Chapter 40

What am I to think, that you send me no greeting, that no Good wishes traced by your fingers come back to me in turn? Is writing so difficult? Nay, who so eloquent as thou whether thou dost compose verses or, a second Cicero, thunder forth thy speeches? Greater even than thy riches is thy genius, greater thine eloquence even than thy wealth. Are the posts infrequent? Nay, couriers' feet never allow the dust to lie on the Flaminian Way. If, then, thou hast the power to write and messengers in plenty to carry thy letters what reason hast thou for thy silence unless indeed thou wish to slight me? I take it thou hast abandoned thy poet and wilt have none of him (though I can scarce believe it); or distance has made thy heart less fond. Dost thou forget me? Now shall Hydaspes lay the day to rest, and thou, O sun, rise from out the seas of Spain; now shall Egypt change her nature and glisten with Getic frost and the Bear bathe him in forbidden waters. No, if Olybrius now disdains my love then 'tis sure Orestes' loyalty availed nought. Nay come, banish delay and to console thy friend speak to him from far away with richer eloquence; hither let many a letter hasten with winged speech, to find its way to my shelves and to my heart. Augustus disdained not to write to poor Vergil and my muse shall never bring thee shame. Farewell.