That Suffenus, Varus, whom you know well, is a man fair spoken, witty and urbane,
and one who makes lengthy verses. I think he has written at full length ten
thousand or more, nor are they set down, as commonly, on scraped parchment:
regal paper, new boards, new bosses, straps, red parchment, the whole thing
ruled with the lead and smoothed off with the pumice. But when you read these,
that refined and urbane Suffenus seems on the contrary to be a mere goatherd or
ditch-digger, so great and shocking is the change. What can we think of this?
The same man, who just now seemed a man-about-town, or if anything could be more
polished than that, is stupider than the stupid countryside as soon as he
touches poetry, and nor is the same man ever as happy as when he is writing
poetry—so greatly is he pleased with himself, so much does he admire
himself. Still, we are all the same and are deceived, nor is there any man in
whom you can not see a Suffenus in some one point. Each of us has his assigned
delusion: but we see not what's in the wallet on our back.