Page 21 sur 62

'There's an unpremeditated hendecasyllable for you. So before I

begin to poetize, I'll take an easy with you. Farewell, my

heart's desire, your Verus's best beloved, most distinguisht

consul, master most sweet. Farewell I ever pray, sweetest soul.

What a letter do you think you have written me I could make bold

to say, that never did she who bore me and nurst me, write

anything SO delightful, so honey-sweet. And this does not come of

your fine style and eloquence: otherwise not my mother only, but

all who breathe.'

To the pupil, never was anything on earth so fine as his master's

eloquence; on this theme Marcus fairly bubbles over with

enthusiasm.