O Titus, should some aid of mine dispel
The cares that now within thy bosom dwell
And wring thy heart and torture thee with pain,
What then would be the measure of my gain?
1
For, my dear Atticus, I may fitly speak to you in
these self-same lines in which,
That man
Of little wealth, but rich in loyalty
speaks to Flamininus. And yet I am perfectly sure
that it cannot be said of you, as the poet said of
Flamininus,
You fret and worry, Titus, day and night,
for I know your self-control and the even temper
of your mind, and I am aware that you brought home
from Athens not only a cognomen but culture and
practical wisdom too. Nevertheless I suspect that
you, at times, are quite seriously perturbed by
the same circumstances
2 which are troubling me;
but to find comfort for them is too difficult a task to
be undertaken now and must be deferred until
another time.
[p. 11]
However, at the present, I have determined to
write something on old age to be dedicated to you,
