P. Wherefore? No doubt "Polydamas[1184] and Trojan dames" will prefer Labeo to me—
A. It is all stuff!
P. Whatever turbid Rome[1185] may disparage, do not thou join their number; nor by that scale of theirs seek to correct thy own false balance, nor seek[1186] thyself out of thyself. For who is there at Rome that is not[1187]—Ah! if I might but speak![1188] But I may,[1189] when I look at our gray hairs,[1190] and our severe way of life, and all that we commit since we abandoned our childhood's nuts.[1191] When we savor of uncles,[1192] then—then forgive!
A. I will not!
P. What must I do?[1193] For I am a hearty laugher with a saucy spleen.
We write, having shut ourselves in,[1194] one man verses, another free from the trammels of metre, something grandiloquent, which the lungs widely distended with breath may give vent to.
And this, of course, some day, with your hair combed and a new toga,[1195] all in white with your birthday Sardonyx,[1196] you will read out from your lofty seat,[1197] to the people, when you have rinsed[1198] your throat, made flexible by the liquid gargle; languidly leering with lascivious eye! Here you may see the tall Titi[1199] in trembling excitement, with lewdness of manner and agitation of voice, when the verses enter their loins,[1200] and their inmost parts are titillated with the lascivious strain.
P. And dost thou, in thy old age,[1201] collect dainty bits for the ears of others? Ears to which even thou, bursting[1202] with vanity, wouldst say, "Hold, enough!"