Book IX, Epigram 2 (Ker)

Although you are a poor man to your friends. Lupus, you are not so to your mistress, and only your virility has no grievance against you. Slie, the adulteress, fattens on lewdly shaped loaves: black meal feeds your guest. Setine wines are strained to inflame your lady's snow; we drink the black poison of a Corsican jar. Her favours — not unshared— are bought at the price of your paternal estate; your comrade, neglected, ploughs fields that are not his own: the adulteress is bright and shining with Eastern jewels; your client is committed and dragged off to prison while you enjoy amours: a litter poised on eight Syrian slaves is given to your girl; your friend — a naked corpse — will be the burden of a pauper's bier. Go now, Cybele! and castrate wretched paederasts: here, here is matter long since worthy of your knife!