The persons of the drama: Horace; the Bore; Aristius Fuscus, a friend of Horace; an adversary of the Bore; Horace's slave-boy; a street mob. SCENE: The Sacred Way in Rome, extending on during the action into the Forum. [_Enter Horace, walking along the street in deep thought. To him enters Bore, who grasps his hand with great show of affection and slaps him familiarly on the shoulder._] _Bore._ How are you, my dear old fellow? _Horace_ [_stiffly_]. Fairly well, as times go. I trust all is well with you? [_As the Bore follows him up, Horace attempts to forestall conversation, and to dismiss his companion with the question of formal leave:_] There's nothing I can do for you is there? _Bore._ Yes, make my acquaintance. I am really worth knowing; I'm a scholar. _Horace._ Really? You will be more interesting to me on that account, I am sure. [_He tries desperately to get rid of the Bore, goes faster, stops, whispers in the slave-boy's ear; while the sweat pours down his face, which he mops desperately. He exclaims aside:_] O Bolanus, how I wish I had your hot temper! _Bore_ [_chatters empty nothings, praises the scenery, the buildings, etc. As Horace continues silent, he says:_] You're terribly anxious to get rid of me; I've seen that all along. But it's no use, I'll stay by you, I'll follow you. Where are you going from here? _Horace_ [_trying to discourage him_]. There's no need of your going out of your way. I'm going to visit a man--an entire stranger to you. He lies sick at his house away over beyond the Tiber, near Cæsar's gardens. _Bore._ O, I have nothing else to do, and I'm a good walker. I'll just go along with you. [_As Horace keeps on doggedly in sullen silence, he continues:_] Unless I am much mistaken in myself, you will find me a more valuable friend than Viscus or Varius. There's no one can write more poetry in a given time than I, or dance more gracefully; and as for singing, Hermogenes himself would envy me. _Horace_ [_interrupting, tries to frighten him off by suggesting that the sick man whom he is going to visit may be suffering from some contagious disease_]. Have you a mother or other relative dependent on you? _Bore._ No, I have no one at all. I've buried every one of them. _Horace_ [_aside_]. Lucky dogs! Now I'm the only victim left. Finish me up; for a dreadful fate is dogging my steps, which an old Sabine fortune-teller once warned me of when I was a boy. She said: "No poisonous drug shall carry this boy off, nor deadly sword, nor wasting consumption, nor crippling gout; in the fulness of time some chatterbox will talk him to death. So then, if he be wise, when he shall come to man's estate, let him beware of all chatterboxes." [_They have now come opposite the Temple of Vesta in the south end of the Forum, near