days, loved by the prince, and honoured by the
people! To prove this the letters of Augustus are still extant; and
the people, we know, hearing in the theatre some verses of that divine
poet [b], when he himself was present, rose in a body, and paid him
every mark of homage, with a degree of veneration nothing short of
what they usually offered to the emperor.

Even in our own times, will any man say, that Secundus Pomponius [c],
in point of dignity or extent of fame, is inferior to Domitius Afer
[d]? But Vibius and Marcellus have been cited as bright examples: and
yet, in their elevation what is there to be coveted? Is it to be
deemed an advantage to those ministers, that they are feared by
numbers, and live in fear themselves? They are courted for their
favours, and the men, who obtain their suit, retire with ingratitude,
pleased with their success, yet hating to be obliged. Can we suppose
that the man is happy, who by his artifices has wriggled himself into
favour, and yet is never thought by his master sufficiently pliant,
nor by the people sufficiently free? And after all, what is the amount
of all his boasted power? The emperor's freedmen have enjoyed the
same. But as Virgil sweetly sings, Me let the sacred muses lead to
their soft retreats, their living fountains, and melodious groves,
where I may dwell remote from care, master of myself, and under no
necessity of doing every day what my heart condemns. Let me no more be
seen at the wrangling bar, a pale and anxious candidate for precarious
fame; and let neither the tumult of visitors crowding to my levee, nor
the eager haste of officious freedmen, disturb my morning rest. Let me
live free from solicitude, a stranger to the art of promising legacies
[e], in order to buy the friendship of the great; and when nature
shall give the signal to retire, may I possess no more than may be
safely bequeathed to such friends as I shall think proper. At my
funeral let no token of sorrow be seen, no pompous mockery of woe.
Crown [f] me with chaplets; strew flowers on my grave, and let my
friends erect no vain memorial, to tell where my remains are lodged.

XIV. Maternus finished with an air of enthusiasm, that seemed to lift
him above himself. In that moment [a], Vipstanius Messala entered the
room. From the attention that appeared in every countenance, he
concluded that some important business was the subject of debate. I am
afraid, said he, that I break in upon you at an