Book X, Epigram 13 (Ker)

Although a travelling-coach carries your lolling minions, and a Libyan outrider sweats in a long trail of dust, and your cushioned couches surround more than one warm bath, and your sea-bath is pale with the tinge of your perfumes; although draughts of Setine fill to bursting your transparent crystal, and in fairer down Venus herself does not repose; by night you lie on the threshold of a capricious mistress, and her deaf door is wet, alas! with your tears, and sighs do not cease to scorch your unhappy breast. Do you wish me to say why it is ill with you, Cotta? Because it is well.