Remember that you are an actor in a play, of whatever kind the director wishes: if he wants it short, a short one; if long, a long one; if he wants you to play a beggar, play even that with a good grace; and so a cripple, a magistrate, a private man. For this is yours — to play well the role you are given; but to choose it belongs to someone else.

The metaphor does all the work. A life is a part in a play whose script and casting you did not set — your birth, your body, your circumstances are assigned, not chosen. Epictetus concedes the whole of what people rage against: you really don't get to pick your role. Then he relocates the freedom. The one thing fully yours is how you play the part handed to you, and he insists it is enough, because playing it well is the only achievement that was ever actually available. What keeps this from being mere resignation is the standard he sets: εὐφυῶς, "with a good grace," and καλῶς, "well." The beggar's part played beautifully is a success in exactly the way the magistrate's is; the roles differ, the excellence does not. The sting, and the liberation, is in the last clause — to choose the role belongs to another. Stop auditioning for a different life, and you are free to act the one you have.