Letter 27
After your long silence, I was hoping — no, expecting — a letter of generous length. That's how human affairs go: abundance follows scarcity. But my hopes were disappointed. What arrived was a short page, freshly dispatched, and while it was sprinkled with Attic wit and fragrant with literary thyme, it was too lean — enough to clear the palate, not enough to satisfy the appetite.
What if I'd been expecting a lavish banquet — a feast fit for the Salian priests, with whole roasts and a public feast — and you'd served me a second course of dainty morsels on a tiny plate? Let me remind you of the Greek saying: "With meager nourishment, though we may be kept from death, we make no progress toward robust health."
Do you think I'm going to let your busy schedule off the hook? You're quaestor — I know. Privy to the emperor's council — yes. Arbiter of petitions, framer of laws — I acknowledge it all. Add a thousand other responsibilities. But none of that will ever wear down your talent, bend your generosity, or drain your eloquence.
Even if you never take a break from daytime business, surely you don't deny yourself sleep before dawn? Give your duties their due — but give something to friendship too!
Or doesn't the line from the comic poet [Terence] mean anything to you? "How I wish it were the custom to serve one's friends even by night!"
But why do I go on complaining with my own meager words? I should imitate your recent letter — as I imitate everything else about you. Perhaps you'll say you're too busy for longer letters. I believe it. I can see how unwilling you are to read much, since you barely find time to dictate a little. Farewell.
Modern English rendering for readability. See the 19th-century translation or original Latin/Greek for scholarly use.
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This Epistle was written when Symmachus sent his memorial to Valentinian II. St. Ambrose presses on the Emperor the consideration that it is his business to defend religion, and not superstition.