One might think the universe has exhausted its capacity for novelty, yet here we are, discussing a Roman playwright whose existence is as shrouded in speculation as my patience is thin. Publius Terentius Afer, or simply Terence if one prefers brevity over historical nuance, was a figure of some note during the Roman Republic . Born roughly between 195 and 185 BC, and departing this mortal coil around 159 BC—though the exactitude of these dates is, like much else concerning him, debatable—he carved out a career as a playwright . His legacy? Six complete comedies , all of which, remarkably, have survived the relentless march of time, unlike so many other fleeting human endeavors. These works, adaptations from Greek originals by the likes of Menander or Apollodorus of Carystus , were first staged between 166 and 160 BC. One can almost hear the collective sigh of relief from future scholars, spared the agony of deciphering mere fragments.

The conventional narrative, a tapestry woven from threads of ancient gossip and academic guesswork, suggests Terence hailed from Carthage . He was, so the story goes, brought to Rome as a slave, a common enough tragedy, yet one that, in his case, oddly paved the way for an education and, eventually, his freedom. Such are the ironies of history. Around the tender age of 25, or perhaps 35, depending on which unreliable source one consults, Terence embarked on a grand tour to the east, ostensibly in pursuit of fresh inspiration for his dramatic endeavors. This journey, however, proved to be his last. He is said to have succumbed to disease in Greece or, more dramatically, perished in a shipwreck on the return voyage. One hopes, for his sake, the inspiration was worth it. However, this traditional biography, a convenient narrative for those who came long after, is largely dismissed by modern scholars as a concoction of conjecture, lacking the inconvenient burden of verifiable facts. It seems even ancient biographers preferred a good story to a truthful one.

Regardless of the nebulous details of his life, Terence’s plays achieved a remarkable, almost absurd, longevity. They swiftly became standard educational texts, securing his place as one of the four mandatory authors for all grammar pupils throughout the expansive, and eventually collapsing, Western Roman Empire . His works maintained a central, almost inescapable, position in the European school curriculum until the 19th century, influencing literary titans such as William Shakespeare and Molière . It seems some things, like the enduring appeal of human foibles, never truly change.

Life and career

The primary, and arguably most reliable, sources for Terence’s life and career are the didascaliae embedded within the manuscripts of his plays. These production notices, dry and factual as they are, meticulously record the dates, the specific occasions, and the personnel involved in the early stagings of his works. They even deign to identify the author of the Greek original that Terence so liberally adapted. Beyond these administrative entries, the bulk of the “traditional” information about Terence stems from the Vita Terenti, a biography preserved within Aelius Donatus ’ extensive commentary on the playwright’s works, a text attributed by Donatus himself to the biographer Suetonius .

However, one must approach such ancient biographical accounts with a healthy dose of skepticism, or, as I prefer, outright cynicism. It is highly improbable that Terence’s contemporaries, consumed as they were with their own fleeting concerns, would have considered a mere dramatist significant enough to merit a detailed biography for the edification of posterity. The narrative presented by Suetonius’ sources is widely regarded as a patchwork of educated guesses and creative interpretations, derived primarily from the plays themselves and their accompanying didascaliae . In essence, later scholars looked at the plays and reverse-engineered a life story that made sense, rather than having access to any genuinely independent, reliable facts. A testament, perhaps, to humanity’s insatiable need for a coherent narrative, even if it’s entirely fabricated.

Conditions of performance

In the vibrant, if somewhat chaotic, cultural landscape of 2nd century BC Rome , theatrical plays were not merely an occasional diversion but a regular and integral feature of public life. They graced four major annual Roman festivals : the Ludi Romani in September, the Ludi Plebeii in November, the Ludi Apollinares in July, and the Ludi Megalenses in April. Beyond these scheduled events, plays would also be commissioned and staged for special occasions, such as votive games, celebratory triumphs , and the more elaborate, ostentatious aristocratic funerals. One can only imagine the juxtaposition of somber mourning and lighthearted comedy, a truly Roman blend of gravitas and entertainment.

A curious detail for those who appreciate the minutiae of historical calendars: the Roman calendar during the 160s BC was notoriously out of sync with the solar year, running approximately two and a half months ahead. This chronological quirk meant that Terence’s plays, though officially slated for April premieres at the Megalensia , would, in actual astronomical terms, have debuted in late January. A small discrepancy, perhaps, but one that highlights the charming imprecision of ancient record-keeping.

It is worth noting that Rome lacked any permanent theatrical structures until the grand Theatre of Pompey was finally erected in 55 BC. Consequently, Terence’s comedies, along with all other dramatic productions of his era, were performed on temporary wooden stages, hastily constructed for each specific occasion and then dismantled. These ephemeral structures, by their very nature, were of limited capacity, likely accommodating an audience of fewer than 2,000 individuals at any given performance. Admission to these theatrical spectacles was, refreshingly, free to the entire population, operating on a seemingly egalitarian first-come-first-served basis. The only exception to this democratic seating arrangement was the reservation of prime seats for members of the Senate , a privilege instituted after 194 BC. Descriptions of 2nd-century theatre audiences paint a diverse picture, explicitly mentioning the presence of women, children, slaves, and the urban poor, all gathered together, perhaps for a brief moment of shared humanity, or at least shared entertainment.

A fascinating, and perpetually debated, aspect of Roman comedy concerns the use of masks. In Greek New Comedy , the theatrical tradition from which the Roman comic tradition directly derived, actors invariably wore masks. These masks were not merely decorative but were conventionally associated with specific stock character types , instantly conveying personality and role to the audience. However, ancient authors offer conflicting accounts regarding whether Roman actors of Terence’s time also employed masks. For a period, Christian Hoffer’s 1877 dissertation, On the Use of Masks in Publius Terentius’ Comedies, held sway, asserting the view that masks were not worn during the original performances of Terence’s plays. One might wonder what inspired such a definitive, yet ultimately challenged, conclusion.

More recent scholarly consensus, however, leans heavily towards the opposite conclusion. Most contemporary authorities consider it highly probable, if not outright certain, that Roman actors in Terence’s era did wear masks when performing this particular genre of play. It is, in fact, often described as “hard to believe” or even “inconceivable” that they would have foregone such a fundamental element of the established comic tradition. Further bolstering this argument, Donatus explicitly states that masks were worn by the actors in the initial productions of Terence’s Eunuchus and Adelphoe. It seems the debate, much like human nature, is cyclical, eventually returning to the more sensible conclusion.

The didascaliae

As previously mentioned, the didascaliae (production notices) embedded within the surviving manuscripts of Terence’s plays offer invaluable, if dry, insights into their initial stagings. These notices consistently record that each of Terence’s six plays was originally brought to life by the acting company led by Lucius Ambivius Turpio , a prominent theatrical figure of the time. Furthermore, the musical accompaniment, an essential element of ancient drama, for every single play was provided by a tibicen (flute player) named Flaccus, who was identified as a slave in the service of a certain Claudius. A stark reminder of the social stratification even within the arts.

Based on these didascaliae , a generally accepted, and seemingly robust, chronology for Terence’s plays has been established, detailing their premieres:

• 166 BC: Andria , presented at the Ludi Megalenses .
• 165 BC: An abortive, or perhaps simply ill-fated, initial production of Hecyra at the Ludi Megalenses . One can almost hear the collective groans of the audience, or perhaps the actors.
• 163 BC: Heauton timorumenos , also at the Ludi Megalenses .
• 161 BC: Eunuchus , again at the Ludi Megalenses ; and Phormio , which premiered at the Ludi Romani .
• 160 BC: Adelphoe , alongside a second unsuccessful attempt to stage Hecyra , this time at the funeral games held for Aemilius Paullus . One truly has to marvel at the persistence. Finally, a third (and, thankfully, successful) production of Hecyra at the Ludi Romani . It seems some artistic endeavors require an almost masochistic level of perseverance.

The didascalia for each play also purports to identify its chronological position within Terence’s entire body of work. For example, Eunuchus is noted as the second play (facta II), and Heauton timorumenos as the third (facta III). This neat numbering, however, appears to contradict the actual production dates listed above, and also clashes with Donatus’s assertion that the Eunuchus was “published third” (edita tertium). Such discrepancies are, of course, the bread and butter of classical scholarship, offering endless opportunities for debate. Some scholars, ever eager to reconcile historical inconsistencies, have attempted to explain this by positing an earlier, unrecorded, and ultimately unsuccessful production of Eunuchus in 165 or 164 BC. Others interpret the numbering as referring to the order of composition rather than the order of production, a distinction that, frankly, few playwrights today would bother to maintain. Intriguingly, the didascalic numbering, seemingly discounting the repeated failures of Hecyra, reckons it as the fifth play, as if its initial struggles were merely character-building exercises.

Beyond the initial premieres, the didascaliae also seem to contain fragments of information regarding revival performances, extending at least into the 140s BC. Patrick Tansey, a scholar apparently fond of deciphering cryptic ancient texts, has argued that the didascalia for Phormio , preserved in the venerable Codex Bembinus , contains garbled names of the consuls from 106 BC. If true, this would represent the last documented performance of Terence’s work before the grand revival of the Renaissance . However, it’s also noted that the consuls of 141 BC bore similar names, leaving just enough room for doubt to keep the pedants arguing.

The prologues

The Greek plays that served as the foundational material for Roman comedians typically commenced with a prologue. This introductory segment would either precede the entire play or, more dramatically, interrupt the first act after one or two scenes, a rather bold move for attention-seeking. In the works of Plautus , another prominent Roman comic playwright , the prologue usually (though not always) served the practical function of providing exposition, laying out the intricacies of the plot for the audience. Terence , however, with a characteristic disdain for convention, largely abandoned this traditional expository role. Instead, he repurposed his prologues, transforming them into a different kind of entertainment altogether: a platform for engaging directly with criticism of his work, offering witty rebuttals and subtly (or not so subtly) jabbing at his detractors. It seems even in ancient Rome , critics were a persistent, if irritating, feature of the artistic landscape.

Terence frequently alludes to the “slanders” he endured, specifically pointing to a certain “old” and “spiteful” poet. Through a rather impressive feat of ancient literary detective work, Donatus (or perhaps an earlier commentator from whom Donatus judiciously “gleaned” this information) was able to identify this unnamed rival as Luscius Lanuvinus. Terence drops a crucial hint by mentioning that this man was the translator of Menander’s Phasma and Thesaurus (as found in Eunuchus 9–10). Conveniently, no names are actually used in Terence’s prologues themselves, preserving a thin veil of plausible deniability.

Of Luscius’s own work, tragically, or perhaps mercifully, nothing survives beyond two lines of his Thesaurus, preserved solely because Donatus bothered to quote them. Nor is anything else definitively known about Luscius independently of Terence’s somewhat biased prologues, save for the fact that Volcacius Sedigitus , a literary critic of the era, ranked Luscius as the ninth-best Latin comic poet , placing Terence a respectable, if not stellar, sixth. Terence’s description of Luscius as “old” might not have been a literal reference to his advanced age, but rather a subtle dig at a style of play-writing that Terence considered outdated and uninspired. His scathing assessment of Luscius’s craft was that “by translating them well and writing them badly, he has made good Greek plays into Latin ones that aren’t good” (Eunuchus 7–8). Furthermore, Terence implied that whatever theatrical successes Luscius did achieve were attributable more to the talents of his actors than to any inherent genius of the author (Phormio 9–11). A classic case of blaming the messenger, or perhaps the medium.

Suetonian biography

The Suetonian biography , which, as we’ve established, should be ingested with a grain of salt the size of a small Roman villa, paints a rather dramatic picture of Terence’s origins. According to Suetonius , Terence was born in Carthage , a city with a famously contentious relationship with Rome . He then arrived in Rome as a slave, specifically within the household of a certain P. Terentius Lucanus, an otherwise obscure senator . This Lucanus, apparently impressed by Terence’s innate talent and, rather tellingly, his good looks, provided him with an education and subsequently granted him his freedom. It was from this patron that Terence adopted the nomen “Terentius,” a common practice for freedmen . Having thus secured his freedom and, perhaps, leveraging his youthful charm, Terence is said to have ingratiated himself with the Roman elite, becoming a member of the influential and intellectually vibrant Scipionic Circle . A remarkable ascent from slavery to the inner sanctum of Roman aristocracy, if one chooses to believe it.

The tale continues with a rather charming, if somewhat improbable, anecdote about the submission of Terence’s first play, Andria . When he offered it to the aediles , the officials responsible for public works and games, they reportedly instructed him to first read it to the esteemed poet Caecilius . Terence , described as shabbily dressed (a detail that begs scrutiny, given his supposed aristocratic patrons), arrived at the older poet’s house during dinner. After hearing only a few lines, Caecilius , clearly impressed, invited the young man to join him for the meal.

The historicity of this heartwarming encounter, however, has been widely questioned. For one, it seems highly unlikely that Terence , with his powerful aristocratic connections, would have been unable to procure decent attire for such a pivotal interview. Furthermore, a suspiciously similar story circulates about the tragedians Accius and Pacuvius , suggesting a common literary trope rather than a unique historical event. Adding to the doubt, Jerome’s Chronicon states that Caecilius died the year after Ennius , which would place Caecilius’s death a full two years before Andria was even produced. A rather inconvenient timeline for a supposed meeting.

Despite these significant inconsistencies, some scholars, ever the optimists, still defend the possibility of the meeting. Thomas Carney, for instance, argues that Jerome’s dating of Caecilius’s death might be inaccurate, and that a delay of several years between the initial reading and the play’s eventual production is entirely plausible. Caecilius , he suggests, could have been impressed by the novice playwright’s raw talent, even if the discussion highlighted the need for revisions. R. C. Flickinger offers another interpretation, proposing that Terence’s reported shabby clothing indicates that he had not yet secured his rich and influential patrons at the time of this meeting. In this scenario, it was precisely Caecilius’s subsequent death, and the consequent loss of his crucial support, that led to the two-year delay in Andria’s production. It seems even the most mundane details of ancient lives can be spun into endless academic debate.

The Suetonian account further claims that all six of Terence’s plays garnered public approval. The Eunuchus , in particular, is singled out for its unprecedented financial success, reportedly earning 8,000 nummi—the highest price ever paid for a comedy in Rome —and enjoying the rare distinction of being performed twice in a single day. Donatus , in his commentary, appears to understand this sum as belonging entirely to Terence and interprets the nummi mentioned by Suetonius as 8,000 sesterces . However, Dwora Gilula offers a compelling counter-argument, suggesting that the term nummus, as inscribed on the title page in 161 BC, would have referred to a denarius , a coin with a significantly higher silver content. If this is the case, the actual price paid for the Eunuchus would have been a staggering 32,000 sesterces , making Terence an even wealthier man than commonly assumed. A subtle detail, perhaps, but one that drastically alters the perception of his economic success.

The biography concludes with Terence’s enigmatic disappearance. When he was approximately 25 years old (or, as some variant manuscripts suggest, 35), Terence purportedly embarked on a journey to Greece or Asia , from which he never returned. Suetonius’s sources, predictably, offer conflicting explanations for this fateful voyage, disagreeing not only on his motive and ultimate destination but also on the manner of his death. Some claim he succumbed to illness in Greece , while others favor the more dramatic narrative of a shipwreck on his return journey. Suetonius places his death “in the consulship of Gnaeus Cornelius Dolabella and Marcus Fulvius Nobilior,” which translates to 159 BC. It’s entirely plausible, or perhaps just conveniently neat, that this tragic voyage to Greece was merely a speculative explanation concocted by later scholars to account for the remarkably small number of plays Terence produced, perhaps inferred from his own lament in Eunuchus 41–3 about the limited dramatic materials at his disposal. A tidy narrative for an inconveniently brief career.

A particularly intriguing, and equally dubious, claim preserved in the manuscript tradition of the Vita is attributed to Q. Cosconius, who states that Terence died by shipwreck while returning from Greece “cum C et VIII fabulis conversis a Menandro.” This Latin phrase has been interpreted in two wildly different ways: either referring to 108 new plays that Terence had successfully adapted from Menander , or, as Carney argues, “108 stories dramatised by Menander ,” a number that, coincidentally, aligns with the total number of plays credited to the Greek playwright . The idea that Terence suddenly churned out 108 new plays after previously managing less than one per year is, frankly, absurd. Consequently, many editors, applying a much-needed dose of common sense, simply delete the number, surmising that the numeral CVIII is merely a scribal error—a double copying of the preposition CVM, which was then later rationalized into a number. Such are the perils of ancient manuscript transmission.

The physical description of Terence , a 1726 portrait by Pieter van Cuyck notwithstanding, is also shrouded in inference. He was said to have been of “moderate height, slender, and of dark complexion.” Suetonius’s description of his complexion is almost certainly an inference drawn from his purported African origin, rather than any direct observation. Similarly, the description of his physique might have originated as a metaphorical representation of the “lightness” and elegance of his verse style, much like the poet Philitas of Cos was humorously said to have weighted his shoes with lead to prevent himself from being blown away by the wind. Likenesses of Terence found in medieval manuscripts, while visually appealing, possess no genuine authenticity; they are merely artistic conventions. Finally, Suetonius claims that Terence was survived by a daughter who later married a Roman knight, and that he left behind 20 acres of gardens on the Appian Way —a report that is immediately contradicted by another of Suetonius’s own sources, who asserts that Terence died a poor man. Consistency, it seems, was not a strong suit of ancient biographers.

Name and ethnicity

The ancient biographers’ insistence that Terence was born in Africa is, in all likelihood, an inference based solely on his name, rather than genuinely independent biographical information. His cognomen , Afer (“the [North] African”), certainly suggests a connection to ancient Libya or the broader African continent. However, such names did not always denote direct geographical origin. There were, after all, Romans who bore this cognomen without being of African descent, such as Domitius Afer . The human desire to categorize and label, it seems, often overrides the inconvenient complexity of reality.

It has frequently been asserted, based on this very name, that Terence was of Berber descent. This assertion often rests on the idea that the Romans meticulously distinguished between Berbers, whom they called Afri in Latin , and Carthaginians, whom they referred to as Poeni. However, a closer examination of lexicographic evidence reveals that the validity of this precise distinction during Terence’s lifetime is not well supported. If Terence was indeed born as a slave in Carthage , another possibility arises: his mother could have been an ethnic Italian, brought there as a war captive during the tumultuous campaigns of Hannibal . Carney, ever the one for a definitive stance, argues that Terence must have been born from the Italiote Greek population enslaved by Hannibal , as this, in his view, would neatly explain Terence’s remarkable proficiency in both Latin and Greek . F. H. Sandbach, however, offers a more tempered, and perhaps more realistic, perspective, noting that in the modern world, while rare, it is not entirely unheard of for an author to achieve significant literary distinction in a second language. Talent, it seems, can transcend linguistic boundaries, much to the chagrin of those who seek neat, ethnically pure explanations.

Dates

The precise date of Terence’s birth remains frustratingly uncertain, a common affliction for figures from antiquity. Sesto Prete, however, attempts to infer his youth from Terence’s own self-characterization as a “new” writer (Eunuchus 43) and his depiction of a rival poet as “old” (Heauton timorumenos 23). This suggests that Terence was relatively young when he penned his plays in the 160s BC.

If we were to accept Suetonius’s statement that Terence died around the age of 25 in 159 BC, it would imply a birth year of 184 BC. This would mean he was a mere 18 years old when his first play premiered, a prodigious talent indeed, and born in the same year as the death of the venerable Plautus . However, the alternative reading, suggesting Terence was in his 30s at the time of his death, pushes his birth year back by a decade to 194 BC. This later date finds some support in a statement attributed to Fenestella , which claims Terence was older than the illustrious Scipio and Laelius . To further complicate matters, Jerome’s Chronicon, another ancient source that often takes liberties with precision, places Terence’s death in 158 BC. It seems the ancients were as bad at keeping track of their celebrities as we are today.

Plays

Like his more boisterous predecessor, Plautus , Terence drew his dramatic material from Greek plays , specifically from the later, more refined phases of Attic comedy . However, Terence’s approach to crafting his comedies diverged significantly. Where Plautus reveled in broad physical humor and elaborate wordplay, Terence’s style was characterized by a more understated, conversational Latin —pleasant, direct, and, dare I say, almost elegant. This made his plays less visually bombastic but arguably more intellectually engaging, a subtle shift that perhaps reflects the evolving tastes of the Roman elite.

A recurring thematic thread in five of Terence’s six plays revolves around a pair of young men entangled in the complicated throes of love. In the sole exception, Hecyra , there is only one young man, already burdened by marriage, who finds himself suspicious of his wife’s fidelity. In virtually all of his plays, two young women are central to the plot: one, typically a respectable citizen woman, and the other, inevitably, a prostitute. The dramatic tension often resolves through a conventional, yet satisfying, theatrical device known as a recognition (anagnorisis or anagnorismos). This plot twist reveals that one of the seemingly low-born girls is, in fact, the long-lost daughter of a respectable citizen, conveniently clearing the path for her legitimate and socially acceptable marriage. It seems even ancient playwrights understood the power of a convenient revelation to tie up loose ends.

Terence’s six surviving plays, each a window into the nuanced social mores and comedic sensibilities of the Roman Republic , are:

• Andria (The Girl from Andros) (166 BC)

  • This play introduces Pamphilus, a young Athenian nobleman, who finds himself hopelessly enamored with Glycerium, a foreign girl of decidedly lower social standing. Their clandestine affair has, predictably, resulted in a pregnancy. Complicating matters, Pamphilus’s father, Simo, has arranged a more advantageous marriage for his son with the daughter of his friend, Chremes. Meanwhile, Pamphilus’s friend, Charinus, is equally smitten with the very daughter Pamphilus is expected to reject. The cunning slave, Davus, ever the orchestrator of chaos, advises Pamphilus to feign agreement to the arranged marriage, calculating that Chremes will surely object once he learns of Pamphilus’s entanglement with Glycerium. However, as is often the case with such convoluted schemes, the plan spectacularly backfires when Chremes, against all expectations, readily agrees to the union. Pamphilus, understandably, is incandescent with rage at Davus. Simo, too, is furious, convinced that Glycerium’s impending childbirth is merely another one of Davus’s elaborate deceptions. The intricate knot of mistaken identity and social pretense is finally untangled by the timely arrival of a stranger from Andros , who reveals that Glycerium is, in fact, Chremes’s own long-lost daughter. With this convenient revelation, both young men are permitted to marry the women of their choice, and Davus, having narrowly escaped punishment, is, for now, spared.

• Heauton Timorumenos (The Self-Tormentor) (163 BC)

  • The play opens with Chremes, an Athenian farmer, observing his neighbor, Menedemus, toiling relentlessly on his farm. Chremes, ever the busybody, inquires about Menedemus’s unceasing labor. Menedemus reveals he is punishing himself, consumed by guilt for having driven his son, Clinia, abroad for military service due to his disapproval of Clinia’s love affair with a poor girl. He now suffers immense regret and misses his son terribly. Upon returning home, Chremes discovers that Clinia has, in fact, returned and is secretly visiting Chremes’s own son, Clitipho. Chremes’s wily slave, Syrus, a man clearly adept at managing multiple illicit affairs, not only brings Clinia’s girlfriend, Antiphila, to Chremes’s house but also smuggles in Clitipho’s own paramour, the notoriously expensive courtesan Bacchis. To ingeniously conceal Clitipho’s scandalous liaison, Syrus devises a convoluted ruse: they will pretend to Chremes that Bacchis is Clinia’s girlfriend, and that Antiphila is merely one of Bacchis’s servants. In yet another layer of deception, Syrus suggests to Chremes that he should persuade Menedemus to purchase Antiphila, thereby allowing Clinia to remain with Bacchis. This elaborate scheme, however, unravels when Clitipho’s mother makes a shocking discovery: a ring on Antiphila’s finger reveals her to be her own daughter, whom Chremes had, years ago, commanded to be abandoned as an infant. Undeterred by this minor setback, Syrus masterfully tricks Chremes into paying Bacchis a substantial sum for Antiphila’s supposed release. But when Chremes finally realizes that it is his own son, Clitipho, who is deeply in love with the costly Bacchis, his fury knows no bounds, particularly at the anticipated financial drain. Initially, he threatens disinheritance, but ultimately, he relents, forgiving Clitipho on the condition that he immediately agrees to marry a suitable girl. Clinia, meanwhile, is granted permission to marry Antiphila, and Syrus, despite his audacious deceptions, also receives a reprieve from punishment.

• Eunuchus (The Eunuch) (161 BC)

  • Phaedria, a young man of means, is hopelessly smitten with Thais, a courtesan of considerable charm and, presumably, expense. He reluctantly agrees to absent himself from town for a couple of days, allowing Thais to entertain a rival suitor, Thraso, a soldier who has promised her a particular slave girl who once belonged to her family. Before his departure, Phaedria, perhaps attempting to maintain his influence, gifts Thais an African maid and, rather inexplicably, a eunuch. However, during Phaedria’s absence, his 16-year-old brother, Chaerea, at the mischievous suggestion of the slave Parmeno, devises a brazen plan: he disguises himself as the eunuch, thereby gaining illicit access to Thais’s house. Once inside, he proceeds to rape the young girl, who, it is later revealed, is actually an Athenian citizen who was kidnapped in childhood. Thais’s earnest plans to reunite the girl with her family are, naturally, thrown into disarray by this egregious act. The chaotic situation is eventually resolved when Chaerea, overcome with remorse (or perhaps fear of reprisal), begs Thais for forgiveness and offers to marry the girl himself. Phaedria, ever the pragmatist, is allowed to continue his affair with Thais, but is shrewdly persuaded to share her affections, and more importantly, her expenses, with the wealthier Thraso. Parmeno, the instigator of much of the mischief, despite the gleeful predictions of Thais’s maid Pythias, miraculously escapes punishment in the end. A testament to the enduring power of comedic immunity.

• Phormio (161 BC)

  • While their fathers are conveniently absent, Antipho, a young man, has fallen deeply in love with, and married, a poor orphaned citizen girl. His cousin, Phaedria, meanwhile, has developed a passionate attachment to a slave girl. Phormio, a cunning parasite (a character type always ready to exploit a situation), has ingeniously assisted Antipho in securing his marriage by fabricating a false claim in court. Upon the return of Antipho’s father, Demipho, he is understandably furious, having intended for Antipho to marry his brother Chremes’s daughter. Chremes, attempting to rectify the situation, agrees to pay Phormio a substantial sum of 30 minae on the condition that he divorces the girl and marries her himself. Too late, Chremes realizes the devastating truth: the “poor girl” Antipho married is, in fact, his own long-lost daughter. He frantically attempts to undo the agreement with Phormio, but the parasite has already disbursed the money to Phaedria, who promptly used it to purchase his beloved slave girl. Phormio, with a characteristic blend of audacity and good fortune, ultimately escapes punishment. This is largely thanks to Chremes’s wealthy wife, Nausistrata, who is enraged not only by the revelation of Chremes’s secret second marriage but also by his embezzlement of her personal funds to finance it. In the end, Antipho is allowed to keep his wife, Phaedria to keep his girlfriend, and Phormio, the architect of much of the chaos, is, rather improbably, invited to dinner.

• Hecyra (The Mother-in-Law) (165 BC, but eventually performed in 160 BC)

  • This play, famously difficult to stage successfully, begins with Laches’ son, Pamphilus, having been compelled to marry Philumena, the daughter of their neighbor Phidippus. Initially, Pamphilus, still harboring affection for the courtesan Bacchis, refused to consummate the marriage. However, over time, he gradually grew to love his wife. While Pamphilus is away on a journey, Philumena abruptly abandons their home and retreats to her father’s house. Naturally, everyone immediately blames the mother-in-law, Sostrata, or attributes the marital discord to Pamphilus’s lingering affection for Bacchis. But when Pamphilus finally returns, he uncovers the true, and far more scandalous, reason for her departure: Philumena is on the verge of giving birth to a child, a child he firmly believes is not his own. Consequently, he resolves to divorce Philumena, despite his continued love for her. The tangled web is finally untangled when Philumena’s mother, Myrrina, discovers a ring—the very ring Pamphilus had drunkenly taken from an unknown young woman he raped some ten months prior, and subsequently given to Bacchis. The revelation is stark: Pamphilus is, in fact, the father of Philumena’s child. The couple, with this rather unsettling truth now revealed, reconcile. The gossipy slave Parmeno and the two fathers, ever oblivious, are conveniently kept in the dark about the rape, preserving a fragile, if morally compromised, peace.

• Adelphoe (The Brothers) (160 BC)

  • Micio, a wealthy Athenian bachelor, has adopted Aeschinus, the elder son of his brother Demea. Micio has raised Aeschinus in the city with a philosophy of indulgence and liberal freedom. Demea, by contrast, has raised his younger son, Ctesipho, in the rural village, adhering to a strict and disciplined regimen. When Ctesipho falls in love with a slave-girl, Aeschinus, ever the supportive (and perhaps reckless) brother, abducts the girl on Ctesipho’s behalf from the slave-dealer, Sannio, who owns her. Meanwhile, Sostrata, a widowed neighbor, becomes alarmed that Aeschinus appears to have abandoned her daughter, whom he had previously impregnated. She dispatches her relative, Hegio, to complain to Micio, much to Aeschinus’s profound embarrassment. Syrus, a rascally slave, plays a pivotal role, negotiating with the slave-dealer and skillfully keeping Demea distracted with various ruses, preventing him from discovering Ctesipho’s scandalous affair. When Demea finally stumbles upon Ctesipho and his music-girl in Micio’s house, his fury is immense. He vehemently reproaches Micio for his lax upbringing and for interfering in Ctesipho’s life. The situation reaches its climax when Demea, in a sudden and dramatic shift, takes control. Abandoning his strict principles for a newfound, albeit calculated, indulgence, he proposes a series of radical changes: they should forgo Aeschinus’s wedding procession and simply demolish the dividing wall between the two houses, symbolizing the merging of their families. Furthermore, he insists that Micio must marry Sostrata, grant Syrus his freedom along with some business capital, and provide Hegio with an income from a portion of Micio’s land. Ctesipho is, rather surprisingly, allowed to keep his music-girl. A truly chaotic resolution, demonstrating that even ancient patriarchs could be swayed by pragmatism and a desire for domestic tranquility.

Ancient commentary

Jerome , in his Contra Rufinum I.16, makes a passing, yet significant, mention that “my teacher Donatus ” had penned a comprehensive commentary on the comedies of Terence . This commentary, however, does not survive in its original, pristine form. The prevailing scholarly belief is that an anonymous medieval scribe, likely working with multiple manuscripts of Terence’s plays that contained marginal notes excised from Donatus’s original work, undertook the laborious task of reassembling these notes. The goal, presumably, was to reconstitute the commentary as a standalone book. In this process, extraneous material inevitably crept in, notes were sometimes erroneously assigned to verses where they did not originally belong, and the text itself underwent various alterations during the relentless march of transmission. Such is the fragile nature of historical preservation, leaving us with tantalizing fragments and scholarly puzzles.

Citations from Donatus’s commentary that are conspicuously absent from the extant redaction can, surprisingly, be found in the works of Priscian and in the scholia (marginal notes) appended to the Codex Bembinus and Codex Victorianus . This suggests a richer, more complete version of Donatus’s work once existed. Another ancient commentary on Terence is attributed to a figure named Eugraphius, of whom virtually nothing is known beyond his authorship of this particular commentary. The sheer obscurity of some historical figures is, in itself, a kind of fame. Notably, Donatus’s commentary on Heauton timorumenos is missing, a frustrating lacuna. However, his references to this play in his commentaries on other parts of the corpus, combined with Eugraphius’s surviving commentary, help to partially bridge this unfortunate gap.

In its current, albeit imperfect, form, Donatus’s commentary is introduced by Suetonius’s Vita Terenti (which we’ve already discussed with appropriate skepticism), a concise essay on the genre of comedy and its distinctions from tragedy (now generally referred to as De fabula), and a separate, shorter treatise on the same subject that, in some manuscripts, bears the heading De comoedia. Friedrich Lindenbrog was, through diligent scholarship, able to identify the De fabula as the work of an earlier commentator on Terence named Evanthius. This identification was possible because Rufinus of Antioch (a 5th-century AD grammarian), in his work On the Metres of Terence, explicitly quotes the De fabula and attributes it to Evanthius (who is likely the same grammarian Evanthius recorded in Jerome’s Chronicon as having died in Constantinople in AD 358). Evanthius’s original work, alas, is otherwise lost, a common fate for much ancient scholarship. The De comoedia, however, has continued to be attributed to Donatus , a small victory for his scholarly legacy.

Manuscripts of Terence

The physical remnants of Terence’s literary output, the manuscripts themselves, can be broadly categorized into two principal groups, each telling its own tale of transmission and preservation.

The first group is remarkably exclusive, represented by a single, venerable manuscript: the Codex Bembinus , often simply referred to as A. This extraordinary artifact, dating from the 4th or early 5th century AD, resides in the hallowed halls of the Vatican library . Written in the distinctive, somewhat austere, rustic capitals, it stands as one of the earliest surviving manuscripts of any Latin author, a testament to its antiquity and importance. The plays within this codex are arranged in a specific sequence: Andria , Eunuchus , Heauton Timorumenos , Phormio , Hecyra , and Adelphoe . In addition to this singular treasure, three smaller fragments of comparable antiquity have also managed to endure, offering tantalizing glimpses into the textual tradition.

The second group, by contrast, is far more voluminous, comprising approximately 650 manuscripts of later provenance. These are frequently referred to as the “Calliopian” manuscripts, a name derived from subscriptions found in several of the earlier examples, indicating that the text had been meticulously corrected by an individual named Calliopius. Beyond this singular, tantalizing detail, nothing further is known of this Calliopius, whose name is forever etched into the textual history of Terence . These manuscripts, dating from the 9th century onwards, are written in the more common minuscule letters. This larger group can be further subdivided into three distinct classes.

The first subclass, denoted as γ (gamma), spans the 9th, 10th, and 11th centuries. Notable manuscripts within this category include P (Parisinus), C (Vaticanus), and possibly F (Ambrosianus) and E (Riccardianus), among others. The plays in these manuscripts follow the order: Andria , Eunuchus , Heauton Timorumenos , Adelphoe , Hecyra , and Phormio . Manuscript C, specifically the renowned Codex Vaticanus Latinus 3868 , is particularly famous for its exquisite illustrations, which scholars believe are copies derived from originals dating stylistically to the mid-third century AD. A rare visual link to the ancient world.

Another significant subclass, designated as δ (delta), presents the plays in an alphabetical order: Andria , Adelphoe , Eunuchus , Phormio , Heauton Timorumenos , Hecyra . This group consists of three or four 10th-century manuscripts: D (Victorianus), G (Decurtatus), p (Parisinus), and potentially L (Lipsiensis).

All the remaining manuscripts fall into a “mixed” group, characterized by readings that appear to be copied from both the γ and δ traditions. Consequently, these mixed manuscripts are generally considered of less value for the critical task of establishing the most accurate and original text of Terence’s plays.

It is theorized that the γ group and the δ group ultimately trace their lineage back to two distinct archetypes, both of which are now lost. These hypothetical ancestors are imaginatively named Γ (Gamma) and Δ (Delta). Furthermore, it is believed that both Γ and Δ were themselves copied from an even earlier, singular archetype, also now lost, known as Σ (Sigma). According to A. J. Brothers, manuscript A (the Codex Bembinus ), despite containing a few errors, generally preserves a superior text compared to Σ. Σ, it is thought, introduced a number of alterations, perhaps designed to render Terence’s plays more accessible for pedagogical use in schools—a common fate for “classic” texts. Both A and the lost Σ are believed to have originated from an even more ancient archetype, Φ (Phi), whose precise date of creation remains unknown. The relentless pursuit of textual purity, it seems, is a journey into an ever-receding past.

Beyond these primary manuscript families, editors tasked with establishing the original text of Terence also draw upon other invaluable resources. These include various commentaries, ancient glossaries, and incidental quotations found in the works of ancient writers and grammarians. Among these auxiliary sources, the most renowned is the Commentum Terenti, a comprehensive commentary penned by the 4th-century grammarian Aelius Donatus . While often immensely helpful, it is important to remember that the section dealing with Heauton Timorumenos is, regrettably, missing. The universe, it seems, enjoys leaving us with incomplete puzzles.

Cultural legacy

At a surprisingly early juncture in its existence, Terence’s dramatic output transcended its initial function as mere performance scripts for actors. His play texts began to circulate widely as standalone literary works intended for a reading public, a clear indication of their burgeoning prestige. By the close of the 2nd century BC, Terence had firmly established himself as a bona fide literary “classic” and an indispensable component of the standard school curriculum. Cicero , born in 106 BC, vividly recounts that during his own boyhood education, the rigorous study of rhetoric included the assignment to paraphrase Simo’s opening narrative from the Andria in his own words. This wasn’t merely rote memorization; it was an exercise in understanding and reinterpreting, a foundation for future oratorical prowess.

Throughout the entire imperial period, Terence held a position of unparalleled prominence, second only to the revered Vergil as the most widely known and consistently read of Latin poets . While other Republican authors gradually faded from the curriculum, displaced by the likes of Vergil and other Augustan poets, Terence steadfastly retained his core position. By the late 4th century AD, his canonical status was undeniable: he became one of the four principal authors taught in schools, alongside Cicero , Sallust , and Vergil . This esteemed quartet was canonized in a celebrated work by Arusianus Messius and later famously referred to by Cassiodorus as “Messius’ quadriga "—a powerful chariot of literary giants.

Even the luminaries of early Christianity found themselves grappling with Terence’s enduring influence. St. Jerome , St. Augustine of Hippo , and the pupils of a “grammarian” friend of St. Sidonius Apollinaris were all assigned to read the Eunuchus in their schooling. In another of his letters, Sidonius describes the rather domestic scene of reading the Hecyra aloud with his son at home. It seems the classics, even those with questionable moral content, were a staple of ancient family bonding.

Terence’s remarkable survival through the tumultuous Middle Ages is a testament to his deeply ingrained presence in educational systems. He stands as one of the few canonical classical authors to maintain a continuous, unbroken presence in medieval literacy. The sheer volume of surviving manuscripts from this period—a truly impressive number—bears eloquent witness to his immense and enduring popularity. Adolphus Ward famously remarked that Terence led “a charmed life in the darkest ages of learning,” a sentiment echoed and approved by E. K. Chambers . However, Paul Theiner offers a more pragmatic, and perhaps less romantic, counterpoint, suggesting that “a charmed life” is more aptly attributed to authors who miraculously survived the Middle Ages by sheer chance, their works preserved in a handful of isolated libraries. Terence’s broad and constant popularity, Theiner argues, “rendered elfin administrations quite unnecessary.” His survival wasn’t a miracle; it was a matter of sustained relevance.

Roman students, as part of their regular pedagogical routine, were frequently assigned the task of copying edifying sententiae, or “maxims”—a practice inherited directly from Greek pedagogy . Terence , with his keen observations of human nature and concise expressions, proved to be an exceptionally rich and fertile source for such maxims. Scores of Terentian sayings achieved such widespread currency in late antiquity that they often became detached from their original author, losing their nominal association with Terence himself. Those who quoted his words frequently qualified them as common proverbs, a testament to their pervasive integration into the cultural lexicon. Throughout the Middle Ages , Terence was routinely cited as an authoritative voice on human nature and the mores of men, often without any regard for the specific character who spoke the line or the original dramatic context. As long as the quotation possessed a sententious quality when isolated from the rest of the play, it was deemed valuable. Context, it seems, was always optional.

Augustine , the great theologian, maintained a lifelong admiration for Terence’s perceptive observations on the human condition. Scholars have identified a remarkable 38 quotations from 28 distinct passages of Terence’s work embedded within Augustine’s own writings. However, despite this profound respect for Terence’s moralizing insights, Augustine expresses profound discomfort in his Confessions when recounting his school days. He specifically quotes a scene from the Eunuchus where Chaerea describes his and Pamphila’s shared gaze at a painting depicting Zeus intruding into the home of Danaë . Chaerea, emboldened by the example of the pagan god, then seizes the opportunity to rape Pamphila. Augustine passionately argues that it is entirely unnecessary for students to be exposed to such “vileness” (turpitudo) merely for the sake of acquiring vocabulary and eloquence. A poignant moral quandary that still resonates today: at what cost does classical education come?

In the 10th century, the remarkable Hrotsvit of Gandersheim , a Benedictine nun, embarked on an ambitious literary project: she authored six plays, deliberately modeling them on the six comedies of Terence , but with a distinctly Christian purpose. In a preface explaining her motivations, Hrotsvit directly addresses Augustine’s critique of the moral influence of the comedies. She acknowledges that many Christians , drawn in by Terence’s elegant style, found themselves morally compromised by his risqué subject matter. Her solution? To write works in the same dramatic genre, but with an inverted moral compass, so that the literary form once employed “to describe the shameless acts of licentious women” could be gloriously repurposed to celebrate the chastity of holy virgins. A clever subversion, if nothing else.

However, the extent of Terence’s actual influence on Hrotsvit’s dramatic craft has been a subject of scholarly debate. Critics argue that while Terence’s subject matter is, by her own admission, trivial, and Hrotsvit’s is profound, his plays are in verse while hers are in prose. Furthermore, her plays are written in a style more consistent with other medieval literature, largely devoid of verbal echoes of Terence apart from a few oaths and interjections. She also shows scant regard for the classical unity of time or other ancient dramatic conventions. Thus, it has been argued that Terence’s influence on Hrotsvit is largely superficial, with the only true similarity being the number of plays each authored.

Yet, Hrotsvit’s indebtedness to Terence lies not in superficial stylistic mimicry, but rather in a deeper engagement with his dramatic situations and subject matter, which she masterfully transposes and inverts to serve her Christian agenda. The traditional Terentian hero, who successfully pursues a woman through cunning and romantic stratagems, is replaced by a virtuous girl who triumphs by resisting all advances, or a repentant prostitute who abandons her former life. The happy ending, in Hrotsvit’s world, is not the consummation of a young couple’s earthly marriage, but a figurative, spiritual marriage to Christ . A striking example of this inversion can be seen in two of Hrotsvit’s plays, Abraham and Paphnutius. In these, a man enters a brothel disguised as a lover, not to seduce, but to win a woman over to repentance and a life of continence—a direct, moralized inversion of Chaerea’s infamous deception in the Eunuchus . Robert Talbot interprets Hrotsvit’s plays as a Christian allegorization of Terence , designed to rehabilitate the very comedies she ostensibly critiques. By reconfiguring the genre to demonstrate the superiority of heavenly love over earthly passion, Hrotsvit effectively enables readers to engage with Terence’s works in a new light, directing their minds from the “sinful” content to a higher, Christian meaning. Despite her innovative approach, Hrotsvit did not exert a significant influence on European literature until her works were rediscovered and finally printed in 1501, a testament to how easily genius can be overlooked for centuries.

In the grand tapestry of Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy , his guide, the esteemed Vergil , informs him that Terence resides in Limbo among the virtuous pagans (Purgatorio XXII, 94–105), a relatively comfortable fate for a pre-Christian poet. However, Dante also encounters Thais, the courtesan character from Terence’s Eunuchus , in the eighth circle of hell, specifically among those condemned for flattery (Inferno XVIII, 133–5). This raises a curious question: did Dante actually read Terence directly, or were his references merely derived from citations in Cicero or medieval florilegia (anthologies of excerpts)? While some have argued for the latter, Joseph Russo contends that given Terence’s widespread popularity in the 14th century, and the ease of access Dante would have had to his manuscripts, the logical conclusion is that “Dante must have known Terence .” It seems even the most visionary poets had their required reading.

The advent of the Renaissance brought a renewed appreciation for classical learning, and Renaissance humanists positively delighted in Terence’s works. Giovanni Boccaccio , the celebrated Italian writer, meticulously copied out all of Terence’s comedies in his own hand, a manuscript that is now a prized possession of the Laurentian Library . A testament to both his dedication and the value placed on these ancient texts.

The first printed edition of Terence appeared in Strasbourg in 1470, marking a significant milestone in the dissemination of his works. The first definitively recorded post-antique performance of one of his plays, Andria , took place in Florence in 1476. However, evidence suggests that Terence was performed much earlier than this, perhaps in more informal or less well-documented settings. The short dialogue Terentius et delusor , for instance, was likely written to serve as an introduction to a Terentian performance as early as the 9th century, or possibly even earlier. The theatrical flame, it seems, never truly died out, merely flickered in the shadows.

Beatus Rhenanus recounts that Erasmus , blessed with an exceptionally tenacious memory in his youth, knew Terence’s comedies as intimately as he knew his own fingers and toes. In his influential De ratione studii (1511), a foundational text for European curricula, Erasmus unequivocally declared: “among Latin authors, who is more useful for learning to speak than Terence ? He is pure, concise, and near to everyday conversation, and pleasant to youth as well for his genre of plot.” Even Martin Luther , the firebrand of the Reformation, expressed his affection, writing, “I love Terence ,” and deemed his comedies valuable not only for improving schoolboys’ language skills but also for imparting crucial lessons about society, because Terence “saw how it goes with people.” Luther even controversially asserted that despite some “obscene” passages, Terence’s plays were no less appropriate for young people to read without censorship than the Bible, which, he noted, “contains amatory things everywhere.” The indexes of the monumental Weimar edition of Martin Luther’s works record nearly 200 references to Terence and his plays, underscoring his pervasive influence even on such a revolutionary figure.

The remarkable preservation of Terence’s works through the institutional memory of the church proved instrumental in shaping the trajectory of much later Western drama. Two of the earliest English comedies, the 16th-century Ralph Roister Doister and Gammer Gurton’s Needle , are widely believed to parody Terence’s plays, demonstrating his direct influence on the nascent English theatrical tradition. Even literary giants like Montaigne and Molière openly cited and imitated him, acknowledging their debt to the ancient Roman master of comedy.

Given the well-documented curriculum of a typical grammar school of the Elizabethan era, such as the one attended by William Shakespeare , it can be considered a virtual certainty that Shakespeare diligently studied Terence as a boy. In Shakespeare’s time, a standard schoolboy, by the age of nine, would typically begin the arduous task of memorizing a substantial portion, if not the entirety, of Terence’s works. A direct quote from the Eunuchus found in Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew is not taken verbatim from the play itself, but rather appears in a form found in William Lily’s Latin Grammar and Nicholas Udall’s Floures for Latine spekynge, with the syntax adapted to form an independent sentence. This suggests a deep, internalized familiarity with Terentian maxims. Furthermore, the unmistakable influence of Thraso in the Eunuchus on the character of Armado in Love’s Labour’s Lost strongly indicates Shakespeare’s comprehensive familiarity with the play as a whole. Chaerea’s exuberant declaration upon emerging from Thais’s house after the rape, expressing his contentment to die in that moment of blissful satisfaction, also seems to find echoes in Othello II.1 and The Merry Wives of Windsor III.3. Shakespeare’s early encounter with Terence in grammar school undoubtedly provided him with a foundational understanding of comedic structure and scenic composition, laying the groundwork for his unparalleled artistry.

Terence’s plays remained a steadfast component of the Latin curriculum throughout the neoclassical period. Thomas Jefferson , in a letter outlining a recommended course of education for his nephew Peter Carr , explicitly listed Terence among the classical poets Carr had either already read or was expected to read at school. Jefferson himself copied four extracts from the *Andria *into his literary commonplace book , likely in the late 1760s and 1770s. The presence of three distinct editions of Terence in his meticulously curated second Monticello library is a clear indication that Terence continued to form a part of Jefferson’s retirement reading, a testament to his enduring appeal even to the most Enlightenment-minded of figures.

In 1781, John Adams presented his son, John Quincy Adams , with a copy of Anne Dacier’s edition of Terence , complete with a parallel French translation. Adams senior, ever the moralist, penned a note asserting that “Terence is remarkable, for good Morals, good Taste and good Latin—his Language has a Simplicity and an elegance, that makes him proper to be accurately studied, as A Model.” John Quincy , however, politely declined the translated edition, believing his teacher would disapprove, preferring that he translate the plays “without help.” John Quincy eventually read the Andria over three evenings in February 1786, expressing a degree of impatience with the slow pace of his Harvard University class, which only completed the play three months later. He recorded in his diary that “The Play is interesting, and many of the Sentiments are fine,” but, ever the budding critic, found the plot highly improbable. Yet, with a wisdom beyond his years, he concluded, “the Critic can never find Perfection, and the person that is willing to be pleased with what he reads, is happier than he who is always looking for faults.” A sentiment that could benefit many modern commentators.

In 1816, John Quincy’s son, George Washington Adams , performed in a school production of Andria , taking on the role of the old man Crito. This was met with considerable family relief, as they had worried he might be assigned a less “respectable” part. George’s grandmother, Abigail Adams , after reading the play herself, took exception to “the manners and morals” depicted. Grandfather John , spurred by this, reread all six of Terence’s comedies. He, too, expressed apprehension about their suitability for impressionable youths, who, he feared, lacked the life experience to recognize certain characters and their deeds as morally repugnant and react appropriately. Consequently, Adams embarked on a month-long project, meticulously excerpting approximately 140 passages he deemed illustrative of human nature—which, he believed, remained constant across all ages and countries. He added his own translations and comments, explicitly outlining the moral lessons his grandsons should extract from the ancient texts. John Quincy , while believing that the manners and plots of Terence’s plays were too far removed from modern life to pose a detrimental moral influence on students, nonetheless praised his father’s project. He wrote, “You have indeed skimmed the cream of Terence and sent it to my boys—I trust they will preserve it and that it will aid them in drawing all the solid benefit from the amanuensis of Laelius and Scipio , which he can afford to their future lives.” When Adams sent his grandson Charles Francis Adams his excerpts from the Phormio , he provocatively remarked, “in these Plays of Terence … Are not the Slaves Superior Beings to the Citizens? Every Smart Expression; every brilliant Image, every Moral Sentiment is in the Mouth of a Slave.” In 1834, when Charles read Terence’s works, incorporating his grandfather’s comments and adding his own notes, he respectfully disagreed, writing, “In returning to answer these questions, I must disagree with the sentiment. I cannot overlook the characters of Menedemus and Chremes, of Micio and Demea which contain more moral sentiment than all the Slaves in the six Plays.” A fascinating intergenerational dialogue on the enduring moral complexities of ancient literature.

American playwright Thornton Wilder directly based his novel The Woman of Andros on Terence’s Andria , further demonstrating the enduring power of these ancient narratives to inspire new artistic creations.

Due to his evocative cognomen, Afer, Terence has, for centuries, been identified with Africa and celebrated as the inaugural poet of the African diaspora by generations of writers. This esteemed lineage includes figures such as Juan Latino , Alexandre Dumas , Langston Hughes , and Maya Angelou . Phyllis Wheatley , the first published African-American poet, famously posed the question of why the Muses had inspired “one alone of Afric’s sable race.” Thomas Jefferson , however, in a rather regrettable attempt to argue that African-Americans were inherently incapable of producing poetry, controversially claimed that Terence had been “of the race of whites.” Such are the ideological contortions people will perform to justify their prejudices. In a more recent, and perhaps more fitting, development, two of Terence’s plays were produced in Denver featuring black actors, a symbolic reclamation of a complex legacy.

The persistent questions surrounding whether Terence received assistance in composing his plays, or indeed if he was even the true author, have been debated across the ages. As eloquently summarized in the 1911 edition of the Encyclopædia Britannica :

[In a prologue to one of his plays, Terence ] meets the charge of receiving assistance in the composition of his plays by claiming as a great honour the favour which he enjoyed with those who were the favorites of the Roman people. But the gossip, not discouraged by Terence , lived and throve; it crops up in Cicero and Quintilian , and the ascription of the plays to Scipio had the honour to be accepted by Montaigne and rejected by Diderot .

It seems the human compulsion to question authorship, especially when confronted with exceptional talent, is as ancient as the plays themselves. After all, attributing brilliance to a collective, or to a more ‘respectable’ individual, is often easier than accepting the inconvenient truth of singular genius, especially if that genius emerged from an unexpected, or inconvenient, background.

See also

• Translation
• Metres of Roman comedy
• Codex Vaticanus 3868
• List of slaves
• Roman Africans
• Quod licet Iovi, non licet bovi
• Trochaic septenarius