You, who have included all the art of the ancients in your own mind, are so silent, that you do not even let me get any gain in a letter.  I, if the art of Dædalus had only been safe, would have made me Icarus’ wings and come to you.  But wax cannot be entrusted to the sun, and so, instead of Icarus’ wings, I send you words to prove my affection.  It is the nature of words to indicate the love of the heart.  So far, words. Corrupt in original.  You do with them what you will, and, possessing all the power you do, are silent.  But pray transfer to me the fountains of words that spring from your mouth.