"When you're just walking by
And Catiline stabs you in the eye
O that's a more!"
Cicero sighed and threw his stylus down, scratching his scalp in disgust at the doggerel he had just set to words. This was not the voice of an orator; this was the sort of thing a street performer on the Via Appia would yell at travellers in hopes of gaining a few sesterces for the night's lodging and food. Cicero stood up from his seat and drank a gulp of wine to calm his nerves. Besides, he was above mere verse; he was one of the Senate's most noted orators. And Catiline just tried to have him killed. He looked for his stylus and took his place once again at his writing table.
What would his ancestors say?
"When you take up your seat
And the others mince you like meat
O tempora!"
Again! Cicero laid his stylus down on the papyrus and downed all his wine in one gulp. This wasn't some silly festival verse-reading by revelling drunkards, nor was it a vulgar insult contest. This was the Senate, and an attempt on his life had just been made. He had to be more grave and dour than at least the mob outside (which he was planning on assembling anyways, just to show that son of a cur, Catiline). He took up his stylus once more:
"O how long will you abuse
The ancient customs we use
O tempora!
O I note with much sadness
You've descended into madness
O mores!"
Cicero sighed, a bead of sweat forming on his forehead. This will have to do. He picked up his sheet of papyrus, gathered up his toga and sandals, and left for the Senate chamber. It was turning out to be a rough day already.