Book X, Epigram 51 (Ker)

Now looks the Tyrian bull back on the star of Phiyxus' ram, and winter has fled from Castor in Pollux' place; i smiling is the field, earth is putting on her garb, the tree too its garb, the Attic adulteress mourns for Thracian Itys.'- What days, Faustinus, what fair days of Ravenna has Rome robbed you of; O sunny hours, O rest in tunic clad! O thou grove, O ye founts, and thou shore of firm moist sand, and Anxur gleaming in the ocean waves, and the couch that views more waters than one, that marks on tliis side the river's' ships, on that the sea's! Aye, and no theatres of Marcelhis and of Pompey are there, nor there are tlie tliree warm baths, nor the four forums joined, nor the august shrine of the Capitoline Thunderer, and the temples that gleam nigh their own heaven. How often do I fancy you in your weariness saying to Quirinus: "What is yours keep to yourself; what is mine restore to me."