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Among the pile of broken statues or fragments of ornamental stonework in the corner was a monumental tablet, cracked across in two places, but pieced together for preservation with iron rivets. The inscription ran: "D.M. Simpliciæ Florentinæ Animæ Innocentissimæ quæ vixit menses decem. Felicius Simplex Pater fecit. Leg. vi, V." To Simplicia Florentina, a most innocent soul, who lived ten months.
Full as it is of the ardor iuvenilis, page after page recalling that Ciceronian manner with which we are familiar in the Brutus or the De Oratore by the balance of the periods, by the elaborate similes, and by a certain fluid and florid evolution of what is really commonplace thought, a touch here and there, like contemnebat potius literas quam nesciebat, or vitio malignitatis humanae vetera semper in laude, praesentia in fastidio esse, or the criticism on the poetry of Caesar and Brutus, non melius quam Cicero, sed felicius, quia illos fecisse pauciores sciunt, anticipates the author of the Annals, with his mastery of biting phrase and his unequalled power of innuendo.
To these lines Ovid thus refers in his Elegy on the death of Tibullus: Cynthia discedens, Felicius, inquit, amata Sum tibi; vixisti dum tuus ignis eram. Cui Nemesis, quid, ait, tibi sint mea damna dolori? Me tenuit moriens deficiente manu. Am. Lib. iii. El. ix. 56. Blest was my reign, retiring Cynthia cry'd; Not till he left my breast, Tibullus dy'd.
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