ion of every one who speaks, and in every imaginable sound
which we can measure with our ears. But it is the order of the feet
which makes that which is uttered appear like an oration or like
a poem. And this, whether you choose to call it composition, or
perfection, or rhythm, must be employed if a man wishes to speak
elegantly, not only (as Aristotle and Theophrastus say) that the
discourse may not run on interminably like a river, but that it may
come to a stop as it ought, not because the speaker wants to take
breath, or because the copyist puts down a stop, but because it is
compelled to do so by the restrictions of rhythm, and also because a
compact style has much greater force than a loose one. For as we see
athletes, and in a similar manner gladiators, act cautiously, neither
avoiding nor aiming at anything with too much vehemence, (for
over-vehement motions can have no rule;) so that whatever they do in
a manner advantageous for their contest, may also have a graceful and
pleasing appearance; in like manner oratory does not strike a heavy
blow, unless the aim was a well-directed one; nor does it avoid the
attack of the adversary successfully, unless even when turning aside
the blow it is aware of what is becoming. And therefore the speeches
of those men who do not end their sentences rhythmically seem to me
like the motions of those whom the Greeks call [hapalaistrous]. And it
is so far from being the case, (as those men say who, either from a
want of proper instructors, or from the slowness of their intellect,
or from an unwillingness to exert due industry, have not arrived at
this skill,) that oratory is enervated by too much attention to the
arrangement of words, that without it there can be no energy and no
force.

LXIX. But the matter is one which requires much practice, lest we
should do anything like those men who, though they have aimed at this
style, have not attained it; so that we must not openly transpose our
words in order to make our language sound better; a thing which Lucius
Coelius Antipater, in the opening of his history of the Punic War,
promises not to do unless it should be absolutely necessary. Oh the
simple man! to conceal nothing from us; and at the same time wise,
inasmuch as he is prepared to comply with necessity. But still this is
being too simple. But in writing or in sober discussion the excuse of
necessity is not admissible, for there is no such thing as necessity;
and if there w