at I see you, and
therefore cannot command my weakness so far as to refrain from
tears."

IV.

"I don't write to you as often as I might, because notwithstanding
I am afflicted at all times, I am quite overcome with sorrow whilst
I am writing to you, or reading any letters that I receive from
you.----If these evils are not to be removed, I must desire to see
you, my dearest life, as soon as possible, and to die in your
embraces; since neither the gods, whom you always religiously
worshipped; nor the men, whose good I always promoted, have
rewarded us according to our deserts.----What a distressed wretch
am I! should I ask a weak woman, oppressed with cares and sickness,
to come and live with me, or shall I not ask her? Can I live
without you? But I find I must. If there be any hopes of my return,
help it forward, and promote it as much as you are able. But if all
that is over, as I fear it is, find out some way or other of coming
to me. This you may be sure of, that I shall not look upon myself
as quite undone whilst you are with me. But what will become of
Tulliola? You must look to that; I must confess, I am entirely at a
loss about her. Whatever happens, we must take care of the
reputation and marriage of that dear unfortunate girl. As for
Cicero, he shall live in my bosom and in my arms. I cannot write
any further, my sorrows will not let me.----Support yourself, my
dear Terentia, as well as you are able. We have lived and
flourished together amidst the greatest honours: it is not our
crimes, but our virtues that have distressed us.----Take more than
ordinary care of your health; I am more afflicted with your sorrows
than my own. Farewell, my Terentia, thou dearest, faithfullest, and
best of wives."

Methinks it is a pleasure to see this great man in his family, who makes
so different a figure in the Forum or Senate of Rome. Every one admires
the orator and the consul; but for my part, I esteem the husband and the
father. His private character, with all the little weaknesses of
humanity, is as amiable as the figure he makes in public is awful and
majestic. But at the same time that I love to surprise so great an
author in his private walks, and to survey him in his most familiar
lights, I think it would be barbarous to form to ourselves any idea of
mean-spiritedness f