Epigram CVI. — On mangy Polygiton

Whoe'er has seen Polygiton in a tub at the baths chafing the caked and rotting ulcers on his limbs, ranks such a sight above every comic show. First, he makes the air ring with his quavering howls, yells words suggestive of a brothel and sounds the full gamut of impurity. Next, he whirls his arms like a Maenad possessed by some spirit, while the itch strays at random, now in this part now in that, over his breast, legs, flanks, belly, thighs, loins and calves, his back, neck, shoulders, and his hinder parts. At length he droops with the heat of his scalding bath, and kind exhaustion makes him relax in a death-like swoon. Just as they say that men emasculate, when vain desire attacks them, exhaust themselves without fruition, mocked by pleasure unachieved; even so Polygiton relaxes his nerveless limbs. And, since at the last he must expiate his life, let him now make ready for the waters of Phlegethon.