XIII.  If we now consider the happy condition of the true poet, and that easy commerce in which he passes his time, need we fear to compare his situation with that of the boasted orator, who leads a life of anxiety, oppressed by business, and overwhelmed with care?  But it is said, his contention, his toil and danger, are steps to the consulship.  How much more eligible was the soft retreat in which Virgil [a] passed his 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 unseasonable time.  You have some secret to discuss, or, perhaps, a consultation