Sidonius Apollinaris → Syagrius

To Syagrius [the same young aristocrat praised earlier for his Burgundian fluency].

Tell me, flower of Gallic youth: how long will you disdain the city in your devotion to rural labors? How long will hands once worn smooth by dice-throws seize, against all law and custom, the tools of the harvest? How long will your estate at Taionnacus [a country property] exhaust you as a farmer of patrician stock? How long will you bury the mown grasses of your flowering meadow in winter plowland — not like a cavalryman but like an ox-driver? How long will you refuse to set down the weight of your blunted mattock, even when the trenches are dug?

What are you doing, rival of the Serrani and Camilli [Roman heroes who returned to their farms between campaigns — like Cincinnatus]? While you guide the plow-handle, do you pretend not to desire the palm-embroidered robe [the toga palmata, symbol of high office]? Stop farming to such a degree that it insults your noble birth. If you cultivate your land moderately, you own it; if excessively, it owns you. Give yourself back to your father, give yourself back to your country, give yourself back to your faithful friends — who rightly rank among your deepest obligations.

Or if you are so enchanted by the life of Cincinnatus the dictator, at least bring along a Racilia [Cincinnatus's wife, who helped yoke the oxen] to yoke the oxen for you.

I would not tell a wise man to neglect his household affairs, but I would tell him to manage them with such balance that he considers not only what he has but what he ought to be. For if you reject all other noble pursuits and let nothing stir you but the itch to grow your estate, then no matter how often you recite your lineage back to the consular robes, the ivory curule chairs, the gilded litters, and the purple-bordered calendars, you will turn out to be a man whose industry, being hidden, deserves not the honor of the censor but the burden of the tax-collector. Farewell.