The sun still hung high over a neat little farm among the Sabine hills, although the midday heat had given way to the soft and comforting warmth of a September afternoon.  Delicate shadows from dark-leaved ilexes, from tall pines and white poplars, fell waveringly across a secluded grass-plot which looked green and inviting even after the parching summer.  The sound of water bickering down the winding way of a stream gave life and coolness to the warm silence.  Thick among the tree-trunks on one side grew cornel bushes and sloes, making a solid mass of underbrush, while on the other side there was an opening through which one might catch sight of a long meadow, and arable fields beyond, and even of blue hills along the horizon.

But the master of this charming outlook evidently had his mind on something else.  He was a man about fifty-five years old, short and stout, and with hair even greyer than his age warranted.  As he leaned back among his cushions on a stone bench, so skilfully placed under an ilex tree that his face was protected while the sun fell across his body, he looked an unromantic figure enough, no better than any other Roman gentleman past his prime, seeking the sunshine and intent on physical comfort.  Indeed, only a gracefully low forehead and eyes at once keen and genial saved his face from commonplaceness, and would have led a spectator to feel any curiosity about his meditations.

He had let fall into his lap a letter which had reached him that morning, and which he had just reread.  It had travelled all the way from Gaul, and he had opened it eagerly, curious to know with what new idea his younger friend was coquetting, and hoping to hear some interesting literary gossip about their common acquaintances.  But the letter had been chiefly filled with questions as to why he had not yet written, and, above all, why he did not send on some verses.  Horace still felt the irritation of the first reading, although he had had his lunch and his nap, and had reached the serenest hour of the day.  When they said good-by in Rome he had told Florus that he should not write:  he was too lazy in these later years to write very regularly to any one except Maecenas, the other part of his soul, and it was foolish of the younger man not to have accepted the situation.  As for the request for verses, Horace felt ashamed of the anger it had aroused in him.  One would think that he was twenty years old again, with black curls, lively legs, and a taste for iambs, to get so out of patience with poor Florus.  But it certainly was annoying to be pressed for odes when he had long ago determined to spend the rest of his life in studying philosophy.  To be sure, he had once made that vow too early and had been forced to tune his lyre again after he had thought to hang it in Apollo’s temple.  He had had a pride in the enthusiastic reception of his new odes, and in the proof that his hand had by no means lost its cunning; but Florus ought to understand that he had at that time yielded to the Emperor’s request as equivalent to a command, and that he meant what he said when he declared that he wished to leave the lyric arena.