Book IX, Epigram 57 (Ker)

Nothing is worn smoother than Hedylus' mantles: not the handles of antique Corinthian vases, nor a shank polished by a ten-years-worn fetter, nor the scarred neck of a broken-winded mule, nor the ruts that intersect the Flaminian Way, nor the pebbles that shine on the sea beach, nor a hoe polished by a Tuscan vineyard, nor the shiny toga of a defunct pauper, nor the ramshackle wheel of a lazy carrier, nor a bison's flank scraped by its cage, nor the tusk, now aged, of a fierce boar. Yet there is one thing — he himself will not deny it: Hedylus' rump is worn smoother than his mantle.