Chapter 6

Cicero, after his consulate, declared that he had nothing more to long for.1 I for my part, though I am a consul and an old man to boot, will confess to a ravenous appetite. I long to see you, Gratian, holding this office so many more times that your total may equal the sum of the six consulships of Valerius Corvinus, 2 the seven of Caius Marius, and the thirteen of Augustus, whose name you bear. Your youth and your exalted station can secure for you a still greater number; but I am sparing in my estimate, because you are so generous in bestowing this honour. For too often you cheat yourself of it to lavish it upon others. You know, most learned Emperor (for once again I will use a personal mode of complimentary address), you know, I say, that the seventeen consulates of Domitian 3 which, in his jealousy of the advancement of others, he held in an unbroken series, brought down such ridicule upon his selfishness that this page of his annals, nay, rather, of his arrogance, made him overbearingly proud but could not make him happy. But if the Sovereign ought to observe a well-calculated and, as the saying goes, a golden mean in holding this dignity, what moderation ought men of private station, of calm judgment, and lastly, of advanced age to observe? For myself, I have sated even my desires, so far as my own distinctions are concerned; but you, my most excellent, my most gracious Sovereign, you who never weary in your generosity except when you have no scope for it, you, I repeat, most bountiful Gratian, have such a quick and surprising inventiveness in conferring favours, that even now some addition to be conferred upon me under this head will be found. Will be found? Such a conviction have all men felt, in such wise have you yourself created this rank for me, such is your intimacy with the deity, that what we hope for is straightway granted by you, and what we have not yet hoped for is bestowed upon us.