Book XII, Epigram 40 (Ker)

You tell fibs, I believe you; you recite poor poems, I praise them; you sing, I sing; you drink, Pontilianus, I drink; you break wind, I pretend not to hear; you want to play at draughts, I am beaten; there is one thing you do without my privity, and I hold my tongue. Yet you guarantee me nothing at all. "When I am dead," you say, "I will treat you well." I want nothing — nevertheless die!