. . . .1 Three days ago we heard Polemo declaim—that we may have some talk about men also. If you would like to know what I think of him, listen. He seems to me like a hard-working farmer endowed with the utmost shrewdness, who has laid out a large holding with corn-crops only and vines, wherein beyond question the yield is the fairest and the return the richest. But, indeed, nowhere in all that estate is there a fig tree of Pompeii,2 or a vegetable of Aricia,3 or a rose of Tarentum, nowhere a pleasant coppice or a thick-set grove, or a shady plane-tree; all for profit rather than for pleasure, such as one would be bound to praise but not disposed to love. In judging a man of such reputation,4 am I, think you, bold enough in my purpose and rash enough in my judgment? But when I remember that I am writing to you, I feel that I am not bold enough for your taste. On that point I am desperately doubtful—there's a home-grown hendecasyllable for you! So I must call a halt with you before I fall into the poetic vein. Farewell, most missed of men and dearest to your Verus,5 most honourable consul, master most sweet. Farewell, my sweetest soul.
After August 13, 143 A.D.
To my Lord Aurelius Caesar your consul Fronto.