Book VIII, Epigram 71 (Ker)

Four pounds of silver plate in winter's season you sent me, Postumianus, ten years ago. While I hoped for a greater weight — for gifts should stand fixed or grow — there arrived two pounds more or less. The third and the fourth year brought much inferior presents: in the fifth was one pound, Septicius' work to boot. I came down to an eight-ounce oblong dish in the sixth year; the next was given me a bare half-pound in the shape of a small cup. The eighth sent me a dessert-spoon less than two ounces weight: the ninth produced — with difficulty —a snail-pick lighter than a needle. The tenth year now has nothing to send me: to your four pounds, Postumianus, return.