail," or "Hard on the tiller," or gives some other nautical command. And so, even when dozing, he has more thought for the ship than any of the others who are widest awake. 

To take another illustration: On a campaign, the individual soldier sees to weapons and food for himself alone, and besides, does not furnish them himself but expects to find them ready at hand. It is only his own health, only his own safety that he has to think of. 

But it is the general's duty to see that all are well equipped, that all are provided with shelter, and to furnish sufficient food not only for the men but for the horses as well; and if all do not have their supplies, he is much more vexed than he would be if ill himself; while the safety of his men he considers just as important as his own. Indeed, victory is impossible if the soldiers be not saved, and to win victory many good men choose even to die. 

Again, the body of each one of us, being devoid of intelligence, is not in a position to help itself, nor by its very nature can it take thought for itself; indeed, when the soul departs, it cannot endure even a short time, but suffers immediate decay and dissolution; whereas the soul feels every care in its behalf, is troubled by every fancy when it is hurt, and is greatly distressed. 

Only when the soul is present is the body sensitive to pain; but the soul is distressed before the pain comes; often, too, through foreboding when it is not going to come. As for death, the body never feels it, but the soul understands it and suffers greatly, now rescuing the body from disease, now from war, rescuing it from storms and rescuing it from the sea. So, while from every point of view the soul is more subject to hardship and suffering than the body, yet it is the more divine and regal part. 

Then compare the lots of man and woman. Now everyone would admit that man is stronger than woman and more fitted to lead. Consequently, to her falls the larger share of the household tasks, and, for the most part, she remains unacquainted with storms and wars, unacquainted with dangers in general; while it is the man's part, on the other hand, to serve in the army, to sail the sea, and to do the hard outdoor work. Yet no one would on that account deem women happier than men. Nay, every man whose weakness and lack of virility have led him to emulate their life, as Sardanapallus did, is to this day branded with the shame of it. 

But this is the best illustration: You see how greatly the sun, being a god, surpasses man in felicity and yet throughout the ages does not grow weary in ministering to us and doing everything to promote our welfare. For what else would one say that the sun accomplishes throughout the ages except what man stands in need of? Does he not cause and mark out the seasons, give growth and nourishment to all living creatures and to all plant life? Does he not lavish upon us the fairest and most delight­ful of visions, even his light, without which we should have no profit of the other beautiful things, be they in heaven or on earth; nay, not even of life itself? 

And he never grows weary in showering these blessings upon us. Verily one might say that he endures a servitude most exacting; for, if he were to be careless but for a moment and leave his appointed track, absolutely nothing would prevent the whole heavens, the whole earth, and the whole sea from going to wrack and ruin, and all this fair and blissful order from ending in the foulest and most dread disorder. 

But now, as though touching the strings of the lyre with an artist's touch,​ he never swerves from his pure and exquisite harmony, ever moving along his one recurrent track. And since the earth needs warmth to bring forth her produce, to give it increase, and to bring it to perfection, since animals need it likewise both for the preservation of their bodies and for their natural pleasure, and since we, being so utterly dependent in our helplessness, need it above all others, he brings on summer step by step as he approaches nearer and nearer to our habitation, that he may give growth to everything, nourish everything, perfect everything, and spread a divine and wondrous feast of good cheer before man. 

But when, on the other hand, we and all other things come to need the opposite temperature—for our bodies need to be braced up by cold, plants need hardening, and the earth needs rain—he goes away from us again, withdrawing a moderate distance; and with such perfect nicety of adjustment does he observe his bounds with respect to our advantage that, if in his approach he got a little nearer, he would set everything on fire, and if he went a little too far in his departure, everything would be stiffened with frost.​ 

And since a sudden change would be too much for our weakness, he brings all this to pass gradually, and in a way he accustoms us insensibly in the spring to endure the heat of summer and in the late autumn gives preliminary training to support the chill of winter—in the one case taking off the chill of winter little by little, in the other, redu­cing the heat of summer, so that we reach either extreme without discomfort. 

And furthermore, since it is so great a pleasure to see the light and impossible to do anything without it, and since, when we are asleep, we do absolutely nothing and make no use of the light, he has made day the time requisite for our waking hours, and turned into night the time necessary for sleep, making a complete revolution around the earth and sending now these men to rest or awakening them, now those: departing from them who no longer need his light and appearing to those who need it again in their turn. And he never grows weary of bringing these things to pass throughout the ages.