Here is a mildly amusing exceprt from Lucian of Samosata’s “Sale of Creeds”, in which what various philosophies offer their adherents is parodied. This is the Sceptic’s turn:
Zeus. What have we left?
Her. There is Scepticism. Come along, Pyrrhias, and be put up. Quick’s the word. The attendance is dwindling; there will be small competition. Well, who buys Lot 9?
Ninth D. I. Tell me first, though, what do you know?
Sc. Nothing.
Ninth D. But how’s that?
Sc. There does not appear to me to be anything.
Ninth D. Are not we something?
Sc. How do I know that?
Ninth D. And you yourself?
Sc. Of that I am still more doubtful.
Ninth D. Well, you are in a fix! And what have you got those scales for?
Sc. I use them to weigh arguments in, and get them evenly balanced, They must be absolutely equal–not a feather-weight to choose between them; then, and not till then, can I make uncertain which is right.
Ninth D. What else can you turn your hand to?
Sc. Anything; except catching a runaway.
Ninth D. And why not that?
Sc. Because, friend, everything eludes my grasp.
Ninth D. I believe you. A slow, lumpish fellow you seem to be. And what is the end of your knowledge?
Sc. Ignorance. Deafness. Blindness.
Ninth D. What! sight and hearing both gone?
Sc. And with them judgement and perception, and all, in short, that distinguishes man from a worm.
Ninth D. You are worth money!–What shall we say for him?
Her. Four pounds.
Ninth D. Here it is. Well, fellow; so you are mine?
Sc. I doubt it.
Ninth D. Nay, doubt it not! You are bought and paid for.
Sc. It is a difficult case. . . . I reserve my decision.
Ninth D. Now, come along with me, like a good slave.
Sc. But how am I to know whether what you say is true?
Ninth D. Ask the auctioneer. Ask my money. Ask the spectators.
Sc. Spectators? But can we be sure there are any?
Ninth D. Oh, I’ll send you to the treadmill. That will convince you with a vengeance that I am your master.
Sc. Reserve your decision!