“O mes amis, il n’y a nul ami”
“My friends, there is no friend!” Diogenes
Laertius has Aristotle cry,
Despairing of the chance that theory’s
Demand for one who’s more than ally,
Gives more than scratch his back and he’ll scratch mine
Delight, is more than merely pure, ideal,
Yes, offers more than virtue, nearly divine,
In parallel with yours. He needs to feel
An absolutely balanced love, as strong
And equal as the one you have for him.
No wonder all the ancients know it’s wrong
To think of Anthony as Caesar’s limb.
Because of Étienne Montaigne denies
Philosophers’ lies. Only he is wise.