not to speak of the fine effect of the spondaic, there is the daring image.’ ‘There is something finer than both,’ said Petronius, and he quoted a line of real beauty which Seneca has preserved for us in his ‘Natural Questions,’ and in which Nero describes the ruffled iridescence of a dove’s neck: ‘Fair Cytherea’s startled doves illume With sheeny lustre every glancing plume.’[41] ‘Many,’ said the polished courtier, ‘have seen the mingled amethyst and emerald on the necks of doves and peacocks, but it has been reserved for Cæsar to describe it.’ Somehow or other, in spite of all they said, Nero was not satisfied. He had an uneasy misgiving that all of them except Petronius--whom he knew to be genuinely good-natured--were only fooling him to the top of his bent. Not that this misgiving at all disturbed his conceit. He was convinced that he was a first-rate poet, as well as a first-rate singer and lyrist, and indeed a first-rate artist in all respects. It was the thing of which he was most proud, and if these people were only _pretending_ to recognise his enormous merits, that was simply the result of their jealousy. ‘Thank you, friends,’ he said. ‘What you say of me, Lucan, is very kind, but’--he felt it necessary to show his superiority by a little criticism--‘I should not recommend you to publish your poem just yet. It is crude in parts. It is too Spanish and provincial. It wants a great deal of polishing before it can reach the æsthetic standard.’ Lucan bowed, and bit his lip. He felt that among these poetasters he was like a Triton among minnows, and his sense of mortification was so bitter that he could not trust himself to speak, lest he should risk his head by insulting Nero to his face. The group broke up. Only Petronius, Paris, and Tigellinus remained. ‘Petronius,’ said Nero, ‘you are a genuine poet. What do you think of Persius and Lucan as poets?’ ‘Lucan is more of a rhetorician than a poet,’ said Petronius, ‘and Persius more of a Stoic pedagogue. Both have merits, but neither of them can say anything simply and naturally. They are laboured, artificial, declamatory, monotonous, and more or less unoriginal. Their “honeyed globules of words” are only a sign of decadence.’[42] ‘And what do you think of _my_ poetry?’ asked the Emperor, sorely thirsting for a compliment. ‘A Cæsar must be supreme in all he does,’ said Petronius, with one of his enigmatical smiles. He rose, and bowed as he left the room, leaving Nero puzzled and dissatisfied.