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 altogether.  AS for the rest of the festival, it was not even so attractive as far less ambitious shows generally are; the pageants were on such an enormous scale that light-hearted enjoyment was out of the question.  You need not mind having missed them.  There is no pleasure, for instance, in seeing six hundred mules at once in “Clytaemnestra,” or a whole army of gaily-dressed horse and foot engaged in a theatrical battle.  These spectacular effects delight the crowd, but not you.  If you were listening to your reader Protogenes, you had greater pleasure than fell to any of us.  The big-game hunts, continued through five days, were