1It is pleasant of you to demand from me not only a great many letters but very long ones too; 1in these I have been rather sparing, partly because I was wary of your busy life, partly because I myself was much distracted by business, mostly dull, which at once draws the mind away and wears it down. 1Besides, I was given no material for writing more. 2For my situation is not the same as that of Marcus Tullius, to whose example you summon me. 2He had both the richest genius and, equal to that genius, a supply of matter abundant in both its variety and its greatness; 3within what narrow bounds I am confined you see clearly even without my saying so, unless perhaps I choose to send you letters fit for the schools and, so to speak, for the shade.
4But I think nothing less fitting, when I think of your arms, your camp, and finally of horns, trumpets, sweat, dust and sun. 5You have, I think, a fair excuse, and yet I doubt whether I want you to accept it. 5For it is a mark of the deepest love to refuse to pardon the short letters of friends, even when you know they have good reason for them. 5Farewell.