O CHIEF director of the growing race,

Of Rome the glory and of Rome the grace,

Me, O Quintilian, may you not forgive

Before from labour I make haste to live?

Some burn to gather wealth, lay hands on rule,

Or with white statues fill the atrium full.

The talking hearth¹, the rafters sweet with smoke,

Live fountains and rough grass, my line invoke²:

A sturdy slave, not too learned wife,

Nights filled with slumber³, and a quiet life.

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