"That is as much as to say that I am growing old."
"Nay—only that you know the secret of remaining beautiful."
"You are a poet!" murmured the Empress with a twitch of her thin under-lip.
"Affairs of state do not favor the Muses."
"But I call any man a poet who sees things more beautiful than they are, or who gives them finer names than they deserve—a poet, a dreamer, a flatterer—for it comes to that."
"Ah! modesty can always find words to repel even well-merited admiration."
"Why this foolish bandying of words?" sighed Sabina, flinging herself back in her chair. "You have been to school under the hair-splitting logicians in the Museum here, and I have not. Over there sits Favorinus, the sophist; I dare say he is proving to Ptolemaeus that the stars are mere specks of blood in our eyes, which we choose to believe are in the sky. Florus, the historian, is taking note of this weighty discussion; Pancrates, the poet, is celebrating the great thoughts of the philosopher. As to what part the philologist there can find to take in this important event you know better than I. What is the man's name?"
"Apollonius."
"Hadrian has nick-named him 'the obscure.' The more difficult it is to understand the discourses of these gentlemen the more highly are they esteemed."
"One must dive to obtain what lies at the bottom of the water—all that floats on the surface is borne by the waves, a plaything for children. Apollonius is a very learned man."