Book VI, 190

Take, honoured Cytherea, these poor gifts from poor Leonidas the poet, a bunch of five fine grapes, an early fig, sweet as honey, from the leafy branches, this leafless olive that swam in brine, a little handful of frugal barley-cake, and the libation that ever accompanies sacrifice, a wee drop of wine, lurking in the bottom of the tiny cup. But if, as thou hast driven away the disease that weighed sore on me, so thou dost drive away my poverty, I will give thee a fat goat.