Book VIII, Epigram 64 (Ker)

That you may demand, Clytus, and exact a present, you are born eight times in a single year, and only three or four Kalends, I think, you do not keep as birthdays. Smoother though your face be than the dry beach's wave-worn pebbles, blacker your hair than a mulberry ripe to fall, though you surpass feathers in fluttering softness, or a lump of newly curdled milk, and though such a rounded fullness swells a breast as the virgin bride keeps for her spouse, yet you seem to us, Clytus, already old; for who would believe so many birthdays were Priam's or Nestor's? Let there be at length some decent limit and measure to your rapine. But if you still play with us, and a single birth in one year is now not sufficient for you, I shall regard you, Clytus, as not having been born even once.'-