But I do not wish to go in the road of Rufinus, whose history I was to tell thee, nor of Fabricius Veiento; hence no one knows of this, and do thou mention it to no man." "Thou hast said that thou art no writer of verses," said Vinicius, looking at the middle of the manuscript; "but here I see prose thickly interwoven with them." "When thou art reading, turn attention to Trimalchion's feast.

As to verses, they have disgusted me, since Nero is writing an epic.

Vitelius, when he wishes to relieve himself, uses ivory fingers to thrust down his throat; others serve themselves with flamingo feathers steeped in olive oil or in a decoction of wild thyme.

I read Nero's poetry, and the result is immediate.

Straightway I am able to praise it, if not with a clear conscience, at least with a clear stomach." When he had said this, he stopped the litter again before the shop of Idomeneus the goldsmith, and, having settled the affair of the gems, gave command to bear the litter directly to Aulus's mansion.
"On the road I will tell thee the story of Rufinus," said he, "as proof of what vanity in an author may be." But before he had begun, they turned in to the Vicus Patricius, and soon found themselves before the dwelling of Aulus.