Will you not give over, Basil, packing this sacred haunt of the Muses with Cappadocians, and these redolent of the frost [3285] and snow and all Cappadocia's good things? They have almost made me a Cappadocian too, always chanting their "I salute you."

I must endure, since it is Basil who commands. Know, however, that I am making a careful study of the manners and customs of the country, and that I mean to metamorphose the men into the nobility and the harmony of my Calliope, that they may seem to you to be turned from pigeons into doves.

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Footnotes:

[3285] grite, an unknown word. Perhaps akin to kriote. cf. Duncange s.v.