Scene.—Rome, on the Sacred Way. The poet is walking down the street, composing some trifle, in a brown study, when a person, known to him only by name, rushes up and seises his hand.
Bore (effusively): How d'ye do, my dear fellow?
Horace (politely): Nicely at present. I'm at your service, sir. (Horace walks on, and as the Bore keeps following, tries to choke him off.) You don't want anything, do you?
Bore: You must make my acquaintance, I'm a savant.
Horace: Then I'll think the more of you. (Horace, anxious to get away, walks fast one minute, halts the next, whispers something to his attendant slave, and is bathed in perspiration all over. Then, quietly to himself) Lucky Bolanus, with your hot temper!
Bore (whose chatter on things in general, and about the streets of Rome in particular, has been received with dead silence): You're frightfully keen to be off. I've noticed it all along. But it's no good. I'm going to stick to you right through. I'll escort you from here to your destination.
Horace (deprecatingly): No need for you to make such a detour. (Inventing fibs as he goes along) There's someone I want to look up—a person you don't know, on the other side of the river—yes, far away—he's confined to bed—near Cæsar's Park.
Bore: Oh, I've nothing to do, and I don't dislike exercise. I'll follow you right there. (Horace is as crestfallen as a sulky donkey when an extra heavy load is dumped upon its back. The Bore continues) If I know myself, you'll not value Viscus more highly as a friend, or Varius either; for who can write verses faster, and more of them, than I can? Who's a greater master of deportment? As for my singing, it's enough to make even Hermogenes jealous!
Horace (seizing the chance of interrupting): Have you a mother—any relatives to whom your health is of moment?
Bore: Not one left. I've laid them all to rest.