As sage Lucilius did for Scipio.

H. Trust me for that: my devoir I will pay,
Whene'er occasion comes to point the way.
Save at fit times, no words of mine can find
A way through Cassar's ear to Cassar's mind:
A mettled horse, if awkwardly you stroke,
Kicks out on all sides, and your leg is broke.

T. Better do this than gall with keen lampoon
Cassius the rake and Maenius the buffoon,
When each one, though with withers yet unwrung,
Fears for himself, and hates your bitter tongue.

H. What shall I do? Milonius, when the wine
Mounts to his head, and doubled lustres shine,
Falls dancing; horses are what Castor loves;
His twin yolk-fellow glories in the gloves:
Count all the folks in all the world, you'll find
A separate fancy for each separate mind.
To drill reluctant words into a line,
This was Lucilius' hobby, and 'tis mine.
Good man, he was our better: yet he took
Such pride in nought as in his darling book:
That was his friend, to whom he would confide
The secret thoughts he hid from all beside,
And, whether Fortune used him well or ill,
Thither for sympathy he turned him still:
So there, as in a votive tablet penned,
You see the veteran's life from end to end.