O CHIEF director of the growing race, <br />Of Rome the glory and of Rome the grace, <br />Me, O Quintilian, may you not forgive <br />Before from labour I make haste to live? <br />Some burn to gather wealth, lay hands on rule, <br />Or with white statues fill the atrium full. <br />The talking hearth, the rafters sweet with smoke, <br />Live fountains and rough grass, my line invoke: <br />A sturdy slave, not too learned wife, <br />Nights filled with slumber, and a quiet life.<br /><br />Robert Louis Stevenson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ad-quintilianum/
