nd on one episode and on one person, your matter
will be much more detailed and your treatment of it far more elaborate.

I am conscious, of course, that my request is not exactly a modest one.
It is to lay a task on you which your occupations may well justify you
in refusing; and, again, it is to ask you to celebrate actions which you
may not think altogether worthy of so much honour. But having already
passed beyond the bounds of modesty, I may as well show myself boldly
shameless. Well, then, I implore you repeatedly, not only to praise my
conduct more warmly than may be justified by your feeling with regard to
it, but even, if necessary, to transgress the laws of history. One of
your prefaces indicates, most acceptably and plainly, your personal
amity; but just as Hercules, according to Xenophon, was incorruptible by
pleasure, so you have made a point of resisting the influence of private
feeling. I ask you not to resist this partiality; to give to affection
somewhat more than truth can afford.

If I can prevail upon you to fall in with my proposal, I am confident
that you will find the subject not unworthy of your genius and of your
eloquence. The period from the rise of Catiline's conspiracy to my
return from banishment should furnish a memoir of moderate size, and the
story of my fortunes would supply you with a variety of incident, such
as might be made, in your hands, a work of great charm and interest. For
these reasons you will best meet my wishes if you determine to make a
separate book out of the drama of my life and fortunes.

_To Marcus Marius_ B.C. 55

If it was ill-health that kept you from coming up to town for the games,
I must set down your absence to fortune and not to your own wisdom. But
if it was because you despise these shows which the world admires so
much, then I congratulate you on your health and your good sense alike.
You were left almost alone in your charming country, and I have no doubt
that on mornings when the rest of us, half asleep, were sitting out
stale farces, you were reading in your library.

The games were magnificent, but not what you would have cared for. At
least, they were far from my taste. In honour of the occasion, certain
veteran actors returned to the stage, which they had left long ago, as I
imagined, in the interests of their own reputation. My old friend Aesop,
in particular, had failed so much that no one could be sorry he had
retired; his voice gave way a