To Italicianus. (360?)
I was just praising your character -- we happened to be discussing the virtues of governors, and naturally you took the prize -- when, right in the middle of our conversation and our vote of approval, a most excellent son of a most excellent father placed a letter in my hand. Plato would have said, "Olympius, son of Pompeianus." And the moment I began reading, I was leaping for joy along with everyone else: the thought was splendid and the language no less so.
In substance you are with us, even though you give yourself to the Italians. But your letter at least prevents desertion, raining down Attic eloquence as it does. So be sure to say in future that you are our partner, as indeed you are. Do this -- or we will charge you with desertion before the Muses.
When we had drunk our fill of the letter, we looked at one another and said, "Should this man really be managing his own private affairs instead of the public's?" Not that you need an office, but rather that public affairs are wronged because you do not govern.
One man recalled your guardianship of the laws, another the relentlessness of your labors, another the speed of your judgments, another your freedom from greed. Another thought it admirable that you knew how to grant a favor and to grant only what was right while refusing what was not.
For my part, nothing about you seemed small, but what loomed largest was this: you refused to court the powerful by ruining cities. Clearly there were threats, dangers, arrows -- but to you nothing was more frightening than doing something shameful.
I would love to ask those men what possessed them to blame you while punishing us, giving you what you would have paid for while exacting a penalty from us. But they could offer no decent explanation. As for you, this is what people say among us.
We console ourselves for no longer having the ability to say what we once could, and you too should console yourself as best you can, by writing and by urging others to write. Let there be plenty of that from you -- and surely those you stir will need no persuading to speak up.
I was just praising your character -- we happened to be discussing the virtues of governors, and naturally you took the prize -- when, right in the middle of our conversation and our vote of approval, a most excellent son of a most excellent father placed a letter in my hand. Plato would have said, "Olympius, son of Pompeianus." And the moment I began reading, I was leaping for joy along with everyone else: the thought was splendid and the language no less so.
In substance you are with us, even though you give yourself to the Italians. But your letter at least prevents desertion, raining down Attic eloquence as it does. So be sure to say in future that you are our partner, as indeed you are. Do this -- or we will charge you with desertion before the Muses.
When we had drunk our fill of the letter, we looked at one another and said, "Should this man really be managing his own private affairs instead of the public's?" Not that you need an office, but rather that public affairs are wronged because you do not govern.
One man recalled your guardianship of the laws, another the relentlessness of your labors, another the speed of your judgments, another your freedom from greed. Another thought it admirable that you knew how to grant a favor and to grant only what was right while refusing what was not.
For my part, nothing about you seemed small, but what loomed largest was this: you refused to court the powerful by ruining cities. Clearly there were threats, dangers, arrows -- but to you nothing was more frightening than doing something shameful.
I would love to ask those men what possessed them to blame you while punishing us, giving you what you would have paid for while exacting a penalty from us. But they could offer no decent explanation. As for you, this is what people say among us.
We console ourselves for no longer having the ability to say what we once could, and you too should console yourself as best you can, by writing and by urging others to write. Let there be plenty of that from you -- and surely those you stir will need no persuading to speak up.
Modern English rendering for readability. See the 19th-century translation or original Latin/Greek for scholarly use.