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The fire kindled, and she presently burst out with the voice of a seraph in that glorious psalm, the 116th: "'Toto pectore diligam Unice et Dominum colam, Qui lenis mihi supplici Non duram appulit aurem. Aurem qui mihi supplici, Non duram dedit; hunc ego Donec pectora spiritus Pulset semper, amabo."
Lusisti satis, edisti satis atque bibisti, Tempus abire tibi est, ne potum largius acquo Rideat et pulset lasciva decentius aetas. A new generation, clever, audacious, and corrupt, had silently been growing up under the Empire. Ovid was thirty, and had published his Amores. The death of Virgil had left the field of serious poetry to little men.
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