Letter Ad M. Caes. iv. 7

Hail, my sweetest of masters.

At last the messenger is starting, and at last I can send you my three days' budget of news. But I cannot say anything, to such an extent have I exhausted my breath by dictating nearly thirty letters. For as to your last opinion on the question of letters, I have not yet broached the matter to my father. But when we come, God willing, to Rome, remind me to tell you something on this matter. But you and I are so much up in the clouds that neither will you remind me nor I tell you: and yet, indeed, it really needs consideration. Farewell, my—what shall I say when whatever I say is inadequate?—farewell my longing, my light, my delight.