"Who will bring me a poet?"
The gods are indeed helpless, thought Vergilius. They must have poets
to do their work for them? But he said nothing.
"The streets are full of poets," said Gracus.
"Those old men with long beards and stilted rubbish!" said Augustus,
"with tragedies that slay the hero and the hearer! Bring me a poet,
and, remember, I shall honor him above all men. Once I invited Horace
to dine with me, and got no answer. He was a proud man"--this with a
merry smile. "Again I invited him, and then he deigned to write me a
sentence, merely, and said: 'Thanks, I am happy out here on my farm.'
I did not know what to do, but I wrote a letter and said to the great
man: 'You may not desire my friendship, but that is no reason for my
failing to value yours.' I am proud to say that he was my friend ever
after. But I weary you."
A female slave, thickly veiled, stood behind him. He made a signal and
she quickly put in his hand a little box of ivory, finely wrought.
"I have here," said the great father, "nine disks of wax.
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