“Only some of it, and that in a satire which I propose to aim at you.”
“I tremble!”
“With delight, it is to be hoped; my poem will embalm your memory for posterity.”
“That is true, and the more spiteful your verses, the more certainly will future generations believe that Verus was the Phaon of Balbilla’s Sappho, and that love scorned filled the fair singer with bitterness.”
“I thank you for the caution. To-day at any rate you are safe from my verse, for I am tired to death.”
“Did you venture into the streets?”
“It was quite safe, for I had a trustworthy escort.”
“May I be allowed to ask who?”
“Why not? It was Pontius the architect who was with me.”
“He knows the town well.”