He was, then, refined and generous, and would beg to be excused, in the words of Aristophanes about Euripides, the “ acid, pungent style,” which, as the same author says, is “strong seasoning for meat when - itis high.”@ Further, he would not, they say, even sit down to deal with the themes of his pupils, but would argue walking up and down. It was, then, for his love of what is noble that he was honoured in the state. Nevertheless would he withdraw from society ® and confine himself to the Garden of the Academy, while close by his scholars made themselves little huts and lived not far from the shrine of the Muses and the lecture-hall. It would seem that in all respects Polemo emulated Xenocrates. And Aristippus in the fourth book of his work On the Luxury of the Ancients affirms him to have been his favourite. Certainly he always kept his predecessor before his mind and, like him, wore that simple austere dignity which is proper to the Dorian mode. He loved Sophocles, particularly in those passages where it seemed as if, in the phrase of the comic poet, A stout Molossian mastiff lent him aid, and where the poet was, in the words of Phrynichus,¢ Nor must, nor blended vintage, but true Pramnian. Thus he would call Homer the Sophocles of epic, and Sophocles the Homer of tragedy. He died at an advanced age of gradual decay, leaving behind him a considerable number of works. I have composed the following epigram upon him @: Dost thou not hear? We have buried Polemo, laid here by that fatal scourge of wasted strength. Yet not Polemo,