XII Clodius the Lover
Turd. You all knew Clodius, full of vigour, rubicund, well-clothed, cheerful, with shining countenance, affable, genial teller of stories. Now it is said of him that he is without vigour, bloodless, of pallid colour, sallow, witless, wild-looking, stern, taciturn, one who shuns the light and human society. No one who knew him formerly would now recognise him.
Nugo. O wretched young man! Whence has this evil befallen him?
Turd. He is in love.
Nugo. But whence his love?
Turd. As far as I could gather from the speech of the letter-carrier he had given up solid and serious studies and had devoted himself entirely to the looser Latin poets—those of the vernacular; thence he got the first preparation of his mind. So that if by any means any spark of fire, however slight it might be, should fall on him he was as kindling-wood ready for it and would flare up suddenly like lit flax. So he gave himself up to sleep and idleness.
Nugo. What need is there further to relate more or greater causes of his falling in love?
Turd. Now he is beside himself, going about here, there, and everywhere alone, but always either silent, or singing something and dancing, and writing verses in the vernacular.
Nugo. Which, forsooth, his Lycoris herself may read.
Grac. O Christ, preserve our hearts from so pernicious a disease!
Turd. Unless I am deceived as to the character of Clodius, he will return some time to a better and more fruitful life. His mind wanders into the foreign lands of evil; it does not take up its residence in them.