"But come away now, Publius; Eulaeus has waited long enough." "You go to him then," answered the Roman, "I will follow soon; but first I have a word to say to Serapion." Since Irene's disappearance, the old man had turned his attention to the acacia-grove where Eulaeus was still feasting.

When the Roman addressed him he said, shaking his great head with dissatisfaction: "Your eyes of course are no worse than mine.

Only look at that man munching and moving his jaws and smacking his lips.

By Serapis! you can tell the nature of a man by watching him eat.

You know I sit in my cage unwillingly enough, but I am thankful for one thing about it, and that is that it keeps me far from all that such a creature as Eulaeus calls enjoyment--for such enjoyment, I tell you, degrades a man." "Then you are more of a philosopher than you wish to seem," replied Publius.
"I wish to seem nothing," answered the anchorite.
"For it is all the same to me what others think of me.