1I doubt whether I have ever spent a pleasanter time than the one I spent recently with Spurinna, so much so indeed that there is no one I would rather imitate in old age, if only it is granted me to grow old; 1for nothing is more orderly than that way of life. 2For my part, just as the fixed course of the stars delights me, so does a well-ordered human life. 2Of old men especially: for in the young a certain confusion and, as it were, disorder is still not unbecoming, but to the old everything calm and ordered is fitting, for whom activity taken up late is a disgraceful ambition.
3This rule Spurinna keeps most steadfastly; 3indeed even these small matters — small, that is, if they did not happen every day — he goes through in a fixed order and, as it were, in a cycle. 4In the morning he keeps to his couch; at the second hour he calls for his shoes, walks three miles, and exercises his mind no less than his body. 4If friends are with him, the most worthy conversations unfold; 4if not, a book is read, sometimes even when friends are present, provided, however, that they do not mind. 5Then he sits down, and there is the book again, or conversation, which is better than a book; 5next he gets into his carriage and takes with him his wife, a woman of singular excellence, or one of his friends, as he took me recently.
6How fine, how sweet that privacy is! 6How much of the old days there is in it! 6What deeds, what men you may hear of! 6With what precepts you may be steeped! 6although he has imposed this restraint on his modesty, that he should not seem to be giving instruction. 7When seven miles have been covered he walks another mile, then sits again or betakes himself to his room and his pen. 7For he writes lyric poems, and very learned ones, in both languages; 7they have a wonderful sweetness, a wonderful charm, a wonderful gaiety, whose grace is heightened by the purity of their author. 8When the hour of the bath has been announced — it is the ninth in winter, the eighth in summer — he walks naked in the sun, if there is no wind.
8Then he exercises with a ball, vigorously and for a long time; 8for with this kind of exercise too he does battle with old age. 8After bathing he lies down and puts off his meal for a little while; 8meanwhile he listens to someone reading something lighter and more pleasant. 8Throughout all this time his friends are free to do the same things, or others if they prefer. 9Dinner is served, no less elegant than frugal, on plain and antique silver; 9Corinthian bronzes too are in use, which he takes pleasure in without being obsessed by them. 9Often the dinner is interspersed with comic actors, so that pleasures too may be seasoned with learning.
9He takes something from the night, even in summer; 9no one finds this long; 9with such geniality is the meal drawn out. 10Hence, after his seventy-seventh year, his ears and eyes are unimpaired in their vigour, hence his body is nimble and lively, and from old age he has only its wisdom. 11This is the life I anticipate in my prayers and thoughts, and I shall enter upon it most eagerly as soon as the reckoning of my age permits me to sound the retreat. 11Meanwhile I am worn down by a thousand labours, for which this same Spurinna is both my consolation and my example; 12for he too, as long as it was honourable, undertook duties, held magistracies, governed provinces, and by much labour earned this leisure.
12Therefore I set myself the same course, the same goal, and I put my signature to it with you here and now, so that, if you see me carried further, you may summon me to court on the strength of this letter of mine and order me to rest, once I have escaped the charge of idleness. 12Farewell.