Book X, Epigram 4 (Ker)

You, who read of Oedipus and Thyestes neath a darkened sun, of Colchian witches and Scyllas — of what do you read but monsters? What will the rape of Hylas avail you, what Parthenopaeus and Attis, what the sleeper Endymion .'' or the boy stript of his gliding wings .'' or Hermaphroditus who hates the amorous waters .'' Why does the vain twaddle of a wretched sheet attract you .'' Read this of which Life can say: "'Tis my own." Not here will you find Centaurs, not Gorgons and Harpies: 'tis of man my page smacks. But you do not wish, Mamurra, to recognize your own manners, or to know yourself. Read the Origi7is of Callimachus. Whoe'er he be wlio, scorner of either stole or purple/ has wounded with his wicked verse those he should respect, let him wander through the city, exile from bridge and hill,' and, last amid the hoarsethroated beggars, pray for dogs' morsels of vile bread. To him may December be long and winter wet, and the shutting of the archway prolong his miserable chill; let him call those blest, and acclaim those fortunate, who are carried on the litter of Orcus. But when the threads of his last hour have been spun, and his lingering day has come, let him feel the wrangling of dogs, and Hap away noxious birds with waving rags. Nor let his punishment, despite his prayers, be closed by death; but now scored by the scourge of stern Aeacus, now o'erwhelmed by the momitainous stone of restless Sisyphus, now parching amid the waters of the blabbing old man, may he weary out all the fabled torments of the poets; and when the Fury shall bid him confess the truth, may he shriek, his conscience betraying him: "I wrote it."