書信集 第 1 章 第 2/7 段

And why need I tell you more about him? For once you have come to know him by experience, you will surely judge my praise too small, and will call me a feeble orator, as one unable even to express his true merits.

To Diodorus. This is that very thing which has come to pass even as I expected.

For I supposed that, as soon as you arrived there, seeing the tribunal of magistrates and the chorus of orators and the throng of petitioners following after, you would at once be filled with pride, and if anyone merely wished to speak, you would scarcely tolerate the speaker.

And our account of ourselves will be brief—for what have I to do with those hidden away in obscurity?—this, surely, is what you will say concerning us.

And if you should even deign to greet those who walk upon the ground, I should not wonder at this either.

This very thing I expected, and it has come to pass: such is the pride of our orators here, who even call other men 'petitioners,' magnifying with solemnity their own affairs.

And now you seem to think that you had chosen us as friends formerly, not because you judged us worthy, as indeed was fitting, but because, for want of better company, you made do with those at hand; and surely you now regret the time you spent among us so unworthily.

And now, as I write, I fear lest you take offense even at this letter from us.

But I would pray that you fare well.

And even if I must again be despised, it will be painful indeed, yet I shall bear it nonetheless, consoling myself with your good fortune.

To Zacharias and Philip. As for the cause of our previous silence, let the winter bear it away, vexing us as is its custom.

But for any silence hereafter, should there be any, you yourselves would justly bear the blame.

—assuredly, being disposed so lovingly toward your friends—

for I would not presume so far as to suppose myself loved in return by you.

Yet I would pray that this be granted to me rather than to be resplendent with abundance of gold, or to have attained the very summit of any fortune whatsoever.

For thus each of you, unable through longing to be remiss, would assuredly console my love.

But if none of this happens, and you still keep silent, I for my part, having suffered such things, shall bring an accusation, and some judge versed in love will decide the case, and shall determine what penalty you must suffer or pay.

Rather, the suffering shall be waived, lest you grieve me, your lover, once more; but he will decree that you pay so many letters as, by their abundance, to console for the length of the preceding silence.

To Philip, brother: For good men, character alone suffices to establish friendship;

but since it is also fitting that there be some occasion, through which one must first come into converse, and then, having had experience of one another, come to admire — for this reason I have given this letter to the learned Theon.

For through this letter you will first look upon him with favour, but afterward, I think, judging the letter superfluous, you will admire the man for his own sake.

To Eusebius: If even a single day makes those who long for someone grow old, for how long a time do you suppose I must have grown old — struck as I am by longing for you in this way (for who, having once experienced you, departs without loving you?), and deprived for so long a time of the sight of you? But you do well in lightening my hardships by your letters, emulating those wise physicians who, when unable to heal, at least console the suffering.

Such have you become to us, offering your letters in place of yourself.

And now I imitate the most ardent of lovers, and through the image I console my longing.

As for the excellent Megas, nature makes you his father, and art makes me his father; so consider that through me you are present with the boy.

But if I leave anything undone, consider that it is because I am simply unable to do it; and I blame fortune that I am not all-powerful, so that I might bestow upon you as great a favour as I in fact wish.

But, O gods, may neither of us fail of the hope which we have placed in the boy.

To Elias: When I took your letter into my hands, I seemed to see you yourself present — so entirely did you set your charm within the letter — and I kept smiling at it again and again, just as when, beholding you, I would be filled to the full with delight.

And if you remember your friends when absent, this is nothing wondrous or beyond expectation, but is exactly what we had already hoped beforehand.

As for me, even while sleeping I seem to converse with you, and often, on rising, I have been grieved that it was only a dream.

As for our companion Megas, if I were able easily to give as much as I in fact wish, you would already have received him back, without fail, both perfected and a finished orator.

To Victor, brother: I have received the book, which was desired more before the experience of it than after.

For it arrives, in its title, wondrous indeed — how great! — but in substance bearing nothing strange, but rather what has already been the object of study by many and various men.

But for your sake, let whatever better might be said against it be left unspoken.

Nevertheless, a debt of gratitude shall stand recorded to your credit in my memory — though not such as that which lay with the Persian king in favour of Pausanias, who was not prudent to the end.

For he, having no reverence even for Plataea, nor for the trophies dear to him, betrayed to the barbarians the very Greece that had been saved through him — as though he could not bear to remain fortunate to the end.

But you, cherishing what is your own, will do nothing that you ought not.

Therefore the debt of gratitude that shall stand to your credit is not, by Zeus, a first one, but another added to many other first ones.

And a single act of gratitude from those who have been benefited will suffice for good men — merely to remember that they have received it.

May it be granted to me not to forget even those who wished to do good only so far as intention, even if their resolves come to no fulfillment.

To Diodorus: Still you are silent? Still you disdain what is ours? And yet I supposed that you had arrived at the very fill of pride, considering silence a dignified thing, while we for our part would deal with the matter more ambitiously still, so that we might even overcome the brow lifted high through silence.

For this is that familiar thing:

no sooner had you seen Caesar's city than you walk on high, and are vexed that you are not borne aloft on Perseus' wings; while, when you reckon what is ours, it still seems to you small, and nothing at all.

Whence the ancient law, prevailing everywhere, has been transgressed by you.

the law to write how the sea bore him, how the land escorted him on his journey, whether he enjoyed good fortune, whether the place received him with favour.

Of these things, then, you yourself have said nothing, nor have we anything to relate; but, so far as concerns me, you have become more voiceless than the very fish.

But, lest the concerns of our friendship, coming through silence toward forgetfulness, should little by little slip away, I renew the matter once again and become the kinder toward you.

And you, in the name of the god of Friendship, play with us in your accustomed way, in a manner worthy of your charm.

But if anything vexing has occurred, let it be given over to the winds, and to the fortune of human affairs, which, sporting with what belongs to us, runs now up now down and turns with the slightest tilt, wishing nothing to remain standing and unmoved.

And grievous, I think, is the suffering itself, but more grievous still to those who beheld it is the sight.

A maiden, not even known to all her own kin, was led, in the sight of all, not to the bridal chamber, but to the tomb.

And from this the hopes of her suitor were made empty, and the marriage contract concerning her was torn asunder.

Grievous indeed, alas, are these things, and they ought never to have happened;

yet it is not against us first that Fortune has taken the field; already she has seized many another from the very midst of the bridal chamber, and turned the wedding-chamber into a place of lament.

Ah, how many, luxuriating in their hopes, have become through her but a tale.

But though she conquers by decree, and no sooner wills a thing than it comes to pass, let her be conquered by philosophy and right judgment; and let this be some advantage granted to those devoted to the Muses — to know how to bear their fortunes.

For I myself admire the man who said wisely: 'But since what we wish does not come to pass, let us wish for what does come to pass.'

She is gone, having left the earth behind, and the ills of marriage, and the birth-pangs of children — if indeed these would ever have come to pass.

And I pass over in silence the dangers of child-rearing, and the fear that attends even good fortune, lest one should ever come to lose what one presently has.

Free from all the ills that are companions of life, she is gone upon the highway that is truly a highway, the road which all must travel, since indeed we have been born.

To Diodorus: Now I have learned how greatly you wronged me before, in your silence:

for by the very things through which you gladdened me in writing, by these same things, having now kept utter silence, you grieve me.

For when I took your letter into my hands, I was filled with the old happiness, seeming to have you present in your writing, and I was moved to say something to you as though you were present.

Some things I said, and other things I seemed to hear you saying; and only with difficulty, coming to myself, did I realize that these were but a dream, and that I had been deceived.

Write, then, often, so that being without the sight of you we may take comfort in dreams — since even a passionate lover, unfortunate in his beloved, has seen a happy dream and is thereby transformed.

But indeed, in saying these things, I fear lest, taking them for true, you be filled with pride, and silence come upon you once again.

Consider them, then, to be false, and may I only hear you speaking yourself.

As for the bearer of this letter — my cousin, and, if I may already speak of what is soon to be, my future kinsman by marriage — look upon him with kindly eyes, and, should it be needful, lend him the aid of your tongue as an ally; and consider that in so doing you grant the whole favour to me.

To Diodorus: How great was the kindness which the excellent Zacharias enjoyed at your hands, he himself relates often, and we have heard it, and your own letters likewise made it clear.

Yet less than the truth — so that, I think, you might be thought to know how to do good deeds rather than how to speak of them.

which is not due to any want of eloquence in the speaker, but to a prudent modesty that conceals its own virtue.

As for your zeal toward us, even before it comes to pass I proclaim it to all, and nothing that meets us is strange to us:

for whatever we hope for comes to pass, and though our hope is always great, experience never proves it false.

I, for my part, wish indeed to say even more;

but you, I know not how, suppose that I am jesting, and so I shall fall silent.

So great indeed is your modesty that you suppose even one who praises you truly to be jesting.

But I, even when jesting, never depart from the truth, nor, when speaking truly, do I depart from playfulness — whenever, that is, my discourse is addressed to those I love.

Therefore, take courage regarding my praises:

for you are by no means altogether among those rejected by me.

To Dorotheus: You are, it seems, a man clever indeed at making small things great, and at granting the gift of the Muse to whomever you please; and by your praises you have made me appear not such as I am in speech, but such as it is fitting I should become.

It was from fear of this that I sent these forth — fear lest, with you as judge, my own children be put to the proof and found wanting.

For what is ours, before judges well-disposed toward us, perhaps seems great; but before those wishing to examine it closely, it will seem the opposite.

But may you be to me, rather, a judge of the former kind;

for, fearing your letter, my discourses cried out again and again, 'Let us remain unnoticed, O father!' — and I could hardly console them, promising that they would travel only from home to home.

For since he already possesses the Muses within himself, I should not say that he seeks you out, save that he also wishes to add further distinction.

The bearer of this letter is a fellow citizen of yours, a man devoted to the Muses;

Dorotheus is his name, and they call him after Pelagius.

To Philip, brother. Oh, how much the Loves can do, and how they transform men, and confirm by their deeds that nothing has greater power than they!

They seem to declare that of all things we hate arrogance the most.

And should anyone raise his brow and disdain the words of a lover, they reverse the order, and that solemn person suddenly falls in love and speaks humbly.

But what do I mean by this? You surely already know and are laughing—yet still it shall be said, for the honour of the Loves.

For my longing for you, striking me with its whole current, dragged my reason toward itself, and I was terribly at a loss, not knowing what was to become of me.

I thought, then, there was but one consolation: that though absent, you should say something, and I might often hear you speaking.

So when you learned of this, you experienced something strange, alas, and were lifted up into arrogance.

And I was in love, but you paid no attention at all.

I entreated, and it availed me nothing.

I brought forward our kinship, I called you brother, I reminded you of Zeus, god of friendship—but you again kept silent.

The matter was thereafter beyond remedy.

What, then, happened? I said something to the Loves and wept, and I called upon them to take up their bows;

and they let fly their shafts, and you, once struck, changed; and you who before were haughty toward us now begged me to become kind, so that you might not suffer from us the same things we had suffered from you.

But, O dear Loves, I am persuaded, and even before taking revenge, I am reconciled.

But should he again play the reckless youth—

—I do not think he would dare.

To Ilasius. If the old saying holds that the possessions of friends are held in common, and the most learned Peter is my friend, then he might reasonably be reckoned yours as well.

Whether I embrace him justly, experience will often show; but for now, the sight of him will bear witness to you of his character.

He, being in need of something from you, and wishing altogether to obtain it, moved me to write this letter, believing that I have such influence with you that I could not reasonably fail in anything I ask.

Now if he thinks rightly, do confirm his opinion still further;

but if his opinion is mistaken, render your service nonetheless, lest we be shown among others to be merely feigning our friendship for one another.

Moreover, justice fights on his side, which is dear to you even when no one asks it of you.

To stand by and allow an injustice, when one has the power to prevent it, is equivalent to committing it—something quite foreign to your character.

Know, then, that you will surely assent, persuaded either by my letter or by his presence.

In one thing only will you grieve me: if by delay you show your virtue to be somewhat blunted.

To Elias. As for your gift, the experience of it moves those who have known it to wonder, and its report moves others likewise; but both together move me to keep your kindness forever inscribed in memory.

And being admired for having become, through such benefits, a servant of my homeland in such good things, I trace back, in memory, the cause of these good things to you.

Wherefore I always speak with a boldness beyond what is fitting, in bringing you small offerings;

for not even those who burn incense to the gods display their gratitude in proportion to its worth, but according to their ability.

And so, among the offerings brought to you, the greatest and the smallest carry the same weight when measured against the benefaction received.

To Zacharias and Philip, brothers. Well done, your letter! How much cheerfulness it knows how to raise in our spirit!

For what is sweeter than to hear men speaking, at the very moment one has prayed, through their voices, for their presence? Fortune ought indeed to have granted this long ago; and it may yet come to pass and reach fulfilment, if you gods so will—meanwhile, in your stead, letters are being furnished to us.

It is a pleasure for one man to be Croesus and possess his wealth, and for another to be called the Great King;

another, upon seeing the swallows, judges that spring has come; but I, enjoying your voice, thought myself greater than Croesus with all his talents of gold, and than the Great King seated beneath his plane tree; and instead of the swallows, I seemed to have the very Muses singing to me.

But I shall stop here, lest, wishing to display my pleasure too openly, I might seem in my letter something of a sophist after all, and you, laughing together, taunt me with that jest so familiar between us.

Except that your addressing me jointly doubled my pleasure—just as for those who arrive at Delphi, whenever, having sung a hymn, they have Apollo as their theme, and Artemis too becomes at once a part of the song.

And this delighted the gods even more than if each had been taken separately and hymned on his own.

For being brother and sister, they wished to remain so united in song as well.

To Zacharias, brother. You complain that the seasons of the year have passed away; but I complain that they have come round again.

Why, then, do you still keep silent? It is not enough, in one's own defence, to forestall a charge by levelling it first at oneself; rather, whoever, being guilty, then blames others—strip away his pretended accusation of others, and he stands self-accused.

And do not cite against me our sojourn together in Byzantium, claiming that I was the one who kept silent;

for I have even Pamphylia itself as my witness, that I spoke much, but heard nothing in reply.

Ah, would that I had again a solemn tribunal, an Attic judge, and the splendid dignity of Athens, in the days when rhetoric flourished under a noble fortune, and Plato—how shall I put it with restraint?—could not bear to see her prosper;

for an indictment would at once be lodged against you, that you wrong Greece by holding rhetoric—on which the cities themselves stand—to be nothing; and I would come forward to prosecute you.

But allow me a little indulgence to play the hot-headed youth;

for already I am filled with anger and with an indictment of words, and from the very outset I could not hold my peace.

Nothing, O judges, was ever more monstrous than when a man speaks ill of the very thing from which his own power derives.

Take, for instance, this fine fellow speaking about you—he dares even to utter something against rhetoric, from which he has derived his prosperous life and his renown; so that even should he win his verdict, he is in fact defeated, since he prevails by means of that very thing from which his power to prevail derives.

And he calls Plato as his witness, who assigned rhetoric to the lowest rank, and proceeded at great length into insult against orators. Let the judges of this argument, once they have learned this—

—but I shall propose no penalty beyond this.

And when you speak of Polus and Callicles, add to them Plato's own creations too;

for he fashions these men for himself, as in a drama, making them utter the very words that had been composed for them.

Otherwise, you must also allow the Socrates of comedy to be taken as an authority.

To Zacharias. Our winter has now indeed come to an end, and it has ceased for us who complained of both things—the silence and the season; and spring has arrived, welcome to us, and has become more truly spring than it was ever wont to be;

for it is not only the swallows that sing of the season, but Rumour too proclaims her verdict concerning you—that you have advanced to greatness, that you have been enrolled among the chorus of fortunate orators.

And if only as much as we desire were also added to it, nothing at all would be lacking to complete good fortune.

If, then, this has indeed come to pass, I shall certainly ask for still greater things;

but if as yet we take delight only in reports, I praise the rumour, and on account of that rumour I divine the deeds still to come.

To Zacharias. Now I have truly learned that Rumour was, after all, not mere talk but a reality, and I marvel, perhaps, at the Attic custom which enshrined her also among the gods.

For not only does Hesiod hymn her as a goddess, but the Athenians too, who learned of the battle at Mycale on the very same day it was fought, declared it intolerable unless they held Rumour to be a goddess.

Now, were this discourse addressed to another, I would say at once that you will arch your brow at us and complain of suffering terribly, unless some governor should repeatedly hail you as 'orator,' and that you will think yourself grander than the famous Demosthenes upon the Attic rostrum;

for he led but a single city with his public speeches, whereas you shall hold sway over a court, from which justice proceeds to the subjects of the emperor.

This I would say to another; but in your case I shall hold my peace, for I find you the more moderate the greater your good fortunes.

Wherefore I always look forward to even greater things for you.

For to such men Fortune is always measured out the more abundantly, begrudging nothing of what has gone before.

Bid her be confident, since she has come to the house of a friend.

Do not, then, disappoint her hope, by turning away from her and knitting your brows at her—since they say that even lovers, once they have, after long and difficult effort, attained their desire, forget, through the pleasure now present, the toils that went before.

But should you appear churlish toward her, it is painful to say, yet I shall say it nonetheless:

for I fear that no other letter will readily come to you either, deeming you insolent and reckoning what the one before her has suffered.

To Thomas. Now indeed, now that we flourish, Justice and the Muses become as it were our fellow-dwellers too.

Having found your soul divided between just judgment and eloquence, they now keep company with one another, as is fitting, since they are sisters and have Zeus as their common father.

For ever since you departed long ago, no longer holding Caesar's affairs in your hand, as indeed came to pass, they forsook our cities, our concerns fell into neglect, and they stood before their father accusing those on earth.

But he nodded his assent once more, and you have come to be among us again, and fortune grows young once more for your subjects.

For if you render a verdict, Justice does not gainsay it, and if you deliver a speech, the Muses without exception applaud it.

But what I have admired most of all, I shall now tell.

For that a man so preeminent should not disdain his lesser fellows, but should even take the lead in correspondence, remember friendship, and be willing to hear something even from those who address him — this, in you, is an added marvel, practicing, I think, the very philosophy of Socrates; but for me the matter is a heavy burden, living as best I can in obscurity and praying to escape notice.

And had I not wished to gain another letter from you in return, I would have kept silent, at a loss for what I might say after you.

But now I both blush to write and cannot bear to remain silent, rousing your tongue to sound forth again in harmonious strain, and hunting great things by means of small.

May many good things befall the man who has been allotted the stewardship of our cities;

for, wishing to reveal the future before the event itself proved it, and calling to mind an ancient piece of good fortune, he summoned you as his fellow-workers, and forthwith prophesied to all what was to come.

As for the excellent Megas, I loved him even formerly, as was fitting, and gave as much as I had.

For such is the will of the law of our art.

But indeed both his father and his kinsman by marriage are, through their own virtue, capable of instilling zeal even into one inclined to idleness.

But now that you too have been added to this young man's cause, I shall offer a just prayer:

O Zeus and ye other gods, may I have power to do something greater than before, and may Megas reap from us as much benefit as the one who cares for him desires.

To Zacharias, brother. Having received a share of your letters, I seem not to remain as I was before, but to grow wanton with the occasion and to count the opportunity a windfall.

For behold, all at once I have become one of those who ask something of you, and you, marveling, I suppose, at the suddenness, will quickly quote the line from comedy.

But I judged it a terrible thing if, by watching for the proper occasion, I should fail to ask the sooner for what is fitting both for you to give and for me to receive.

For Aeneas, the bearer of this letter to you, is our fellow-citizen, whom I desire to prosper through your good offices.

For he is well-born, free and upright in character, and versed in the law as his profession.

He wishes to profit from his profession only so far as still to leave his judgment free.

For he does not know how to take pleasure in gain that has not come about with justice.

And this too may be learned from experience itself.

For having been set over certain cities in matters of justice, and having received the title of defensor, he lived up to that very name, so that he even overcame the very nature of the sycophant.

For no one, not even unjustly, ever brought any charge against him.

But this, perhaps, even seemed a laughing matter to the officials before your time;

for they were concerned with nothing but receiving.

Whence he was removed from office, while others, as was likely, performed deeds worthy of what they had paid to obtain their posts.

He now wishes to attain the same position once more, offering you as a gift the fact that his mind is upright.

Am I then beginning to ask of you something improper? If, then, you marvel at this request, honor it with your deeds.

To Zacharias, brother. Having gladly received your letter, as was fitting, yet unable to praise it as it deserved, I very nearly sent the very same letter back to you, changing only its heading.

For in the very words with which you wrote in admiration of my work, I seemed to be hearing your own praised, and you seemed to me to be doing something similar to what it would be if Nireus — who came to Ilium the most beautiful of men — had admired Thersites.

A sense of shame overcame me at these praises, though not so as to keep me from rejoicing at the matter.

For the letter itself, through the very words with which it professed to praise my work, adorned itself, displayed its own beauty, and stirred its admirer to yet greater longing.

But you also, by your letter, exalted the plea beyond measure.

But if I am praised for interceding, what then would I myself be, once I have granted my assent? For by as much as giving surpasses asking, by so much does the one who is about to give surpass, in the reckoning of virtue, the one who has asked.

And the most eloquent Aeneas already sings your praises as though he had already received the favour;

for having already had experience of you, he reckons the future equal to what has already been accomplished.

But if, before even receiving it, he proclaims your praise, what would he become once he has obtained what he desires? And someday, recounting your deeds, he will surely add that you knew how to double your favours through their very swiftness.

As for the excellent Megas, if it were possible to transform him into an orator on the very same day, we should have no need of a second day at all.

To Zacharias and Philip, brothers. I loved the admirable Julian even apart from this — for he is well able to draw whoever meets him toward affection — but I rejoiced far more that he became for me an occasion also for writing to you.

For if ever I should obtain this, I think myself to surpass even Cinyras.

He asks nothing difficult, but wishing me to be present with him there too, through your good offices, he hopes that this will come to pass through you — as indeed I too hope altogether.

But for my part, there is nothing I would not achieve, were I but present.

As for the consistory, I do not know what it is, for it strikes my ear with a Roman pomp; yet for your sake I love even the name, and I would wish it truly to be something divine, and I honour a title whose function I have never known.

But if your fortune has also changed for the greater, nevertheless remain, in your deeds, what you were of old, lest I should call you a boastful consistorian.

To Zacharias, brother. Our homeland — let it be said with God's help — has looked upon us with kindly eyes:

for it presented to me such suitable friends as I had prayed to find, and after but a brief interval it gathered audiences for me and stirred up applause, and a certain report, taking hold of me, carried my name through every mouth; and somehow I seem to grow bold with youthful spirit, to have my mind lifted up by the applause, and to possess, quite artlessly, the very temper of a sophist — as you yourself would say.

Well then, go on mocking such things;

but I, for my part, will not endure failing to be brilliant, raising my brow on high, and following the law of my own art.

Let this then be said in jest by me, so that I may furnish you, as is our custom, with material for your mockery;

for know well, you gladden me more by your mockery than others do by pelting me with a multitude of praises.

To Philip, brother. Behold, once more here are yet other letters for you, but you — I know not what has come over you — are silent once again.

For if you will say that you have no leisure, but that your profession continually brings you some gain, that indeed would be a terrible thing — alas, terrible — if you cannot spare yourself for us even for a brief moment in the whole year; and yet I do rejoice with you in your business.

But if, growing rich by other means from your profession, you remain silent, I congratulate you on this too; yet I would not wish you to grow so rich as to be puffed up against us and no longer to know those who were once your dearest friends.

And yet we gape open-mouthed for your letters, and gaze toward the sea no less than Phyllis, who kept calling for Demophon — that unjust man who knew not how to return her love — who, though he had but lately become her bridegroom and was increasing his love for Phyllis, went away and left the bridal chamber, giving her indeed his assurance that he would return, and holding out hope.

But when he was set free and had gone, he changed at once and never saw Phyllis again, while she wept toward the sea and counted the merchant ships, wondering whether perhaps one of them might be bringing back Demophon.

But indeed, I think our own case is more grievous still;

for he, at least, no longer wished even to be present, but you, though not far away, refuse even to write.

To Constantius. While still dwelling by the Nile, I received that beautiful letter of yours.

But it would not be right to pass over in silence what happened in connection with it.

For as the bearer delivered it to me, and added also from whence it came, I experienced a kind of amorous feeling.

For, straying a little from what was reasonable, I already imagined that you yourself were altogether present with me.

And so, 'O dearest of men,' I exclaimed, 'how greatly you grieved us by your absence, and now you have arrived to those who longed for you!'

And when, having said such things many times over, I gave those present cause to suspect something was amiss, they indeed said, 'Whatever is the matter with you?'

'Surely he is not, in fact, actually present with you!'

...of that hope; and, weeping a little, I recognized how powerful desire is, and that it had been but an illusion soothing my reasoning.

But when I unfolded the letter and examined it, I was so delighted that I willingly set aside what was at hand, lest again … having said this many times.

and the longing for what was to come pressed hard upon me.

To Ulpius: Though I already loved the admirable Strategius before, now I have come to love him yet more, because he has become the occasion of the letters we exchange with one another;

for by putting an end to our former silence, he has granted us the chance to say something to you, and again to hear you speak.

And if our letter is indeed to your liking, then honor the one responsible for it — one who already acknowledges his gratitude to you for the zeal you showed beforehand, but who will proclaim your kindness all the more, if you should bring the favor to its completion.

But show some vigorous stroke against those who wrong us, so that all may perceive what manner of friends I had all along, unbeknownst to them.

And your brother, even before I saw him, I already knew;

for report had many times made him known to me;