When the poet is your host, his verses are sure to charm.
'Thoroughly Greek,' said Lepidus: 'the wildness, force, and energy of that tongue, it is impossible to imitate in the Roman poetry.' 'It is, indeed, a great contrast,' said Clodius, ironically at heart, though not in appearance, 'to the old-fashioned and tame simplicity of that ode of Horace which we heard before.

The air is beautifully Ionic: the word puts me in mind of a toast--Companions, I give you the beautiful Ione.' 'Ione!--the name is Greek,' said Glaucus, in a soft voice.

'I drink the health with delight.

But who is Ione ?' 'Ah! you have but just come to Pompeii, or you would deserve ostracism for your ignorance,' said Lepidus, conceitedly; 'not to know Ione, is not to know the chief charm of our city.' 'She is of the most rare beauty,' said Pansa; 'and what a voice!' 'She can feed only on nightingales' tongues,' said Clodius.
'Nightingales' tongues!--beautiful thought!' sighed the umbra.
'Enlighten me, I beseech you,' said Glaucus.
'Know then...' began Lepidus.
'Let me speak,' cried Clodius; 'you drawl out your words as if you spoke tortoises.' 'And you speak stones,' muttered the coxcomb to himself, as he fell back disdainfully on his couch.
'Know then, my Glaucus,' said Clodius, 'that Ione is a stranger who has but lately come to Pompeii.

She sings like Sappho, and her songs are her own composing; and as for the tibia, and the cithara, and the lyre, I know not in which she most outdoes the Muses.